Nattily Clad.

If I’m wearing a suit, you’d better be dead or getting married. 

Or having me audition. Hollywood has ramped back up, thank god. It felt weird to put on a suit – let alone long pants – for the first time since February. Anyone else forget what their nice shirts look like? 

By the way, I was technically in a suit on Yom Kippur. You’re welcome, Mom.

Could Be A Trap.

I wish Halloween wasn’t cancelled this year, because I won’t get a chance to whisper “Better hope it’s not the poison one,” when I hand out candy. 

Someone on my block is doing the next best thing. The Gatorade bottles with the “FREE UNOPENED” note on the street next to a sketchy construction site probably contain more piss than real fruit juice, but I’m still going to pass.

My First Drive-In Movie.

I’ve saved $8215 in movie theater popcorn by switching to COVID. 

But on Saturday, enough was enough. I saw Tenet at The Paramount Drive-In Theater. It was a great experience I waited way too long to have. 

The Paramount staff has it down to a science. They patiently guide a long line of cars onto the lot. (And very quickly out after the movie ends.) They can squeeze 800 vehicles in, and with two screens running simultaneously – and two screenings per night – the place can rake in over $40,000 daily. During Coronavirus, their ship has come in. 

On top of that, they profit from the snack bar, located in a building between the two screens. The line moved pretty quickly, but the food was nothing special. Stale popcorn/soft pretzels. (We saw one theater-goer run off the property to pick up a pizza down the street. Hero.) Plus they don’t pump the movie’s sound into the building while you wait, which would be such an easy thing to make happen. They do sell beer, which is odd because just about every customer is driving home, but who are we to judge? 

Making the evening extra cool: The Paramount was the shooting location for Brad Pitt’s drive-in-adjacent trailer home in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. It doubled as the now defunct Van Nuys Drive-In. 

Novice me learned the lot is filled with rows of small concrete hills, so you can park in a way that allows everyone in your car to look up to the screen. I remember hills like this from the cool drive-in scene in Heat, but thought it was just warped pavement:

  

That was shot at the Centinela Drive-In, by the way, one year before it became an apartment complex.

Do yourself a huge favor and find a drive-in near you. Many are popping up temporarily, often in regular theater parking lots accompanied by food trucks. Doesn’t get much better than that. Get out of the house, keep your windows up, smuggle in the kids. I highly recommend.

The Smell Of Popcorn. And Exhaust.

I’ve never been to a drive-in theater – except for the all the times I park on my neighbor’s lawn and watch movies through their living room window. 

Tomorrow night, I’m going to broaden my horizons by seeing a film at the LA-famous Paramount Drive-In. I hope I kick myself hard for avoiding this my entire life. Thanks, COVID.

Here’s A Twist.

I heard Coronavirus makes everything taste like LaCroix, so now I’m wearing seven masks. 

I pulled six of them off for something I’d never experienced before. I had an audition for a TV show this week, and was asked to do the same scene twice – with and without a mask. 

I suppose this may be the look we’ll be seeing on some TV shows as the virus lingers past season premiere dates. Just know my lips were fully emoting.

Swing And A Miss.

The night my Lifetime movie premiered, I saw these tweets from two random viewers. It was an open-net shot I had to take. But instead of freaking these two out, to this day there’s been no response. 

Thanks millennials. I’d like to think I spooked you off, but you were just busy eating your avocado toast.

One More Excerpt.

My friend Mark said he won’t get a tattoo because “you don’t put a bumper sticker on a Ferrari.” Which is weird because he’s a ’92 Chevy Caprice at best. 

The bumper sticker that always caught my eye was from radio station Froggy 101 on “The Office.” I always get a kick out of authenticity, and this show had plenty of it. It came up in the anthology book I’m reading in a story from Mari Potis of the Greater Scranton Chamber of Commerce:

I got a call from Phil Shea, a property master who told me they were doing a pilot for a TV show about a fictional paper company that would be set in Scranton. He wanted to use a Scranton Chamber of Commerce sign for the walls and then asked if I would help with some other items for the show. Then for the next nine years, I became the person that got them authentic Scranton props for the background. Eventually, we sent them truckloads of items submitted from local businesses that lined up to donate them at Steamtown mall, hoping to get free advertising on TV. It was the yellow Froggy 101 sticker (from Dwight’s desk), pizza boxes and newspapers… whatever they needed.

The Universe Did Its Worst.

I know my brain has been poisoned because an earthquake shook LA Friday night, and mid-quake my very first thought was “Oh boy, here come the tweets.” 

I heard the earthquake coming down the street and then it rumbled through my house like a train. In 2020 everything is on. Like on Saturday, a blackout occurred while I spent the day at my brother’s house. My WiFi-starved nephew kept himself entertained: 

I went home for dinner only to have my power go out. Hours later, when it finally came back on, my cable was still out for the night. 

Every blackout is a reminder that you drunk-ate the good granola bars out of the earthquake kit two years ago and never restocked them. Make a note

Pride Of The Pandemic.

I wish I was given half as much attention as I’m giving my lawn. 

I grew the grass in the forefront from scratch a few years ago. It was a longshot on some very unfertile soil, yet besides Ricky’s pee patches, it’s flourishing. 

A few months ago, I decided to turn an even more barren, rock-infested strip into more grass, which you can see in the background. Not bad. 

I choose to do all the seeding, mowing, weeding and watering so Ricky can romp and relax on a lush lawn. And yet if you look closely you’ll see he’s asleep behind two potted plants on the bricks. Enjoy your giant toilet, son.

Okay, One More Thing…

The RNs who work for the Red Cross have excellent bedside manners. I’d like to see your drug dealer offer a lollipop after he stabs you in the arm with a needle. 

The Red Cross doesn’t stab at all. They’re extra gentle, and apologetic if you even slightly wince. Speaking of wincing, bear with me as I follow up my post from last week with one more quick plea to donate blood. 

How about this: we all want the coveted COVID antibody test. How about cutting to the front of the line? Your blood will be tested for antibodies, plus hepatitis, HIV and other STDs. The pic above features my results from donating last week. Negative, ladies. 

I know, positive for antibodies would be better. I’d be immortal. That said, one more cool thing: pizza-tracker technology shows you where your blood wound up. Someone in Tulsa is walking around with Matt Shevin inside him. Don’t be jelly.

36 Seconds Of Quarantine.

Not to brag, but thanks to the quarantine I still have the high score on seven different blood pressure machines around the city. 

It’s been uneventful. Well, it started fun, tapered way off, then showed a pulse. Because of the monotony of being trapped indoors for a good, long time, instead of a monthly video, I’ve captured moments from the past seven months:

 

I’ve Reached This Phase Of The Quarantine.

Another Quarantine Baby.

With the amount of time my nephew spends on his iPhone, he doesn’t have birthdays so much as he has updates. 

But he managed to pry himself away and let us throw him a birthday party. (Though I imagine he did it more for the Instagram post.) He ruined my favorite type of cake – ice cream cake – by having gummy bears sprinkled on top. Vile. 

The tiny flames on the candles were nothing compared to what’s going on outside. Don’t worry universe – we’ve got the stay inside thing mastered.

Blue Dog, Gray Sky.

California is on fire, and it isn’t a surprise – it hasn’t rained here in seven months.

I appreciate all the people back east who’ve checked in on me. I’m fine. I luckily live in a grid of streets by the beach, so fire is never a problem here. But smoke is blocking out the sun and the air smells burnt. 

People in the valley, north of LA, are not so lucky. My friend Julie, who lives in Pasadena, has been asked to evacuate. As if the quarantine wasn’t difficult enough. Now she has to flee her home. 

Let’s all think good thoughts.

Join Me.

Always give 100%. Unless you’re donating blood. 

They just need a pint. And yes, this is my annual post in which I passive-aggressively ask you to donate as well. 

But why wouldn’t you? It doesn’t hurt. You get to have nurses fuss all over you when you’re not actually ill. If you’re low on cash but want to be charitable, this is free. And you really do get all the snacks you like afterward because you HAVE to eat sugar. Come on. 

Semi-related: unlike my hand surgeon’s staff, who completely whiffed on my first and last name last week, the Red Cross merely misspelled my first name. Progress.

Back On The Small Screen Soon.

I haven’t been in front of a camera in forever. Well, except for last week when I mooned that Google Maps car. 

Soon, that will sort of change. I did a Zoom interview with an entertainment reporter about my quarantine videos with Ricky. It was fun and enlightening and Ricky was able to sit still next to me for almost half the time. 

I’ll post a link when it’s up. Itch scratched.

Labor Day Unrest.

I sleep with a squirt gun under my pillow just in case a gang of cats break in while I’m sleeping. 

These sniper skills came in handy all weekend, as LA temps were higher than I can ever remember.

Okay, that’s it. It’s bad enough being cooped up and not able to act or go to the gym or ballgames. Now we add bed-sweats. Until the vaccine gets here, I am camping out at Walgreens.

Prognosis Positive.

The good news: my hand isn’t broken. The weird news: the medical term for what I have is “boxer’s knuckle.” I’m not a boxer, so it’s the most inapt diagnosis I’ve received since I had “marathoner’s anemia.” (I really had it.) Let’s presume future maladies will be related to reading or rooting for the Mets. 

I would like to get a second opinion on the staff getting both my first and last name wrong on my x-ray. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing – maybe I’ve been Jason Bourned, and Michael Shavin is my given name. I actually am a boxer, who grew up on the hard-scrabble streets of Toledo only to be repurposed by the government. It would at least explain why I can’t remember much and have a sudden need to evade the law.

Wish Me Luck.

I was totally going to give Ricky a knuckle sandwich, but now I can only offer him a gluten-free alternative. 

You see, I hurt my right hand a couple months ago, and the middle knuckle just won’t heal, so I’m going to a hand specialist today. I don’t think it’s broken, but it needs something. In the event I do require a procedure, it’s a good time to make it happen, what with the gym closed and softball suspended. (STILL reigning Long Beach champions for as long as the quarantine lasts.) 

Think good thoughts, he typed gingerly.

An Excerpt.

If I could have just one book to read while trapped inside during quarantine, I’d choose TV. 

Fine, I chose a book about TV. An anthology about “The Office.” Here’s a story from Leslie David Baker, who played Stanley. Man I miss acting: 

I went in to meet casting director Allison Jones and I had on my little suit and tie because my character worked in an office. I auditioned, and she said, “Great, I want you to go to the callback in two days, but don’t go in dressed so nicely – you want to look kind of rumpled and crinkly-wrinkled, like you’ve actually been working.” I showed up at the callback, but they had like 50 people there, and I had another audition scheduled that day. I figured I had time to leave and go to the other audition, so I got in my car went to it. That afternoon, school was out and every old person in Los Angeles decided they wanted to come out and drive that day, so there were old people driving slowly, children darting in the street, locusts falling from the heavens, whatever could slow me down, trains stopping in the middle of the track, anything that could happen happened. So I got to the callback and I was sweaty and wrinkled and irritable and grouchy. 

Allison Jones, regarding this: 

I guarantee you that helped his audition, because he was funny and cantankerous and that was the character. It really is fortuitous when that happens.

Nice Job By My Nephew.

I’d like to remake Air Bud, but from the perspective of a kid who didn’t make the team having to explain to his overbearing father that he lost out to a dog. 

That was part of my pep talk to my nephew, who last week had a tryout for a club baseball team here in LA. (That’s Ricky and me above, helping him break in his new glove.) 

Club teams take it to another level, especially out here, where kids play baseball year round and have real skills. Good news: he made the team.

But with every sports high comes a terrific low. On Sunday, my nephew had my mom buy him a Derwin James Los Angeles Chargers football jersey for his birthday. Then yesterday, Derwin tore his meniscus and will be out for the year. It’s good for kids to learn about crushing defeat at an early age.