I've had a good year. Made more money than ever before, got rid of the day job, put room on my credit cards and everything. Having said that, I also spent 3 months homeless.

Wrote a song about it. Wanna' hear it? Here it go:

For 2 years I stayed in a small guest hose in Echo Park with this guy I went to college with 8 years prior. We were both grown ass men with roomates, which meant we had both fucked up somewhere long the line.

One day I came home from a show in Virginia. Eric, my roomate, walks in my room and says, "Matt, buddy. I'm gonna have to ask you to move out."

What? Seriously? I was gone 2 weeks every month, but still paid my half of the rent, always on time. He claimed I was messy. In my room, I was, but I was good about the common area.

I didn't even care that bad about being kicked out. Granted, I didn't know what I was gonna do, but I did just get a good paycheck and I was tired of being stuck in that small-ass house. It's like they say, "Everytime God closes a door, he........." I don't know the rest of the saying, I always start thinking about how fucked I am every time someone's in the middle of quoting it to me.

I did hate living there though. Every time dude picked his nose I could hear it. Every toss and turn in his bed. I'd always dreamed of my own place.

Besides, I figured I was wasting money being out of town so much and paying rent. I was better off finding somewhere else and avoiding rent in the meantime.

That's just basic hustlenomics.

Back to our very awkward conversation, "How's June?" I said at the same exact second he said,

"I'm thinkin' May."

I saw my boy Jay Larson at The Comedy Store soon after, probably that night. He told me all his roomates were out of town working on that Brett Michaels reality show, "Brett of Hearts" or whatever. Jay said I could stay there for the month, starting immediately for $300.

Now at the time, Jay was living in a Mansion: a 3 story house in the Hollywood Hills, or Burbank Hills. It was on the East side of the Cahuenga Pass. Now I'm in for a measly $300 bucks immediately.

Huh-ha! What's up, Eric? You want me out in May? How's APRIL work for ya'? Have fun paying $1500 for rent tomorrow, Bitch! How you like me now? Don't seem that messy all of a sudden, I bet.

Then I ran into my boy Matt Hummel at the Stove Piper in Van Nuys. I was braggin' about staying at a mansion for 300 bucks. he tells me, both his roomates are out of town and I can stay at his house for FREE.

Oh schnapp! Let's do that. Let's do free.

So life's going pretty swell. My first rent free week I'm performing at the Comedy and Magic Club with my boy Nick Griffin, and who else is on the bill? Just Gary Shandling. That's all. Free steaks and doing comedy with one of my friends and all time favorites Nick Griffin, plus one of the guys who inspired me to do stand up comedy in the first place. No big deal. Just watching my childhood dreams unfold in front of my very eyes. It happens to everybody.

Then after staying at Matt's for a week, Jay calls me up and tells me I can stay at the mansion for free.

Make 'em say Uh! Uh! Nuh-na, nuh-na! Nuh-na, nuh-na!

So this homeless thing is the best situation on the planet: No rent and ridiculous living conditions. The mansion was fantastic. It was right above Universal Studios off of Barham, on the way from the 101 heading east to Burbank. Holy Schnikeys! It was fantastic.

It was so nice to wake up every morning in such a beautiful house with such an amazing view. Now I understand why successful people are so happy every time you run into them. Even the weather was nicer up there. God loves the rich. He whispers in their ear every morning, "You're special. You're my favorite. You deserve it all."

It wasn't at all like busted-ass Echo Park. Cars up on cinderblocks, Vatos running garage businesses out of their homes, dog fights in peoples' front lawns. I hated that place from the day I moved in. In this age of praise and reverence for Silverlake, people will always go so far as to say Echo Park is nice. Yeah, if by nice you mean 3rd world, then yeah, it's nice. The mayor of Echo Park made me a mayonaise sandwhich the day I moved in. It's that ghetto.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, I was loving it. The best part was I had known Larson for years, but we always lived so far away from each other. We were crazy good friends, but only really hung out at comedy shows. We got some time to chill. Nice weather too. Nice time of year.

Me and Jay would write and run errands, do separate shows at night, then come back and compare stories. We ate a lot of In and Out hamburgers. It was like fight club, but without all the punching. Jokes. Joke Club.

Jay left the key for me under a peice of slate by the front door. Anybody could have walked in and lived the same life of luxury. But it was a nice neighborhood, so nobody bothered breaking in. They had their own charmed lives to live. I worked a lot on the road a lot that month, but was always back for part of the week. Taped an episode of Comics Unleashed that month too.

Then Jay's roomates came home. I had to be out.

I went and stayed on my friend Ryan's couch which turned out to be tons of fun. We watched The Office (British) and laughed about all kinds of stuff. The only bad thing about this was I didn't have my own room, and Ryan's bathroom was in his bedroom, so I had to coordinate my pisses with his sleep schedule or go outside and piss in the LA river. Next time you're out at a resturant in Southern California, please enjoy your tap water. Whenever I was out there pissing or brushing my teeth, I was always scared I'd run into a real homeless person. Or if a car came by and I was brushing my teeth, I knew it just looked insane to whoever was in the car.

I was on the road a lot. Went to Reno, and on the way back I stayed at my Uncle's house in Marin County. That was nice. I love my Aunt and Uncle, they actually treat me like family. Which sounds stupid cause they are family, but they're crazy hospitable and act like I'm one of their own kids.

I was gonna wear out my welcome there: just stay. I was out of work till the end of June and that was in Northern California. I called my old day job and they told me they had a temporary project for me to work on. I used to vault videotapes and other types of media for a dub house in Santa Monica. I figured I should make some money. Plus I had a show booked at The Improv I should probably go do. That's 8 dollars and fifty cents right there.

At this point I was staying at The Jolly Roger Hotel on Washington and Abbot Kinney. It's 300 bucks a week. Plus 60 dollars tax. They don't tell you about the 60 till you're checkin' in.

So this wasn't a bad hook up. Staying in Venice, working in Santa Monica. The reason I felt bad about it was my parents called me to chat and I could tell my mother was not diggin this lifestyle at all. Plus my brother had quit his job, so her blood pressure was probably through the strateosphere.

That week, my episode of Comics Unleashed aired. I watched myself on TV in my weekly hotel room. The Hollywood Dream is false advertising. Do you pesky kids believe me now?

Then I changed the channel. My ex-girl was on NYPD Blue. I was on location for an episode of Cops.

The next week, I stayed at my friend Randy's. He and his Missus were off on their Honeymoon and I was the best man at the wedding 7 months prior, so bam! Whatta you know? Full Charge is in business one more week.

After that I had a 2 day gig at the La Jolla Comedy Store. I went down a day early and stayed a day late. A million dollar beach front condo. Another dope homeless hook up. Thank you India. Thank you terror. Thank you Mitzi Shore.

Back to LA. Back to Ryan's couch. I had no stand up work for the next 3 and a half weeks, but I had stumbled into one of the most interesting money making scenarios of all time.

See when my old boss hired me back, he hired me on for a temporary project and then got a new job at a huge production company that week, thus creating the most George Costanza situation I've ever been in.

He comes up to me and tells me, "You'll probably be done with this [temporary project] in a week. My last day is Friday. Just keep comin' in until they tell you not to anymore."

(Sung) My baby takes the morning train.

I milked that shit for 2 months. All I did was use their internet and phone to coordinate my own stand up schedule. They were paying me to be my own assistant. Then when I missed a week to do some extra work, the main boss caught wind of it (I never told them I was taking a week off, since I didn't have a boss at my location anymore). I guess somebody told on me, or they called for me when I wasn't there, but when I came back they said I had until my road gig the next week and then the job was over. Fine. It was already longer than I expected, and I was bored out of my mind.

Then when I got back, they asked me to stay permanently. I worked like 8 days in July before they asked me to stop coming in at all and by that time I was well into August. I was on the road so much at that point. But I refused to quit. I wanted to see how long I could keep my free money scenario. I went in usually about noon the days I was in town. Usually left for 2 or 3 hours to go to an audition and then usually left at around 5. Tough life.

Ryan's apartment was tons of fun. I hadn't seen him in a long time, so it was cool to hang out with him and watch him pick fights with his roomate for my entertainment. One time I was going to make some spaghetti at like 2 in the morning and his roomate was like, "I'll make you some good sauce."

He grabs the sauce, pours it in the pot and just starts pouring sugar straight out of the bag. Like a lot. Like a steady stream for a couple of seconds. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississisppi........ I swallowed my own frustration. Ryan looked at me and just started laughing.

Chris gave me the spaghetti and just went in his room. I sat down next to Ryan to eat it. He was laughing in my face. The spaghetti tasted regular. But I couldn't eat it because I couldn't stop thinking about how much sugar was in it. It was store bought spaghetti sauce, so it already had tons of sugar to begin with. It wasn't like he started from scratch.

I put the spaghetti back in the strainer, and washed of the sauce off of the noodles. Ryan has spent the last 6 months busting Chris' balls for this shit. I was just straight embarrassed. I was staying in dude's house. I didn't want to disrespect him in the least.

Anyway, at this point I was starting to feel like a loser. I knew I needed to be responsible for myself. Oh yeah, plus Ryan was having company over. It was time to get a place of my on. Only problem, I didn't have enough for a security deposit anywhere.

This kid everyone calls The Great One, has couch surfed and weekly hoteled it for years, so I asked him where I should stay. He told me about this place called The Cecil Hotel.

He said not to let the people outside sway me, the inside is nice and it only costs $250 a week.

I pulled up to the Cecil Hotel. It's only a couple blocks from skid row. I'd finally made it! I got out my cell phone. I decided immediately I was going back to The Jolly Roger. Those were jolly times and I wanted them back.

The dude on the phone told me it would be 400 something for the week. The price went up. I didn't have that on me. The Cecil was gonna have to do.

I found a parking spot on the other side of the block. This old black dude immediately walked up to my passenger side window. I shook my head "no" meaning I wasn't selling anything, nor did I need anything.

I walked past a bar with an open door. Shit looked rough.

I made it past like 5 homeless people and 3 thugs to get through the front door. Got through the metal detector and the sign in sheet that no one was manning.

The lobby was beautiful. Tall ceilings. Paintings all over the wall. You could tell it was the shit back in 1925. But in 2007, it was just shit.

I asked the lady behind bulletproof glass for a weekly room.

"Do you want a bathroom or no bathroom?"

That's what they ask you when you check in at The Grand Hyatt.

"Bathroom, please." I'm accustomed to shitting in a toilet. Call me pampered, but I hate wearing pampers.

It was 50 bucks extra for your own toilet, but under the circumstances, I'd say it was well worth the money.

I was in room 1219. The key's got a huge red plastic tag with your room number right there on it. It's also got the address. Thanks Cecil. They might as well write: "If you find this key please go to 640 S. Main Street, enter room 1219 with the key provided, and take Matt's other outfit."

I went up the elevator, just hoping not to run into anybody. I got to the 12th floor. Got out. The hallway was beautiful. I gotta tell you, I loved the architecture. It was just worn out.

I got in my room. I immediately rolled up the bedspread and threw it the closet. "Don't come out until you admit you're gay."

Bedspreads in hotels are always filthy, but this thing probably had heroin addict jizz on it. It was a small room, with a sink and a mirror. They had a TV with cable and a bathroom with a shower and toilet. It didn't look like 50 bucks worth, but I bet it would have if I went just one night with the community shower option.

I set my alarm for 7:50am and looked for some change. I had to start feeding the meters at 8:00am. I got to sleep alright. I woke up to the heat of California summer and the madness and the sound of any downtown workday 12 stories below.

I grabbed some change and went downstairs into the street full of businessmen and riff raff. I fed the meter.

On the way back up I was in the elevator with a kid about 25 in a full running suit. He looked exhausted.

"How you doin?" He asked me.

"Good. How you doin?" I asked him back.

"Just getting' by."

Of course. I'm sure anybody there was just getting by. Anybody with enough money for a month's worth of rent was somewhere else. He got off around the 8th floor.

I went back to bed. Got back up, went back downstairs to feed the meter, went back up to my room, took a shower, and then left for work. It was hard to believe I was employed and also working comedy clubs at night. I felt like such a bum, but I was working my ass off.

I went to work, and then went to The Comedy Store. I was scheduled for late spots at The Store all summer, like 12:15-12:30am, which was really like 1:00-1:15am, which at this point, was perfectly fine with me. The less time I spent at "home," the better.

I got back late. Somewhere between 1 and 2am. Walking from the sidewalk to the hotel is the hardest part. You get straight up mobbed by people looking for money. Like you're carrying a large pizza through Sudan, or Bagdad, or Downtown LA.

I mean of course I have money right? I'm in the same neighborhood as you, Jackasses. You're not catching me at the bottom of my driveway in Bel Air. You're bumrushing me at the front door of my weekly hotel.

Some people think if you're white, the government automatically drops a couple grand in your bank account on the daily.

One night I stopped for a beer and some chips on the way home. Salt and vinegar. Bitter times call for bitter snacks.

I parked around the block, put my chips on the roof of my car, then in my backpack. This dude walks up to me all shady. It feels like there's not one light on in the whole city. There's no one else on the street. Just me and dude.

Please don't talk to me.

"Hey man, can I have some change?"

"Nah man."

He's like, "You got any chips?" with attitude, like, "I KNOW you got some chips, Bitch."

Yeah, I got chips. Bought some just in case I ran into anyone on the way home. That way I'd have something to give a stranger for free.

Whatever happened to "please?" This guy had no strategy.

I'm like, "Nah."

He's like, "whatta you a magician?"

No but, my exroomate is. This Spring he made my house disappear.

I get what this guy was tryin' to say. He was sayin' he saw the chips and that he knew I had 'em. But magician? That was a stretch. The guys' gotta have a better line than that. It's just slightly off the mark. A bully should say something more biting.

I pointed down the street. "5-0"

He looked. I took off into the safety of light on the cross street.



Hey should have said, "What're you an escape artist?" I'd have given him that one.

It was a long day and I rested well that night. Nothing helps me fall asleep faster than hearing, "Yo bitch! Yo bitch! Get back here! Get back here, bitch!" 12 stories below. My mother used to sing me a lullabye with similar lyrics.

I always wore shoes on inside. I hated touching the floor with my barefeet. I started washing my hands more than Howard Hughes. I began to notice blood stains on the carpet. I started to wonder if anyone had ever been murdered in the 20 square foot radius that I was sitting in (Definitely some prostitution).

It was bad enough I was down and out, now I had to worry about ghosts. I thought I heard some that night. They were very judgemental too. They were like:

"Yoooouuuu're a loooooooooser."
"Yoouuuuuu wasted your college degreeeeeeeeeeeeee."
"Time to move back in with your pareeeeeeeents."

Haunting.

I was drinking the tap water too. I was starring in my first feature length movie. "Death Wish 6." If karma is anything, I drank my own piss that I deposited into the LA river from when I stayed at Ryan's.

I didn't work during the day that weekend, and I didn't have many shows those 2 days either, so I spent a lot of time at The Cecil going over my jokes, setting up my financial plan (if I can just live off of a jar of peanuts for a month.......), and figuring out when it was time to pull the plug and move back to Maryland.

The lonliest moment was when I could see 2 cute girls and an musician type dude, hanging out in the window across the alley. They were listening to music and talking. It did make me feel a little more normal that not everybody there was a deadbeat. It's not hard to figure they were all probably on hard drugs though. But what do I know? Maybe they were comics too. I doubt it.

The weirdest thing happened to me that Saturday. I parked my car. I noticed outside the bar next to my hotel two big fat black women were being questioned by two different cops. The women were screaming and yelling. I looked both ways before I crossed the street. I moved past the situation thanking Christ I had an education, when Officer Martinez called me over.

I was thinkin', "what the fuck? I didn't see any of this shit go down. You saw me just pull up".

I got up close. The chick nearest me was hysterical and shouting. From what I gathered, the two of 'em got in a fist fight in the bar and when the cops broke it up, they found some weed on one of 'em.

Now what's strange is they were trying to figure out who's pot it was right there on the sidewalk. I'd a thought you take 'em down to the station and sort it out, but apparantly you just let the two drunk bitches scream and yell at each other over their respective cop's shoulder until someone gives in 8 hours later. I imagine there's a lot of hugging involved and declarations of true love. God bless you alcohol. You've done it again.

So the cop goes, "Where you live?" I told him I lived at The Cecil Hotel. He goes:

"Is there a reason you crossed against a red?"

I'm thinkin', "What? What does that have to do with Nell Carter's sisters battling it out on the streets?" I realized he meant I crossed the street when I didn't have the "walk" sign.

I thought for a second.

"Not a good one," I said, not even trying to be a smart Alec. What excuse could there possibly be?

He wrote me a ticket. Dick! Bizarro world was no place for a white person.

He kept asking me to spell my (old) street. Waterloo. "W. A. Water plus loo. Waterloo." I spelled the whole thing out for him, but he kept spelling it wrong with his pen. I couldn't believe a guy too stupid to tie his own shoes had any jurisdiction over me, whatsoever.

"You know it's yo' weed! It ain't mine! it ain't mine!!!!!!!!!"

He handed me the ticket.

"Thank you," I said with a smile so smug you could open 2 cans of tuna fish on the corners of my mouth. That's alright. I didn't care. I was just gonna wipe my ass with 123 dollars and throw it down the toilet anyway. I was out of toilet paper. The Cecil Hotel just lost it's bargain value. We're now up to $428. Should have just stayed at the Jolly Roger. They have HBO and you can cross the street wherever you goddamn well please.

I couldn't wait to get out. Kept thinking someone was going to kill me and then take the 28 dollars that was left on my credit card.

I was about to go on a one-nighter tour in Northern California with Lord Carrett. He told me I could stay with him in San Jose the night before the first date. I checked out on Monday.

"You're leaving a day early?" the woman at the front desk asked.

"I'm leaving 6 days late."

The tour was rough, and I got back a week later, stayed on Ryan's couch until July 1st and then moved into my friend's friend's house in Westchester, dead smack in the center between Venice and the airport, and Marina Del Rey and Inglewood (up to no good). Got my own room: Paying rent like a grown up.

I've been working ever since. Out of town all the time. Working colleges and clubs and making green. It's hard to comprehend what it's like to be 100% broke unless you're living it. Even now I can't reexperience the stress: The impending doom that always looms. No matter what you do you can barely even afford to get yourself to work, and there's nothing you can do to get yourself out of it. Any handout whatsoever feels so pathetic. It was only 5 months ago and it was such a different situation, I can't even remember what it was like.

Special shouts out to all the motherfuckers that helped me when I needed it the most: Matt Hummel, Jay Larson, Ryan Sickler, Chris Norris, Randy and Sissy Bobbitt, Dave Bernier and Amanda Brown, Peter and Cindy Fulchiron, David "Petie" Fulchiron, Eric Edwards, and Tracy Scott.