What follows is an e-mail I sent in September of 2004, shortly after my second trip to San Francisco.

"Matt vs Dave Matthews, Bart Muni, The Oakland Raiders, JetBlue
& The City of San Francisco"
It's been a while since the last chapter of "The Madcapped Misadventures of Matt," but I knew it was only a matter of time before my old friends Bad Luck and Poor Judgment payed me a visit.

What follows is a chronicling of my Sunday, September 12th in which I attempted to see Dave Matthews Band in northern California...

Like most plans it was a simple one. Hop an early morning flight to San Francisco, relax in line for a few hours, enjoy a show in the park, fly home.

And like most failures, it all started according to plan. I woke up early Sunday morning and took an hour long flight from Long Beach to Oakland via Jet Blue. From there I took a shuttle to meet my new buddy Bart Muni (Bay Area Rapid Transit and MUNIcipal Railway), I liked Bart right away cause he's just like my old friend Met Rough from DC.

So Bart takes me under the bay (very disappointed to find a simple tunnel and no glass tube to wave to fishes through) and into San Francisco where I take a trolly (the Muni half of Bart Muni) to the park. I walk through crowds of other young upper middle class white people. Once inside the park, I walk to the concert field, where it is in the park I'm not very sure and the signs are few and far between. I discover the park is very large and the white people are becoming scarce, like I might be going in the wrong direction. I notice a very large crowd a ways behind me. I hoped they weren't following me.

Finally a little sign led to another little sign which led to more white people and an entrance to the park. I find out that this entrance was supposed to be for VIP tickets only ($250 a pop), but at the last minute they decided to open it to General Admission ticket holders (free + suggested donation to the Bay Area Environmental Fund) as well. Because of this I ended up a few hundred people deep in line as opposed to three thousand people deep in line which the other entrances to the park boasted at the time. Score one for the away team.

Matt - 1, San Francisco - 0.

I glance at my phone and note the time it had taken me to get from the airport to the concert area. Two hours. I do the math in my head, gates open at noon, the opener comes on at 1, give or take an hour and the main act hits the stage between 2 and 3, at most a 3 hour show and the concert would be over by 6 at the latest. Giving me two hours to get back to the airport and my 8:05 plane. I figure now that I know the way I can get back to the airport a lot faster then I came and I am not worried. I find comfort in the fact that the Golden Gate Park has a 5:30 noise curfew in respect of the neighborhoods around it.

It's also at this time I realized I might not have come fully prepared. San Francisco, being nowhere near and nothing like Los Angeles, is not experiencing the same heat wave we have for the last few weeks. In fact, their foggy mornings are darn right cold. Luckily I brought my hoodie to have something to sit on in the park. Unluckily I was wearing shorts. As I sit on the cold ground under the cold fog I notice the people around me have things like food.

"Hmmm..." I think to myself, "food might have been a good idea."

My stomach agrees.

In my plan to travel light I brought a large bottle of water and a tube of sunscreen. The water did wonders for my hydration but the sunscreen did little for my hunger.

Two hours of quiet people watching later my line is many thousands deep and the gates are open. Approaching the ticket tearer I notice people throwing their drinks into the dumpster. No open containers aloud in the park. Having broken the seal on my water bottle earlier for a saturating sip I quickly stuffed the water bottle under my hoodie and sneakily put my hand in my pocket to hide the bulge. The security guard does a very poor job of patting me down and I'm on my way into the park with my opened bottle of water.

Matt - 2, San Francisco - 0.

I stroll onto the field as people dash around me at full sprint. I'm in no hurry as I'm flying solo and a two foot square plot of land isn't hard to come by in a park four football fields long. Then I notice the reason for the running, a small, gated, fifty yard section of the field in front of the stage, the "floor" seats. I pick up my pace.

A crowd of sixty or so mash together by one of two entrances to the Preferred Viewing section. I join the ruckus and use my miniscule frame and lack of appendages to slip to the front of the line...just in time for the security guard to lock the gate. The Preferred Viewing section is closed due to the stampede at the two gates. People yell and plead and cry as they're separated from their (faster) friends, family and loved ones. On the other side of the gate people yell, plead and cry as their (slower) friends, family and loved ones are left behind. But despite their best Schindlar's List auditions the guards would not
reopen the gate. Some industrious fellows immediately throw down their blankets and claim the crowded area in front of the gate. To keep them from pushing me out of way I drop to the ground and claim a spot against the bars. Slowly, the crowd disperses to put down their blankets and write letters to their loved ones. But a few remain and talk with the guards every chance they get in the hopes of winning a pass to the greener grass that surely lies on the other side of the fence. I put my money on these few fast talkers. I don't say a word but I make sure my face is seen and smile to the guards as they walk by. An hour later my patience bears fruit in the form of the mustached head of security who tells the fast talkers and myself to go stand off to the side and he'd provide us each with our very own golden ticket (or blue wristband as the case may be).

Matt - 3, San Francisco - 0.

Inside the Preferred Viewing section, with it's chocolate river and Oompa Loompa's I found a two foot square patch of land to call my own while I listened to the vinyl stylings of DJ Z-Trip from the movie Scratch. Two hours, a hamburger and trip to the bathroom later I was still listening to DJ Z-trip (from the movie Scratch).

At 2:45 he left the stage, 3 came and went, as did 3:15, finally at 3:30 the band takes the stage. I do the math in my head, main act starts at 3:30, show is two and a half to three hours long at the most which gets me out of the park by 6-6:30 which gives me less then two hours to make my 8:05 plane. But I still have faith that the band would only push the 5:30 curfew to 6 so I'm not too worried.

The band plays, a good time is had by all, by some a too-good time is had. Little children dance on their parent's shoulders, despite the lack of ear plugs for their sensitive, developing drums, it is cute. Drunk people dance on their friend's shoulders and block my view...it is not cute.

At 5:15, Santana joins the band on stage, a better time is had by all, except for one little boy in the Preferred Viewing section who wonders about his 8:05 flight.

Come 6:00 the band takes their encore break. I weigh my options, but my scale must not be calibrated as it decided I should stay for the rest of the show.

The post curfew fines force a rushed encore from the band and by 6:30 the pics and drum sticks have been thrown into the crowd.

I make my way out of the field, following a group of rag tag concert goers who decided to make their own path through the park. When faced with a fence they did what any other mob of frat boys would do, they tore the fence down. Hopefully the Bay Area Environmental Fund has some money left over for the Bay after they repair the damage done to the park.

On the streets I hurry to the trolly, which is overcrowded with drunkards who keep setting off the sensors which prevent the doors from closing and the trolly from moving. I contemplate a swift boot to the butt when no one's looking, but the despite the cheers I would most likely get from the other passengers, the police questioning would no doubt make me miss my flight.

Matt - 3, San Francisco - 1.

It was then I realized that my buddy Bart Muni is actually Bart/Muni, like Jekle/Hyde. While Bart was a quiet, shy, intelligent scientist, Muni was a slow lumbering beast who took his sweet time getting me to the Bart station in the center of San Francisco.

Finally I'm back on the Bart, underground, unable to get a signal for my phone and unaware of the time. Despite Bart's best efforts, We don't reach Oakland until 7:45.

Matt - 3, San Francisco - 2.

And what should greet me at the final stop on the Bart? The conductor explaining that an Oakland Raiders game just ended. Hundreds of people fill the platforms when Bart stops. I push through them and rush to the airport shuttle.

The driver suggests to a fellow late passenger that a cab would get him to the airport faster. Though I hear the conversation, understand the words and notice the connection to my very own situation, I do not get off the shuttle and split the cab with my fellow late passenger.

The shuttle joins the Oakland Raiders traffic on it's way to the airport. Though my phone has a perfectly ok signal, I stop checking the time.

I hop off the shuttle and search for the JetBlue desk, when I find it I notice a young boy and girl that I recognize as fellow passengers on the shuttle. The girl is crying. "She's on my flight," I think and the thought is confirmed when I notice my flight on the screen switch to DEPARTED.

Matt - 3, San Francisco - 3.

I talk with the JetBlue person who informs me there's no more flights tonight but I can get on the 6:55am flight Monday morning. The prospect of spending the night at the airport and being late for work does not appeal to me so I take my refund for the missed flight and follow the bread crumbs to Southwest, who I hear has a flight into LAX. While my car is still in Longbeach at least I'd be home. It was Dave's turn to drive on Monday anyway.

I find the Southwest gate and am immediately greeted with a "sorry, our last flight to LA is overbooked by twenty people."

Matt - 3, San Francisco - 4.

So I weigh my options with my broken scale. I could rent a car and drive 6 hours back to LA, but that would most likely result in a sleepy death. I could sleep in the airport, catch the next flight in the morning and be late for work. There's no real downside to that option, but it's not a pleasant one. I decide to consult my personal guru Meredith who immediately points out the third option I couldn't see:
take the Bart back into San Francisco to the San Francisco International Airport where they have later flights to LAX. Brilliant.

I go back to the Southwest gate to ask for their schedule of SFIA to LAX flights and am immediately greeted with a "we've got one empty seat on our Oakland flight to LAX, are you sure you don't want that?"

"But you just told me that flight was overbooked by twenty."

"Guess someone just cancelled."

I think "but what about the twenty overbooked people," but decide it's
best to shut up and buy the ticket.

Matt - 4, San Francisco - 4.

Traveling without luggage and having only purchased my ticket seconds before I fit the bill for a terrorist and was pulled aside for a thorough search. I did not care.

Inside the terminal I noticed my stomach, which didn't feel too super. "Maybe it's cause I haven't eaten in eight hours," I think and search for food, only to find a single slice of pepperoni pizza at a closing Round Table Pizza. My broken scale tells me slice of old pepperoni is better then an empty stomach.

I peal off the pepperoni and eat the single slice. My stomach does not feel better. In fact, it feels worse. All the stores in the terminal are closed and there aren't any vending machines so I ask the Southwest gate people where I might find Ginger Ale. Apparently I looked about as bad as I felt as they brought me a Ginger Ale and a sick bag. "Are you sure you're ok to fly?" I'm fairly certain I am not, but I say yes. There's still an hour till my flight so I cross my fingers and pass out in the fetal position on the floor next to the counter where assorted other passengers are also sleeping on the floor waiting for the last plane to LA.

Matt - 4, San Francisco - 5.

When it comes time to board the plane they wake me up and see if I'm ok. I stumble onto the plane and before we even leave the gate I'm asleep. I wake up as we land in at LAX feeling only somewhat better. I take a taxi back to my apartment and I think the fact that I made it home is worth a point.

Matt - 5, San Francisco - 5.

So Dave took me to pick up my car in Longbeach after work on Monday and the referee says it's a tie. Last year I faced San Francisco and won, but that was with an extra day and an extra person (*see issue 119, "Matt & Rick: Live In San Francisco," 11.09.03). We'll see what happens in next year's match.

Now what some of you might be thinking is, why would a person who had already seen Dave Matthews Band three times more then anyone else would want to then try to tackle a day trip to San Francisco alone to see them again?

Why not?

:)

Love to all - Matt

Labels: madcapped, wordy

What follows is an e-mail from January, 2004 when I was working as an office PA on the Brett Ratner film "After The Sunset" with Pierce Brosnan & Salma Hayek.

"Plain Goldfish? You're Fired!"
Well, I wasn't really fired, but if and when they do fire me this moment will be fresh on their minds...

Let me paint the picture: the producer is alone in his office, staying late till they call wrap. My boss tells me to get him a bowl of Goldfish from the kitchen to snack on: but we're out. So off to the store they send me to get "Goldfish, plain Goldfish is all he likes."

I do some grocery shopping for the office and I stop by the Goldfish shelf. You know that scene in "A Christmas Story" when Ralphy finally gets to Santa and freezes up? "Football? What's a football?" Well that was me, staring at the Goldfish shelf like I had never seen this strange abstract edible aquatic before.

"Plain Goldfish?" Is Chedder the plain Goldfish or is "Original" the plain Goldfish? Now I don't eat Goldfish, never cared for them due to their cheesy flavor. This bit of information should have tipped me off to Chedder Goldfish being the norm, the usual, the everyday, the true nature of Goldfish. But even as I think that, my arm reaches for the "Original" Goldfish. What in Heaven or Hell possessed me to pick up the "Original" Goldfish I'll never know. Even now I remember hearing the little voice in my head screaming "you moron! Chedder Goldfish is the plain Goldfish! Don't pick up the original flavor, those are soup crackers!" But for some reason, the planets aligned and it all seemed to make sense: he's an old man, very peculiar about what he eats (same sandwiches from the same cafe every day), maybe when they say plain Goldfish, they mean plain Goldfish... So I ignore the alarm, swat away the angel on my shoulder trying to steer me straight and I pick up the "Original" Goldfish. And you know that feeling you get when you're doing something wrong...but you don't stop? I had that feeling. My spidey sense was tingling all the way back to the office, all the way back to the kitchen, all the way back to the producers office.

"Hey Patrick, you want some Goldfish to snack on?"

"Sure, put them over there, thanks babe."

So far so good, he even called me "babe." A few minutes pass, a few meetings go by. Then my boss stops by his office, a moment later comes out. "You didn't buy Chedder Goldfish?"

The jig is up.

"Um, no, I just got the regular Goldfish."

She rolls her eyes, "sorry Matt, we're gonna have to let you go." The Production Secretary and I laugh, but behind my laughter...tears.

"At least I didn't buy the big jug."

See? The glass was half full. No, I didn't buy the big jug, I bought four little bags, I immediately started to concoct a plan to get the three unopened ones back to the store sight unseen.

"Without the cheese, they're not even gold. He won't eat that. Tomorrow go back and get the Chedder Goldfish."

I looked to the ground to swallow me up or the sky to lift me away, but no, there I sat in the office, having "Idiot" tattooed on my forehead.

So there you have it. A Tale of Two Goldfish. Now, you might say, a smarter man would have bought the Chedder as well, play it safe, hedge his bets. That's true, a smarter man would have. But I think we've already established that I'm not a smarter man. In fact, looking at the situation I would have fired me.

And so I go to bed to sleep off the headache I now have from banging my head against the wall. Who knows what adventures tomorrow will bring on the set of..."After the Sunset."

Labels: madcapped, wordy

What follows is an e-mail I sent out shortly after the Los Angeles premiere of "A Silent Musical" on June 19th, 2003. Click here to see my amazing public speaking abilities during the question and answer portion of the premiere.

"The Egyptian"
First let me say thank you to those who came to the screening tonight.

Second let me apologize to those who I told would get in free...and then didn't...

You see, I remember it like it was five hours ago...

*strokes chin in recollection*

My plan was to show up at the Egyptian about a half hour early and pass out the remaining comp tickets as people showed up. Little did I know I was about to be involved in a Karmic train wreck meticulously planned out by Mr. Murphy...well I guess in the grand scheme of things it wasn't really a train wreck, more a fender bender...and I guess in the course of the time, space and the universe it was probably pretty insignificant (but we won't know that for sure for some time).

Anyway, I leave my house in Manhattan Beach at 06:00:00 PM PST, an hour and a half before the start of the screening and an hour before I wanted to be there. More than enough time to make the 24.8 mile drive (approximate travel time: 33 minutes). I arrive on Hollywood Blvd at 07:15:00 PM thanks to every other car in the city of Los Angeles parked in front of me on every road between my house and the Egyptian. But wait, Hollywood Blvd is closed, courtesy of the "Charlie's Angels 2: Full Throttal" premiere. Didn't they know "A Silent Musical" was having it's premiere? So I take the detour and rejoin Hollywood Blvd EAST of the Egyptian...only I don't realize I've past it during the detour and continue driving East away from the theater.

I think I arrive where I think the Egyptian should be and park in a resonably priced ($8) lot across from the Pantages Theater...0.6 miles East of the Egyptian. 07:30:00 PM I hop out of my car and walk EAST to where I think the Egyptian should be. As I walk along at a brisk pace the hamster wheel inside my head slowly begins to turn, "the Egyptian is behind you" it squeaks, "you're walking the wrong way." My eyes confirm the squeaky wheel's theory as I note the lack of tall fancy deco buildings around me...and the presense of the 101 freeway which I was pretty sure didn't connect with Hollywood Blvd anywheres near the Egyptian. The hamster wheel finally tells my feet to stop walking the wrong way at the corner of Hollywood and Bronson, 1.1 miles East of the Egyptian. Wanting to confirm my idiocity I ask someone where the Egyptian is. "Bout five lights that way," the man says as he points behind me. "Ok then," I say. "By chance do you have a gun so that I may shoot myself?" I ask, but he doesn't so I turn around and walk 1.1 miles back to the Egyptian (it was more like seven or eight lights, not five, but I forgive the guy, he meant well).

07:55:00 PM I arrive at the front doors of the Egyptian, having already come to terms with the fact that I missed my own screening. The curator Andrew meets me at the door to tell me there was a technical delay and the show had just started. I was to find out later that there was no technical delay, they held the show for me, even announced it as such.

*slams head against wall*

And so I stumble into the theater just as "The Assistant" appears on screen, approximately one minute and thirty-six seconds into the piece. I sit, I sweat, I catch my breath, I listen to the scattered amused chuckles and the musical ends. I watch the other five shorts and then join the other directors at the front of the theater where I regaled the audience with the exciting, suspenseful, dramatic, heartwarming tale of how my musical came to be...or maybe I simply stuttered and stammered my way through five or six broad, general, fluff questions (what inspired you? how was it produced? what camera did you shoot it on? what are you doing now? what's next for your piece?). Following the question and answer people came up to the front to talk with the directors, to which I shyly made a B line for the door and escaped.

The End.

Epilogue:

I'm going to go have ice cream now, thanks again to those who came, I apologize again to those I jyped (gyped? jipped? gipped?) out of ten dollars by telling you the tickets would be free only to not be there on time to pass them out, thus letting them rot in the hands of the Eyptian box office employee, I'm sorry. I hope everyone enjoyed the show.

Take care all - Matt

Labels: madcapped, wordy