What I’ll Miss.

Now that I’ve moved on to São Paolo, a shout-out to everyone who made Mumbai phenomenal. Like these two, who let me interrupt their lunch downtown to take a groupie.

And their stray buddy.

My hotel butler, Adrian. I’ll miss you most of all.

Laundry service that apologizes after I was the one who put my sleeve in my lunch.

These knuckleheads, who made like Statler and Waldorf from “The Muppet Show” by heckling me in Hindi while we filmed in one of the oldest cafés in the city.

Temporary Lovin.

I’m not like other people who say they love dogs more than people. I love dogs more than anything.

So when one wandered over to me while we were shooting yesterday, I gave him a little scratch on his neck, and then he didn’t leave my side for a while. I do miss Ricky, so the stray served as a good surrogate.

Last full day in India is today, then on to Sao Paolo. I’ve given up on keeping track of time zones at this point, so either have a good weekend, or I hope you had a good weekend. Or Tuesday. You catch my drift.

It’s Good To Be The Emperor.

I just want to be rich enough to add bacon without asking how much more it costs. Helping me become accustomed to this tax bracket: the swanky Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai.

In the hotel’s Lebanese restaurant Souk, master chef Simoun Chakour made the best meal of our trip thus far, and then stopped by our table to pull a Jedi mind-trick with an apple and a ginsu.

After our meal, Simoun walked us through the kitchen to the semi-secret two-person dining room. Grab your best gal and never sup with the riffraff again.

Because our luggage has still not yet arrived, I took advantage of the hotel laundry to wash my t-shirt and skivvies. There were delivered by my butler in a leather box. He’s good people, that Adrian.

Individually-wrapped socks just became the norm back at Inside the Actor’s Studio Apartment HQ.

I returned from high tea to find a vulture, perched outside my window, looking to turn a pigeon into high tea.

I’m In India Now.

The oxymoronic Vigilante Security. Good to see you too, fellas.

A one-year-old Matthew Shevin would have pooed his diaper after seeing this monkey hanging out in Sanjay Gandhi National Park.

How do Indians love cows? A) When one dies it’s front-page news.

And B) Oh, for F’s sake.

I Was In China This Morning.

I had to travel 9300 miles to find out if someone can actually be shanghaied.

What I learned was that the most important thing of all can be confiscated: Internet. The good sites, anyway. Forbidden from access for five days: Google, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and the site that hosts my blog.

But now I’m back online, and in Mumbai, after a mad scramble and rejiggering of itinerary through Bangkok. A torrential downpour (this really ain’t LA) delayed or canceled all flights out of Shanghai, but we miraculously made it out. Business class, baby. It’s good to be the king.

We landed here late tonight, and there’s a bit more I have backlogged about China I want to share, so bear with me. More coming in the next few days.

Bedtime here. There was one snafu in the shifting of flights: our luggage didn’t make it. So I’m gonna get up in a few hours, shower, flip my underwear and head to breakfast.

The Old Country.

Me: “What are people in Brooklyn called? Brooklynians? Brooklynites?”
My friend Rob: “Hipsters.”

The borough has come a long way since my parents grew up there. It’s cleaner, fancier. No longer the murder capital of the northeast.

That’s us, above, shooting in Dumbo, Brooklyn. Today, we go to Shanghai – the city – in China – not the bistro on Grand Street, Brooklynian hipsters.

Shooting In New York.

I was all proud of myself for posting this classiness on Instagram, until my 11-year-old niece favorited it.

When I was ten, my dad joked with the owner of Katz’s Deli that when the coins he pushed across this counter finally wore through it, the man could sell the place. Not yet, Dad.

When you shoot outside, especially in New York, expect the seasoned crazies to squat and be loud until you bribe them to go away. Luckily a cop intervened with Fatso here before I broke my cell phone over his head.

The Melting Pot.

The Amish. Well known for their sushi skills.

This is a real restaurant. The waiters dress like ninjas and sneak up on you when you least expect it – including a stroll to the bathroom. Great idea, or the greatest idea?

Witness the guido in his natural habitat – Brooklyn – complete with his Instagram name on his jeep.

I call him: Pakistani Hitler.

It Begins.

New York. If you can make it there, you definitely didn’t fly United. Because that airline sucks shit.

I’m leaving this morning. First leg of the trip will be in New York, where I’ll be shooting Monday and Tuesday.

It’s an ambitious project. With a lofty goal. And a high degree of difficulty. Let’s get started.

Just Don’t Tell Verizon.

Sometimes I watch my iPhone’s WiFi struggle to make a connection, and I think, “Same.”

We’ve got some chemistry for sure. Which made it all the more heartbreaking when an SUV ran over it last week. It escaped unscathed, until Sunday, when it lost the ability to vibrate.

That drove me nuts, so I called Verizon, and a rep said they’d send me a replacement phone for free if I promised them I hadn’t dropped mine. It was my best acting performance all week.

The new phone is kickass and about to become an enabler as I exceed my international data limit. But I’ll never let go, friend.

Blow Me, Jenny McCarthy.

For me, medical procedures are never a big deal. I had two ribs removed just so I could pet small dogs easier.

When I had to be vaccinated for my trip, I assured the nurses that I give blood often, and needles are not a problem. That was before they gave me multiple shots to ward off hepatitis and yellow fever, and suddenly the lights started to go out. The last shot, for tetanus, diphtheria and pertussis, was administered while I was flat on my back, in a cold sweat. (See the above, uncomplimentary selfie.)

Luckily, the immunizations for typhoid and malaria are administered in pill form, so I can take them while standing upright. The side-effects for the anti-malarial pills include hallucinating, so only trust half the shit I blog about from India.

My Field Trip To Chicago.

Three hours into this woman not moving an inch, I was convinced her granddaughter was pulling a Weekend at Bernie’s.

In some space-time continuum, a 12-year-old Matthew Shevin got his first boner when I walked past former New York Yankee Dave Winfield at O’Hare.

Which is worse: being killed by a tornado in a men’s bathroom, or surviving a tornado in a men’s bathroom?

I’m Going To Yet Another Place.

I have to be up for a flight in four hours. Can anyone deliver amphetamines and a small puppy to LAX?

Before I begin the big trip on Saturday, I have a meeting in Chicago today. Which means the grand total of my flight time for this shoot will be 73 hours.

It’s a shitload, but on the bright side: not one of the flights will be Malaysian.

I’m Going Places.

One day, I will lose the ability to climb over a sleeping seatmate on a plane without touching them.

That day could come soon, because I’ll be taking a slew of flights beginning Saturday. It’s for a project – a big shoot, documentary-style, in which I’ll be behind the camera. It’ll take up to a month, and here’s where I’m going: Manhattan, Shanghai, Mumbai and Sao Paolo. Then back to New York around Labor Day to edit.

I’m super excited, and now scrambling to get a bunch done before I leave – including passports and visas and assorted clearance. I’ll blog the whole time I’m gone. Let me know what I can bring you back.

Smooth Move, Ace.

This guy drove off with a gas nozzle still in his tank. What have you done today?

It Takes A Licking.

Last night, I left Son of Gun, ran across the street and heard/felt something hit the ground. It was iPhone. Before I could pick it up, an SUV ran right over it. When I finally retrieved it, not a scratch.

iPhone, I’m gonna love you 5 ever.

Tiniest Kudos, Sir.

Ladies, you deserve more than a guy who wears t-shirts with “witty” sayings that he bought from JC Penney.

Unfortunately, many of the sharp-dressed men are taken. Like my friend Mark – very happily married and always nattily clad. Mark observes Tie Tuesdays by showing up to work every week sporting any number of different necktie knots.

Mark became a dad on Tuesday to a boy named Emmett, and my gift to him was a baby-size tie. Sure, it’s a clip-on, but the chance to get decked-out with his mini-me was much appreciated.

Congratulations.

In Which I Evolve Into A Fat Shit, One Second At A Time.

If I opened a restaurant where you didn’t have to make eye contact with the waiter while hearing the specials, would I be a millionaire tomorrow, or would I have to wait a couple of days?

I’m apparently qualified, seeing how many times I went out to eat last month.

Check out my July, so jam-packed with food it even involved a pie-eating contest. (I was merely an observer for that): 


July 2015 from Matt Shevin on Vimeo.

Official Selection.

I turned wine into a hangover. Your move, Jesus.

We can duke it out up north, because my comedy short World Class was accepted into the Napa Valley Film Festival.

I won’t break my personal record set by my last film – which made it into 45 festivals – but I’m really happy about this. I’m eligible for jury and audience awards when the festival takes place in November.

So come see it screened in Napa. Where the wine flows like development deals.

It’s What’s For Breakfast.

Stocked up on my breakfast for the week, with three cereals very clearly created by Satan.

Gently Emoted On.

Yesterday, I stumbled upon Previously On, a relatively new store in Burbank that sells furnishings from the sets of TV shows. But before you fork over the cash, keep in mind: Betty Draper's Victorian fainting couch is a design don’t.