Straight Out Of The Closet.

Some people wonder how the Titanic could go full steam into an area known for icebergs. But if they’d grown up in my house, the answer would be obvious.

In my blog entry on Monday, I mentioned being broken hearted over George Clooney’s engagement, which prompted this email:

Matthew– 
What you wrote in your blog about George Clooney may make people think you’re gay. 
–Mom 

This isn’t the first time this has happened. I may have even expected it. If your mother doesn’t get your humor, you’re definitely doing it right. By the way, I wonder if Joel McHale’s mom chimed in when he posted the above pic Monday night.

Mom, I understand you only messaged me because you love me and worry about me, but it’s not necessary. Even if I were gay, I wouldn’t have to cover it up; it’s more difficult to convince people you actually are gay. You know, like everyone believes Magic Johnson contracted HIV from a woman.

And so what if I were? It might be a boon for an actor. Neil Patrick Harris and Zachary Quinto are crushing it right now. I even have an idea for a screenplay about an actor who tries to ignite his career by floating a rumor that he’s gay. (Consider me just typing that sentence a copyright on the premise.)

But Mom, just in case the two sports references I made along with the George Clooney line on Monday didn’t make it entirely clear that I’m staight, here you go:

Attention all casting directors, directors and producers: I, Matt Shevin, am a straight, heterosexual actor. I’m so straight I place my hands on my hips when I piss. I’m so straight I’ve been searching for a plastic nut sack for my SUV’s trailer hitch. If I ever hug a dude, it’s only to use his shirt as a napkin. I won’t even play the post in a basketball game, because I refuse to be down low in any way. And I miss my mullet.

There you go. Happy early Mother’s Day.

Mr. Bill Has A Play Date.

Click the upper left corner for sound.

Go Buy A Hockey Team, Ace.

I don’t want to say Donald Sterling is screwed, but he may want to take a morning-after pill just in case… I had to install a new faucet in my bathroom again. The one that came with my apartment lasted 50 years; the latest one: two and a half months. Thanks for showing up, Moen… First Derek Jeter announces his retirement, then George Clooney gets engaged. Why do all of the things I love have to break my heart?... We had some super erratic weather all weekend, and Los Angeles, I gotta say: windy and insanely hot is not a good look.

Fat, Drunk And Stupid Is No Way To Go Through Life, Son.

Chocolate wine, thoughtfully given by my friend Kim to my Joe for his birthday last night.

Translated: “Your Daughter Has An Arrest Warrant.”

For her optometrist?

Period Costume.

Clothes don’t make the man – God does. So stop hogging all the credit, children of third-world nations.

I had my wardrobe fitting for Road Hard yesterday. Looks like I’ll be wearing purple. I wasn’t sure what this color signified, so I consulted the Internet:

“Wearing purple means you lavish yourself in luxury and love the finer things in life.” 

Sweet. Sounds about right. It continued:

“You are a true romantic and ultra feminine.” 

Wait, what? What is this movie about? Too late. Shooting next week.

I Hope They Cut Hair Better Than They Spell.

I Regret Everything.

Quentin Tarantino hasn’t lost his fastball one bit. In fact, I think his films have gotten even more intelligent over the years, while still featuring his trademark violence. The plantation shootout in Django: Unchained made everyone in the theater an accessory to murder.

So I got a nipple hardon the second I read there was going to be a true once-in-a-lifetime Hollywood event this past Saturday: a staged reading of Quentin’s new script, The Hateful Eight. I really wanted to attend, but because it was a Holiday weekend and my all of my friends were either out of town, on shoots or simply not game enough to shell out the big bucks (face-value tickets were $100-$200, and going for $8000 on eBay), I skipped it. Sure, I could have gone by myself, but I have an aversion to attending movies, events and ballgames by myself. They’re all better attended communally, or so I thought; from all accounts, I should have sucked it up and gone solo.

What made the reading extra special was that the script was considered gone forever after one of Quentin’s friends leaked it online and Quentin decided to punish us all by vowing to never let it see the big screen. But he must have softened recently (sorta – he’s going to court over it in January), deciding to work on a new draft and have it read live to an audience who promised to leave their cell phones in their cars.

The cast included Bruce Dern, Samuel L. Jackson and Kurt Russell, who read the leading role of The Hangman. One by one, each character was violently killed off as the audience cheered on with fervor – they were hateful, after all – and Quentin, dressed in a Stetson and cowboy boots, served as both narrator and harsh director, stopping the cast at times and scolding them for improvising and drifting away from his script.

From all the articles I’ve read, the script was excellent, Quentin said he was going to write a third draft, and The Weinstein brothers, who’ve produced all of his films, were in attendance. All signs point to this movie being made, and that’s a very good thing. I’ll be there with Kevlar on.

In Which I Ate, Drank And Landscaped.

At Oaks Tavern, show some respect, and have your drinks roofied away from the felt.

However, if Oaks was angling for a five-point Yelp rating, it had me at the karaoke version of “I’m on a Boat.”

I believe the term is “mono-eater.”

Since Ricky’s been doing his best Pigpen impression lately, I filled his favorite dirt patch with simulated wood chips. (Rubber doesn’t attract insects and I figured it would be comfier.) But Rick is one ungrateful bastard.

Twinsies!

Officer Text ‘N Drive, At Your Service.

Booked It.

Hey, did you ever get that job you talked about for weeks then abruptly stopped mentioning?

Risky talking about it, for sure, but I did it – last week, after an audition. I had a good feeling about it, I’ll be damned if I didn’t get the good news yesterday. I booked a role in a very good film called Road Hard. I can’t say too much about the plot, but my character’s name is Walter, and I shoot my scene soon, and I’m really excited.

The universe conspires. I owe it one.

Oh Bloody Heaven.

I donate blood in the hopes that mine will overpower my recipient and take control of his body so I will gain another vessel to call my own.

Actually, I donate every eight weeks simply because I can. People need it. Currently, only 1 in 30 people give blood, but 1 in 3 people will need blood in their lifetime.

This is my annual Red Cross plea. Do the math – if 1 in 3 need it, you’re gonna need it. So why not give? I understand if you don’t like needles, but trust me when I say they don’t hurt. The only painful part is being forced to watch Queen Latifah interview Ru Paul in the snack area. That’ll make you pass out.

And yummy snacks indeed, thanks to Keebler. Hey, they were generous enough to donate Chips Deluxe and EL Fudge – so you can part with a simple pint. Okay? Okay.

Careful.

Sometimes, during movie previews, I’ll turn to the stranger sitting next to me and whisper, “We should really go see that together.”

It’s my second favorite film-promotion-based prank. My first comes from an article I read yesterday in The New Yorker, about Jonah Hill’s maturity:

“The Jonah Hill audiences fell in love with in Knocked Up and Superbad was an overgrown baby – a pudgy, party-loving scamp who’d hide behind cardboard cutouts of himself in movie theaters, then jump out to scare people.”

That Ain’t Water.

I watched my alma mater, Maryland, play lacrosse against its rival, Johns Hopkins, with these knuckleheads, who played for Maryland themselves. I was regaled with stories of breaking and entering, drunk driving all the way to spring break and a blatant violation of NCAA rules… I also watched the fight Saturday night. Homophobe Manny Pacquiao entering the ring to a Katy Perry song was probably a victory for gay men everywhere… Conan O’Brien hosted the MTV Movie Awards last night, and I really liked this bit in which he tried to get 50 celebrities to appear... Over the weekend, I had one friend post that his dad had shattered his elbow, and another that his dog had died. Facebook may want to look into an option to click besides “like.”

Hey, Everybody!

How’s your day? Anyone sleep in the grass beside a stranger’s car or poop in a port-a-john? Me neither! Coachella-free weekend.

Career Suicide Hotline.

The only thing less demeaning than a celebrity calling an Australian radio station because a billboard asked them to is everything else in the world.

Your Move, Producers.

My long-term goal is to have my obituary include “died violently in a casino orgy.”

My short-term goal: book a role in the film I auditioned for yesterday.

You know when you leave the audition room if you nailed it or not, and it felt great. Because I err on the side of caution (my safe word is “burrito”), I can’t mention what the film is, but I hope to soon. And I really hope to be in it.

By the way, the pic above is a screen grab from the rehearsal session I had with my friend Ariel, who I can’t thank enough. I’ll find out in the next week or so, and if the news is good, then ladies and gents, start your boners.

I Record My First Ever Vlog.

Kiss My Pits.

One thing was for certain last Saturday: I was definitely the drunkest person in that ball pit.

But I somehow managed to snap a photo of the invitation to Pints for Pits. It’s a fundraiser tomorrow night at 25 Degrees in Huntington Beach for the One Million Pibble March.

I realize expecting a million people to show up to support Pit Bulls is optimistic. But the bar has been set obscenely low, thanks to the Christian Million Man March. They were just a teensy bit shy of a million:

God really trends like shit.

The Pibble March promises to be a kickass better time. There’s a kissing booth:

Or, if you’re out here in California, booze!

Pits. Pints. Mimimal Christians! See you there.

You Earned That Sawbuck, Maria.

If you all haven’t enjoyed a shampoo/deep temple massage by some strong hands from the old country, then we’ve failed as a society… Me, Saturday night: “You know what else is gluten-free at this party, Kayla? The door”… Mickey Rooney’s final stats: 340 movies and TV shows, eight wives. That's hall of fame… I was at my brother’s house last night, and downstairs, my niece had just out gotten out of the shower. There was giggling, and then something I will never be able to unhear, from my nephew: “Ricky, why did you lick her privates?”

New Yorkers Are Such Pussies.

No need to fly into buildings, terrorists – just fire up a t-bone.

Read about the devastation here:

‘Meat cloud’ from Steakhouse Bothers New York Times Business Journalists.

Earthquake, I Loathe You.

My new place – officially no longer new.

Okay, Who Did He Have To Blow To Get This Role?

Gimme A Push.

Become a writer, kids, and you’ll have unfinished homework until you die!

And with that, I got a new writing assignment, which puts a slight (but lucrative) obstacle in the path of my project that I was going to finish writing and star in. So I need extra motivation this week, and got in the form of an interview with Melissa McCarthy in Esquire:

ESQUIRE: You had a movie come out (The Heat) and you have one in the works (Tammy). You’re starring on a hit TV series (“Mike & Molly”) and your and your husband’s production company is working on a TV pilot. This must be a crazy time.
 
MELISSA: But it’s everything we’ve always wanted to do. It’s everything we’d been doing at Groundlings and trying to do on the side. Now the difference is someone is saying, “You want to do that? How do we help?” instead of Ben (Falcone, her husband and Bridesmaids costar) and I saying, “Hey, if we do this in an alley and someone drives by and sees it, maybe they’ll like it.” We’ve always been doing this much work.

Once Again, Out-Of-Context Thank-You Notes I’ve Recently Written To Casting Directors.

• I really want to rent a hot air balloon. Or at least a moderately-attractive air balloon with a great personality.

• You are the five-fingered hand model of casting directors.

• There was a glorious time, before social media, when you would just lose touch with people.

• What the hell does my dog have to sigh about?

• 35 is the best age to stop telling people you’re 23.

• Nothing embarrasses psychics more than throwing them a surprise birthday party.