Some VERY talented frinds of mine, and myself, have created a new, monthly sketch podcast called Left Handed Radio. Download the first episode here:

Episode 1 – It’s Like A Shit Fit, Only Bigger

To subscribe in iTunes (which I’d LOVE for you to do), follow these instructions:
-In iTunes, go to the Advanced menu and choose “Subscribe to podcast…”
-In the pop-up window, paste in the RSS feed: http://lefthandedradio.libsyn.com/rss
-Click OK
-And you’re done!

I wrote Annoying Talking Dog, and co-wrote Skeleton Warehouse, and I mouth a lot of characters.

Can you tell I’m really excited about this? I am. I loved sketch comedy albums when I was a kid, and this was something I had on my list of Things To Accomplish This Year. Yes, I have one of those, though I usually just ignore it and eat pizza.

A new sketch album every month, for free, sent right to your computer. TECHNOLOGY!

I was watching my dad die after being the person to make the decision to pull him off life support.

If I were in a gang, would that count towards a teardrop tattoo under my eye?

My dad and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye; in fact, we fought a lot. There were times when we went a few months without speaking. That whole time passed around 2004, when I realized that I needed to let go of all the bullshit from the past that I held on to (you moved out! you’re seeing some other woman! you have terrible fashion sense!) and just accept him for who he was. Our relationship was, in my opinion, great after that. If not great, then much, MUCH healthier.

As I get older, and find myself in situations I didn’t want to be in, I understand some of his actions a bit more. He would get mad when I’d came to him for money when I was in college, which I realize now not because I needed it, but that he didn’t always have it. He just didn’t know where to focus that energy.

When he hid a lot of stuff he did with the woman he was seeing for several years from my brother and I (I mean going to movies and taking trips, you pervs), only to find out in roundabout ways what he was up to, he thought he was protecting Phil and myself. He just didn’t know that was doing more harm than good.

When he would get mad at minorities, I realize…well, no, that was just him being rude.

He worked his ass off to get sober and stay sober for 24 years after his addiction almost cost him his job and his career. It’s ironic that 12 Steps saved his life, then falling down 12 steps ended it.

He was blunt, sloppy, self-loathing, intelligent, fiercely loyal, goofy, recovering from addiction, button pushing, loving, emotional, scary, comforting, heroic, cowardly, honest, lying, scared, fearless, giving, and frugal. He was a handsome man that let himself go. He was a vain man who was too angry with himself to take care of himself.

He would have been 57 next Thursday, July 29. He passed one week before his birthday. Because he and I shared a love of pizza, our family had it on his birthday last year, and decided that July 29 will henceforth and forevermore be known as Pizza Day. If you remember next Thursday, try to grab a slice, then call your parents. Talk with your mouth full. They love that.

My dad didn’t know his father, some bastard named Chuck Cauley from Chicago who drove trucks (yes, if you were related to him and stumble upon this, consider this sentence an open invitation to get in contact with me. I want to meet you, even though I think your grandfather/father/whatever is a douche. I bet you’re alright.). Chuck rolled in to town for the last time when my dad was 5 (1958), and then never came back. Maybe that’s why I like Tim Riggins on Friday Night Lights so much.

I’m about now at the moment in time where, one year ago, he took his last breath. When you make the decision to pull someone off life support, you don’t get to ask them if you made the right decision. You don’t get to find out if they’re one of those .05% cases where the person wakes up years later and is Robin Williams. You have to live with it. Based on the facts we had at hand, I think we made the awful, right decision. He crowed at me time and again through his life that he NEVER wanted to be on extended life support. Like, there were times when he made me repeat it to him. I think he’s where I get my obsession with death.

I miss him fiercely. What’s scarier than the hurt, though, is the idea that I may forget what he sounded like. I see him occasionally in my dreams, and he sounds the same. I fear the day I see him in a dream and his voice has been replaced with Dr. Zoidberg’s.

After he passed, I sat in what must be shock, a complete fugue state where I couldn’t do anything but stare into the distance and breathe. Voices sounded like they came from underwater. Everything had a soft edge to it. If I ever have a conversation with Glenn Beck, I now know how to cope with it.

We went downstairs, and I dealt with the valet parking ticket. The woman behind the counter informed me that we owed $23 for parking. I looked her in the eyes and said this:

“Is there any discount for a family that just had to watch their dad die?”

She silently stamped the ticket and passed it back, no questions asked.

It was the day before my girlfriend’s birthday. Happy birthday Danielle! The perfume we got you is called Stink of Death.

We drove off into the evening, into the rain, into the rest of our lives.

I answer by saying “Hello, this is Matt,” and a determined older woman begins telling me that she spoke with Jeff, and he recommended that she call Molly at this number, and then mentions where she is calling from. None of those names are familiar to me, but it’s possible she had the right number still, as again, I’m a temp and this is a big company. I casually mention (casually) that I am aware of that, as I saw the area code and grew up in that area.

After a little bit more discussion of what she was searching for (someone to help her open theater space in western PA and northern West Virgina), she tells me she was a stage actress for 30 years. It’s clear at this point she has the wrong number (because of the thing with the non-entertainment office stuff and suchess), but because I have to make everything about me, I give her this news while mentioning that I am a comedian-slash-actor-slash-wrists.

She apologizes for taking up my time, but then says, out of nowhere “best of luck to you. I was 30 when I started my career and a lot of people told me I couldn’t be successful at it in the beginning. But I didn’t take no for an answer because I’m Irish, and I wound up having a wonderful 32 year career, performing all over the world. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you can’t do something…stick with it and keep pushing ahead.”

Key points:
1) I turn 30 next month, which has been putting me in a career crisis mentality for months
2) I’m Irish

I needed a pep talk like this pretty badly, as my mental state has been abysmal in recent weeks. She could have been lying for all I know, but that doesn’t matter. We get what we need out of stories, and we take what we find useful from the things people tell us. There was a lot of useful information in her words for me.

So thank you, Elderly Woman Behind The Telephone In A Small Town. Your career may be winding down, but I’m hoping you helped someone else push theirs a little bit further along.

I just realized I never asked her for her name.

In 2007, I got a job paging at The Late Show with David Letterman. A friend who was already there passed along my resume, and after a couple interviews, I got the job. I started on January 2, and in March, worked up the courage to introduce, and pitch, myself to the head monologue writer. He was incredibly kind and gracious, and told me to keep in touch, as there wasn’t any room on the freelancer’s list. After a few months, he let me know there was an opening, and that I should send in a sheet of current event jokes for the monologue. He approved them, and I started the day after. Three weeks later, I got my first joke on the air. It was thrilling.

I kept up with the monologue for the next year. During that time, a friend of mine that was also a page at Letterman left to work at Saturday Night Live. She was also an incredibly gracious person, and put me in touch with the head of Weekend Update. Same situation: email, sheet of jokes, I started the next week.

Look, I know you want to do it, and i wish you nothing but the best of luck. You’re probably awesome, or on your way to being awesome. Here’s why I can’t get you a job:

1) I don’t know you. This entire industry is built around getting to know people, so those people can represent you to the people that make the decisions for the things you want to do. Even if you’re great, I know 30 amazing comedians that I am friends with, and if I’m in a position to help someone, I’ll probably help my friends. I hope that if you find yourself in my position, you’d help your friends too. That’s the beauty of this business, that you can actually help your friends get ahead.

2) I don’t even have a job writing for late night anymore. I never got a joke on Weekend Update. Frustrating, but it happens. I was let go at the beginning of the 2009-2010 season. At the same time, Late Show cut their entire freelance staff. I’m back on the outside once again, trying to find a way in, just like you.

I hope this helps you in some capacity. It’s going to help you to start doing it on your own so you have material on hand to prove you know how to do it before you even get the opportunity. It’s also going to help to move to either New York or Los Angeles and find a way to get close to the shows. I KNOW that sucks to hear, but again, that’s my advice because that’s how I did it.

Now go forth, and create great work!

I’m now part of a really fun sketch group called Mister Clark. This is our first video, with more shot, more planned, and a stage show in the works. WOW, when you say it that way we sound like The Partridge Family.

Apparently I’m a shitty roommate.

The mic cord falls out twice (TWICE!) during this set. Other than that, it was a great crowd. A test run for my mother’s Flip cam; it performed OKAY.

Right before I took the stage, TJ (the host) presented me with a screener VHS copy of an old Bob Odenkirk pilot I lent him in 2005, which I try to make in to a joke before the cord falls out the first time. The mic also seemed MUCH louder live than it does on camera.

Matt Little on WFMU’s 7 Second Delay Live!

First off, I did not even get a callback this year, after getting one the year before, after not getting one the first year I auditioned.

And I’m perfectly okay with it. I was very happy with my audition; I thought I did great. I went in wanting to do two things: focus on the first three lines of my scene, and expand my world from there, and make my scene partner look good. I think I did both. I know I did the first one, and my second scene partner, who I did not know, complimented me in ways that made me feel like I accomplished my second goal.

I went in and pleased the most important person I have to please – myself. So I didn’t succeed in an audition. That just means that I have one more thing in common with every person I look up to in comedy.

Last year, I was super-stressed about how my callback went, and it was all because I didn’t perform in a way that I was happy with. Instead I played from a place of nervousness and uncertainty, and that’s not me. I felt like I let myself down, and questioned my talents as an improviser.

This year, I am not letting this setback question my abilities. I’ve heard TOO MANY TIMES, from TOO MANY PEOPLE, including decision makers at UCB, that I am GOOD. VERY GOOD at this. I’m also a member of a team that I am consistently told is a favorite of LOTS of people (Thank You, Robot, if you do not know). And I’m going to ignore all that because TWO scenes didn’t make 4 people laugh as much as I hoped they would?

Let’s break down the actual stats of the first round process at UCB from this year – there were 470 people who were eligible to audition and did. Of those, we know that there will be 64 callbacks. That is a 14% chance of making it to the next round, ASSUMING that you have two good scenes at the RIGHT EXACT TIME on the RIGHT EXACT DAY. You could have an awesome set right before your audition, and then have two crap scenes in the room. That’s the danger and excitement of improv – we don’t know what is going to happen on stage. FURTHERMORE, if you are part of that lucky 14% that advances to the next round of auditioning, there are only going to be, what, 16-20 spots open? And that’s probably being generous most years. You still have to have another GREAT SET at the EXACT RIGHT TIME OF DAY on the EXACT RIGHT DAY. Again, you could be dominating a stage at The Creek, then go to your audition and have a shaky set. We all have good and bad sets; it’s science. But do you understand how much the odds are stacked against EVERYONE that walks in there?

I don’t want to sound like I question the process they have in place, because I don’t. This is the MOST democratic way they could possibly judge talent for Harold night, given how large the community has become.

UCB is a high-profile stage, with a fun community surrounding it. But they created that by venturing out and doing their own thing. It wasn’t always an institution. You can do that too. I know you can because my improv team did it. We started our own show, and MADE ourselves a weekend team. Sure it’s only 2 Fridays a month, but it’s still a great time.

I’m not saying “get over it,” because that’s a little insensitive. Sure, it stings, it’s rejection. But don’t STEW in it. Don’t let yourself think you suck because of this process. Don’t dismiss every compliment you’ve been given by friends and colleagues. You are great! Use that knowledge to push yourself to MAKE THINGS HAPPEN FOR YOU. Go start a team and have some fun doing improv on your own. If you’re on a team, start your own show – THERE HAS NEVER BEEN A BETTER TIME FOR INDEPENDENT IMPROV IN NEW YORK CITY. Treat your show like it’s the best way that performers and audience alike could spend their time, then MAKE THAT TRUE. Try to get it listed in major event publications like Time Out, or The Onion. Scramble to get press. Tape your shows and put them online. Sure, there’s more work involved in doing it on your own, and it’s a tough process, but HONEST TO GOD, that’s only going to make you better at all aspects of showbiz. Plus, a few years from now when you have more important live shows where other people take over the (UGH!) marketing duties, and something should go wrong, you’ll know how to help fix it. Take control of your career.

Don’t be a target. Targets are sedentary; they sit and wait for things to happen to them. Be a weapon. Weapons are active; they move, they seek out what they want, and they attack it.

Be a weapon.

PS – if you go to Harold night after this, PLEASE don’t judge new performers as to whether or not you’re better than them. That’s the first step down the path of bitterness, and you don’t want to be that person. The fact that they’re on a Harold team and you are not has nothing to do with them. Instead, try to be happy that they accomplished a goal that you also hoped to accomplish, because then people are more likely to feel that way when it happens for you. Love breeds love.

My improv group Thank You, Robot is celebrating our 3rd anniversary as a team this week here:

For almost two years now, Thank You, Robot’s sole regular gig has been as hosts of our show Summer Fridays at Under St. Marks Theater. We took the slot over from the dearly departed UCB Harold teams fwänd and Tantrum, and I like to think we’ve done a pretty good job of holding down a prime-time slot at one of the highest profile non-school improv theaters in the city (was that a lot of qualifiers?). Our very first show as a team was on that stage, and in fact, at a fwänd/Tantrum show. We performed a La Ronde, a form where the opening involves a revolving cycle of two quick scenes for each performer as a specific character, then the remainder of the show pushing those characters together into scenes. Both teams did a really great job of making us feel like we BELONGED there. That we were there for the final Tantrum show, in June 2008, which ALSO took place in that slot, was an honor for us.

We like to believe we put on the type of show that doesn’t happen at other indie venues. Of course, none of that would be possible without the help of other people.

Katey Healy-Wurzburg has been our tech person for the entire run of our show. That someone would be as dedicated to a show that doesn’t have much to offer back as she has is a gift that we don’t take lightly. She’s really great at calling shows as well. There have been times where we wanted to get one or two more moves in before the blackout, but I think that just means we’ve been doing OUR job well, because there are shows where her blackouts are mercy killings. She has a sharp eye for what works and what doesn’t work, and where the peak of tying together all our nonsense arrives. Her post-show notes are always great, and she does a tremendous job of keeping us prima donnas out of our heads after particularly bad shows. Summer Fridays wouldn’t be what they are without her.

Heidi and the staff at Under St. Marks have also done a great job of tolerating us and keeping our audiences well-lubricated. That they have been patient with us throughout some behind the scenes messes we’ve created, and still allowed us to have this show, is nothing short of incredible. Heidi, in particular, has come through for us on many occasions, and thankfully has enough screws loose that she’s asked us to work with her on other shows that Horse Trade (the company that owns USM) puts on.

We’ve lost members over the last three years, which always left me in a state of panic, assuming that whichever person leaving was going to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, bringing down the team. That this has never happened is wonderful. Again, thanks to the members of TYR for not letting my madness drag you down. That we’ve been together for three years as a team, with no backing from any theater group, is something I’m damn proud of.

Finally, I just want to say thanks to the other members of the New York improv community. Thanks for making TYR feel like we belong. Thanks for coming out to our shows. Thanks for sticking around afterwards. Thanks for laughing with us when things go well, and thanks for the accurate assessments when things don’t. Thanks for asking us to do shows. Thanks for telling other people about us. Thanks for making the members of this team feel like we have a skill to do something about which we’re all so passionate. Thanks for just being a great goddamn group of people. The difference between the stand-up community and the improv community is STAGGERING, and stand-ups could learn a fucking thing or two about support from you guys. I hope you can all celebrate with us tonight.