"Man Up"

I was disappointed two Fridays ago. I was waiting for a package. A very important package it ‘twas. It was actually my thirtieth birthday present to myself. Technically, my biggest birthday present to myself was getting to LA for my thirtieth birthday. I did, however, feel entitled to get myself something special to mark both the move and the completion of the thirtieth rotation around the sun. This was special. The earth’s orbit is huge. To make it around once is a feat, to make it around thirty times is fucking awesome. I guess that’s why life gets better as you age – you realize it is no small feat surviving. If life was easy, everyone would do it, and do it well. Life, as both you and I know, is anything but easy.

Somewhere around the age of ten, when I lost an arm-wrestling match to a girl, Elissa, who I had a major crush on, I started to detest my birthday. I never felt like celebrating it. It’d tend to be just me and my family and some cold fucking weather. Big deal. I was born. Yea me! My mom probably deserved most of the credit. I was just along for the ride.

When I turned twenty that changed. On my twentieth birthday, I was released from the hospital. I had snapped. The Matt that existed for nineteen previous years was no longer. He died. He didn’t make it out. A new Matt had emerged from the ashes and this is the same voice that is writing the words you’ve been reading. This new Matt appreciated his birth. He understood the significance. The pain that he was born out of; the hurt; the loneliness; the isolation; the depression; the anxiety; the uncertainty. The constant questions of who the fuck am I and what the fuck am I doing here. I know I have a purpose, but how do I live up to it. Death and rebirth.

So physically, I am thirty years old. My new mental birth has me at ten years old. Mental maturity I’m at about fifteen years old. Like I almost have girls figured out, but I still don’t really know what the hell to do when we say goodbye. I’d say that’s about fifteen years old.

I turned twenty-one in South Africa. I had spent the day on the beach with four of my new friends. At night, the fire was raging on Table Mountain. I turned twenty-two and twenty-three in Providence back at Brown with my college friends. I turned twenty-four in Providence as well. Twenty-five, I started my music company. Twenty-six was at a surprise party thrown in Boston by my then girlfriend. Twenty-seven I was with family in Grafton, MA. Twenty-eight, my “golden’ birthday (twenty-eight on the twenty-eight of the month) was celebrated as a new resident of New York City, playing a show live on stage. Twenty-nine was also in NYC, this time more low key. Thirty in Los Angeles.

On the previously mentioned Friday, I went to check the door to make sure my package wasn’t there, and I saw the note left by FedEx. They had attempted to drop the package off at 9:03AM. Are you kidding me? When has FedEx ever tried to drop a package off so early? I was shocked. My whole day had been planned around getting that package. I had a special place picked out to hang it up on the wall. And now I had nothing. I enjoyed the nice weather and looked for a job.

I made sure to take it easy on Friday night. I went to see a country music band in Playa Del Rey. A friend of my roommate’s band was playing. They were up from Austin. My friend Amal was in from NYC and joined us. It was a fun night, a dive bar, a cute girl turning twenty-one and giving me the “gaga” eyes. I said hello. The band was solid.

My alarm went off at 8:55AM. I was up and ready for FedEx this time. No getting by me. Like a kid waiting for Santa Claus, the anticipation was killing me. Then, all of a sudden, my stomach started to signal me that is was time to make room for another day of eating. When mother nature calls, it’s hard to argue. Death and rebirth.

I was reading the Brown Alumni Magazine. It was a beautiful sunny day. The birds were chirping. I was relaxed. All of a sudden a rumbling of an oversized engine disturbed the tranquility. I instinctively knew. FedEx. I peaked my head out the bathroom and saw the FedEx truck come whirling around the corner, the low frequency of the engine drowning out the birds. Fuck, we must live right next to the FedEx distribution plant. I was going to have to cut this bathroom visit short. I mean, I was pretty much done, but I had more to read and still had to clean up. Hustle. Bustle. Rustling of the belt, and I was at the door. Ready and waiting. One knock and the door flung open. Signature signed and the package was mine. Ahh. I love my birthday present to myself.

I took it out of the package and just looked at it. I put it on my bed. I put it on the floor. I put it on my desk. I bided my time. It was early still and I couldn’t rationalize waking my roommate to nail it to the wall. Soon enough I would, but not until 11AM I told myself. I mean if you’re not up at 11AM on Saturday you’re probably hung over, and then you’re going to be sleeping through everything.

When the time did come, I nailed my present to the wall like it was Jesus himself – fast and swift. Straight. Picturesque. Then I just admired it. I wanted to touch it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was so pure that I couldn’t taint it with my fingers.

For the next few days, I just found myself mesmerized by it. I think no matter where I am – Heaven or Hell – I’ll look for at this and I’ll think about all the stories I could tell.

I’m looking at it right now. I’m still transfixed. It’s good to be thirty.

Saturday night was spent in Beverly Hills with an old friend and amazing guitarist, J. J is the man. I love him. We just chilled. He’s been in LA for a few months now. He lives with his girlfriend. He’s actually the guitarist who played the majority of lead guitar on “Head.” Some people aspire to be famous and be know by their first name: Madonna, Oprah, Barak. Others are so cool that their first name gets shortened to a letter – J.

I really am glad that J’s here in LA. It’s like having a family member here to hang with, and although he’s super busy, I’m optimistic that we will be able to connect musically again. Because, playing music with J is like having sex with a girl (or whomever you want). It’s hard to explain if you’re not a musician, but that is music at its highpoint – total uninhibited freedom.

On Sunday night, my friend Amal and I went out for some drinks. We stayed local and headed down to the beach for some dinner and drinks. When the karaoke was brought out, we knew it was time for us to change locations. We headed over to Abbot Kinney, a famous Venice locale. really a street with a bunch of shops, restaurants, stores, and bars. We went to a bar that my roommate had introduced me to, the “Other Room.” It is a dark bar. Candles. When alcohol’s thrown in, it’s most certainly a trap where you could wake up the next morning wondering how you got into a situation you might not otherwise have found yourself in if the lighting had been better. Luckily, this is not a story I have to relate.

Instead, I get to tell you a story about how I was advised to never get married and then shown exactly why. Here goes. (All names have been changed.)

Amal and I are drinking a glass of wine and talking. We’re both checking out the scene to see if there is anyone we want to talk to. No.

Then Amal is approached. A tall brunette in a long, flowing, formless dress asks Amal what time the bar closes. He guesses one or two. That is what I told him. That’s it. She’s in. She, Laura, turns out to be a very friendly, married lawyer. She’s waiting for her friends who are outside doing something. Shortly into the conversation, she reveals herself as a flirt. I’m intrigued. I love flirting. I find flirting to be harmless, and at it’s best, intellectually stimulation. Intellectual stimulation is hard to find these days.

Laura is definitely stimulating intellectually. A graduate of a top university in Canada, she’s now a defender of immigrant children who are underrepresented in the legal system. She’s also drinking Prosecco, a sparkling wine.

Her friends finally come in. There are three of them: Ashley, Elsa, and Sasha. Ashley is a tall blonde. She has a beautiful face, and I like her. She’s married. Shocking. Elsa and Sasha are there. I don’t have much more to say about them. They seem nice. They’re single and they’re unattractive. Shocking.

By the luck of the Irish, or because Amal is an amazing wingman, I find myself seated between Ashley and Laura. I’m thinking threesome. We’re talking marriage.

It turns out Laura is “happily” married. Been together with her husband for six years, but there is an undercurrent to what she’s saying. She definitely is thinking about cheating on him. He’s always out of town. She was previously a “slut.” A term she described herself as, but somehow she kept her numbers low, “ten.” I doubt it. I’ve heard that you should multiply a girl’s number by three to get the appropriate number. Thirty seems reasonable. I don’t care either way. I’m just talking, and I’m more attracted to Ashley.

As the night progresses, and Laura moves through more and more Prosecco, she gets more and more drunk. Shocking. As the inebriation gets deeper, she starts to tell me how cute I am, and implores me to not sit so close. I oblige and scoot over laughing. Soon, Laura moves herself across the table as to avoid temptation. I’m okay with this. I start talking to Ashley.

Ashley it turns out is in town from Switzerland visiting. Actually, she came for a weekend. That was three weeks ago. She hates Switzerland and the town where she reside. She loves her husband, but as she says, “Love solves nothing.” Spoken like a veteran of marriage. She’s been married for less than a year.

When it was time for her flight home, she just didn’t show up. I love the balls. She doesn’t want to go back. Her husband is planning to come out for two weeks and check out LA. He has a job interview lined up. Their road is not lit up by lights. They are making their way through this marriage with the lights off, and neither of them knows what to do. I try and empathize. I assure her that I’m not getting married anytime soon. I explain to her about my music and how I’m married to that presently, and my history of relationships that suffered because of my music. I’ve vowed to not make that mistake again. She’s impressed with the maturity. I empathize some more. We have a heart-to-heart because we both know that we’ll never see each other again.

After an unknown amount of time, maybe thirty minutes, Laura comes back and sits next to me. Flirtatious as ever, she’s glad to be back. We have a good time. We laugh we talk about marriage. We talk about infidelity. It turns out she has kissed a guy since she’s been married, but that doesn’t count these days.

Soon the conversation has turned for the ‘worst.’ She wants to make out with me. I can’t do this. I’m too sober and I know she’s just really drunk. I don’t want this on my conscious. Maybe if it was Ashley, but no. I don’t want this.

Laura is not going away easily. She tries to convince me to go to the bathroom with her. I tell her that’s not a good idea. She presses on. She tells me she wants to take me home and sleep with me. That I’m “too damn cute.” I tell her I’m flattered, but that’s not a good idea.

Then comes my favorite part. She tells me I have to “man up.”

“Are you questioning my manhood?” I ask.

She says, “Yes.”

I just start laughing. It has gotten to the point of ridiculousness. Never before have I been implored by a married woman to “man up” because I won’t have an affair with her. Never mind that fact that her three friends are right there and well aware of everything that is going on – their eyes are piercing. One false move and my Linus will be removed. Ridiculous.

It’s decided that it’s time for the to leave. Ashley gives me a kiss on the cheek. I tell her good luck with everything. She says the same.

Laura disappears into the night without saying goodbye. The last thing she did utter to me was “It’s your loss.”

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.

I woke up the next morning glad to be in my own bed. I think of Laura and I’m sure that when she wakes up she’ll be glad to be in her own bed too – without me.

I don’t have much time to dwell on this as I have an interview set up with a temp agency that staffs the movie studios. I find that usually temp agencies are a great in when looking for employment. Full-time work is hard to find. Temp work tends to be much easier, especially when your resume is stacked like mine. I’ve been doing some crazy shit to stay afloat for the past few years. My Brown education has been used to the best of my ability while I pursue music. I’ve always enjoyed both the analytical and creative sides of my brain. I’m certainly glad that I still have these skills when looking for a job.

As it turns out, the temp agency has two positions but they’re both HR related and I don’t have that experience. Or so the recruiter thought. I then explain to her that while in NY I read twelve thousand plus resumes over a fourth month period for a hedge fund. She implores me to put that on my resume before I leave. I do. They send it over to the studio.

I get home and my phone rings. The studio is interested. They’ll be calling me in an hour. Ten minutes later, the studio is giving me a ten-minute phone interview.

I find out during lunch with Amal that the studio wants me. I’m excited, but the pay is dismal.

I have to think about it. Amal lends his thoughts.

While at lunch on the Venice boardwalk, the girl to our right catches our eye. It turns out she’s a cute, corn-fed girl from Kansas. She’s in town with a “friend” to see her sister who lives here. We chat on and off throughout the end of the meal. Very casual. She’s wide-eyed and looks star struck when she talks. It’s pretty awesome.

At one point, Amal leans over and asks if there are any good places to go out at night. She says she doesn’t know, but asks her sister. Her sister gives us some info, but we know most of it. Amal then decides it’s time to divulge some more information. He tells them that we are looking for a younger hangout, since the previous night was very much “cougar” centric. They laugh and understand.

We continue to eat our meals. I finish mine and Amal and I are talking. In the midst of our conversation, I notice that the girls’ “friend” who has had her back to us the whole time is actually more than a friend – she’s older – she’s their mother. The light goes off. I start to chuckle to myself thinking about Amal’s cougar comment.

A few minutes later the mother figure is off to the bathroom. Amal covers his mouth and leans in towards me and says, “I think that’s their mother.” I start laughing. I say, “I know. I figured it out a few minutes ago.”

Amal plays it cool because that is exactly what he is. A straight shooter from Texas, and Shehan’s brother (the UT alumnus from the road trip), Amal is at ease with people. He’s in sales. He works on deals worth millions of dollars for a large technology company. Saying that we had a “cougar” centric night in front of a mother is nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

We later excuse ourselves. Tell the ladies to enjoy the trip and walk back into the beautiful eighty-degree weather. It’s a picture perfect day, and we’re in LA. Life is good.

I decide to take the job. I figure the pay is the one knock against it. The positives are many.

They want me to start the next day, Tuesday. I tell them I can’t. I have a meeting in the morning that is too important.

I wake up on Tuesday morning. It’s seven o’clock. I’m groggy. It’s early. I fire up my computer. I brush my teeth. I throw on a skull-cap to cover my bed head. I’m not showering. I’m supposed to be in the valley at 9:30AM. Traffic may be brutal. I’m supposed to leave early. I open up my Internet browser and click on yahoo. First thing I see is the headline “4.4 magnitude earthquake strikes southern California.” Downtown LA is pictured. I click on the link to find more details. It turns out at four o’clock in the morning, ten miles east of downtown Los Angeles there was a mild earthquake felt throughout the San Ferdinando valley all the way to Santa Monica and Venice. I slept through it. I’m a deep sleeper. I’ll find out when I get home that my roommate woke up during the quake. Exciting shit. Kind of. Well a little nerve wracking. The article points out that it may be a precursor for a larger even. I don’t like that line. Let’s hope not.

The traffic on the 405 is gentle. Nothing bad going North. South is a different beast. Luckily, I’m not heading south for a few hours.

I show up to the rendezvous early, but that’s okay. I’m the nobody at this meeting. I’m meeting up with a very talented engineer and producer who has won Grammy’s and worked on mixing Nirvana records. I’ve done pretty much nothing musically that compares. When he does show, it’s good to see him again. I had met him seven years prior when I was interning in LA with a small music company. He was recording a session. The music industry was just about to begin its collapse. I still remember it was the first time I ever had seen an iPod. Had only I known.

Our meeting is cordial. We catch up. We laugh. His business partner shows up because my producer contact forgot his credit card at home. His partner is a nice guy from South Carolina. They’ve got some great stories about driving cross-country, and how cocaine may or may not help you stay awake.

They inform me that I did not ‘drive cross-country,” but rather took a vacation across country. I find it hard to argue.

It turns out, that my producer contact is more interested in the business side of my resume than anything music related. He has some interesting ideas as to how to make money, and not too surprisingly, they don’t consider music in the sense anyone over ten years of age thinks about music. As he says, “Nobody’s making money in music. I mean nobody.” I’m intrigued by his ideas. Disappointed by the state of the music industry. It’s tough to watch your love die in front of you and not be able to do anything. I guess this is life teach me another lesson. All things die. Enjoy them while they last.

I was hoping to become a studio rat, but I can always do that at a later point. I leave the meeting with some homework assignments and optimism that maybe we can form a relationship that is symbiotic. We both make money. I help him out. He helps me out. I’m still working on my homework assignment.

The next day I’m up early. It’s time to drive to the movie studio lot. I’m ironing my shirt. I’m putting on a tie. It’s been a long time. There’s something soothing about ironing. It brings me back to being a kid when I’d be eating breakfast and I’d watch my mom or my dad iron a shirt while the kitchen was bustling with life. It’s funny how those things only exist in my mind – much of my life is spent by myself now. I’m three thousand miles from my family. We’re all older now. They all have their lives. I’m starting mine. The bustling kitchens are like the receding tide – they may come back sometime, but they won’t be the same. The surroundings will have changed. The players will be different. The feeling may be reminiscent. But who really knows. I know I like to iron.

It’s exciting to be at the studio. The people are really nice. I’m totally over dressed. At one point, one of the experienced members of the HR staff tells me, “Don’t ever wear a tie again.” I laugh, but can tell he’s serious. I’m glad. I don’t like wearing ties.

The work I’ll be doing isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m okay with that. It’ll keep me occupied. I’ll meet people. After four years of working from home, it’ll be nice to interact with people in person. The HR staff is all amazingly friendly and laid back. I like it.

Lunchtime is my favorite. There are a few bustling eateries with lots of cute girls running around. I can imagine that for full-time employees it’s a great place to meet people. I feel more like a fly on the wall. I’m observing everything while I eat my lunch.

I usually eat it with the other temp and the intern that I know. They’re both nice girls. We get along. We all come from vastly different backgrounds, but we’re all their learning.

I like when I’m done eating and I get to walk around the lot. It’s fun to see everyone doing his or her thing. The stages are more like airplane hangers. They’re huge. We’re not allowed to go on them, but we can walk by them. You can feel the history. The legends who were once there. On the tour that I was given, they talk about Marilyn Monroe changing in front of the windows and the tunnels JFK used to prowl on his way to meet her. I’ve heard stories like this before when I was in Washington, D.C. Seems like JFK spent a lot of time in tunnels.

I feel at home on the lot. I feel like I walk differently. I feel like I’m somebody there.

The studio may not know it. It turns out they spelt my name wrong. They spelled it “Mathew.” I think it’s funny. I am going to keep it when my assignment’s over so that when I am ‘somebody’ I can show people that. We all have to start somewhere.

I’ve started in the HR department on the Lott.

Oh shit, that's where my missing 't' is.