Insult to Injury.

Remind me, the next time I get molested, not to hire Mr. Peanut here to represent me.

I Love You This Much.

A couple of years ago, as I dragged my new flat-screen into the living room, I turned to Petey and said, “Meet your new brother.”

I am a TV addict, so imagine how much I’ve been jonesing for it after being so busy the past two weeks. One thing I’ve realized: you can measure success by the space remaining on your DVR. It’s been a nice mini-run.

By the way – none of the 99% involves karaoke, or dancing with D-level celebrities. And I won’t tear my spleen guffawin’ at “The Marriage Ref.” I’m an addict, not an asswipe.

Weekend At Matty’s 2.

Anyone know where I can find out more about celebrities I've never heard of doing non-newsworthy things, besides everywhere?

I prefer my stars be A-list. And Saturday night, I knew exactly where to find them: the MacGruber screening/after-party at the Roosevelt Hotel. Wingman Mike, who’s friends with Will Forte, invited me to join him, and it was some damn good Hollywood elbow-rubbing. Will, by the way, is the nicest guy, and it was all the more evidenced by the people that came out to support him – not just his present and former SNL cast mates, but big hosts as well: Jon Hamm, Paul Rudd, James Franco.

See his film.

So, now, we here we are – a three-day weekend. Plans for me include dinner with the boys. We’re not sure where yet, but my friend Al has strictly requested “no gay food.” It's unclear what on earth that even means.

Wishing you all a Memorial Day weekend so amazing, you’ll have absolutely no memory of it.
-Matthew

Auto Asphyxiation (The Non-Erotic, Non-David-Carradine Kind.)

Yesterday was more of the good stuff, as I shot my role in the commercial for MotorSilk. The location was in Ventura County, which meant I had to take the Ronald Reagan Expressway to get there. I knew it was the RR Expressway because I completely forgot where I was going.

That’s me, above, in one of my scenes, being choked by a gas nozzle/hose. The director told me I was disturbingly good at it. I told her I had a reminiscent, recurring, strangling nightmare during puberty.

Great set. Great crew. I shouldn't get paid to have this much fun. I think I'm pursuing the right field.

On a side note, I'd like to give a tremendous shout-out to my big brother, who’s been super helpful in taking Petey over to his house while I’m on these shoots. I couldn’t be more proud to have emerged from the same vagina as you, sir.

Weekend At Matty’s.

Stepping onto the stage of a packed Upright Citizens Brigade Theater is quite a rush, but not quite rock-star status. Never mind the panties – comic book geeks throw their tighty-whiteys at your feet.

On Friday, I blogged about my upcoming slammed weekend, and it turned out even better than I expected, culminating in my UCB improv 101 class’ graduation show. That motley bunch above is my class.

Here’s how it worked: we split into two groups, each choosing a name (my group’s was Unattended Baggage), and worked a half hour on stage. We first asked the audience for a word suggestion, then one of us performed a monologue based on that that word, followed by scenes based on that monologue.

By gigantic happenstance, the director of the Wii commercial I shot last week – along with his wife, who happened to cast the commercial – are friends with one of my classmates, and both showed up at the theater. They got to see a much different side of “Dad,” as I launched into two different monologues, including the time I was faced with the tough decision of whether or not to hook up with a hot, racist Arizona girl I met at the Viceroy. I felt an odd mix of shame and pride. Shide.

The show was followed by a killer party at my classmate Michael’s house. He and I instantly hit it off after our first class and have been BFFs ever since (above, he's the guy in light blue next to me.) But how did we decide to really celebrate? By both signing up for improv 201. Starts next Tuesday. Which means another graduation for us in July. Prepare the BVDs, nerds.

Just As I Congratulated Myself For Booking Another Ad…

The dude who tried to blow up Times Square booked one, too.

The Cure For The Common Commercial Withdrawal.

While I don’t know a lick about what’s going on underneath my car’s hood, my strength lies in driving etiquette. The most important thing I’ve come to find: don't honk at old people. It just confuses them further.

But it looks like I’ll be getting a crash course in automotive maintenance this week, because I booked another commercial – for MotorSilk engine treatment.

No children for me this time around – I'll play a guy at a gas pump wrestling with a snake-like hose/nozzle.

Now, if you’ll pardon me while I pat myself on the back so hard I’m going to need Tommy John surgery. I was thrilled after booking the Wii commercial (my sixth overall, and third since August), but wasn’t sure what it would feel like to book the seventh one only a week later. I imagined it would be like crossing the streams in Ghostbusters. Buildings would blow up and Ernie Hudson would be covered in marshmallow when it was over.

It’s all that and more. And it shoots Wednesday. I love me some me.