Tag Archives: Matt Fried

My Ideal Girlfriend(s)

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Let’s get something straight: for the most part, I’ve enjoyed being single in this city. Yes, there have been a few exceptions (don’t become a Jehovah’s Witness to meet women). But – all in all – I like where things are at right now. If I were to meet someone, I would hope it’s one of those things that “just happens”; which is how many of my monogamous and shotgun wedding-participant friends have said their relationships started.

So, this prompts the next question: “If you were to meet her, Matt Fried: what would your ideal girlfriend look like?” That’s an excellent question, imaginary documentary filmmaker who follows me in my head. Such an excellent question, that I’m forced to drop all minor responsibilities (like finding a paycheck) in order to ponder it. After a week, I’ve decided there would be five possibilities, if I could control The Fates; five different archetypes of the modern women with whom I could easily see myself falling in love; if things like time, place, and realistic status tiers were of no factor.

1) The Self-Assured, Guitar-Rocking Indie Girl

Sometimes she carries a tote bag, sometimes she doesn’t. This woman is comfortable in her own skin; knows how to keep it cool; and can – as Rivers Cuomo once bemoaned – actually “shred the cello”, perhaps on some My Bloody Valentine. Her music collection is a fine mix of Sleater-Kinney meets 2Pac meets Katy Perry. She likes flannel, re-reading Anna Karenina, and dated her senior class president in high school. One day, she plans to be a writer, an independent business owner, or may potentially run for the Senate – depending on how my book deal works out. See: Liz Phair, Zooey Deschanel, or Karen Moody in Californication.

2) The Quick-Witted, Comic Book Reading Geek Girl
Behind those glasses is a big sexy geek brain that me, Jamie Hernandez, and Brian Wood are all waiting to comb for pop trivia. This is the girl who works at the record shop and – for some inexplicable reason – has a long-distance relationship with a Shakespearean actor in Berlin. Which is a crime against humanity considering that she a) has actually seen the movie, American Pop, b) loves talking about improv, and c) owns every single Saves The Day album… on vinyl. I think if it hadn’t been for that one night we bumped into one another at a bar, and were both already so “drunk” that we ending up making out in an alleyway, I would’ve already descended back into my old habit of writing emo poetry. See: Rosario Dawson, Lisa Loeb, or ScriptGirl.

3) The Diplomatic, Well-Spoken Professional Girl

While this female shows up in the same genre as “The Geek Girl”, there are a few differences. One: this is the girl who is always reading something off of The New York Times Best-Seller’s Fiction List. Two: she does this because she somehow finds time to actually read the NYT every day, from front to back. Three: this is also the girl who will, one day, save the world. Unless we each happen to be in equally enterprising profession – like law, politics, or Lorne Michaels’ personal assistant – I know I’m pretty much along for the ride. However: she thinks I’m hilarious, her parents like me, and she’s used to date Derek Jeter. And, that means free box seats at Yankee Stadium with the girl who has chosen me over Derek Jeter. See: Michelle Obama.

4) The Reformed, Activist Supermodel
Admittedly, in order to hook-up with this girl, I would first have needed to been Oscar Schindler in a previous life. I’m talking about someone who looks like Megan Fox, and is done dating douchebags. Oh, and she walks formerly abused dogs on Saturday mornings. This is my 100-to-1 long shot because these same women are also looking for an older guy with his shit together. This is the only time in my life where I’d be competing, legitimately, against the Tony Starks of the World. … Wait a minute, I would be fighting against Iron Man? Sweet.  See: Megan Fox, Jennifer Love Hewitt, or Mary Jane Watson from Spider-Man.

5) Former UK Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher

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The Time I Went To Sabbath, and Realized I Wasn’t Jewish

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This is a true story about me, and my regular bouts of acquaintance with the Jewish faith.

I should have known – by the look on the face of the custodian – that I was in over my head. In front of me stood a young Caribbean man, maybe 29 at the oldest, and he could tell that I was either of lapsed faith, or no faith at all. Maybe – just maybe – I was a spy for the Catholics, the Pentecostals, or even worse: Temple Beth Shlomo of Brooklyn Heights. Those bastards had beaten Congregation Beth Elohim of Park Slope in the playoffs of The Inter-Jew Softball League three years straight. It was no secret that the team’s pitching coach served as cantor at the third Sabbath service of every month. Maybe somewhere in the prayers, written in cryptic Hebrew, would be the coach’s conditioning program.

That, of course, wasn’t the case either. What this very savvy custodian was dealing with was a 26 year-old writer who, despite coming from a Jewish family, had never attended a single Sabbath service in his life. My question to this astute gentleman was simple: “Isn’t the main temple supposed to be open for Sabbath service?”

“Yeah. But which faith are you? There’s the service at the main temple. Or, there’s the Reform service here in the annex synagogue.” he replied.

“Uhhhh….”

At that moment, a smile crept over the custodian’s face. Sure, in my khakis and buttoned-up oxford shirt (I left the top and collar button open, so as to show off a little chest fro), I looked like someone right out of Cardozo Law School at Yeshiva University. But this guy saw right through my disguise. In a single moment of cultural ignorance, this mild-mannered custodian exposed the disconnect I have always felt from my Jewish heritage.

“Yeah. I think here is where you want to be.” as he indicated the annex synagogue in front of us.

A few moments later, I sat in a pew, waiting for the service to start. I was only there, because of a writing class. The assignment, “Do something out of my daily routine”. My recent Fridays had been spent working on a new draft of something or other, or trying to find a cheap place to get drunk. Was an hour and a half of religion going to kill me? Especially, a religion that technically doesn’t recognize me as one of their own, despite a recent, minor yearning of mine for them to reconsider? My father was Jewish, my mother Episcopalian-Quaker. I am the seed of their crossbred, heathen affection. In my upbringing, religion was the last thing that ever seemed to matter – be it Christian or Jewish. Sure, it irritated my grandparents that their oldest grandson was “different” from his (at least) 10 other mitzvah’d cousins. Especially since he is the one to carry the Fried name into the 21st Century. But they made their peace with it. Actually, on his deathbed, my grandfather revealed three things to me: 1) Our family was really from Minsk, 2) As the oldest, he shouldered the burden of being the shining example to his six siblings, and 3) Towards the end, he tried very hard to start a non-profit in my name: “The Matthew Fried Foundation For Lost Jewish Boys And Repressed Homosexuals”. The third one was a surprise to my then-girlfriend, who also happened to be in the room. Never the less, the man did love me; and in the four years since his death, I began to want to know more about the faith. Not to eventually convert. It would be about family, about feeling a connection to a past that, more or less, explains why I was here on this planet.

Parents – these are the things your kids will wonder about in their twenties if you let them read Kerouac in grade school.

The service began at 7:00 p.m. By 7:10, I was already lost. You see, I don’t speak a word of Hebrew. And even though every prayer has an English translation, it’s really more of a decorative thing – like an imitation Gucci bag on a tourist. Anyway, I mumbled along through all of the service, throwing in a “ch” and a “feh” to sound authentic. I couldn’t let anyone know that I didn’t know what I was doing, especially not Josh – the well-studied Asian-American lawyer who sat behind me. He was my own age, and in the process of converting to Conservative Judaism. He was a law student at Yale, working for the summer at a corporate law firm. His big summer plans in New York City? Hit up as many different shuls in the five boroughs as possible. In case anyone is keeping score, the custodian and the convert were officially more Jewish than me.

Of course, things got a bit more awkward when I found myself nodding off by the midpoint in the service. Like clockwork, “The Guilt” set in. It’s like I could hear my grandfather screaming at me, “This is why we needed that non-profit!” But then, I had to remind myself that it wasn’t my fault. Outside of being sent to chapel services for three years in private school, I never went to a regular religious service. In a weird way, I sort of felt like Obama after being handed the economy on Day 1 – “Have fun, Mr. Messiah!” And also, wherever that “connection” I am looking for is, I now certainly know it wasn’t in a sub-basement in Brooklyn. I don’t know what my feelings are about God, The Afterlife, or The Phillies repeating as World Champions. As I sat there, listening to the rabbi go on about thanking The Invisible Dad getting for us through another week, I simply thought: “This really isn’t working for me.” As I said, at my core, religion was never a big deal. Perhaps that does mean, upon expiration, my 10 Jewish cousins will join the rest of The Frieds in Heaven while I’m re-incarnated as a squirrel in Bombay. That thought actually doesn’t bother me. What I did realize was: a religion doesn’t change who I am, or who my family is. The famous “How Jewish Are You?” debate will rage on until the end of Time. I can at least know I got a little piece of pie: an inexplicable amount of body hair, a shiksa fetish, and a fondness for early ‘80s hip-hop.

The service concluded at 8:30, and I was more than happy to leave. My first goal: find a slice of pizza, topped with the most un-kosher pepperoni in all of Brooklyn. As I made my way down the pew, Josh extended out his hand to me. His face was beaming with excitement. This was a man who clearly wanted to be of The Chosen People, and couldn’t wait for it to be official. We shook hands and wished each other, “Shabbat Shalom.”

As I quickly paced away from the Congregation, I thought about my 10 Jewish cousins. I thought about how – mitzvah or not – they were all given a choice of how to observe their faith as adults. It hit me that I always had the same choice. By now, all 11 of us had made our decisions, and we were happy. So, not to end this story on any kind of an inappropriate note, but I would like to announce the founding of my new non-profit: The Matthew Fried Foundation For Lost Jewish Boys and Unemployed Post-Grads. A recommended donation starts at $10. All proceeds go towards paying my rent next month.

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Cloverfield vs. Matt Fried vs. Guilty Consciene

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So, I finally saw Cloverfield last night. A little late at a year and a half after its release – I know – but better late than never. Suffice to say, I loved it. There is nothing better than a good, old-fashioned monster movie when you’re trying to relax on a day off. That’s what yesterday was all about; one day where I’m not: answering e-mails, going to the gym, doing comedy, thinking about comedy, going to comedy shows, writing comedy. I wanted to make Wednesday all about comic books, vegging, and monster movies.

Okay, I admit that I achieved 50% of my goal. I broke down and answered some personal e-mails, and marketed the blog for a little bit. Does this officially make me a workaholic? Probably.

In my hosting class, we watched an old Dick Cavett interview with Jack Benny (who at the time was in his late 70s to early 80s). Benny commented that he loved to work; he loved entertaining people. I love to work, too. Mostly because, I work from home. That means I am writing this from my work desk (i.e. bed). My work fills me with a sense of self-worth. It let’s me get just as stressed out as every other New Yorker. However, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s the work, or the stress of work, that gets me up in the morning. The fact that I have a typical schedule – packed with busy work activities and steady progress towards the achievement of a larger goal – makes me feel like a valid working individual. Similarly, if I don’t complete any of these tasks by the end of the day, I feel like I’ve wasted all my time. So that means: I will forego the gym, breakfast, lunch, laundry, vacuuming, showering – all in the name of working. Because without my work, I truly feel as if I’m just another lazy slob.

So, to be precise: yes, I am a workaholic. I’m the worst kind of workaholic. I’m the guy with high productivity and a guilt complex.

How does something like this happen? I guess, when you really care about what you do and you live in NYC, it just does. Ever since I started writing professionally, it seems like not much else matters. Which is why – though I do long for human interaction – I can get through a whole day or two without talking to someone else in person. I do recognize that this is unhealthy. But I can’t seem to help it, either.

For example, I’m writing a screenplay right now. I started writing it in one of my classes. It started as a 16 page treatment, that I then sat down with over Easter weekend and sought to revise as a bullet point plot outline. Just as I was passing the three-quarters mark, the Monday of a show week came up. Historically, the week of my talk show is always busy, and I’m forced to set anything else I have aside. Before I finally got to resting on Wednesday, I had to take care of various loose ends on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. Then, it is AT LAST Wednesday. For the last 11 days, my script has been sitting on my dinner table, unfinished.

But I’m telling myself “You’re resting today.”

But the script needs to be finished.

“You’re resting today.”

But the script –

“You. Are. Resting. Today.”

But –

“…”

Next thing I know, it’s 3:00 in the morning, and I’m pouring over the final details in my script. The sad fact is: I can’t relax until this thing is done. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t let it sit and collect dust. It needs to be done. The script. My work. Sanity be damned.

I’m a workaholic. That’s just the fact of the matter.

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Hank Fried Is Smiling

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For Hank, 1950-1987

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Last night, The Philadelphia Phillies received their 2008 World Series Champion rings – only the second time in franchise history that such an event has ever happened.

My dad, Hank Fried, was a die-hard Phillies fan. He was at the Vet in 1980 (with my mom and grandparents) when Tug McGraw struck out the Kansas City Royals and sealed the Phils first World Series title. After 60 years of waiting, The Phillies were finally World Champions. For my dad, 30 years of agony finally paid off. When the Phils did it again last October (this time in the hands of Brad Lidge and his perfect season), I was in New York City, at the apartment of a girl I was dating. I was from South Jersey, she was from Montgomery County – it was a very momentous for both of us. 28 years later, The City of Brotherly Love was about to enjoy another championship.

It’s very hard for me to take New York sports fans seriously. Actually, to be more specific, it’s hard for me to take New York Yankees fans seriously. Here they sit – whining and moaning about a stupid NINE season drought. The New York Yankees were founded in 1903 and are the owners of 26 World Championships – which roughly calculates to ONE championship every FOUR years over a ONE HUNDRED AND SIX year franchise history. The Phillies have been around since 1883 – that’s ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX years – and just now got their second trophy. My advice to Yankees fans: SUCK IT UP. Not every baseball franchise can have their destiny written in the stars. You guys are extremely lucky; 106 years and you’ve never had to wait.

When I first moved to New York City, I became a Mets fan; I didn’t know about the Mets-Phils rivalry. Let’s be honest: nobody did until Jimmy Rollins opened his big mouth back in 2007. I stuck by The Mets for two seasons because I wanted to have a New York team to root for; even though it betrayed my dad’s memory. Some people experiment with bisexuality to piss off their parents; I experimented with baseball teams. I went to the Mets because they weren’t glorified champions like the Yankees. The Mets were scrappy, raw, and they were lovable losers. Until last season, there wasn’t much of a difference between either franchise. Then, of course, The Miracle happened. Somewhere in Heaven, my dad was laughing. Not completely at my expense, but I know he whispered in my ear, after Lidge’s final pitch, “Hey Matthew, how ’bout them Mets?”

On Halloween day, I traveled to Philly to see the championship parade. When any Philadelphia team wins big, your ass better be there – it could be another 30-60 years before the next one. For the first time in my life, the city was jubilant. People cheered their sports heroes. The Phillie Phanatic could have been the mayor. Forget about the market crashing only a few weeks ago, the possible threat of a McCain/Palin America – The Phillies won, man! It was time to celebrate. Hank would’ve loved every single second of the party.

After the parade, I was supposed to meet my mom and Aunt Bea for lunch. Mom chose to ignore my claim to The Mets. I think she knew how much it would’ve hurt my dad. When I was born, he stocked my room with plush Phanatics. During their ’93 World Series run, my grandfather (a die-hard Eagles fan) begrudgingly took me to Phils games. He was still waiting for The Birds to win The Super Bowl, so he was indifferent to baseball. My mom, however, also sought to get me out to the Vet as much as possible. She knew that once, The Phillies meant something to me as they did to my father.

The parade crowd was massive. Center City was overflowing with at least four million people – three times the city’s population. This caused the citywide wireless network to crash, leaving me with no cell phone signal for two hours. I missed lunch with my mom and Bea. When I finally did get a signal, my train to New York was leaving in an hour.

“You can’t leave!” my mom shrieked over the phone “I have to give you something.”

We met up at the corner of 18th and Market. From her purse, my mom pulled a medium sized t-shirt – “The Philadelphia Phillies, 2008 World Champions”.

“Here, put it on.” she said. There was a tone in her voice and a look in her eyes. As if to say, “All sins are forgiven.”

I slipped the shirt on, put my Phils cap back on my head, and that was the end of the story – I was back. Matt Fried was a Phillies fan. My mom smiled at me.

A few minutes later, I was quickly scarfing down a bacon cheddar burger at the Marathon Grill. My mom sat with me and asked about the girl I was seeing. Meanwhile, Jimmy Rollins was down at Citizens Bank Park, bragging about how The Mets could buy all the Johan Santanas in the world and they still wouldn’t win. I’m not going to lie: I thought it was a douche move on J-Roll’s part. You never read about David slaying Goliath and then calling himself God (that is, unless you read the Woody Allen adaptation). But then again, J-Roll wasn’t The Phillies. The Phillies were The Phillies. And The Phillies were champions.

As I sat on the Acela ride home, I looked back down at my t-shirt. I thought about what it represented, about what I represented by wearing it, about what my dad would’ve said about all of this. In that moment, I looked back out at the Philadelphia skyline. The Frieds have been in Philadelphia almost as long as The Phillies. My father had been gone for 21 years. Like my grandfather, The Frieds leaned towards the Eagles first, the Phils second. Hank Fried was the only exception. With him, it always was and always will be The Phillies. After Hank, who else in the family would continue a tradition of anarchy? This story ended the way it was meant to: Matt Fried saw The Phillies win a World Series. Hank Fried saw The Phillies win a World Series. Matt and Hank are Philadelphia Phillies fan. In Heaven, Hank Fried is smiling.

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Matt Fried, Just Call Me “Cupid”

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The Night I Met My Wife

I never expected to meet my wife on a downtown N Train. It just happened. I was sitting by myself, reading Jon Friedman’s Rejected when she decided to get onto the train, and into my heart, at 14th Street-Union Square. That my heart is big enough for both the present and subjunctive tense should tell you that I have a lot of love to give. I don’t know what about her got my attention – the long brown hair, the snow white complexion, the nerd glasses, the red lips – but I did know, in that moment, this was the woman I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

Here’re three things you need to consider when meeting your soulmate: personality, sense of style, and eye contact. First thing I ever noticed about her was that, after settling in, she pulled a copy of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norell by Susanna Clarke from her bag. This book (in case you don’t know) is about dueling magicians, set in England. So, clearly, she is very into magic. Or, British people. Or, she finished all of Harry Potter and was just trying to keep the buzz. Second, the sense of style – she wore jeans and Chuck Taylors, a rather distinct coat that says “I’m a grown-up, but only on Mondays.”, and one of those scarves that I see all New York women wearing when they turn 24 and decide “Enough is enough, time to get serious.” So, this meant she was either a librarian, or manager of a medium-staffed advertising firm. Either one works for me. Lastly, she never once made eye contact with me, save for quickly peering at the subway ad above me advertising Dr. Zizmor’s Fruit Peel. This meant she was most likely shy, and I don’t blame her: even with a two day old beard and hat hair, I still looked pretty damn desirable.

Then came the most exciting part: sitting in silence as our train crossed over the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn. You live in Brooklyn, too! Crazy! We should get married at the first mixed faith lesbian vegan synagogue we can find! At that point, I was still trying to pretend as if my book was holding my interest, but it wasn’t (though on a side note, you should pick up Rejected, edited by Jon Friedman, as it is a very entertaining read and Jon, I happen to know, is a very nice, gracious person, and could use the money in these Recessive times). As she sat there thumbing through her book, concerning herself with the things that modern-day city women concern themselves with (which I imagine is paying the rent and Oprah), I thought “Our first child will be named Jack. What if it’s twins, like in Star Wars? Okay, Jack and Eve – one after my favorite painter, the other after my mother.” This thought brought me to my next question: “Hey, what is her name anyway?” There’s an unspoken rule that you’re not supposed to pick up women on the subway. Sure, when Robert Redford does it, it’s romantic. But when anybody else does it (save for my friend Neal, who used to appear on a soap opera as “John Handsomepants, Gorgeous Jackass”), it’s creepy. So, because of my crippling social anxieties and need to always be New York Cool, I am forced to guess my future wife’s name.

Margaret. She looks like a Margaret. No wait – Lisa. I haven’t met or talked to a Lisa in a long time. Lisa and Matt Fried. It’s got a nice ring to it.

Our train pulled into Atlantic-Pacific in Brooklyn, and lo and behold, Lisa is getting off of the train with me! More excitement: Lisa is walking across the platform to catch the R Local. She lives near me! It’s written in the stars! But, like all good love stories, there’s always a complication. That complication came in the form of “Cute Girl In A Hat”. She was already standing on the other side of the platform, reading some self-help book about bears in the woods and purpose. Lisa decided to put some distance between us (this was another sign that she was clearly intimidated by me, and was still too shy to want to engage in conversation) and walked a few feet down the platform. “Cute Girl In A Hat” stood between us. Lisa! Wait, no! I want to talk to you, but I can’t! I fear the gods of New York Cool – Lou Reed and Ryan Adams – will judge me harshly! But I love you! Dearly and deeply. I want to wake up next to you every morning, and I want to help you edit the graduate thesis you’re writing in my head! At that point, “Cute Girl In A Hat” looks up at me and smiles. I can’t lie; the thought of hurting Lisa actually crossed my mind. This new girl was, in fact, a very cute girl in a hat. I hadn’t been this torn since my AP English class, senior year of high school, where both Jessica and Andrea (my own Betty and Veronica, minus any actual romantic relationship) sat in the same class with me, and I tortured my soul daily with their existence. But things are different now, dammit! I had to make a choice, because that’s what a man does. As my new President said “We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We are the change we seek.”

So, despite a gaze and a smile, I looked past “Cute Girl In A Hat” and still focused on Lisa, who by then was gazing down the tunnel behind me, waiting for the R train to show up. It finally did. We walked into the same car. I walked to the other side, near the door. Lisa sat across from me and waited patiently for her stop. “Wow,” I thought “so this what being in love is like. It feels great.” The R train pulled up to Union Street and I got off. Lisa decided to stay at her place that night. It was totally understandable – I mean we did just meet. But let me, tell you: I knew. I smiled that night as I watched the R train pull away. It carried on it the woman to whom  I would one day make the pledge “‘Til death do us part.”

You never expect to meet “The One”, but you don’t argue with fate when it happens. You just smile politely, say “Hi.”, and then, you wait until fate chooses for you two to meet again, so that you actually can get her phone number. Or, at least find out if her name actually is “Lisa.”

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25 Random Things About Me

I got tagged for one of these things on Facebook.

1. Here’s the story of how The Matt Fried Hour came into being: I was taking a shower in April 2008 and thought “I could host a talk show.” True story.

2. My childhood heroes were all men I could identify with: Luke Skywalker, Superman, Batman. Men who never knew their fathers and still went on to do extraordinary things. Yes, I know they were fictional.

3. My new hero? President Barack Obama. He makes me believe that a kid with abandonment issues can do anything.

4. I like fantasizing about girls. I guess that’s what drew me towards writing about dating. I like to think I know something about women. Plus, men will pay you money for advice.

5. Turning 25 was weird for me because I never thought about my life past 21. My hair thinned a little bit, my metabolism changed, I learned that playing fast and loose was only going to get me so far in life. All of this was tragic for about three months, then I realized it was only the beginning of something big.

6. How do you deal with somebody who asks to not receive multiple e-mails about your professional life? Easy – write the person back with an apology, take the person off your mailing list, and move on. I have 1,200+ friends on FB alone that I send show invites. Losing somebody always sucks, but you’ve got to keep perspective and be respectful of personal wishes.

7. I have no regrets about the amount of shamelessly plugging I do. There’s only one way to reach people.

8. Discovering improv saved my life. I was sick and tired of being an actor who didn’t get it.

9. My most profound moment in comedy didn’t come until I went to Chicago this past summer. I snuck into Second City and watched the mainstage revue. That theater has at least 200 seats in it and the comedy was very broad and mainstream. But everybody was laughing and having a good time. People were happy. That’s when I thought “Shit, this is what comedy is all about.”

10. My last relationship was two years long and ended over two years ago. I get lonely sometimes, but I like being single.

11. I thought having a girlfriend would fill a void in my life. It did, for a brief period. Then I discovered “Oh man, there’s more to this than sex and love notes.” That’s when it got hard for me.

12. I’ve been busted twice by the cops while I was fooling around in the backseat of my car. Once in high school, again in college. The windows were fogged up, so the cops thought my date and I were getting high.

13. Rejection is hard. I only began to learn this past year that it’s rarely personal.

14. New York City. I can’t see myself living anywhere else… even if everybody here is insane.

15. My grandfather lived and died in Philadelphia, as did my father. The fact that I even made it as far as Brooklyn is a big deal to me.

16. My dad, Hank Fried. He was sweet and cared about people. He also had a lot of problems in this world. But he did the best he could with what he was given. That’s how I want to remember him.

17. I was four years old when Hank died.

18. Dan Kalwaitis, my step-dad, is the closest thing I’ve had to a father. In fact, he is my father. He knows that. I know that. I’m lucky.

19. My mom, Eve T. Fried, gets my sense of humor. I think she wishes I could be less of a smart-ass sometimes. But she’s at almost every single comedy show I’ve ever done. I love you, mom.

20. Coincidentally, she also doesn’t understand why every single woman in New York isn’t throwing herself at me.

21. I also don’t understand why every single woman in New York isn’t throwing herself at me.

22. I haven’t been to a wedding since 1992.

23. I think about raising a family. I wonder if I’ve met the person I’m going to spend the rest of my life with yet. I guess because it’s in my nature to be something of a loner. I think about that stuff, but then I also think “Not now, and not any time in the immediate future.”

24. I believe that simple is always better. In comedy. In art. In life. Anybody who tells you that everything has a hidden meaning is a moron.

25. There’s always a good story to everything. If I don’t know the story, then why should I care?

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