jersey

I'm a proud resident of the state of New Jersey. I love it there. I was lucky enough to get the chance to go up there this past weekend. I got to see my older sister, my parents, some friends. I didn't have to get out of my car to fill up my tank. I didn't have to roll my windows down if I didn't want to, but if I did, I could've smelled the sweet aroma of industry around exit 13A on the turnpike.

The thing I enjoyed most about New Jersey is just the sense of home for me. Of course, it is my home, and this would most likely be true about any other state if I had been raised there. However, the truth is that my home is in New Jersey, and is not in some other state. But it FEELS like home too. The big malls, jerk drivers on the road, late-night dining with friends when you're not hungry and have no money, the valet parking everywhere you go, the random Ferrari passing the vagrant Pinto in the shoulder on the highway, the fine dining establishments found even in a crappy and run-down mini-mall shopping center. In my heart and my head, these things are irreplacable.

Not often can you go home to your friend's house (whose dad is a multi-millionaire) and have him be at a serious low that night because he spent the night before in the woods of a New York state park on mushrooms and then left the park for a local strip club where he got free VIP treatment including lap dances (yes on 'shrooms) and came home with one of the stippers who happened to be tattoo'd from head to toe and then have him decide he can't go to the diner to chill out tonight (Saturday) because he's got a long work week in the city starting on Monday.

Okay, so I embellished a little bit. But it's true that you can't have that happen often.

Hopefully I get back to posting interesting things soon.

not as lonely as it seems

I've received a comment of concern on my last posting about real friends. Andy thought I was lonely when I wrote it. The truth is that I was not lonely at all.

I wasn't lonely because I had those real friends. I am really pretty stoked to have them. I know some people don't. Some people never get the chance to make that same connection I've been able to make with them and keep it strong enough over the years.

This post is lame.

the never-fails

friends. that's what i'm going to talk about right now. friends.

i'm at home in new jersey right now. just drove up from UMD today. of all the "friends" i have at home, i legitimately made contact with two of them, both of whom were ready to hang out with me at the drop of a hat. gets me thinking about who my real friends are. ...those two are my two real home friends, from my town at least.

sure i've got other friends at home or from home, but those two are my instants, my never-fails, my boys. i've got plenty of people who i can run into, or with whom i can spend a night out. but i've got those two who i can count on to be cool just sitting at home, talking, or just watching infomercials or maybe watching whatever hot new comedy series we've got on dvd (make yours Arrested Development ... and expect many shameless plugs for that show on this blog).

there's a distinct comfort in the never-fails, in the bests, in the bff's as the online ladies call it (those're best friend forevers, to clarify). weed out the rest, people. the rest are nothing to the n-f's, to the b's, to the bffae's (and evers). i mean, spend your time with whoever you want, but make your life happen with the people that count. make it happen specifically with the people that call you when they're home for just a night.

Desperate = Sexy? Um, nope.

Thursday's always a good day. No classes on Thursday. That's good. Know what else is good? Eating two full dinners back to back at different restaurants. And also volleyball. And a Diamondback interview. Things could be worse.

It's a beautiful night to end a beautiful day for the first time in many weeks. I spent it inside though, oddly enough. I was planning on going out and doing what I do, but last night was odd, and made me never want to go to a sorority dated party as the date of one of my little sister's friends ever again. ...not that I would have been doing that tonight, but ... it put me down for at least a night.

I go there, with a very cute young lady, but we're hanging with separate people. My little sister tells me about 40 minutes into the night that a different young lady, by the (changed) name of "Larissa is going to ask you to dance. Just so you know." No response from me but "okay" because it's no big deal, right. Oh, how wrong I was.

Larissa finds me, says (as fast you as you can imagine being able to utter something intelligibly, so fast I couldn't get a word in edgewise) "Hey, Matt, you look bored. You want to go get a drink and then dance? Okay let's go. Are you okay? What's wrong, something bothering you? Are you all right? What's up? Areyouhavingagoodtime? Issomethingwrong? Tellmewhat'supwhat'supwhat'supDoyounotwanttodance?What'swrong?" To which I was finally able to respond, "Nothing's wrong, I just have no time to respond."

This sort of conversation continued at the bar over what to drink, "You want a Kamikaze, Red-headed Slut, ItalianSurfer,Blowjobshot,Butterynipple? ..." You get the picture.

We finally get to the dance floor and we're dancing within each other's vicinities for a few minutes, and then she says to me. "Okay, I'm going to dance with you now. Are you ready?" And she like takes my hand like we're about to go sky-diving or something, like my life's about to be at risk. Let me say, the contact offered me no comfort. I interject, "Haven't we already been dancing together?" She says nothing but instead turns around and shoves her ass into my crotch. I almost dropped my beer. This Larissa girl meant business. I had no idea what was going on, but I can tell you my associated feelings. Weird. Awkward. Mildly Aroused. Actually, I wish I could say I was mildly aroused. More like mildly intrigued at this young woman's warped sense of what a guy wants.

So, amidst my confused mindstate wondering if I should alter the gyrating of my pelvic zone to be in some sort of synchronous motion-pattern with her pelvic zone, she just up and walks away. My mindstate reset itself, now focused on a more "what the eff just happened" process. So I ask Kevin, "Kevin, what the eff just happened?"
"I don't know, dude, that was weird"
So I stayed in my little dance spot for a while, still confused, and still gyrating, but on my own terms.

About 10 minutes later, I see my date across the bar and begin to walk towards her. I am intercepted by Larissa who is barking. At least it sounded like barking. Not like a dog barking, but like a drill Sgt barking orders at his mini-cadets. "Why did you walk away from me?" SHE says. Not me, I repeat. She barked it. "Why did you walk away from me?"
"Larissa, I didn't walk away from you."
"Yes, you did. Why would you do that?"
"That's not how I remember it. This is so stupid. You walked away from me."
"No, I didn't. I obviously have a crush on you, so why would I do that?"

All of a sudden the DJ halted the music he was playing on the LP which made a really perfect stop-short record scratch sound. At least, if it were a prime-time teen soap opera on the WB (which is what it felt like), that's what would have happened. I started creeping away slowly as if she were looking in the other direction and I was being quiet and sneaky and successfully sneaking away unscathed, but she was looking right at me. So she says "Fine, walk away now then"
"Okay" And the sneaking continued, but with an added hand gesture. ...Not the finger, you jerk, I'm not that mean. The peace sign. And my eyes were wide like I was saying "You should seek help." And I returned again to my original spot of dance and gyration, never having made it to my date.

Then I see my date walking towards the bathroom. Oh, wow, that girl she's with is crying. Is that? Oh, my, good, lord. Larissa was CRYING. I spent the rest of the night talking to a very lovely 26yr old Princeton grad/Columbia med student. That was of course after being ordered to dance again with Larissa by my date. That should have been obvious though, right? A given.

The moral of the story? Go to the bar with freshmen girls, because you'll meet cool, smart, successful women in their mid-twenties when you're avoiding all the drama you caused.

Dane Cook's Tourgasm

For all those who are Dane Cook fans, his Tourgasm documentary is coming to HBO in April. Watch it.

For all of you who are Matt Mayer fans, watch it. He's in it. In fact, he should be a featured part of the episode that includes the University of Maryland show. So, just get on it.

If you have any questions, please feel free to contact Matt Mayer at mbmayer@umd.edu. I can't post the information here.

Chicken and Waffles

Life is but a walking shadow ...

Friday night's antics were so good, I couldn't bear (bare?) to write about them until Monday. Let's just say the night started off with some Chicken and Waffles.

I had never had Chicken and Waffles before. In fact, I had first heard of them in a poorly made sci-fi Ice T movie starring Ice T and a plate of chicken, underneath of which were waffles. But I was out with my black friends on Friday, so they egged me on, and chicken and waffles found its way into my life (I say "its" instead of "their" because chicken and waffles together are a singular entity, so stop complaining about my grammar you pompous twit). Sweet and salty people, sweet and salty. I would in fact recommend chicken and waffles.

So I ordered my chicken and waffles at a bar called Common Share (18th and U) in DC. This bar had a larger black population as compared to the white folk, who were all upstairs in the corner by the jukebox, huddled together for warmth (so it seemed). Their level of comfort was so low they appeared to be multiplying like wet mogwais. Every time I looked over there were more white people in that jukebox corner, even though they didn't take up any more space. The population was just more dense now. They remained uncomfortable and awkward, shooting the occasional "do the black people think we're cool" glance our way. The cornered white folk were so uncomfortable, they were making me uncomfortable. Here's the kicker. The music selected by the juke-hoarding population was all Kanye West, Outkast, and James Brown, which in our minds told us they were trying to impress us with black people music that white people know about. Let me say, I was not impressed. But with a few more drinks in me, I was swimming through popped collars to play "Bombs Over Bahgdad" and "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag." Yay for cultural ignorance!

We walked back towards the metro station, drunk, freezing, laughing like school girls at a cockfight. And we stopped, of course, at the Jumbo Slice to get the largest, worst-tasting slice of pizza this side of the Potomac. Though enjoying this horrible piece of pizza, my enjoyment was furthered certainly with the realization that there was some serious making out happening on the television just above me. I took another bite of my pizza. Then I looked up again and felt like I saw some nipple ... Nah, couldn't have been. I took another bite of my pizza. I look up and definitely see nipple, so without looking back down, I take another bite of that disgusting pizza, and all of a sudden, these two people are having sex!

Why was there softcore porn on the TV at the Jumbo Slice? My friends were like "I can't watch this while I'm eating." I couldn't hear them though because I was busy rounding up the troops. "Check this out! Softcore porn!" ...Who needs oregano when you can have softcore porn? The second half of that pizza was delicious.

I'm Matt Mayer, and here's my Thursday

5pm - wake up to a phone call (yeah, I said 5pm, because I took a 3 hour power nap on a couch in a strange apartment until 8am, which is when I began walking back to my place, all the while trying to uncrick my neck without snapping it, so by the time the pain subsided and I fell asleep for real I had already missed brunch.)

Let me start over without the interruption.

5pm - wake up to a phone call offering me a free Coldplay ticket WHAT.
5pm and 3 seconds - accept free Coldplay ticket
7pm - leave for DC to do standup at Topaz with Andy
8pm - do some new jokes and some old jokes in a new way to mixed responses
830pm - peace out to see coldplay at the MCI center
9pm - arrive at the administrative entrance, question my friend as to why we're not going in the main entrance
901pm - my friend flashes the tickets at me. I see the words "executive suite" on them. WHAT?

you get the picture.

So Coldplay was pretty great. They put on an awesome show, sweet effects, big screen, great music. I don't usually go to the big venues for concerts. I usually check out the underground stuff that hold like 2000 people at MOST in a venue, with no seats, that sort of thing. I only saw one other arena/stadium venue concert, and let me tell you, NSYNC was incredible. I'll tell you why I went. My aunt bought me a ticket, and I went with my sisters. Oh, and because I asked my aunt if should could get me tickets, and my sisters said "Hey, I kinda would like to go ... not quite as much as you, Matt, but I wouldn't mind seeing them ... Matt, the concert's not for 3 weeks, you can take off your 'I HEART JC' shirt."

I come home, hang with Andy for a few and get a call from a freshman friend of mine, somebody who I met through my younger sister. She asks me to come out to the bar, so I do (of course). I get there and can't find her, but I find her friends, also freshmen. so we hang out for a bit, dance, then I notice an individual named Chris is hanging with them as well, and suddenly I'm in a quarter-life crisis. I will tell you why.

Chris is at least a year older than me (6th or 7th year at Maryland) and is notorious for being a sketchy (but sexy) goon who hangs out on the freshman side of campus and in the dining halls to pick up freshman girls despite the 5 or 6 year age difference. By all accounts and by my personal opinion, he is scum. And yet there I am hanging out with the same freshman girls as he is. I started to question myself, started to go through existential trauma. I was forced to ask myself questions I never thought I'd have to ask. I was no faced with the question "am I a scum-sucking, freshman-loving, 5th year sleazebag?"

I thought about this for a while, thought of lots of arguments for either direction; complicated, detailed explanations for either side of the coin. But I'm not telling you any of them. I will tell you that I've decided I'm not a scumbag.

So I take the drunk freshmen home, and one of them pukes in my car, in the trunk of which is my "I HEART JC" shirt. Full circle. Sweet. End of story, goodnight.

My First Ever Post ... Since Livejournal

Let's start this off by posting about the topic on which I just made a comment on Danny Rouhier's blog and was henceforth required to create this account. (grammar WHAT WHAT?)

To those seeking advice on stand-up comedy, opportunities on a personal or intimate level are few and far between. The best we can do is often reading books or studying tape of the greats. Every now and again, somebody with more experience than you will take you by the set list and walk you through, listen to your stage time and give you notes afterward, make a suggestion or two about what you should do your next chance at 7 minutes on stage, which isn't coming up for another 2 weeks.

Thank you to those who speak up. Thank you to anybody EVER, with or without experience in the field of stand-up comedy, who offers their honest and sincere thoughts, criticisms, and comments on my stand-up comedy. I love it, and baby I want some more of it.

I've been doing this comedy thing on and off for a year, totaling maybe only 6 months of actual time hitting stages and writing. That doesn't mean I can't tell when or why something I saw on stage was or wasn't funny. I've made comments and suggestions; I've helped other comics' writing; I've written my own shit. All of which has been met with both failure and great success.

I will offer my advice to anybody who's willing to listen. Now, that doesn't mean you are going to or should listen to every word I have to say. What it really means is that I love it when somebody will give me the choice of whether or not to listen to their advice. At least it's there for me to decide, and at least it's honest.

So, anybody who has ever offered me help personally or in a blog in terms of stand-up comedy, you all know who you are but just in case you dont I'll list you in a second, shortly after I'm done completing the longest run-on sentence in history short of any Bills past (they're all one sentence for those who don't know politics ... isn't it funny I'm writing something about politics when I know nothing about it ... them? Is it "it" or "them" because it's politics, like plural but it's just one subj..[got shot in the neck with a blowdart]). Thanks.

Danny Rouhier, Rory Scovel, Ryan Conner, Andy LoPresto, Matt Liebman, Demetri Martin, Jon Lovitz, and anybody else I forgot to mention. This Oscar means a lot to me.