A real fool that gets paid to talk to strangers in the street.


Friday, October 22, 2010


   “Everything belongs somewhere, that’s why I’m staying here.” –Bright Eyes

I smoke Parliament cigarettes.  At all my jobs over the years I take a break two times a night and step outside to smoke one or two and look up at the sky.  I inhale the moment and exhale the smoke towards the stars.  In between my mouth and those stars are the thoughts that represent that moment.  Sometimes I’d think about a girl, or the future, or how crazy people get when they’re inebriated.  I’ve seen and thought about a lot of things.  In each place, in each city, season, state, and age I investigate infinity, or at least the time remaining between now and forever.  I dream because I can.  I must.  If I think hard enough I can imagine each individual view of the sky from each location.  From the back of a steakhouse in my home town, from the back of a loud nightclub in Nassau County, from the Meat Packing District in downtown New York City, From the West Village, From Harlem, From Chelsea, from the alleyways behind Disney world, from the college bar in Upstate New York, all the way to Southern California.  I’ve been working in bars a long time.  They always make a man’s brain dive deeper.  Deeper into himself, based on what he sees sinning or not sinning in front of him, deeper into music, deeper into a bottle or two, into the past, the future.  Not the future because it relates to the past, but because you see how others are living their lives and how you are living yours.   The future is always greener if you have a positive attitude, unless your present is nirvana.  I didn’t grow up in Tibet.  I don’t know what nirvana is, and the one man I know of who claimed to be the leader of it ended up shooting himself with a shotgun.  I’ve come close to a lot of things.  I’ve touched greatness with my hands and with my brain, and drank from a troth of dirt.  I’ve danced all night long under lasers, in my sheets, in my head, and with mine and your demons.  I dream more than I do, but I do dream.  I win some, I lose some, but I’ve only been able to win as much as I have because I’ve lost so much, behind bars, in alleys, in others arms, in Brooklyn.

But I always work in a bar, and there’s always a back door to step out of and contemplate infinity or the myth of it.  I’m just glad the smoke travels with me and I have a sky to look at.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Helicopters and Yogurt Shops

 "No Helicopters looking for the murder."  Ice cube, A Good Day

Sprinkled between all the palm trees and bmw convertibles is a dream.  A dream that 1,000 people will walk out of a bus, plane, or car while I’m writing this to attain.  Everyone leaves somewhere with something in mind.  Whether it be a bit of fame, to prove their father wrong, or to simply leave the town that they needed to leave. 


It’s a weird place.  People work out, eat right, write, and act.  Act for a job, act for a means to an end, act like everything’s fine, or act like they’re acting.  Everyone’s an actor.  Everyone has a head-shot.

A headshot.

A picture that represents everything you are, hopefully everywhere you’ve been, and possibly everywhere you’re going.  One split of a second captured can represent infinity. 

When you leave a place to come here it means something.  It means you’re leaving behind a life, a family, and an existence, in the hopes that your hope has weight. 


All you want is a shot, a shot at the moment that makes you everything you wanted, a shot at the title, a shot at a shot. 


Where there are dreamers there are artists.  Where there are artists there are weirdos.   When the man in the Hawaiian shirt tells you he can give you free improv lessons and a free photo session, plus a chance to star next to Adam Sandler movie, you get weary. 

All the homeless men and women you see in Hollywood were would-bee’s.  Their makeup and costumes are last resort, and their resort is at the intersection of Hollywood and Highland.  They are still in show business, though.  They are perpetuating an existence that is really tangible and also intangible.  That’s why the risk of moving out to Los Angeles is such a high.  You could end up Maryline Monroe or Spider man on the street, selling poleriods, or actually being the next Maryline Monroe or Spiderman.

Once you start here…it’s hard to stop.  You’ve come this far.  Why turn back?  There is still a ring you have to drop in a volcano made of evil. (A Lord of the Rings reference)  You can’t turn back, because if you do then everything you’ve risked means nothing.


It’s a weird place.  You can hike next to a millionaire, dance with the stars, mingle in a bar with a famous person that became famous because her ex made a sex tape, or make the entire world stand on its toe's waiting for you to make them laugh just one more laugh.   There are immense ammounts of crimes that take place all the time here literally, physically, and in the world of dreams.  That’s why there are so many helicopters circling the town 24-7.  I’ve had one swoop down and almost land on my shoulder in Runyon Canyon. 

People live and smile here.  It really and generally is a happy place.  Which was surprising to me.  I’ve made amazing friends and done elaborate and amazing things.  Just wait till next Monday, when I start unleashing my fury on the Internet again. 

The world is a beautiful place.  This place, Los Angeles is a beautiful place.


Helicopters cover the sky looking for a problem.


We solve that problem with shitloads of frozen yogurt. 

Thursday, July 29, 2010

NY Edits You

me:  writing about NY is much easier without all the bars you can walk to.
 Bill:  I was debating moving to the lower east side. such a romanticism about living there. i knew then and i know now that i'd never be cool enough to live there. it would be a constant reminder that I needed to do more, be more.
 me:  I lived there for my last month in the city
 I was introduced properly to the side of the LES.
that I will never forget
there is a park all the way by the river
down 6th street, that I ran in the rain every morning at 7 am listing to NY specific Hip Hop,
watching the leaves fall.
the concrete smelled like heroin to me.
those buildings frowned upon me for wanting to leave.
I promised them I'd be back with some stories.
 Bill:  they also frown at you for thinking you're good enough to stay.
 me:  aint that the truth
 Bill:  you'll never be as tall as them. and they know that they'll most likely be around for a lot longer than you. and they treat everyone equallythat's why it's so hard. anyone who is as big as those buildings, your jeters, your lou reeds, etc. they still have to prove it.
 me:  That cobble stone downtown has seen it all.
 Bill:  the brilliant part about romanticizing new york is that you can't do it enough and that it's so overdone and cliché.
 me:  I spent half a summer in Spanish Harlem working
it freaked me out at first.
then I grew to LOVE it.
101st and 1st.
that neighborhood screams
Bill:  i wrote this line once: the narrator says, "The city, as the saying goes, never sleeps... it just waits."
 me:  every morn a page turns though, and the words are a completely different language,
and the book never ends.
 Bill:  it'll still be there long after us
 me:  NYC is a Wikipedia page that everyone thinks they can edit, but no one really can.
it edits them.

...She'll Jerk You Off

If she smokes…
If she has any kind of tattoo…
If she hasn’t talked to her dad in a month, or he is unfortunately deceased…
If she drinks a beer with a shot to chase it…
If she has two tone hair…
If she hasn’t exercised in two months…
If she wears anything bedazzled…
If she hasn’t changed her sheets in two weeks…
If she is bi-racial in a primarily white town…
If she was dumped recently…
If she just heard “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”…
If there’s a unisex bathroom…
If she is moaning like you’re having sex and you’re just holding hands…
If she has two drawers for underwear in two separate dressers…
If she is inside a laundrymat…
If her mother’s first name is Claire…
If there’s only one diner in her home town…
If her father keeps weird hours…
If she orders the “spicy” dish at a Chinese restaurant…
If she opts for the bill rather than the desert menu…
If she was born and raised in Queens, NY…
If she knows three or more players on any professional sports team…
If she has a lot of anti-aging cream, and or, benzoyl peroxide in her bathroom…
If she keeps her cash loose in her back pocket and not in a wallet…
If she is jerking you off…

Monday, July 26, 2010


There was always a driveway.  No matter what went in and out of it, it was there. Whether something stayed for a while or it went away.  The concrete always sat in the sun or stood by the clouds.  Bikes, feet, pogo sticks, Dodge Caravans, Lincoln Town Cars, Suburbans, and Volkswagen's pulled in and out for years and years.  People opened their doors with smiles on their faces and also left with blank stares.  There was a fence at the end with marks of sports paraphernalia making its way across the paint like a symphony about adolescents.    Christenings, graduation parties, basketball, fistfights, smoking tobacco and pot, futures, pasts, Christmas Presents, they were all brought to that driveway.  With cobblestone lining the sides and trees dropping their opinions and seasonal droppings, it was always there.  Pine cones, pine needles, leaves, cigarette butts, graduation caps, statements that define one's youth and a moment, they were all left on that pave-meant. 

Cars come.  Cars leave.  Children wait for their lessons with the fearful sound of their parents engine pulling up.  Teen’s hearts racing when their lovers heart charge up the street, the sound of a door closing, and a car moving in reverse. 


We always feel more in control, much more cool when we’re looking over our shoulder and pulling out, like there’s a camera watching us somewhere in the distance. 

Waiting-in another driveway somewhere.

Saturday, July 24, 2010


You can tell everything about a person based on what they drink.  It indicates how much of an amateur they are. not just with drinking.  You can find out how amateur they are in life.  If a 28-year-old white girl orders an amaretto sour, she’s probably either dated a lot of black men or was a bookworm in college.  If a girl orders a shot of Jack and a beer to chase it, she probably smokes cigarettes and hates her father.  The man she goes home with is probably a lucky one, amongst many others.  If a dude orders a martini, he’s probably wearing a button down and either worked really hard that day, or is on a date, or he desperately wants to seem older than he is.  He could just be sophisticated but chances are, he’s gay.  Most Asians like whiskey.  If they order anything other than that, they probably aren’t that good with English.  If someone orders one of those pink drinks that taste like college and fruity pebbles at the same time, they suck at life, and also, they may be Black.  Black people like sweet drinks.  Not to stereotype.  I’m Irish.  We drink, a lot.  Spanish people like beer too, or cervesa.  Also, god created alcohol so that every other race could truly see how stupid White people actually are. 

You can tell how Cosmopolitan a person is based on what they drink.  We all need liquid in our bodies, some to sustain, some to quench, some to smile, some to cope, or hope.  Someone once said that the world’s best writers are all drunks and fighters.  How you fight the good fight, or just how you keep keepin on is defined by what you hold in your hand when you're out in public.  There are many status symbols in life, fashion statements, and mannerisms that make up who you’ve become. 

Then next time you’re out watch the people at the bar and see what they order.  There’s a story behind it.  You can probably take advantage of that information.  If someone orders something “Neat” his or her room at home probably hosts the same adjective.  If someone orders something “Straight Up” they are usually that kind of person.  If someone says no fruit in their cocktail, it probably means they’re straight as an arrow.  It’s an interesting world.  Life is made more interesting with a drink in your hand.  Look at the hands in the room, what they’re holding.  There’s a novel in each glass. 

Friday, July 23, 2010


I remember when I was a kid that there was a distinct group of people that A) were the Cool Kids, and B) thought they were cool.

cool |koōl|
1 of or at a fairly low temperature : it'll be a cool afternoon | the wind kept them cool.
• soothing or refreshing because of its low temperature : a cool drink in the leafy shade | figurative the bathroom was all glass and cool, muted blues.
• (esp. of clothing) keeping one from becoming too hot : wear your cool, comfortable shirts.
• showing no friendliness toward a person or enthusiasm for an idea or project : he gave a cool reception to the suggestion for a research center.
• free from excitement or anxiety : he prided himself on keeping a cool head | she seems cool, calm, and collected.

Some of them were actually cool and some of them tried.  I myself observed.  It was an anomaly to me.  How did these kids, with all their youth, conquer this feet of cool?  Was it hard?  How did they maintain their cool?  This is elementary school I’m talking about.  This is a time where YO! MTV Raps was still on, and girls permed their hair in an effort to be…

Most kids go home from school and with what they've observed in the hallways and in the cafeteria  and ponder and fight for a moment where they themselves could be considered as cool.  Maybe that means they get a new hat on Sunday.  It could mean that they add a new word of slang like “dope” into their vernacular.  Maybe it just means that they hope someone at the table that usually ignores them acknowledges them. 

I wondered what it was like for a while.  I went home every day and thought about why they liked those bands that talked about girls and drinking while I blasted The Monkeys, and Boy George.   Was I Un-Cool?  To them, sure I was.  I was a Red Headed Step Child with a twin sister and a I had two crossed eyes and an odd perspective on reality.  Shit, I was so scared to eat my lunch in the cafeteria that my Spanish teacher let me eat with her every day. 

Then a day came.

It was a school dance.  I was in eighth grade.  I was wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of kaki pants, and I asked Meagan Watts to dance with me during a slow song.  Meagan Watts had the largest breasts in my school, and maybe even still the world.  In my memory they were right out of a Christmas present box that already had a Nintendo, a football, and a gift certificate to my favorite restaurant in it.  They were being held against my chest for a brief moment in time.

I didn’t know what I was doing but everyone else thought I did, and literally that was the moment the cool kids took notice to me.  That next Monday I felt a different vibe in the hallways. Both boys and girls were looking at what I was wearing and coming in the next day wearing similar outfits.  I was asked to ride bikes with kids that had tormented my existence.  I was now sharing pop-tarts with people.  That’s a big one.

All I ever wanted as a kid was a couple good friends.  I would pray for it every night before I went to bed.  I knew and hoped that someone would understand what it was going on inside my head, and love me for it.  I knew I was special, so did God.  He gave me two crossed eyes and exposed a child to things that under normal circumstances would cripple or hinder a person’s understanding.  In retrospect I’ve understood everything all along.

I knew that I was going to have great people around me.  I knew that I was going to slow dance with the most special girl in the room.  I knew I was going to eventually be the one holding the bat while the others sat on the bench and wondered.  I knew my HAIR was fucking unstoppable. 

I knew I was cool.  What do you think? 

Thursday, July 22, 2010

What Matters.

The sunshine.  Waving. Pointing at someone who let’s you have the right of way. Poetry.  Vacuumed carpets.  Cameras.  Vegetables.  The fucking wind.  Poultry.  Vanity.  Walt Disney.  Napkins.  Sandals that fit.  Tennis.  The Earth.  Graveyards.  Backyards.  Phone calls.  Neighbors.  Sushi.  Mr. Rodgers.  Fences.  Sprinklers.  Sound.  Immigrants.  New York City.  Five speed cars.  Parents.  Parenting.  Hard, rip roaring sex. Microphones.  Bridges.  Silverware.  The Q train.  Clothing with numbers on it.  Bubbles.  Un padded bras.  New feelings.  Morgan Freeman.  Thesis statements.  Arguments.  Padded bras.  Sundresses.  Channel 7.  Bloody Mary’s.  Steve.  Narcissism.  Jake. Chocolate.  Movie stubs.  BBQ.  Waves.  Long distance.  Gin.  The sound a zipper makes.   Wine.  Phone Chargers.  Sunday Television.  The Wizard of Oz.  Justin Timberlake.  Knapsacks.  Sausage.  The #2 meal at MacDonald’s.  Sauce.  Underwear.  Shoulders.  Whole grain bread.  High fives.  Bank cards.  Cotton.  Nostalgia.  Boats.  Hand jobs.  Bud Light.  The Lower East Side.  Furniture.  Coasters.  Spanish bitches.  Led Zeppelin.  Parking Lots.  Cobble stone.  The Goonies.  Under the sheets, slow motion, love making.  Coloring books. Batman.  Steve Martin.  Leather.  Israel.  KY Jelly.  Bill Cosby.  Mugs.  A Philips head screw driver.  Chalk.  Sweaters.  Scotch.  Cheese.  Sponges.  French Kissing.  Pencils.  Skateboards.  Laughter. Blankets.  Block parties.  Lobster. Denim.  Chris Farley.  Phones.  Ice cream.  Kids. 

Thursday, July 8, 2010

The Forth of Forever

    As a child I was petrified by fire works.  We lived on a block that had a marina at the end of it and every Fourth of July the surrounding towns would walk down my block to the marina with their chairs, beer, and families, to share in the annual spectacular.  I never went; I had never seen a firework, and didn't need to - hearing them made me cry. 

    I’m going to bring this up now and it’s going to make little sense out of context but it will make sense later.  Batman is my favorite thing.  I draw the Bat-symbol on just about everything I can get my hands on. I still think that even after all these years that at some point Batman will scoop me up in the bat mobile, make me his robin, and bring me back to Gotham City where I will live out my days as his sidekick. Batman is the only superhero without superhuman powers on which to rely. Which makes him infinitely more badass, because you know that fears are cold and real for him. Batman is a normal man with superhuman courage.
      On the 4th of July we celebrate the birth of our country, a long weekend away from work, our family, friends, and the official start to the summer.  When you’re young and single the 4th is exciting because girls get drunk and you can make cheeseburgers no problem.  I have spent the last 20-fourths on a place called Fire Island, NY. Usually I would go to Ocean Beach where my crew of knuckleheads would dress up in some kind of outfit, whether it be pirates, or super short shorts, etc.  We would make fools of ourselves, and love to the beach at the same time. 

I did not do that this summer.

    I’m in a new place, with new friends.  I’m in the Sunshine state.  I was clueless as to what the best option would be.  I was invited to a pool party at a hotel, a beach music festival in Venice; after some investigation my friends and I ended up in a community called Paradise Cove which exists in Malibu California.  It’s a trailer park for millionaires.  You hear about Malibu in movies and on TV.  It’s considered on the world’s most beautiful places.  I assure you that it is.  I had never been there before and man what a day I had.
    The house we were going to was the house of a brother of a friend’s boyfriend.  A man I had only met two times prior, but was kind and inviting.  He was gracious enough to invite my two girl friends and a buddy of mine out to his house on a hill overlooking the expanse of Paradise Cove and the massive scenic cliffs and bluffs where America truly ends.  The weather was perfect.  The smell of the ocean was unlike any I had smelled prior, and the vibe of the place was magical and refreshing.  It was like a vagina that had a disco ball inside it that never stops spinning.
The house we were invited two is the house of a man and his girlfriend.  The two of them and the boyfriend of my friend were in the ending stages of putting together a documentary about happiness.  Literally, the movie is called "The Happy Movie," and it studies the scientific and spiritual side of why people are happy.  Right up my alley.  Upon arrival we were instantly put to work painting a golf cart yellow with smiley faces all over it so that it could be a part of the Golf Cart parade happening later that day.  That’s right, a Golf cart parade.  We painted this thing and made it the happiest little cart ever. 

    After the cart was completed we decided to eat some food before we took the cart down the hill towards the beach to start enjoying the community festivities.  I was having a great, creative, and productive day with new friends of mine in a new place. 
    We brought an abundance of meat with us. They had a grill we could use, and because I openly stated a while ago that I am a BBQ master I took the reigns. I took the meat cooler and began prepping the meal.  In the cooler was marinated chicken, burgers and other BBQ-ing essentials. Under all the meat was a chocolate bar, so while I was making the meal I decided to open the bar and proceded to eat the better part of half of it.  Soon thereafter my buddy came downstairs saw that I had eaten half the bar and began laughing. 
“you didn’t just eat that, did you?”
“Yea, what’s the big deal.  I like chocolate.”
“That wasn’t just a chocolate bar Matt.  That had mushrooms in it.”
    I begin to freak out.  I don’t do drugs.  At least I haven’t since college, and I just at six people’s worth of mushrooms.  So I freak out, people assure me that everything is going to be all right, and after about a half hour the world starts swaying.  I thought I was going to be the fucked up kid on the couch that his friends have to be constantly checking on.  I thought I was going to see the devil pop out of family portraits.  I figured I would have been incapacitated.  That did not happen.
Instead, we got on the yellow-painted golf cart to promote this movie called Happy that the filmmakers were promoting that day in the golf cart parade. We handed out business cards that said, “Happy 4th of July”, and the URL on the back which is www.thehappymovie.com.  (Shameless plug, but Jesus it all made sense.) 
    On our way down the hill we got the tour of Paradise Cove, every house more beautiful than the next.  I couldn’t tell if they were waterfront houses, restaurants, or resorts.   It was a mixture of all of those things.  Every deck had multiple kegs, BBQ’s and celebrities on it.  This was nothing short of something you could only dream about, and we hadn’t even made our way to the beach yet. 
Upon arrival to the sand, our tour guides were amazed at the waves, they said this was an exceptional day for the waves, and it was.  Every wave seemed to be designed by Perfection and to perfection, and every surfer seemed to be getting a ride at the same time.  I stood there wide-eyed and amused by the coastline, my friends, and the power of the Pacific.  I grew up on the Atlantic and had often dreamed of this new ocean and what it would be like in the summer: well this was the living embodiment of my dreams.   I was every Beach Boy at the same time and I could actually hear Brian Wilson singing in the background.
    We decided to talk a walk down the cove towards a bluff.  We had smiles on our faces and our worries dissipating as we began walking.  Before long, we stumbled on a party on the beach.  This was no ordinary party.  There wasn’t one ugly person at this party, and there were also a bunch of white men with dread locks.  My friend Bill and I stood there in amazement because the second we walked towards the party a dance craze started and before long about two hundred people were just rocking out, while men surfed the waves and random Americans sat on the beach appreciating our freedom as a nation.  I did feel a bit out of place.  I didn’t know anyone besides my friends and all of these people seemed to be Paris Hilton carbon copies. 

    I took a dip in the ocean.  I walked up slowly to the water and dipped in, turned around and looked at the edge of America, at my new friends, and the ridiculous nature of what I was watching and said to myself, “Matty, good choice.”  A good choice in leaving New York, a good choice in a woman, a good choice in my day on the beach, for accidentally taking mushrooms... and I just thanked myself for having the kind of faith I had, in everything.
    We preceded to walk up a little further away from the party and we found a path in the middle of nowhere that resembled something right out of Jurassic Park.  It winded into nowhere and was extremely interesting.  After finding an appropriate place to urinate we somehow met back up with the girls and headed back to the golf cart parade.
    Then it hit me.  I needed a beer, but couldn’t find one.  I had been hanging out inside a beer commercial all day but had no beer so we walked past the rave party on the beach again and I procured a miller light, thank you God.
    There were multiple points on my walk back to the parade where I saw things that I could swear were places I’d seen in movies or TV, like where Dylan McKay and Kelly from 90210 god laid together, or where those cheesy beach movies from the 50’s were filmed.  It hit me though, in looking around, being aware that I was at peace.  I stopped everyone dead in their tracks and stated, “Guys, I know this may sound cliché and cheesy, but I’m at peace with everything right now at this moment.”  I was.  They all laughed because they understood.  I called my father back in NY to wish him a happy fourth of July.  I had spent the last 28 fourths with him and although I regretted not being next to him I knew he would be happy with my surroundings and thoughts, with my choices. 
    As we entered the town I began to talk to the man whose house we were staying in about some of the odd objects and things I saw in his house before we left.  Eventually I got to asking him why he had about 3 unwrapped limited edition "Batman Begins" and "The Dark Knight" movies on his shelf and he preceded to tell me that he was best friends with Christopher Nolan, the director of those movies, and that hew childhood friends with him and his brother Jonah, Jonah being the writer of those movies as well the next installment of the franchise.  Mind you I spend more time debating what may happen in the next movie with people than I actually know about what’s going on in the real world. 
    Again, Batman is my favorite thing, besides my family, my friend  best friend jimmy, and my other best friend and girlfriend.   Without batman I’m nothing.  I was hanging with childhood friends of Chris Nolan, are you kidding me Los Angeles?  I was in the right place at the right time, and I was high on mushrooms.  I screamed like a little girl that got her period for the first time and I’m wearing white spandex in a unisex gym class. 
    After they convinced me to calm down so that I didn’t fall off the cliff I took a deep breath and another look at the ocean.  This was a great day.  As we proceeded to make out way up the hill and toward the houses again I could hear about four classic rock songs being played by four different bands and I could see the celebration start.  The town we left had morphed into festival, and the houses were in full swing.  There were ice cream vendors, face painters, an official watermelon seed-spitting contest next to someone’s house.  People were smiling everywhere and I had no option than to follow suit.  Eventually the Happy Movie Golf cart came around and we were actually in the parade passing out cards and running up to houses and promoting the movie that I’m convinced I was meant to promote, because I’m a generally happy person. If someone isn’t happy I either make fun of myself or just make fart noises in an effort to put a smile on their face.  Happiness is an abundance on my farm and during the months off  I harvest that crop and force feed it in your face until your toilet hates me.  And here I am promoting a movie about it amongst the richest and most influential people in the LA area.  I have my yellow shorts on and a caravan of cool to stand on.  

    So the parade was in full swing and golf carts of all different shapes and sizes were strolling down the streets, some were huge unicorns, some were mocking the oil spill in the south, but everyone was smiling and we were cruising down the cove stopping at houses with people and promoting the movie, I handed a card to Howie Mandel, and a slew of others.  I really don’t care about Howie Mandel aside from the fact that he created Bobby’s world when I was kid, but I was on mushrooms his face looked crazy.  Eventually we stopped at the house of the producer of the Happy movie.  His name is Tom and I didn’t know this at the time but he is the best friend of Jim Carrey who, aside from Batman who is fictional, Andy Kaufman, and Robin Williams, is my favorite human being and a man I hope to one day be compared to.  This man Tom, the producer, co-wrote Ace Ventura, Liar Liar, and ever other Jim Carrey movie that I adore.  I was standing in the house that was built on not just his success but the success of my idol and that freaked me out.  I had read about this man and seen him in interviews for the past decade and a half and here I am standing in his house on the forth of July, drinking Jack Daniel’s on his deck, awaiting a fire works display.  I peed in his daughter’s bathroom, drank from his faucet and shook his hand and thanked him.  Little did he know I wasn’t just thanking him for his hospitality.  I was thanking him for inspiring me for decades.  I made my presence known and based on the contacts I made that night I hope to sit down with him and let him know that I’m the second coming of what he started almost twenty years ago. 
    My friends were convening on the cliff with the massive amounts of others as we awaited the display and I walked right past Pamela Anderson yelling at her son.  I saw an MTV cribs years earlier about her living in this community and here she was, being a mom right in front of me as the sun was setting in Malibu.  I used to watch her bouncing around on channel 9 when I was 9.  Crazy.
The first works started and I put my arms around my old friend, and my new friends, thinking about everything that transpired that day.  It was perfect.  It was meant to be.  It was magic.  Everything that took place was beyond serendipitous and coincidental.  It was fate.


    When I was six or so my father came up to my room on the forth of July and asked if I would hold his hand and walk down to the marina to the fire works.  He said, “Matty, you don’t have to look at them.  You can sit in my lap and keep your eyes closed; your ears covered by your hands and your head down.  I just want you to be there with me.” After he coaxed me with a cheeseburger I said yes and I walked down the street towards the water shaking with fear and I sat in his lap, closed my eyes, covered my ears, and kept my head down.  Once they started, he tapped my head and whispered in my ear. “Just look up Matty,” he said.  “You’ll be ok I promise.”  I took my hands off my ears, and lifted my head.  I gently opened my eyes.  I couldn’t stop looking.  To this day I love fire works.
I’m glad I looked up.  I’m glad I’ve learned to conquer my fears about trying new things I’m scared of, because I drove across the country having never been to LA, and I was petrified by it.  I sat on a NY street 3 days before I left with my best friend Nate and cried out of fear of the unknown. I was scared of the bright lights.  Now I’m a part of the fire works I was petrified by. 
Thanks Batman,  I mean Dad.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Fan Fucking-Part 2

do u have

not since my surgery.



I had my toe nails removed. It helps me dance better.

do u have a email


yes I have email why?


window live mesenger ?

No, they don't let me look out the window here. They say the world is too scary.

send me your email


but I'm glad I found a new friend in you.
you can be my window.




do you like yogurt?

yogourt ?
No i hate !
why ?

do you have a cam ?

on the spaceship?
next christmas RiRi will buy one for me
and a doggie.
I will name him Chip.
after my tooth.


but u don't know riri !




where is ashley ?


black people.

why ?


because god made them that way.
just like he made my cousin Joey half a retard.
We love him though.


ok lol
what do u doing ?

Watching the Superbowl.

i want talk with rihanna !

She is sleeping.

where ?

in the bath tub.
that's where the best air is.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Fan Fucking-Part 1

Before I show you the meat of this post, I have to preface it appropriately.  I moved out here to Los Angeles 4.5 months ago with a '94 Acura Vigor, a couple grand, and some dreams.  I had no idea what I was doing.  Somewhere along the lines, I met a girl.  She is a very special girl that has a unique job and a pair of eyes that could have been balls on God’s billiards table.  She is a singer and a very talented one at that.  She’s haut in the face and body regions.  She’s got a great and winning personality, yada-yada-yada.  What do you expect?  I’m Matt McManus.  I’m a plate in a Kobe Beef steak joint; quality finds me somehow.  So, she and I are “friends” on Facebook™ and it says that we are “In a relationship” with each other under our names.  Which feels cool because she’s so hott, and I have love handles. 

But I digress.

So she’s on tour in Europe.  I just went to see her.  It was great.  London smells good, even though it doesn’t.  Punk rock was born there and a lot of things died there.  The food was good.  The people were great.  I drank a lot and explored my romantic side.  It worked out.  She still likes me and it still says we’re in a relationship on Facebook©. 
Check her out, because I want you to know that after all these years, I am doing better than you. 

So we're on Facebook™ together and she’s touring the entirety of Europe singing with a huge pop star, as they embark on a world tour.  Now, my significant other has a magnetism to her.  People are drawn to her so naturally that she makes fans.  They find her on facebook and because she’s gracious, she “friends” them and keeps them up to date on her life on tour.  They get so super excited to talk to her that they ask for my friendship as well.  When this happens, they don’t exactly know what they’re in for because again, I’m Matt McManus.  If you want to get fucked with, I’m not gonna fuck with you, but if you don’t want to get fucked with, I’m gonna fuck with you.  “If you ain’t ever been to McManus, don’t ever come to McManus, so stay the fuck out of McManus.” 

This nice young person from Europe loves the pop star my girlfriend is touring with, therefore he tried to talk to me out of obsession for her.  Yea…I know.

I walk all over this like a bully with a hall pass.  Example:

Hiii my friend!
how are u?
you are here ?

yes, butt I'm at work.
can't really talk
what's up?

and you ?
Ashleigh Haney awesome!!!!!!!!

Ashleigh Haney love me

Rihanna show with Ashleigh AWESOME!!!!!!asda

Rihanna buys me cheeseburgers
all the time

whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatttttttttttttttttttttt !
and me? !! ??

Rihanna love to buy me food
because I'm a growing boy

send me
i want talk with her

She's not allowed to talk because she has to save her voice
she uses sign language like a deaf person
Like hellen Keller

it's boring !

sometimes Rihanna makes me dance

with u ?

and Ashleigh throws things at me
like deli meat
things get weird on the road


if you come to America would you paint with me?
if Ashleigh was there
she would make us Tea of course
any tea you want

it's very BIG DREAM !!

and Rihanna would talk to us via satellite

It's my dreams !

with sign language of course
and she would be in a spaceship
wearing a david bowie T-shirt


ok I gotta go

rihanna have face book ?

rihanna is one of the owners of facebook
her and Al pacino
the famous actor
and that jewish kid


no offense

what  her name on Facebook?

It used to be Godplanet4 but I'm not sure what it is now, she changes it at least 11 times a day.
you know the deal.
but I gotta go.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

G Chat W/ Friends

  me: I fly back into NYC a week from this Thursday
 Robert: tits
 me: i have almost no time to spend in NYC
 I'm gonna have mid day/maybe happy hour drinks w/ jim
  you in?
  don't tell anyone else
 Robert: yeahdude
 me: I don't wanna hurt feelings.
  but you two are the only ones to know.
 Robert: he and I got blasted last night
 Robert: after we swore off weekday drinking
11:13 PM Yeah, I can do happy hour fo shop
  fo sho
me: ok
  we'll make it work
11:14 PM I CANT get wasted, and I'll be all kinds of jet lagged.
  but I gotta have my pops
 Robert: We'll just see about that
 me: we're gonna end up popping viagra
11:15 PM and bobbing for apples somewhere
 Robert: OK
  here's the plan
  all three of us
  each pop 2 viagra
  and we all go into a very full playground
  last one to get arrested wins
 me: part II: We buy paste like glue paste and take our shirts off in union square. I throw globs on you, you throw globs on me and jimmy spits calamari on us.
11:17 PM Robert: Whichever one of us does not get mauled to death by pigeons and homeless guyswins a cupcake and a can of tacks
 me: and we have a boombox playing My best friends girl over and over.
 Robert: Jesse is a friend
11:18 PM but no friend of mine
  so I banged his chick
  and filmed it on my flip cam
11:19 PM me: Flip Cam Revenge All Stars, with the new album First Time For Everything, with the smash single, "In the Unisex Bathroom Downstairs."

Tuesday, April 27, 2010


Sometimes, once I get into my car an English woman’s voice is heard.  It's my navigation system. I turn the volume up all the way.  It’s pretty loud.  Then I request directions someplace in the Midwest and wait for it to calculate the distance.  Then I get out  and put the navigation system in my trunk. I get back and in the car and I start driving like an idiot around Los Angeles. My trunk is not soundproof,  so Samantha, the English broad, sounds like she’s locked in my trunk.  She tells me to turn around, or that I’m going in the wrong direction, or that I’ve made bad choices with the path I’m taking.

Sometimes I go running around the city in my short shorts.  I imagine I’m training for a boxing movie.  I look at people like I mean business.  I do.  I walk into a random place of business.  Sometimes it’s a hotel, sometimes it s a deli. I wait to see if they either give me the water or not. I don’t say a word and pretend I’m about to die.  I look forward to them saying no so I can give them the finger.  When I leave I usually have to go number two.  So I walk around and sneak into some kind of building through the parking garage and take the elevator upstairs.  I walk in like I work there and wave at someone find a bathroom with a window.  It has to have a window.  I do my business because I’m a businessman. Like a businessman, I wash my hands, and walk the fuck out. This is all part of the boxing movie.

Sometimes I cheer on a sandwich that I’m eating like it’s my favorite actor in an action movie. I literally pump my fists in the air and kick the seat in front of me.

I can’t walk past my reflection and not look. This happens in public usually. Doesn’t matter if it’s a bus window, a storefront, or puddle. It’s not because I’m vein, but because I’m just checking to see if the
amount of cheese I consumed the night prior is giving me back my double chin.

I go on Facebook and click as many "Like" buttons as I can not because I like what you're doing, but because I want to attach my name to your life as many times as I can.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

I am what you made me, dick

I look like a movie star, fact.  I’m 180 Lbs, fact.  I’m the king of the actual Melrose Place, fact.  I wake up, drink coffee and jump up and down looking at the Hollywood hills every single morning like Ice Cube in the “It was a good day” video.  I don’t have a jerry curl, or a gun, or a drop top.  I do have a Fat burger in close proximity; I can smell the Pacific in the breeze and bite into the magic of LA like an apple at any given time, as the juice runs down my chin.

I’m 29.  I’m in love with an actual angel and the city of Los Angeles at the same time.  I wanna lay down at the center of the intersection of La Cienega and Melrose Ave, make a snow angel on the pavement while the worst drivers with licenses beep while I wave like a tourist and Ms. America combined. 

I’m tainted by my dreams and intimidated by yours.  You should most certainly be scared of mine, because they have about 1000 good people out there attached to them.  While you believe in hair product and perfect teeth.  Pray to your God, he exists in leather jackets and contemporary electro house pop music.  The cigarette breaks you take are in the hopes someone snaps a photo of you while mine are a confessional with all humanity.

What do I have to confess?  I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I’m doing it.  I run the streets every morning, while you run your mouth.  While you pick up the leftovers in your small town, the one you never got out of.  While you spend time in the same bar you’ve been inside just as many times as you haven’t been inside a library.  While you park your car at the 7-11, and buy your 1000th pack of Newport’s, and a large coffee.  I’m parked outside of Awesomeness with a firm grip on the future.  With my sunroof open and my middle finger pointed behind me. 

I went to my High School reunion.  I was the shit.  I had two beers and the attention of everyone who never knew me.  I’ve always had my friends.  The best knuckleheads a blockhead could ask for.  I never really cared you guys, but you, you made me who I am, and I thank you.

Walking past me.  Talking about why it is I did the things I did.  I was never understood.  I was one step above them, while they had their foot right on top of me.  I gave them my kindness, regardless. I was the Gandhi and the Ferris Beuler of my High School.  I got out though, a long time ago.

After all these years.  After all this time it’s only fitting that the town that makes movies has decided that I look and act like a “dick”.  That that’s the roll I fit and do so effortlessly.  So that's what I'll be for a while while you watch me on Television.  I am not, a dick.  I can certainly act like one, and I learned it from watching you guys. 

So thank you for your wisdom, or lack there of. You made me who I am today.
Have fun at Lilly Flannigan’s this Friday.  Joey will be there with Mike probably.  They will probably will be wearing either plaid or polo shirts and cargo shorts. 


Saturday, April 17, 2010

Long Island Iced Tea

I’ve been making these since I was 17.  I’ve been behind a bar since I was a kid.  My first boss told me that their name wasn’t really Long Island Iced Tea. That it was called the “Leg Spreader.”  He was the coolest boss. 

Vodka, gin, rum, tequila, sour mix, and Coke, all mixed together.  Why on Earth did someone ever think that would taste good?  I did when I was twenty-nothing-years-old.  I drank the shit out of em.  I actually thirsted for them, because they got me drunk. They also hosted the name of where I was from.  To actually stand somewhere and order a drink in its namesake…that’s something special.  You don’t hear a St. Paul Iced Tea, or a Houston Iced Tea do you?  Boston Tea works, but whatever. 

Long Island is the land of the forever twenty-some things, with willingness for nice cars, good music, and horrendous vocabulary.  With a tanning bed within 2 kilometers of the bed you actually sleep in.  With a million guys named Joey, literally.  This is the place that is shit for most of the year and Heaven for four months.  It’s within close proximity to the best beaches on the East Coast as well as the greatest city in existence. 

I hate it.  I hate it because I grew up there, and being American means just that.  I love it for the same reason and I can’t wait to get back there to use my accent again.  I wait anxiously to surround myself with my kind.  Like a major league player that has to play in the minors for one season till his tendon heals.  I miss the streets that mean something to me.   I miss the people with hugs I can feel as well as the arguments that are warranted. 

Granted, there are a million jerkoffs there.  There are thousands of jerkoffs everywhere, but the term jerkoff was born in a mall somewhere not far from where I grew up, East Islip, NY.  I am one of them.  I yell when yelled at.  I drink when spoken to.  I will talk about the Atlantic Ocean like it’s my job.  That’s what we do. 

We get fat on purpose in the Winter and enter the gym in Spring like a team reconvening after a huge win the season before.  We wash our own cars; because you lazy fucks everywhere else need to shut up.  We like big boobs and highlights,  tan lines and Bud Light, the Yankees and the Mets, and countless sexual encounters with people from our zip code. 

Sure I left over a decade ago and moved to Brooklyn which became more of a home to me than any roof could provide.  Sure I dance like the world is going to end.  It’s all because those streets I grew up on taught me something I can’t fully describe.  They taught me to wait for Summer like it’s the law.  It taught me to shut the fuck up.  It told me to drink this drink that made me forget my middle name.

The long Island Iced Tea. 

Now, years later I’m in Southern California and these young fucktards order a million of them around me every night.  They have no idea what Long Island means or is, or why they made a drink from there that makes you forget where you’re from.  And that’s just it.

Only a place like Long Island would invent a cocktail named after itself that would get you so drunk that you forgot where you’re from.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Getting Pulled Over on Melrose.

I have no problem talking about this because at this point all of you know me.  If you don’t well get ready.  I’m 29.  I suck my thumb.  There, I said it.  It’s not all the time.  Only when I’m tired or happy which is %75 of the time.  I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.  I stopped for a while.  Then I started again. 

I don’t do cocaine.  I don’t gamble.  I don’t like whores.  I drink casually but not to a fault, and I pay my taxes.  I am however a little flamer because I suck my thumb.  It’s not hurting anyone.  Well, it almost did today. 

I live in Hollywood, West Hollywood to be exact.  It is the gay part of town.  No Homo.  I get checked out left and right by men and I don’t mind because they wear cool shirts.  I also wear short shorts to go running because I have this philosophy that if you are running in short shorts no one cares, but if you’re walking in short shorts you look like queerbait.  So in an effort to stay thin I run in short shorts so that I can’t stop running in public.  Today I’m wearing bright orange short shorts and I weigh 183 Lbs. 

I should write a book.

I dropped my car off to get an oil change and I went running.  I came back thirty minutes later and got my car to drive it home.  This is on Melrose Ave.  So I’m driving home on Melrose Ave and I decide because I’m both tired and happy because I worked late last night and got no sleep, and because the sun and fun of this state is infecting me.  So I’m tired and happy.  I start sucking my thumb like a little boy on the tire swing that just had a good sandwich and juice box sorry, Capri-Sun. 

I’m cruising down Melrose in my 1994 Acura Vigor, tan, with clear windows.  I’m suckin my thumb and it’s feeling so good because I’m happy and chillin in California.  I’m thinking about food, my girlfriend, how cool my haircut is, how much I weigh, what I look like in pictures, what my father’s up to, what it’s like to have breasts.  I’m checkin my reflection out, I’m checking out pedestrians, I’m jamming to classic rock.  I’m in the zone. 

Then I hear the sirens behind me.  Not one, but two cop cars are pulling me over.  I have not been pulled over in California yet, and as I go to turn the next street to stop my car I drive up on the curb out of nerves.  I thought I was going to get my car impounded, or my license revoked.  Who knows?  I thought all this because I still have TWO bright white NY State license plates on my 1994 Acura Vigor, and you have 30 days after you arrive in CA to switch both your license and license plates.  That’s how attached to NY I still am.  I’m willing to get pulled over just so these bitches know who’s in town.

 I’m wearing my bright orange short shorts in West Hollywood, and to top it off I’m wearing an extra small I heart NY t-shirt, because I want to see if my short shorts philosophy works on the upper body.  They walk up slowly, four of them, and compose themselves.

“Turn the car off.”

I turn it off.

“You have problems driving?”

“No, Sir I was just a little nervous.”

“Was it that?  Or you were too busy sucking your thumb?”

I put my head down in shame.  I thought of a couple excuses, but…

“License and registration.”

I hand them my stuff.

“You know son you have 30 days to change you license and registration in CA or it’s considered that you’re driving without a license.  So basically every day your driving around you’re breaking the law, and today you almost hit a cop car and drove up on a curb because you were sucking your thumb.”

He looks at me.  I look back at him.  Giggle, and bow my head in shame.  I’m wearing short orange shorts, a tight NY t-shirt, and I have 2 NY State license plates.  I should be eating salami, smoking Marlboro lights, wearing a visor, and cursing like a truck driver to represent my state.  Instead I’m sucking my thumb and wearing orange shorts.  He takes my info back to the car, and the other cops behind me laugh at me through my rear view mirror.   After a while he comes back to the car and hands me my info back. 

“Get your California license Matt,” he says.

“Yes sir, On Monday,” I say.

“And stop sucking your thumb…idiot.”

The moral of this story is this:

I got pulled over for sucking my thumb.

Matt McManus
Spring 10

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

St. Patrick's Day 08

I'm not in NY.
I'm in LA now. 
There is a tear in midtown for me pouring out of a Guinness tap.  There are 25 girls from Long Island with no one to talk to, because I'm in LA about to start my night.  Although I miss the tradition I started.  I missed the parade and bagpipes this year.  My grandfather would be proud of me though.  I'm making moves, and shaking this town up like a girlfriend that's too drunk to drive home. 

as a homage I give you an experience, my experience of New York City for St. Pat's.  Enjoy. 


Thursday, March 11, 2010

G Chat W/ Rob.

1:28 PM me: did you get laid?
 Robert: In Hawaii?
  Absolutely not
1:29 PM failure
 Robert: I decided to get a tattoo.
1:31 PM me: really?
   Robert: Yes
it's a map of the Philippines and the national sun and stars
me: Awesome.
  I'm getting the name of that girl you dated tatooed on the bottom of my feet so I can walk all over her.
 Robert: I love you, Matt McManus
  both platonically, and homoerotically

30 minutes
2:03 PM me: you ever put both a girls nipples in your mouth?
 Robert: like squeeze them together and just stuff em in?
 me: yea
 Robert: yeah
2:04 PM me: what's that called?
2:08 PM Robert: Awesome

2:11 PM me:when I come back to NY this summer with a mobile blowjob machine that I invented, and a shirt that says. "I can blow my self, thank you." We are gonna throw a party in the brandy library and then do a Mock circle jerk in central park where it says, "Imagine".

2:21 PM me: if you found out you were going to die, and you were gonna bang a dude, would you use a roller skate wheel to stretch out your but hole, to train it?
 Robert: that's a ridiculous question
2:22 PM you're supposed to use a flashlight.

Saturday, March 6, 2010


If I was to look at my life right now years ago, the definition of life would have changed for me.

I've spent years doing a lot of different things.  I was a buss boy when I was 15 and by the time I was 17 I was bartending.  I planted my feet behind one bar, stocking beer, wine, glasses, ice.  I listened to conversations and developed a habit for giving others booze.  I was always secondary.  I went from one bar on Long Island, to a club on Long Island, to Manhattan.  I started in a bar called the SOHO House, which was a private members only club for the rich, famous, and up and coming in both.  I parlayed that into other jobs, then management.   I ran bars in the West Village when I was 25 and in charge of 15 21-year-old women, or girls I should say.  New York City keeps girls, girls but turns them into women, quick.

All the while I worked behind these bars I had my dreams in my tip cup.  I was selfish.  I am selfish.  That must end.  I always wanted to make people laugh.  I do that effortlessly.  I always wanted to see smiles.  I do so effortlessly.  I have a background that would prove otherwise, but regardless of the hands I’ve been dealt I’ve always kept playing.  Honestly, to this day I still don’t know how to play poker…really.

I’ve been on stage a million times in my life, but really probably like 300 times.  That’s a lot of lights.  That’s a lot of applause.  That’s a lot of blowjobs, and that makes me smile. 

All the while my family stood by me.  They called when I didn’t answer to leave me words of encouragement and love.  My siblings though imperfect in their ways, just like me, are perfect.  They were dealt the same hand I was handed, and smiled because they wanted to, needed to. 

Perhaps it’s the fact that St. Patrick’s Day (my favorite day of the year) is around the corner.  Perhaps it’s the fact that my hair is red and my last name starts with Mc.  Perhaps it’s because the last four letters of my last name are anus.  Who knows?  But we always smiled and laughed.  We all have new reasons to smile and laugh now.

Three, three, count em, three little girls are in our lives and we didn’t steal them.  The stork didn’t drop them off.  Each one of my three siblings have either given birth or contributed genetically to a birth in the last 4 months.  Isabella Rose was born yesterday at 1:34 PM.  Madailein was born just after the New Year, and Abby was born just before I departed NY.  I waited there for her, for this.  I wanted to bear witness to the thing that would go on to become the “things” that changed my family for the better.

And here I am in Los Angeles CA, after all these years of laughter and everything else that comes along with it, writing about definition of life, because it has changed for me. 

Life is about learning.  It’s about hearing a conversation from behind the bar and wondering why the words, “Yea I smelled the floor in that place…Amazing,” even were spoke, and smiling as you go on stocking glasses and filling ice trays, beer.  It’s getting home at three in the morning and looking at pictures of your NEICES and being crippled by the responsibility of the fact that they exist, and loving every second of it.  It’s about waiting for the person you let into your world/heart getting back into town and sharing a bottle of wine.  It’s about listening, with all your senses, wholeheartedly.  It’s about being told you’ve been acting like a dick and telling the people under you to do something, rather than asking them.  Everything comes back around.

Here I am 29 years old, working for the SOHO house in West Hollywood, CA.  A place I vowed never to move to, because I love NY so much.  Well now I can say with an honest heart; I miss my family, more than ever, but LA’s fucking rad.

Life is about change.  The greatest of change is that of new life.  I have three new lives in my life, and I can’t wait to spoil them.   I still have my dreams.  I still have my Tip cup.  Most of all I still have my family, and they were there since day one.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Love Letter.

I’ll say this.  I miss New York City.  I miss the way the street looks at 3 A.M. when you’re the only one on it in Chinatown.  I miss jogging over the Brooklyn Bridge and getting a sip of water in City Hall Park.  I miss being a lunatic and no one caring.  Every time you turn a corner in Manhattan you know every one and no one at the same time.  You loose your own identity in that city, because you become a part of that city.  From Spanish Harlem in the Summer with Hip Hop blasting all around, to glasses clinking in the West Village, to bottles breaking in Washington Square park.  I miss my favorite street and how it always changed.  Every day there was a new store on it or a new beer on tap, or a new bum,  or new student at NYU. 

You see the new kids on the block in NY and you wonder what the years will do to them.  They could go from Ivy League graduates to busboys.  I’ve seen that happen.  They could go from busboys to media moguls.  I’ve seen that happen.  They could take one bite of a NY winter and call it a day.  They could walk through Bryant Park in June and find the love of their life, or their favorite view of anything.  They could get a ticket for public urinations and loose their teaching license.  I’ve seen that happen.

I saw Casablanca in a park at night drinking wine, a bum wipe her but on the street with a sweatshirt left outside a Salvation Army.  I saw money, lots of it, and ate ramen noodles, lots of them.  I ate Brooklyn up like a girlfriend that’s been away at war.  I held the buildings in NY in my hand like we were lovers.  I rode the train and sighed every time I saw downtown, because I am NY.  I tormented myself on purpose running in a hamster wheel only getting off to tie my shoes and pound the pavement.  That pavement was always there though.  I could always count on it, and it could always count on me. 

I had conversations with New York that I’ve never had with God, my parents, or a girlfriend.  I’ve cried from every emotion at some point all because New York was there listening and waiting for me to give and take from it. 

You could leave your apt at 7PM when you didn’t feel like going out, and come back $1000 bucks richer and with the name and number to the person you could very well either kill, or marry, and everything in between.

And so after seven years, three girlfriends, Two apartments, about 35 pounds, 9 jobs,  700 cups of coffee, god only knows how many shots of Jack Daniels, 5 wardrobes, 47 hair cuts, infinite sandwiches, countless embraces (both good and bad), 200 packs of Parliament Lights, one staff infection, two commercials, 35 shows, two summers of fame, tears, beers, and about 100 movie stubs, I was out like Bud Light on dollar beer night. 

Does New York City hate me?  You bet your ass it does.  It’s hated me all along, and I love it for that.  That’s the point.   You ever fight with a significant other but it feels good?  Like the argument might change your relationship for the better, and then you have make up sex?  That’s what it’s like with that city except you can change the world for the better via that city, and the make up sex is better than anything every written or documented.  When NYC talks back to you, or pats you on the back you don’t feel it in your wallet, you don’t feel it on your back.  You smell it on the street.  It winks at you by blinking lights telling you to cross the street.  It’s the feel of The Post in your hand.  It’s the smell of Indian food on the Street.  It’s getting drunk and calling your friends outside a bar in winter with your breath and your dreams meeting up in the air to “talk it out.” 

It’s New York.
I left with a pocket full of question marks.
I’m coming back with a fist full of periods.

G Chat about boobs and Casimiro

me: tits.
James: yo,  aren’t those something?
  if you had to see them every day they would drive you nuts
especially if the girl was always touching you and pushing them together around you
me: that's why I've given up on tits.
  I'm an ass man now.
 James: If they were around you every day you'd lose it
  I don’t care what you say you are
  It’s IN you
 me: completely
I would jerk off everywhere.
 James: "Michael, my blood is in your veins"-Lost Boys
 me: I wouldn't even let her jerk me off
 James: haha
 me: I would HAVE to please myself.
 James:  I don’t even know what that means but man its funny.
 You mean they drive you so nuts you’d have to control it?
 me: yes, because I've been on the internet so many times looking for those.
  and if I actually found them, I would have to look at them in person.
James: Matt, we are on the same page in life
this is all I have been thinking about
James: What a great assessment
 James: I'm trying to get Casimiro to clean this up
I’m encouraging him to bang this girl
me: if he doesn't he’s garbage.
 me: If you really wanted to fuck Casimiro, you would.
 James: I dreamt of him last night
 me: what happend.
 James: it was all a blur
  but he was dressed very well
 me: he usually does.
  I curse the day that girl broke his heart.
  but it makes for some interesting conversation.
James: He bangs other chicks
me: how many?
 James: maybe 2 since then
  including her best friend
 me: does he moan?
 James: He grunts
 me: I bet the hair on the back of his head gets sweaty.
 James: when he comes he goes "aaah" instead of "oooh:
like he's in pain instead of enjoying it
 me: he has a towel, clean, close to the bed.
 James: he's great at aftertalk
 me: and post sex food.
me: I gotta go to the diner they shot pulp fiction in for lunch.
  have a good talk later.