Who? Matt is from Philadelphia, though he started performing in New York while he was a writer on Stump The Schwab. He went on to write for The Late Show with David Letterman.
Matt's style is subtle and hyperarticualte. Watch the first joke on his clip because it is one of my favorite jokes by a currently working comic. It's a long build then the punchline gets a long, long laugh. David Roher essentially invented sabermetrics for comedy in this post earlier in comedy week about Louis CK vs. Dane Cook. CK delivers a bunch of little jokes before his big punchline. Matt works in a different direction, as the punchline is usually followed by a lot of tags.
From where would you recognize Matt? Matt has been on Comedy Central's Premium Blend. And also as Justin Bieber's Jewish uncle.
Where can I see more? Matt runs a monthly comedy show at The Hollywood Improv Comedy Lab the first Sunday of every month. You can follow him on Twitter @MattGoldich.
Matt's Attempt At A Sporty Comedy Week Submission:
Elin Nordegren, Peter Falk and Me: Who are Three People that Won't Be Watching the PGA Championship This Weekend?
I'm 31 years old but I feel closer to 51—and the sad part is, I like it! I much prefer waking up early so I can drink coffee to staying out late so I can drink booze. (I can barely make it past 10 p.m. most nights—which is not a great quality in a stand-up comedian, and probably why you haven't heard of me.) My reading of sports blogs has dwindled to just this one, yet I somehow always manage to finish the complete print Sunday New York Times, despite living in Los Angeles, and a crippling fear of accidentally eating a sandwich with inky fingers. And I much prefer a double date with my wife to a night out with the guys—mostly because there are no games on TV after 7:30 here, and guys don't actually enjoy talking to each other.
Given my premature aging, you'd think it would be just about time for me to become a huge golf fanatic. You don't have to be a genius to realize that golf is for the elderly. Just watch the commercials. The average viewer of this weekend's PGA Championship is currently on his second putter, third life insurance policy, and fourth penis rejuvenation pill.
And yet—it's the other way around. My love affair with golf has taken the total opposite trajectory. In high school, my friend Scott and I played our local pitch-and-putt course every weekend until early in our senior year, when we finally got up the courage to try the par-3. (We each needed to rent a full bag of clubs, leading the cashier to ask, "Are you sure you're not looking for the pitch-and-putt?")
I spent the next five years hooked, as did most of my drives. Let me be clear: I was addicted to golf, but I was terrible at it, as I am at any sport involving either hand-eye coordination, speed, or conditioning. (I am awful at basketball, football and baseball, so-so at ping-pong and bowling, and will absolutely murder you at Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit.)
After college I moved to New York, without my clubs, and so I didn't play at all except for hitting the Chelsea Piers driving range approximately once every Iraq war. But I stayed a huge golf fan for several years after that. I spent many a Saturday or Sunday watching the majors (and sometimes the minors) and remember lots of great moments – Toms laying up to beat Mickelson, Ben Curtis's unlikely win at the British, Phil breaking through at Augusta, and, of course, lots of Tiger runaways. But then, two things happened:
I started to occasionally date girls and eventually marry one. A good woman will be very understanding about not being able to miss Eagles games, Phillies playoff games, and the last five minutes of any possible March Madness upset. Spending every gorgeous summer weekend afternoon indoors is a tougher sell.
I sorta kinda maybe started to realized that hey, watching golf is kinda boring. It's slow and quiet. There's a lot of downtime during the action. The action really isn't ‘action', per se. So you hang your hat on the "personalities" of the golfers. Like Tiger, whose personality is "black, really good at golf, and an asshole." Or Phil, whose personality is "left-handed, chubby, not as good at golf as Tiger, and not as much of an asshole." It's a lot more fun to talk about this stuff than it is to actually witness it.
And so, in my early-onset old age, I appear to have given up golf. And the timing couldn't have been better. The last six major championships have been won by four non-descript foreigners and two mildly descript foreigners. What am I missing out on?
I did hit up the par-3 course in Studio City a few weeks ago with a friend, my first action on the course in years. I quickly settled into my old habits—spraying grounders all over the place while correctly analyzing exactly what was wrong with my playing partner's swing. (He wasn't keeping his head down. I noticed this at the range, because I was watching him as my club struck my ball.) But the thrill was gone, for the most part. I'm over golf. And I probably won't be watching the PGA this weekend. Or if I do, it will be just for the commercials. I really need a new investment adviser.
(P.S. In exchange for allowing me to write this essay, comedy editor Luke Cunningham asked if he could publish the exclusive footage I shot at yesterday's Phillies-Dodgers game of two hot babes in Chooch jerseys using Vin Scully's microphone as a sex toy. Unfortunately, his end of the deal was negotiated by Astros GM Ed Wade, so all you actually got was this video of me doing stand-up.)