Me Against Me: Slap-Boxing With The Toughest Of All Enemies

It must be akin to losing your virginity. Popping that cherry, breaking the underpants seal. Getting that first one out of the way, freeing your once-blocked spout to unleash the overflowing beast. The nerves and anxiety that preface the first time are heavy enough to turn you into Quasimoto. Weights on your shoulders that feel like anvils yet have no physical appearance. Leave you shooting blanks, time after time. The hardest obstacles to conquer are those which we can't see, of course, so this Claude Rains-like invisible villain is quite the formidable foe. Defeating the "I can't do it," or "I don't know how, I'm going to be terrible" enemy isn't impossible, however; it just takes dedication and a fearlessness that can come at any time.

I'm not talking about sex here, though. Smacking that first back can be anything to anybody. In my world, the immovable-for-the-time-being elephant in my head's room is that initial vision. One of the two dozen I have jotted down in my notepad of imagination, the lucky story that I'll cock back my shotty for and bust through my laptop's keyboard. An explosion of narrative, dialogue, and conflict. Mushroom clouds of fantasy, leaving a trail of made-up corpses as if Napalm had sprayed through the Land of Make Believe. "It smells like victory."

I often wonder how masters such as Richard Matheson, Rod Serling, and Stephen King were ever able to churn out so much fictional product with the ridiculous quickness. Natural born tale-tellers, they are/were. I truly think I have that same mental-assembly-line quality within me, I just need that premiere to take place, that proverbial red carpet to unravel.

Plenty of options are within my fingers' grasp, just need to pick the characters and set-up that most intrigue me and then run with them, like Emmitt in his prime. Just that, that damn insecurity/self-intimidation always comes into foul play. The unavoidable foe, the dastardly cockblock. Not that I doubt myself in the extreme sense that I don't think I'm able to be a great fiction mind; the dilemma is that I dream up this crazy, wild, inspired-by-Serling's-Twilight-Zone-and/or-EC-Comics'-old-Tales-from-the-Crypt ideas that I want to make sure are airtight. Filled with as much with and intelligence as scares and surprises. If I were just fiddling with romance or "coming of age" bullshit, I'd have written volumes of drafts by now. But I'm the kind of guy who habitually watches David Lynch films and that awesome T-Zone episode "Five Characters in Search of an Exit." That's the kind of storytelling that I want to execute. Not the norm. Nothing cute, pleasant, heartwarming. Punishing and cold rather than pretty and comfy.

I can feel that first attempt on the horizon, and it feels good. The necessary educational steps are being set in motion, to take me to that informed state of consciousness, where the creativity pours and the mind soars. Hand-to-keyboard exercises like all I've just written are therapeutic at best, productivity-delaying at worst. But, ultimately, steps in the right direction.

We all have our own demons. The dreams and goals that we aspire to yet constantly hold ourselves back from. Unfortunately, there is no exact science as to how we can emerge victorious, champions in our own soul-searching tournaments. I know that I'm ready to try on the belt. It's been way too long coming.

The fight will undoubtedly last all 12 rounds, but I'm confident that I have both the stamina and the strength to not pull a Ricky Hatton. It's time to Pacquiao.

The Guilt of an Incomplete Nerd

I'm getting more and more excited to see both X-Men Origins: Wolverine and Star Trek by the day, but I'm also feeling a bit bandwagon-rider-ish as a result. Thinking way too much about this, obviously. Just go watch the movies and be entertained. Spend your time and mental energy on more substantial matters, like becoming a millionaire.

Sorry....this is the questionable path that I've chosen.



This must be how all of my friends felt back when Zack Snyder's Dawn of the Dead remake came out in March of 2004, a time when you'd have regularly heard me preaching the lessons and facts surrounding George A. Romero's original film and its other installments. I was speaking on either deaf or disinterested ears, yet I still rambled endlessly. And those around me went to see the film, loved it, but came back to me with a "I felt like I wasn't fully enjoying it, though, since I'm not as schooled on the backstory as somebody like you is." The same can be said of my overdone obsession with Grindhouse during its unfortunate theatrical run. I was informing everybody with arm's reach on what "grindhouse" means exactly, and why the Robert Rodriguez/Quentin Tarantino passion project was full of grainy shots, choppy editing, and wall-to-wall camp. Most could care less, while my main concern was to give heads the complete picture so that the Grindhouse experience could be appreciated to full capacity, rather than merely in-the-moment.

It's a bit like walking into a final exam with little-to-no knowledge on the content, only to find out that the test is open-book and a brainless chimp could ace that shit.

A great film is simply that: a great film. A piece of cinema that can be appreciated on a pure surface level. Deeper affinity is inevitable if you're an expert on the film's background or respective mythology, but such know-what isn't necessary. Dawn of the Dead was a live-wire thrill coaster in its own right, but I hold it closer to my heart than others because it pulled off the difficult task of paying reverential homage to Romero's work while creating its own believable world. I caught the "Gaylen Ross" store name reference while others may not have, and the quick cameos from Tom Savini, Ken Foree, and Scott Reiniger made me smile even though others didn't react.

I know the nuts-and-bolts of the X-Men/Wolverine history, but I'm nowhere close to being a "fanboy." So, before seeing the new Hugh Jackman-starring film this weekend, shouldn't I go on a reading binge at my local comic book store and become a true know-it-all? I feel like that'd make the viewing experience all the more fulfilling, and less of a pedestrian enterprise. And speaking of enterprises, I know infinitely less about the Star Trek legacy, yet I'll be first in line to see J.J. Abrams' franchise relaunch next Friday. Sure, I'm the exact type of person that the filmmakers' are hoping to attract----a non-fan who is attracted to popcorn excitement and badass special effects, as well as Abrams' good name. Guys like me are the ones who'll turn Star Trek into the money-making behemoth Paramount Pictures is hoping for.

Still, though, I can't shake this "impostor" feeling. A guilty sensation that will hit its fever pitch if I see even one audience member wearing a Captain Kirk t-shirt, or fake Spock ears. Worst case, I'll contort my fingers into the "Live Long and Prosper" hand-sign, since any dumbass can do that with ease. But I'll feel totally uninitiated. The way I'm feeling about the film right now, I wouldn't be surprised if I give my spot up on the ticket line to somebody who is clearly more of a Trekkie than I, which I'll discover thanks to incognito eavesdropping. "I can't wait to see if they truly capture the essence of the Klingons" would be one surefire giveaway. "Something tells me that this Anton Yelchin fella won't hold a candle to Walter Koenig" an even bigger clue.

What will somebody more like myself say? "I hope Zoe Saldana shows some skin!"

Odds are, I'm in the miniscule minority with this train of thought surrounding Hollywood's franchise reboots and remakes of genre classics. I'm perfectly fine with that. The most this reasoning will ever get me is a nod of respect from the geek community anyway. Such respect and $12 could buy me a Star Trek movie ticket, so who cares? Now, if I were currently dating a fangirl I'd really have a problem on my hands.

Dream a Big (Message) Dream

Dreams come, and then dreams go. In one side of the brain, and promptly out the other. I wonder, when you don't remember them vividly enough to discuss specific details the morning after, did those dreams even really happen?

Rather than tread into psychoanalytical areas that I'm not mentally prepped for at the moment, I'd much more prefer to focus on one particular recent dream that has stuck out in all its colorful, memorable detail. It went down internally this past weekend, while I was snoozing in the cozy Boston hotel room. Before sleep hit me, following up the left-hook combo landed by that Long Island Iced Tea and Fire & Ice's stir fry buffet (greatest restaurant ever? yes, greatest restaurant ever), I was half-watching Saturday Night Live, hosted by Seth Rogen (the episode sucked overall). Fell into dreamland midway through Weekend Update.



Soon found myself in a fictitious world where I was dating this curvy, gorgeous Dania Ramirez-lookalike, and she was head over heels for me. Holding hands, cuddling in public. The romance was thick, like my faux girlfriend's lower region (sorry, I'm still far enough removed from KING-mode just yet). Us two lovebirds were strolling casually around the Manhattan Mall, no store-destinations in mind, just window-shopping and killing time before an eveing screening of Observe and Report (Like I said, Rogen was the last person I saw before sleep....and I'm not even going to "Pause" that because it's totally unnecessary here).

Hunger set in, so Bizarro Dania and I headed to the food court, a little Ranch One Chicken in our sights. Zoned in, ready to attack (for dinner). As we got off the escalator, though, who do we see? Seth Rogen, just sitting at a table alone, eating some Sarku Japan. "Oh shit, look who it is?!" my girl shouts. She runs over to him, begins to express her huge fandom, and Rogen is cool as ice, accepting the compliments graciously and asking us to sit down with him for a second. So we do, after grabbing our chicken sandwiches and fries (my side = veggies....I'm a pussy even in my dreams). Banter ensues. Of course, all centering around movies. I ask him if he's see Timecrimes, the amazing Spanish time travel flick from Nacho Vigalondo. He has, and he shares equal excitement for it. I then inquire if he's seen Fabrice Du Welz's Vinyan, another recent favorite of his (the guy is more than comedy, my dream-self finds out). Two for two.

Naturally, the two of us are getting along swimmingly. There's only one major dilemma: my girl has never seen any of these films. Her initial star-struck glee has slowly dissipated into a bored, watch-checking labor. "Umm, Matt, your new BFF's movie is about to start in like 10 minutes, we should make moves," she inteerupts as Rogen and I are chatting about screenwriting techniques---He the teacher, I the learner. I shrug her off, much more interested in collecting some tips and wisdom from our third dinner party. The look of frustration continues to accelerate on wifey's pretty face, yet I could give two shits less.

The second that Rogen and I switch the conversation to Hollywood studio politics, B-Dania stands up, kicks her chair to the ground, and defiantly says, "You know what? Fuck this! You obviously care more about this movie bullshit than you do about spending time with your girl. This shit is over!" And then she heads to the escalator. As she rides the moving staircase upward, I notice her flirting with some lame asshole wearing tight jeans, a sweater vest, and a trucker hat (hipster fucko). But I don't care. Immediately, I return to my conversation with the Hollywood major-player seated next to me. And all is well.

So what do I gather from this dream? It's simple, really. At this time in my life, I now realize what my top priority has become. Hell or high water, I got to get that side of my hopefull-professional-future in order, moving forward. That open house for NYFA next weekend is officially step number one, so let's hope that is an informative success, a dream-pusher instead of a goal-staller.

And no, people. Don't even think "Oh, Matt dreams about Seth Rogen." It could've been any actor/screenwriter in the game seen in my dream. Just so happened that I was watching dude on the tube seconds beforehand. The point of the dream resonates, regardless.

Dear Matt: A Letter to a Friend from a Friend

Just reread that last post. This one right here is the definition of a much more "sober" state-of-mind.

Offering thoughts that even blink at a "review" about something like Dear Zachary: A Letter to a Son about His Father seems wrong. Unfair. Foolish. High-horse douchebaggery. How can any critic/writer ponder the faults of a documentary that's totally rooted in the filmmaker's personal tragedy, constructed from a brutally heartfelt place, and intended for a grieving family member? Fuck out of here. All you should ever do with something like this film is experience it and allow it to move you in ways that its balance of pain and love could only execute.



Fortunately for the critical world's sake, though, Dear Zachary has received universal acclaim and adoration. I'd read about the flick all of last year, but was never able to check it out until today, courtesy of trusty Netflix. And wow, I lost count as to how many times I was on the verge of tears. Filmmaker Kurt Kuenne pulls off such a well-rounded, flawless study of a beloved friend and the aftermath of his murder at the hands of a mentally-unstable older-lady lover that you leave the flick with a "I feel like I now actually know this Andrew Bagby fella, and what a great guy he was" sensation. Kuenne travels cross country and up into Newfoundland to interview practically every person Bagby came into contact with throughout his 28-year life, and through these candid, fearless sitdowns I immediately realized just how cherished he was by everybody in his life.

And then, the way Kuenne shifts the tone from happy retrospective to a dread-soaked murder recount is so sudden, so effective. I'm opting not to dissect Dear Zachary here, simply because I think it's a film that deserves to be seen firsthand, rather than relayed from my eyes.



While watching, I was reminded of something that happened to me back after my college graduation. One of the top five most amazing things that anybody has ever done for me, and easily the greatest graduation gift a dude could ask for. I'm not currently in the mood to write the page into a tizzy with an all-encompassing "college experience" account, though, so I'll just drop you into the days surrounding graduation from St. John's University, out in Jamaica, Queens, which I really do miss a bunch. When I look back on that four-year saga, there are many people who stand out for good reasons---friends I've sadly lost touch with, friends I'm still close with, and friends I wish I could've gotten to know more.

The one person who truly left her mark, however, was Ms. Day (which I'll keep referring to her here as, to keep identities somewhat disclosed to those who don't who I'm talking about). Nearly three years of some the biggest heartbreaks I've ever experience. Some of the closest feelings to "love" that I've ever been met with. Some of the toughest life-changing, eye-opening happenings I'll ever endure. I wouldn't take back or change a thing, though. She and I grew up so much together that all of the good and bad feels necessary to this day. Lessons ranging from racial acceptance and awareness to basic dating-ritual rights and wrongs were mutually absorbed. It was a hell of a relationship.


Ms. Day isn't in this pic, but it's still fitting. SJU, circa 2004.

The "She's truly something special" deal was sealed the moment she gave me my graduation gift: my very own "Matt DVD," which is this documentary-styled short film she and one of our on-campus co-workers put together by interviewing a slew of my closest friends and associates at St. John's. Asking each person all about me, capturing their kindest words and funniest memories. Due to time constraints and the general flakiness of mankind, they weren't able to interview everybody that mattered to me, but I'd say they managed to compile an impressive 70%.

The first time I watched the Matt DVD, I actually shed a few tears. Facial raindrops. One thing about myself that I hardly ever share with people is just how insecure and self-conscious I can be, a truth that has recently faded away piece by piece thanks to my successess and realizations of just how fortunate I am. But back in college, shit wasn't as sweet. Nowhere near. I can specifically recall times when I'd cry alone in my room, asking myself What was wrong with me? Why is it so difficult to look in a mirror? So to have somebody go through the efforts to make a multi-person testimonial in my honor was mind-blowing. Unbelievable. Therapeutic. Amazing. Life-changing (there it is again). I'd never realized that people at SJU really fucked with me on a respect-level. Heads who you would've considered to be the "big men on campus," or the "ladykillers," and even the "hot chicks."



I'm confident in saying that the Matt DVD was my first real step toward self-acceptance, and I have Ms. Day to thank for that.

Time to time, I toss the Matt DVD back into my DVD player and go back to Queens, in spirit. People looked so much younger. Things were much more innocent. I just finished watching it again, promptly as Dear Zachary came to its conclusion, and that knot in my throat, the jiggling of the eyelids returned. The Matt DVD is completely positive, and in no way on par with Dear Zachary's profound impact. But in a way, the two "documentaries" are kindred entities. Both were made out of love and appreciation, and both are intended to serve as letters to their focal subject(s).

And both do chin-ups on my heart.

Ladies and germs......Asher Roth

I'm guessing the majority of heads who visit my little site here aren't aware of this fella yet, so here's a brief catch-up: A new rapper from a suburb on the outskirts of Philadelphia. Discovered off of Myspace by Scooter Braun, a young, respected industry tastemaker based out of Atlanta. Yes, his voice sounds eerily similar to that of Eminem, and it's conveniently lazy to label him as a "wannabe Em" or whatever. Truth of the matter is, though, that he's a totally different artist than the Mathers fellow; Roth's tunes are much more upbeat, without the bitter angst and back-against-the-wall defiance, and he's more frat-boy-from-the-'burbs than slumdog-turned-millionaire. He's all about drinking, smoking, partying, chasing skirts, and occasionally examining self. As a songwriter, he's quite solid, which is proven by his cleverly-titled debut, Asleep in the Bread Aisle, which I heard last week, and highly impressed.

The actual reason why I'm bothering to post his first video on my little site is a different beast, really. Typically, I try not to bring too much of the hip-hop ish onto here, for my own personal reasons. I've had a couple convos with Mr. Roth, though, and I've realized that it'd be foolish for me to not endorse the guy. Why? Because he's me, in a sense. The sense that he's just a everyday White dude who grew up in the suburbs, had the love of a deep family and both parents, and happened to grow up loving and admiring rap music, without ever letting the culture change who he really was/is. Like me, he couldn't relate to a good 80% of what his favorite rappers spoke of (violence, drugs, inner city struggles, etc, etc.), and never approached the foreign subject matter with anything more than an appreciation of lyrical abilities and a out-of-his-norm fascination. Roth represents all the "Matt Barones" of the world in this respect (of whom I know plenty), so for that I must salute the dude. Also helps that he can actually rap well.

I also love knocking back beers and surrounding myself with drunk chicks, so we have that in common, to boot. Though my college experience looked nothing like this. If anything, I would've been the guy checking IDs at the party's entrance while wearing an extra-medium-sized yellow jacket. Instead of the one scooping up that sloppily-inebriated girl off the staircase and "making her feel better." So not fun.

So, yes, I'm an Asher Roth fan. Curious to see who else shares my sentiment here.

Asher Roth - "I Love College" (extra points if you catch the Weezer sample)

And now, I'm ready for my students.

What a waste of dream-space.

Never have I fancied myself as an actor, or at least as somebody who'd ideally make for a talented on-screen-er. If for a second I ever thought I could do it above-average-capably, I totally would enroll in acting classes and give it a go. I mean, turn on any random cable movie channel and you'll see an average of five terrible actors at any given time, any given day. So I'm sure I could pull off a poorly-written character in some shitty straight-to-DVD horror flick that nobody outside of the genre-obsessive world would ever see anyway. Shit, maybe I should look into this a bit more, huh?

Any acting-rooted dreams of mine stop many day-hallucinations before giving an Academy Award acceptance speech, or anything of the want-to-be-acclaimed-as-an-acting-great such. Well, maybe I should retract that, come to think of it. Because the only real dream/goal/wish that I've ever had centered around being an actor is one that does in fact require a bit of greatness, or at least name-prestige.

You see, I've always harbored this secret desire to be interviewed James Lipton on my very own episode of Inside the Actors' Studio.....



....which is a bit surprising, since I absolutely loathe being the center of attention, anywhere. Hate it when all eyes and ears are honed in on me and what I have to say. Would much rather blend into the wallpaper, buzz about like a fly from wall to wall. Enjoy the perks of a certain locale without having to commandeer the bulk of its entertainment value. But there's something so cool to me about Inside the Actors' Studio. Whenever its on Bravo, I immediately cease all other actions and watch, regardless of the interview subject in question. Whether its Conan O'Brien or Matt Damon or Fran Fuckin' Drescher, I can't help but be captivated.

With this one, zero explanation as to why I'd want to watch is necessary:


Much credit should be given to Sir Lipton, for his disarmingly-relaxed demeanor as an interviewer, and the insane amounts of research he and his staff put in to digging into the actor's hidden past. The interview subjects, even if they're the introverted, quiet type (see James Gandolfini's episode), always give off clear degrees of respect and admiration to Lipton; they realize that this glasses-wearing, soft-spoken-yet-sharply-witty, cinema-encyclopeda sitting before them is a consummate professional. They're in great, experienced hands.

Maybe it's because, through my profession, I'm always the one interviewing people that any chance I have of being interviewed myself is one I welcome with enthusiastically-open arms. For whatever reasons, I strangely enjoy answering questions, especially ones about myself. I'm pretty much an open book, so I can answer any and all inquiries with quick honesty. Add in the fact that on Inside the Actors Studio your responses are being closely studied by an extremely-attentive audience, and my always-erratic confidence would be sky-high while seated next to the dude Jimmy Lipton.


Even Hellboy has been given the privilege.

Say that tomorrow Lipton himself hit my cell to request my presence for an experimental Actors' Studio interview. Something for his freshest crop of acting students, like an interview exercise to test their attention-capacities by enduring a two-hour long Q&A session with some anonymous 27-year-old from Jersey who watches weird films like it's his 9-to-5. I'd be armed and dangerous, packing two "me as an actor" childhood stories that I've never shared before. I'll save both in-detail-recollections for later posts here, but two quick teasers (as if these memories are trailers for Tranformers: Revenge of the Fallen and G.I. Joe or some shit...who am I kidding?): 1) My first thespian-ic moment came in the 4th grade, when I was selected by the faculty of St. Catharine's Interparochial School to play Jesus in the school's annual "Stations of the Cross" play in the church. I did it all....carried a paper-mache cross; consoled which ever female classmate of mine played Mary (probably Jen Bressor). It may have been the best Jesus portrayal this side of Jim Caviezel. Kidding, I'm sure I made Pauly Shore seem like Brando.

2) That same year, my class was involved in the D.A.R.E. program, and as part of our "graduation" ceremony, we had to break off into groups and put on five-minute skits that showed the drugs are bad, mmmkay? life lessons we had learned. I was the goodie-two-shoes kid in the class (sad but true, though not shocking in the least), so I had the genius idea that I'd play the druggie in the skit (like if Paris Hilton played a MENSA member). I also had the honor of conceptualizing the skit and developing the characters. My role ended being "T.J.," the bad-seed dude who tries peer-pressuring a couple of kids into buying pot. My wardrobe: a backwards Raiders cap, a black Raiders coat (Starter, of course), and some of the most stereotypically "thug" dialogue imaginable. Sample, off of memory: "Come on, don't be a loser, man! You ain't cool if you're not doing drugs. Word!"


I share the man's hatred of "custom ringtones," btw.

That's about the extent of my acting expertise. Nevertheless, I'll reach my final hour having never let go of my Inside the Actors' Studio dream. Considering that the likelihood of yours truly ever making it onto James Lipton's grand stage rivals the chances of Dubya Bush ever being considered "misunderstood," though, I'll now take part in a self-imposed-interview, through Lipton's infamous final questions (answered just now right off the top of my head):

1. What is your favorite word?
irreversible
2. What is your least favorite word?
swagger
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
uniqueness
4. What turns you off?
arrogance
5. What is your favorite curse word?
fuck
6. What sound or noise do you love?
Gianna saying "I love you, Matt"
7. What sound or noise do you hate?
my alarm clock
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
fulltime screenwriter
9. What profession would you not like to do?
taxi driver
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"I have a room full of Amerie lookalikes ready to welcome you, Matthew."

Me, Myself & I; Party of Three

Disconnection can be a bit overwhelming, dangerous even if its widespread in a given situation.

If I weren't such an insecure, self-questioning person, I'd wonder if I operated with an air of pretention. But in order to come off as pretentious, a person has to feel above everybody else in the room. I, on the other hand, rarely cop to feeling superior. It's the polar opposite, even.

So when I'm sitting in a room full of peers and people with sort-of-similar interests, you'd think that I'd feel at home. Or at least content. That's not the case, unfortunately. Sitting uncomfortably and self-consciously in a lounge-setting, I glance around at those sharing my presence and wonder why I can't genuinely gel with them. Sure, a few here and there are able to give me that "okay, this conversation feels good" sensation, but not enough.

Bring up a topic such as my favorite French horror film Inside and we're even Steven. Discuss the desire to write either short or long prose/fiction, and I'm a chatterbox when I'm not all open, interested ears. Or simply engage me in a human-to-concerned-human exchange of "how's your family, personal life" banter and I'll most likely reciprocate the inquiries.

But attempt to debate the merits of an Internet rap beef with me, and nowadays I instantly shut down. Mentally fade to black. Wonder internally why I can't get excited by the possibilities of going tit-for-better-rapper-tat. Present me with anything work-related, whether it be story ideas or clients you represent and want in a publication I have clout with, and I'll immediately haul ass to the bar for another drink, and take my sweet-ass time decicing on which overpriced beer to request.

I'm a creature fueled by preferences and secual interests, and lately I've found myself unable to adapt, or revert backward to cohabitate amidst people conversing about topics I deem "insignificant" in either my own or life's bigger picture. The difference between film chatter and musical conversation is elementary, really: when going back-and-forth about cinema, the merits fall strictly upon your respective defensive-talking-point's artistic quality; but with music, especially hip-hop, it's all about who sold more records, or who has a bigger buzz, or---God forbid somebody uses this word to state their peace anywhere near me, lest I promptly write them off as a "cool-chasing jackass drone"--- whose "swagger is better. And that's trivial like pursuit.

Again, this isn't me being pretentious in the slightest. Rather, it's me speaking from a place that I truly feel is heartfelt and both-sides-experienced. It's a crazy world these days, and I'm merely looking out for my future's best interests.

I just needed to drop these thoughts in written form somewhere, and what better/easier place than here? Just give me some DVDs, a good mystery/suspense/horror fiction book and/or graphic novel, and I'm as pleased as a canine lying on a bed of Snausages, shielding itself from the cold with a rawhide-blanket. If you're somebody who feels the same, then I'll connect with you, no question. Otherwise, if you're somebody who'd rather be socializing with riff-raff and feeling like you're somebody "important," go that way.

It's so haaaarddd.

"Let's have a little fun today."

It doesn't take much to stress me the fuck out, unfortunately. I'm what some may call a "perpetual overthinker," the kind of guy who sits around pondering the aftermath of events that haven't even seen their first proverbial Domino piece knock over the next. I'll be sitting around, reading a Chuck Palahniuk novel, and in mid-twisty-sentence a thought will hit me: "When the fuck will I settle in on a fully-realized plot of my own, so I can start scribing my own long-form narrative?" And from there, an ongoing armada of "what ifs" and "am I good enoughs" set sail, and my head begins throbbing the point of aspirin-rendered-obsolete.

And don't even get me started on the repercussions of overthinking matters of the budding-relationship-with-a-lady-friend sort. That's an entirely different, much larger/scarier bag of worms that should never be taken out of the bait-box and cast out into my subconscious.

Overthinking has plagued me since a young age, back to the adolescent days of "Does Diana Guevara even find me cute, let alone worthy of a date?" Or, "How can I tell my dad that I don't want to play in tonight's baseball game, that I'd much rather go to that pool party with my friends and at least pretend that I'm a normal teenager?"

Fortunately, I've conceived several defense mechanisms. Without which, I'd have probably ended up in a looney bin years ago. Sporting a movement-constricting strait-jacket, repeating "All I wanted to do was write stories, All I wanted to do was write stories, All I wanted to do was write stories, All I wan...." from waking hour to drug-induced sleeptime. Doctors would've looked in through one-sided-glass walls, scribing notes and shaking heads in defeat. We can't save this one, they'd have uttered, morosely. He's a lost cause.
--

Last night, one of my defense mechanisms re-established itself into my stress-battling agenda, unexpectedly. And it worked as proficiently as ever.

It's actually a method of mind-soothing that I unintentionally discovered back in my pre-teen era. Home sick from grade school one routine weekday, awaiting the homemade Nesquik strawberry milk that Anne Barone makes oh-so-amazingly, I flipped the tube away from MTV (for once) and continued the channel-search downward until the clicker was put down on my belly so I could sip on some artifically-pink cowjuice.

By some sort of divine intervention, the present channel was PBS, and the program something called The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross.



Clearly taped some time during the '70s, this Joy of Painting starred a peculiar-looking one-time-hippie with a serious afro and taco meat poking out of his unbuttoned shirt. What caught my attention initially was how pleasant this Mr. Ross appeared, visibly in nirvana while holding his paintbrush and using slanguage such as "happy little tree" and "let this live right over here." I was mesmerized, captivated. Hypnotized by the man's calming tone, and all-around even nature. And as luck would have it, it was a two-hour marathon in its first quarter.

I didn't touch the remote control until 120 minutes later.

The seeds were placed under the soil. I was a Bob Ross fan. To this day, nothing has ever even come within leaps and bounds of equaling The Joy of Painting's calming power on my mind. There have been times when girls have machete-d my heart, and career-sparked headaches have pummeled my spirit like an anvil dropped from thirty stories high, but within seconds of hanging out with my boy Bob Ross those troubles evaporated, and I was in a happy place.
--

It's mostly the voice. Just ask Guru. The organic process of detailing a beautiful vision of Mother Nature plays a part, as well. Together, these ingredients tag-team my attention and turn my brain into spongecake.



I never knew Bob Ross, but that doesn't mean I can't feel connected to the guy. Over the years, he's become a quasi-psychiatrist, a PBS-certified healer who operates through a television screen, rather than an office with a long, comfy couch. Instead of listening to my problems and offering solutions, Dr. Ross simply does what he does best: paints the best landscapes and scenic wonders an easel has ever produced. While talking prospective painters at home through the step-by-steps in his soft-spoken, all-will-be-well-my-friends vocal tone that could make a rabies-infected zombie halt (un)dead in his/her tracks to experience The Joy of Painting.

2009 is already shaping up to be a massively-trying year on my brain, for a slew of reasons left undisclosed for the time being. But thank the luckiest of stars that I happened across a Bobby Ross rerun last night while waiting for a night of drunken debauchery to commence. I'm on the verge of buying some of Bobby Ross' greatest hits on DVD, just to have instant access to his unique brand of psychiatry whenever its needed.

Up to this point, his services have been free of charge. What a scholar and a gentleman he is/was, huh? So dropping a cool $20 on some Joy of Painting episodes in DVD packaging would be funds well invested.

Thanks, Bobby. 13 years after your demise, you're still the man.

Confessions of a Twentysomething Entertainment Addict, Part 1

Though I'm proud enough of my taste in the finer arts, I'm not the eyes-shut type of guy who wont admit to some pretty heinous follies in judgment. There was that Tony Yayo album I gave a pretty strong review in print, but then realized how derivative and laughably cliche the entire thing is once I actually had the disc in my possession and wasn't confined to a G-Unit office and a sound system that could make a Sade album bump hardcore. Or, the way I proclaimed to those around me that George Romero's long-awaited Land of the Dead would blow their minds, but then we all saw it and there was no epic climax of "zombies swarm, attack, and then devour the jerkoff villains," with the undead instead being given the sympathetic washover.

Plenty more examples I could cite, but for overdoing-it's sake, I'll stop with this next one.

For whatever reason, probably a cruel joke on the part of the cinematic gods to beat over my head how much of a dumbass I was to actually recommend this movie at one point, The Wicker Man remake has been popping up in various movie blogs and sites of the such in recent days. Mainly to hurl further bile its way, deservedly. Under any other circumstance, it'd be an unnecessary redo that I'd see once and then totally forget about, focusing energy on more important things, like how those gorgeous-yet-soulless Ikki twins on MTV's Double Shot at Love were in Hoboken during one episode, or what I'll have for dinner tonight (Lean Pockets last night, the night before, and the night before that....Lean Pockets it is).

But Nicolas Cage's Wicker Man got me upon initial viewing, and fuck if I can really explain. The old British original is a film I both admire and own on DVD, so all signs pointed to me hating this new one, but I didn't (at first). Sad as it may be, I saw it twice in theaters, and knowingly bypassed its many flaws to give it a thumbs-up pass. But then it came out on DVD, and I rented it. And it sucked balls the size of watermelons. And I wondered, "What the fuck was I thinking?" Having revisited it a few more times since on cable, I can say with a straight-face that it's not too far behind The Happening in the space of "Films That Have Absolutely Nothing Going For Them," and I'm still quite ashamed at myself for needing three exposures to understand.

I'm sure there's not many out there who'd voluntarily watch a movie that everybody else with a pulse has deemed "utter shit," so I'll just post this well-edited compilation of The Wicker Man's worst scenes. It's a movie filled with nothing but bad moments, so you know these must really be barrel-bottom material. Why do people keep casting Nicolas Cage, again? If you like those Da Vinci Code-but-not-really National Treasure turds, then you have no business coming down on me for ever enjoying The Wicker Man. Those movies a truly rape-for-the-senses.

The highlight here: Cage in a bearsuit, going all WWE Divas on these bitches:

Dust off that old Nintendo.....

....because The Dark Knight has been given a retro 8-bit makeover.


Spotted over at: JoBlo

And it's spot-on. The person(s) who made this have way too much time on their plate(s), yet still deserve a round of applause. Everything from the sound effects to the brightness of the pixels is pure NES, or any other now-dated gaming system of that era.

I was born in 1982, so obviously I owned a Nintendo. That's where it ended, however; I never owned a Super Nintendo, though I played it regularly at friends' houses and my cousins' basement. Mario Kart was the fix. Sega Genesis was more my speed (Streets of Rage 2 = most enjoyable game to play, ever? Me thinks so). I even had Sega CD....remember that? The Genesis attachment that featured games with live-action actors and gameplay, only grainy as hell and of Troma-movie level performances. I was souped as all hell when I finally got my mitts on Sega CD, but of course, being me, the luck quickly ran out, a dream rapidly evaporated. Literally like two weeks after I got the thing, the sadistic brass at Sega halted all production on Sega CD games, leaving me with four games and nothing more, never again.

Fuckin' waste of cash, that was. Although, zombie shoot-em-up Corpse Killer, Double Switch (with Corey Haim, seriously) and alien invasion epic Ground Zero Texas (the first video game that included women who actually got me excited in those special areas....hey, these were real people, not animated characters. Relax) still hold fastened positions in my heart.





And then there was the painfully-elusive Night Trap, a game I searched for far and wide, but was rendered "missing in action" thanks to the censors condemning its "girls in lingerie being stalked and killed" asthetic.....and why was that improper for little kids to play, again?

(Scene from Night Trap)

Slam City with Scottie Pippen and Prize Fighter, though, were absolutely impossible, and caused a couple bloody knuckles from me pounding the dresser in uproars. Ahh, the good ol' days.

HBO's original winning blend of blood, scares, and guilty pleasure kicks (sorry, True Blood)

It pales in comparison to Monsters HD, sure, but, still, this new Chiller channel isn't without an abundance of goodies. Most notable of all being a daily hour block of Tales From The Crypt episodes. The show that I used to have to sneak up into my parents' bedroom to watch, lest they catch me and bring their elder fury down upon my adolescent daring. Never a spanking; just that dreaded look of disappointment and anger. Stung much worse than any backhand to the ass would've, I assure.



Tales From The Crypt used to scare the shit out of me back in those days. Gruesome while earning its late night scheduling slot, it left an impressionable mark on my then-still-forming horror partiality. Which plays into the biggest joy I've been having while watching the reruns on Chiller---the realization that Tales From The Crypt was nothing more than shamelessly campy, tongue-in-cheek, ironic, "bad guys get it in the end" fun. Even the darkest of episodes never abandoned the general conceit, a mixture of scares and humor.

Of course, there's plenty of episodes that are laughably awful. And noticeably dated in their visual effects and C-level of star power (it originally ran on HBO from 1989to 1996, and it goes without saying that the Tom Cruises, Tom Hanks-es, and Sigourney Weavers of the them-game never got down...though, the future Brad Pitts, as in a young Pitt himself, did show up). And in reality, the entries that impress on all levels are in the minority. But like the best of horror's worst, the inferior Tales are still good for some feces and giggles.

The episodes that stick out in my head the most: "Dead Right," with Demi Moore (okay, maybe it did have some decent stars, my apologies) as sexy gold digger who marries an obese dude so she can kill him and pocket his inheritance; "Television Terror," a pretty scary one that puts a Geraldo Rivera-ish tabloid TV host into a haunted retirement home, on air; "The Thing from the Grave," which had a young, fine-as-hell Teri Hatcher and dealt with marital affairs gone to Hell; "Fitting Punishment," about an old miserly funeral parlor owner who murders his unassuming nephew; "What's Cookin'," where Judd Nelson gives struggling diner owners a new recipe that'd have Hannibal Lecter visiting nightly; and "You, Murderer," a visually stellar entry that brought Humphrey Bogart back from the grave to star in a horror-tinged crime noir.

Besides, how can you not absolutely love this sick bastard?

The hostest with the grossest: The Cryptkeeper, a skeletal wiseass I'd love to knock back some marga-bleed-as with, before finding a poppin' nightclub so we could g-rave and body-bag some ladies to bring them back to my apartment for some killing in the bedroom, while my man Cryptkeeper did his thing in the un-living room. Thought those morbid puns were lame, eh? Keep it moving then, because that's exactly how the Cryptkeeper spoke, and I love(d) it.

If I had to pick one storytelling format as my ultimate fix, from here to eternity, it'd be the "horror anthology" approach, without hesitation. The Twilight Zone. Those old British flicks like Asylum. Night Gallery. Hammer's House of Horror. Creepshow. And, now that I'm revisiting it on a daily basis, HBO's Tales From The Crypt. They're like orgies of 30 minute to two hour orgies for horror heads, where the other participants do all the nasty work and viewers can just sit back, relax, and feel the pleasures. Free of effort. Fantastic.

Oh, and how about those Tales From The Crypt branded movies? Demon Knight, kicks ass. Bordello of Blood, though, reeks of foul odors.

I'm right there with you, Sir Rourke

Two Mickey Rourke-related posts in a row, I notice. Whatever. The dude's killin 'em right now. It makes sense.

I was watching Access Hollywood earlier (isn't Billy Bush the biggest tool in showbiz? He should be contestant number one on VH1's latest reality TV soul-drainer Tool Academy, which I do award points to for having a seriously-spot-on name and a great conceit), and skill-less starfucker Bush asked Rourke about the deserved Best Actor winner at last night's Golden Globes thanking his dogs during his acceptance speech. As if, it's really that unbelievable that a guy would show love to his pooches at a time such as that.



Pish tosh, if you found Rourke's doggy-style praise to be goofy or lame. I would've done the same in his position. Hell, my life hasn't even been one-tenth as dramatic and difficult as Rourke's, yet I still thank my lucky constellation-decorations for Zoey, my beloved German Shepherd BFF. So imagine how much Rourke must love his chihuahuas, both living and deceased. Practically all of Hollywood wrote the man off more than once over the last 20 years. When his chips were not only down but fossilized, I'm sure his canine shotgun-riders were the only ones who consistently showed him genuine support and adoration. So shit yeah, go ahead and thank you dogs, man. They deserve it.

Zoey is getting old and brittle, so sadly, and I realize that she won't be around forever. But I also realize that without her presence during my awkward and challenging high school years, I very well could've sunk into fits of depression, or at least potent melancholy. Quiet and insecure, high-school-era Me had some great friends, but I never really understood why. Why would these kids want to hang out with a guy like me? I'd constantly inquire to self. With Zoey, though, I never felt such doubt. Same goes for relations with the opposite sex (chill with any "pause" bullshit, concerning any beastiality jokes, you sick fucks)--- whenever I was rejected by chicks or just left silent and intimidated to tears by showy and louder dames, Zoey was always there by the front door, wagging her tail and loving her "brother" as if I were the coolest kid in school.

Dogs are invaluable, and the only way to comprehend this fact is to have had one as a household pal at some point in your life. If not, if you've been a pussy-loving pussy or a fishtank-filling square, you won't get it.

Rourke gets it. As I'm sure many other celebs do. It's time the rest of the lot acknowledged their dogs when the time comes to salute the loved ones.

Now, excuse me while I pre-order a ticket for this weekend's Hotel for Dogs. Kidding, kidding...my love for the canine community is exactly why I'm resisting that flick. Out of respect. Similarly to my avoidance of Beverly Hills Chihuahua, and Twilight (out of horror devotion).

Matt Versus His Cell Phone....or, Bury My Ears Under My Wounded Mobile Device

There's a sickness in the air, floating above the clouds and dripping its negative stimulants atop our heads on a second-by-second basis. The way it seeps into the mind is quite clever, really. Whoever the creator above is deserves some sort of Unholy Relationship Destroyer prize or something, because his/her potion has caused thick layers of friction between myself and many friends who I've shown firsthand symptoms to, unceremoniously.

I wish I knew when exactly I first caught the germ. If even a roughly-estimated date were available, perhaps I could retrace the steps that fate pointed me toward and remedy myself. It's not a disease I'm partial to in any way, shape, or form. But, still, one I've never been able to shake off. Even when I'm fully aware that its getting the best of my better judgment, I'm powerless. Stricken under submission. Tied down, stripped bare of any resolve, and under its spell. If this disease could take a physical form, it'd be a dominatrix who resembles Katy Perry (she's my current eye-pleasing fix), ordering me to carry out her dastardly plan, and using brutally physical force to both intimidate and overpower.

Oh, yeah, I should probably divulge what this disease is exactly, right? In ley-Matt's terms, its the sheer awfulness to which I handle "calling people back on my cell phone." I'm no dummy; I know that I'm far from alone. In fact, many of my own friends and associates are equally, if not more so, guilty. But I can't worry about their deteriorating relationships at the hands of this powerful affliction. It's a dog-eat-dog world out here, and in this respect I'm wearing milkbone underwear (cite to Norm from Cheers on that one). Looking out for self is priority.



I truly hope that those who've called me and expectedly met my voicemail more times than not don't take this shunning personal. It's quite the opposite. I'm under the impression that anybody who actually takes the time and effort to ring me up is worthy of respect and appreciation; why waste time out of their precious days to chat with little ol' me, you know?

The only explanation I can offer in my defense here is the following---I'm a pretty moody person. Not in the sense of bipolar tendencies, or apt-to-go-Bruce-Banner-on-a-bitch ways. Rather, I largely operate according to where my head's at during any given moment. If something is stressing me out or requires immediate dissection within my ever-churning cabeza, then I must tend to it right away, and any phone conversation, whether crucial or small-talky, would distract. And then there's the frequent instance when I'm just not in a particularly social mood, and again it's nothing personal to whomever feels the brunt of my cold-shoulder.

I understand, trust me. Friendships and other close relationships are two-way streets, sure. But they're roads that are best navigated with any self-centered detours blocked, cleared out of the way like a ten-car pileup on the highway during rush hour gridlock hell. So for me to only answer when I feel up to talking is complete bullshit. Grounds for angry chums and compadres. But it's the truth, dammit. Take it or shake it.

I need a drug. One that'll slowly but surely rid me of this "terrible cell phone user" disease. I've actually lost a few tight bonds as a result, to which I'm seriously ashamed. With others, I've pissed off. Let down. Saddened. Infuriated. Left indifferent after repeat offenses. To those who've stuck by me despite this problem, I salute and embrace you more than you'll ever know. Two Blackberrys up.



"Knowing is half the battle," Hallmark or some other inevitable-cliche-birthing wise-person once said. The war rages on, but at least I'm an active combatant. Firing tireless shots at the opposition.

It's M.B. vs. Himself. One dude's very own Civil War. In matters of the romantic and/or instantly-sexually-gratifying variety, the South side's pistol-packing regime always reigns supreme. For all others, however, the North side's braintrust has the edge.

"The Battle of the Cellular" has been christened with its own nifty play-off-words nickname: The Call of Duty. I'm enlisted. Hammers cocked. Let's rock.

Where's Roberta "Grandma Death" Sparrow when you really need her, huh?

"Somebody should write that bitch."

I'm scared to shit.

If time travel were a reality and not simply storytelling fodder for science fiictions scribes, I'd rob a bank right now simply to score enough cash to hurl myself ten years into my future. To see if I'm in the position I sit up at night now hoping for. To know if everything I've done and undone throughout my first 27 years hasn't been in vain.

I'm not even exactly sure what I'd do or feel once I'd see myself in 2019. If 2019-me isn't the successful storyteller and Hollywood-centric scribe that I one day aspire to be, would I throw in the proverbial towel back here in the present, then crawl into some hole and check out? Or would I still go about my dreamchasing, intending to buck the revelation and rewrite my own path? How about if I saw myself indeed in the place I want to be? On the stage of the Golden Globe awards, which I'm writing right now as I type (Mickey Rourke just won the Best Actor award....fuck yeah, that just makes me happy), accepting a trophy for some darkly twisted and multi-layered film and/or television series that I put finger-to-keyboard to dream up and send out into the world, reluctantly. Meeting filmmakers such as Danny Boyle and Darren Aronofsky and having them commission me to author their next project, on spec or however else they may desire.

Not even on a Hollywood stage, on second thought. That'd be great, of course, but I wouldn't even mind being atop the New York Times best-sellers list with a striking and haunting piece of genre fiction. "Matt Barone is the new Jack Ketchum" would be the most flattering and accomplished front-cover quote I could hope for, provided by a fan named Stephen King. Imagine that.

I'm a prisoner of my own insecurities, doubts, holdings-back. I know there's an endless arsenal of stories and characters and conflicts buried deep within my head, that just need something to jossle them to the surface. Because every night I put head-to-pillow in a bit of fear ("I'm scared to shit," now making sense). When will that first big story idea hit me? I want to start banging out a whopper of a tale, but how can I when the tale is being a stubborn mule and won't show itself just yet?

I want Rod Serling to watch over me and feel pride from above, knowing that he's inspired some normal Joe from New Jersey to challenge his mind and imagine worlds and realms that others either neglected to share themselves or had never knew could exist in fiction. I'd love for Richard Matheson to send me a hand-written letter showing some love. Shit, I wouldn't even mind if Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg reached out to toss compliments and big-ups.

Others share similar worries and doubts, I know. Many who currently work in the same field/industry as I. And I know that the truly talented, and driven, and passionate about the art of storytelling ones will thrive (myself included, I hope). And I'm keeping fingers crossed that those who have entered our profession for all the wrong reasons (star-fucking, free giveaways, celeb-jocking, etc, etc) see their careers crumble under the weight of falsehood.

Will I make it? Do I even need a time travel machine to show me the truth? Of course not. I'm enjoying the ride, and wouldn't allow it to be tainted by deleting "chance" and "fate" from its mix.

So, to those who know me: When I constantly ramble on and on about some new movie I've seen, or some great book I can't brush out of my thoughts, know that I'm not merely shooting the shit. In no way indulging in basic entertainment appreciation. Its me pushing myself one millimeter closer to the ultimate dream. Learning and anazlyzing the craft of narrative expression through firsthand exposure.

Its tireless. Absorbing.

And neverending in its rapture.

My story never concludes. Constant climax, ever-evolving conflict. Page-turning unknowns, copious comic relief.

Choosing my own adventure, until the end credits roll.

the big 27.....30 keeps getting closer and closer

New Years = My Birthday = Twilight Zone marathon = my own private utopia

The Twilight Zone's New Year Eve-through-Day 48-hour marathon. A cornerstone of not only my late childhood, but also my teenage years and current phase of adulthood.



The yearly tradition started back sometime around 1994. Give or take a year or two. This is just a rough guesstimation. Back when the New Years marathon was on Channel 11, not yet having relocated to the Sci-Fi Channel. The Twilight Zone had been one of those cool-sounding classics that my pops and uncles would chat about, one that always seemed like the quintessential "Matt Show," but I had been hesitant to watch. The reason: it all seemed like it'd go over my 12-year-old head. The images and suspense would register, sure, but from what my elders had been saying, it seemed like a show that went deeper than the bizarre and often chilling. Social issues were dissected, and considering that the show originally aired during the early '60s, the relevancy of the subjects and themes covered were decades of their time.



But all this changed the New Years party celebrating the arrival of 1995, a shindig at my parents house that ushered in several of their longtime friends. Plus myself, a pre-teen ready to ring in my 13th birthday in mere hours. Being a New Years Baby has its instant advantages, most notably the built-in party that comes along with it. This time, it was me and about 10 forty-somethings in attendance. One guest, my dad's sarcastically-arrogant friend Dennis, was a huge Zone head, and asked to have the television set switched to Channel 11's ongoing T-Zone onslaught. In a lucky twist of fate for Mr. Dennis, his favorite episode just happened to be on: "A Game of Pool," the one where Jonathan Winters plays a ghost who challenges Jack Klugman's hotshot pool-player into a life-or-death game of billiards. Dennis loved to play pool, so it made sense.



Sitting on the couch next to Dennis, watching as the great episode bobbed and weaved from funny to morbid in quick strokes, I was hypnotized. Unable to look away. Even as the ep ended, Dennis went back into the kitchen for some more grown-up sipping, but I remained fastened, hooked into the Zones. The only time I allowed the partygoers to change the channel was to watch the ball drop. Moments after the New Year officially began, I swiped the remote control from one of my mom's sloppily-drunken gal-pal's hands and put Channel 11 back on.

I stayed up 'til about 5am that night, and ten Twilight Zone gems later, I fell asleep on the couch, officially a Zone fanatic. And every New Years since, whether it be for hours in a row or merely a few episodes scattered, I've made it an ritual to watch some of the marathon. It's been on the Sci-Fi Channel for the past half-a-decade, maybe longer, but its just as magical as it was on Channel 11. The funny part is that I actually own all 168 Zone episodes on DVD, thanks to my awesome parents and their greatest-birthday-gift-giving-effort-ever a few years back, when they gave me the entire "Definitive Edition" DVD set. One of my prized possessions, it remains, far behind but not lost amongst the thoughts of my dog Zoey. No joke.

As I type this, I'm watching the sneakily sinister episode "Queen of the Nile," about a journalist sent to profile a beautiful, seemingly-ageless actress, who ends up being the actual Queen of the Nile, kept alive and gorgeous for centuries thanks to the evil deeds of Egyptian gods. Sweet. The roommate and I are having guests over later for some pregame drinks before we head on out to our NYE celebration, but please believe that I'll do my damndest to keep The Twilight Zone the tube for as long as humanly possible. If anything, I'll use the trusty old "....but its my birthday, man! I should get final say on what to watch, no?" That probably won't work, since Rock Band 2 will surely trump my sentimenal, imaginative ass. But its worth a valiant shot, I say.

Everything about The Twilight Zone connects with every side of my personality, my outlook, my imagination fascination. Even when decidedly heartwarming, the show was never too stuck-up or lunkheaded to totally skirt the unknown. The supernatural was always looming, a mindbender of an ending found within the majority. As somebody who cherishes superb storytelling and screenwriting, the show has never lost its touch; no matter when I turn on any particular episode, the pacing and ideas-beneath-peculiar-dressing impress. Often times, astonish. Some simply enjoy The Zone for thrills, genre-muffling entertainment of the most enjoyable caliber. Others, though, such as myself, can't help but dig deeper to uncover the high intelligence and topical relevance. It isn't just TV....The Twilight Zone plays like a one-of-a-kind 30-minute, sometimes hour-long, trip into your theater of the mind.

I'd love to write ad naus about my personal favorite episodes here, but I've got a busy day on the horizon. Time is a-tickin'. But fuck, how amazing are "The Monsters are Due on Maple Street," "The Hitchhiker," "Five Characters in Search of an Exit," "After Hours," "People are Alike All Over," "Nervous Man in a Five Dollar Room," "Eye of the Beholder," "Deaths-Head Revisited," "The New Exhibit," "The Howling Man," and "The Masks"? Just to cite a few.





New Years Eve/Day: not only significant and timelessly special because its my born-day, but also because it first introduced me to unbeatable, never-will-be-matched greatness of The Twilight Zone. It'll forever remain both my favorite television show of all time and my top source of narrative superiority. Rod Serling (creator, head writer, all around genius), my idol and endless supplier of inspiration and brain satiating.



The hardcover book volumes of original Twilight Zone episodes scripts, the entries into my reading-material collection I'm most proud of, and intend to put to the most career-beneficially use in calendars to come.

Now, back to the marathon, a wonderful birthday gift I'd like to think that Rod Serling and the good folks at the Sci-Fi Channel give to me once a year. If only it came encased in wrapping paper.

The year that was my life, sized up

The Groundhog Day of self-reflection....January 1. More like Groundhog Month of December, actually. It's the 31-day-home-stretch, yearly....a time for me to look back over the preceding eleven months, analyze how far I've come, how much further I need to reach. So goes the plight of a New Year's Baby. The numbered marriage of 2 and 7 is less than two weeks away, and I sit here wondering, What does 2007 mean, in the big picture that's called "My Life"?

12 months of stress, anguish, personal evaluation, re-structuring, and soul-searching. A few effecting-me-only bombshells greeted me after last birthday, a time when I thought I had it all figured out. Assumed I was living above the clouds in ways. Which all came crashing down like a failed jet-plane. Not to over-dramatize things, but essentially that's how certain revelations hit me, and me alone.

Questions surfaced, and fresh-starts became mandatory. While certain life-changes were halted by unforeseen, bad-timing circumstances, others happened much more easily than anticipated. Namely, a sense of contentness toward my place. Thanks to one hell of a cool, hard-working, and super-dad brother and a loving-mother, hardnosed but for all the good reasons sis-in-law, I'm the G-O-D-father to two of the greatest, coolest, funniest, craziest, and best-looking (hey, I can be biased) rugrats around: Gianna (or, Baby G, Lil G, Geezy G, etc) and Nicholas (or, My Man Nick, Lil Nicky, Ay-Yo-Nick, etc). I'm the son of two of the best parents you could ever hope for, a tag-team duo who'll unconditionally and without-hesitation look out for me when needed, no matter how big or measly the need is, they're on the job.

And, if not more importantly than damn close to equal value, I'm the lucky recipient of an arsenal of the most unique, layered, complicated, yet never-less-than supportive and an-escapist's-lifeline squads of friends around. There's the one who always knows how to have a great time, and won't let another person's over-thinking and/or lethargic inclinations prevent wild times from unfolding. Just unconsciously free-spirited, and it's a miracle more often than not. And then there's the longtime best friends who've found their significant others, their soulmates (sap pours on thickly some times, in ways you can't stop....here be one). Watching how perfectly they've settled into relationship-functions gives a still-single-but-not-for-lack-of-effort guy such as myself endless hope. Dating is a practice originally established within the fifth circle of Hell, but it's a needed evil, and we must deal. But couples like my friends' indirectly operate like a factory of Tony Robbins clones, fed nothing but Redbulls. And last, but not least in the slightest, I can't neglect to mention my fellow single co-defendants, the (un)lucky few who, on a weekly basis, brave the social scene with yours truly, embarking on the same liquor-and-skirt-chasing path, mostly favoring the liquor part unintentionally. These guys (whether single by choice, fate, or divine intervention) may be the most crucial of the friend-bunch, because without them, self-reflection would never end, and I'd surely have lost my shit-marbles by now if so.

The biggest realization that I've arrived at, though, by 2008's final setpiece: that I'm going to be alright. Took much sifting through paranoia and concern, but I've reached. Sure, I'm not awarded the bloated salaries that some around me rake in, and yes, I'm somebody who's not fairly-enough compensated by his bank-account-stuffers. But I've accepted these realities, because I'm doing something I love, and am able to make a living-on-my-own as a byproduct, and that's not half bad. Besides, this current economic snowball-to-nightmare has taught me invaluable money-saving, and spending-less habits/practices that'll be utilized 'til my final hour. And that's not half bad, either.

And true, I work in an industry that's undergoing a serious self-reflection of its own, but I'm not that phased. As long as I can write, and exercise my imagination, I'll be happy. Not to mention, I have a couple career-rejuvenators up my sleeve that (hopefully) 2009 will see the kickstarting(s) of, and I'm hella-excited about both. Let's just say, I sure do love reading scripts and/or dark fiction. Seems like writing either/or would be a hoot.

2008, a year that'll forever be recollected as a turning-point-milestone for y-truly. 12 calendar-pages from now, I'm hoping to have introduced not only new, exciting chapters, but entirely-fresh sets into the anthology called "life."

Wish me luck. Or don't, and concern yourself little-to-none over the matter(s). It's all about me, me, me, me, me, anyway. Forget about you, you, you, you, you. So what 'cha wanna do?

The Day My Imagination Went Berserk

I used to sleep with a tire-iron under my bed. Conveniently positioned within arm's reach, right behind the draping box-spring sheet-covering, next to the legit-metal hammer. "Where the hell did my hammer and tire-iron go?" my dad would ask, to which I'd keep my mouth shut. He can't have them back, I need them for safety purposes.

Up until about age 12, these were my two weapons choice, the sticks of pain and forced skull-bashing that I'd prefer. If it ever went down. The adolescent mind, such a sponge. At least once a day, I'd skip around from specific scene to scene on my dubbed VHS copy of Romero's Night of the Living Dead. I wanted to be "Ben," save the day, though I'd rewrite the ending and live, rather than catch a redneck-racist's slug to the forehead. There's anotha one fo' da fire. And in one of my favorite scenes, Ben walks out onto the front yard to dispatch of the two zombies marauding about the random farmhouse that he and stranger Barbara are holed up in for the time being. In his hand: a tire-iron. Two strikes to the first ghoul's cranium, lights out for flesh-eater number one. A similar second-demise for the other undead, loitering creep.



Even in black and white, I could see the gory impact. I loved that shit. One day, I ventured into the garage, located the tire-iron, and decided to stash it in my room, for the oft chance that a zombie invasion would spring about overnight, and I'd need to fend for myself without warning.



And why the hammer, as well? Simple, really. After smashing my way through the horde of pulse-free intruders, swinging my tool-from-hell around like I'm Ty Cobb, one-handed-homers abound. Sending rotting-flesh fragments flying off faces and raining on carpet. Once the path was clear, I'd need to board up the windows, of course, just like Ben's genius self was crafty enough to do. Hammer, put to efficient use.

The perfect plan. Air-tight, all necessary and easily-overlooked bases covered. It was such a solid approach that I'd often find myself hoping that a Romero-like apocalypse of the dead would switch from fiction to fact. Because, naturally, I'd become the Ash in reality's impromptu Evil Dead scenario. The Bruce Wayne to Gotham's Joker-devised death infestation. More of a hero than Peter Petrelli, or Claire the petite-yet-sexy-as-a-mug cheerleader. What 12, 12 year old lad in his/her right mind sits around dreaming of a zombie outbreak?

Figures that I'd---soon after this plan was put into ready-whenever-for-it action---go on to write an 80-page zombie story, in one of those binded notebooks not falling within the Marble family. Fuck if I know where the book is now, sadly. Certainly somewhere in my parents' house, but most likely beneath piles of shit and saved-merely-for-memory's-sake items....I do, though, remember, distinctly, when the mother of one of my grade-school friends read the "book," and proceeded to rave about how "maturely" it was written, especially considering that it was penned by a 12-year-old. If she'd had given me such a compliment directly, 15-year hindsight would lead me to believe that she was just blowing steam up my crapper, but it wasn't I who was told this; I'd overheard her saying such kind words to her husband, while in the kitchen.

Pretty cool, huh? And to think, it all started with a poorly-copied version of Romero's unrivaled masterpiece Night and my dad's rusty old tire-iron. Inspiration works in mysterious ways, doesn't it?

The One-Song Soundtrack to Me

This is totally going to come off pretentious, but fuck it. Deal with it. Because I really do feel that this instrumental tune is the closest a piece of music will ever come to nailing me. The mood shifts from melancholy to rapturous, specifically. I've loved this since I first bought RJD2's Dead Ringer back in 2002, and I'm only now realizing just how fitting it is to me. Slower than snails running on a floating a glacier.

Pretentious, right? Don't say I didn't warn you.

RJD2 - "Ghostwriter"

Night of the Living Mind(s): A Recollection

Feels like it was a decade ago, at the least. And, my inner-calendar being a bit loopy at times, it very well could've been that long ago. My greater sense insists that it was only four or so years in the past, so I'll just accept that as the proper chronology.

It was one of the best nights I've ever had just hanging out with friends. The funny thing is, though, I know for a fact that several of the others present that night would disagree and laugh at that statement. They hated it, or were just plain disinterested. Much rather be dancing on a chick, or pounding some Coronas, they were most likely complaining internally the entire evening. Not I, says the fly. More than content, I was in my total element, the scenario that best suits my preferences but rarely, if ever, surfaces.

There were six of us in attendance. The location, a friend's rather-nice, cozy apartment in an otherwise-seedy section of Jersey City. Starting out, it was one of those nights, those weekend darkness-falls time-killers when there's zero plan, futile options, and all that's left to do is hang around one generous (or desperate) friend's nook and shoot the shit, Russian Roulette style.

So, that's exactly what we did. In her living room, spread out on a couple of love seats and one large couch. If Quentin Tarantino were there, he'd have grabbed his camera and spun it around the room, Reservoir Dogs diner scene revisited. Never-before told stories from college experiences were shared (we all went to high school together, so college stories were, and even still are, the best ways to inform each other of new details); hypothetical, and simultaneously revealing, questions were fired away, the likes of "If you could either marry a beautiful, model-like woman but live unhappily ever after, or wed a plain-looking, humbly-pleasant-faced-and-bodied gal but have the greatest chemistry and mutual joy together, which would you choose?" (Of course, one friend in particular opted for the former, which surprised nobody but still managed to disgust everyone.)

The back-and-forth, get-to-know-each-other fest lasted a good four hours, and I loved every second. Is it odd to enjoy the presense of good friends, and do nothing but learn more about them, rather than simply avoid all personal connections, knock back some shots, and dance it up to overplayed radio hip-hop? This feels like I'm on a therapist's couch, it sucks, moaned one friend (or something to that effect, not a direct quote). Voiced by another: What a fucking waste of a Saturday night?

Obviously, that was the last time anything like that night ever happened. Granted, some of the people present then soon met their future wives, or longterm significant others, leaving the opportunity for repeat performaces at the mercy of peel-away-from-loved-ones discretion. Which doesn't exist, contrary to whatever your now-tied-down chum says to the effect of "We'll still hang out, man, I won't become that guy." A noble, appreciated, yet never-true statement. Don't believe the hype.

A fluke? Indeed. The product of boredom by some, and I'll-have-fun-doing-anything adapatability by others? Deinitely. But damned if I don't wish there were more time like it. The allure of hitting bars and inducing hours-later-hangovers disintegrates by the weekend, and so many time I wish I could just call some people over to the apartment, keep the big-screen TV shut off, and just talk all night. One or two beers in hand each, sure, but not to the point of "Shit, I'm fucked up, son. We need to make moves, find some bitches, get wild. Where we at?"

We're nearing our thirties now, son. A time when we should try less drink and more think amongst each other's company, don't 'cha think? No? Fuck it then, pass me that Bud Light Lime, and let's get it started.

If you can't inspire or engage them, join 'em.