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 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
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
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.