I teach a moviemaking club once a week at a local school in the area. This was one we did for fun together as a class. The shot demanded that the students act a little wild and crazy in the classroom. I was very conflicted. The teacher in me was greatly concerned with the unbridled chaos that happened in the classroom. The filmmaker in me thought it was awesome.

The filmmaker won.

The post Class Time appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

The other day I was sitting at a desk I’ve been working at as of late, when I noticed one of those Magic 8-Ball things. Only this one was yellow and had a smiley face on it. I figured it was some sort of positively-influenced brand of Magic 8-ball, so I thought this would be my chance to get a ridiculously positive response in regard to my fortunes.

I uttered my question quietly so that others in the office wouldn’t hear.

“Magic Smiley-faced 8-Ball…will I ever find love?”

I shook the ball and turned it over to reveal the long awaited answer I’ve been waiting for:

“Have you lost weight?”

…thanks a lot 8-Ball. That was a lot of help.

The post Magic 8-Ball appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

“I’m going in.”

I’m pretty sure these words are always a prelude to being awesome. Just saying them aloud makes you want to go kick some mass and take some names. It makes you want to complete the most daredevil of schemes and the most risky of operations. They turn you into the biggest, baddest, super-spy/action hero ever. Go ahead. Say the words. Give it a try. I’ll wait.

…

See?!?! Now you’re all freaking awesome!!

It kinda reminds me of elementary school and playing Capture the Flag. Because Capture the Flag is no joke man. That’s some serious hardcore stuff. It’s a war zone man. A WAR ZONE.

When I was young and we played capture the flag I was always one of those kids who stayed in his own territory. Y’know, ’cause I wasn’t one to make war. You stay in your country and I’ll stay in mine and we’ll all be cool. No worries man. Take it easy now, we don’t want any trouble. Relax.

But no one ever wants peace in Capture the Flag. Maybe we’re just not a society ready to live without bloodshed. Before you know it, kids from all over the field would cross our borders and start INVADING my country!! They’d try to desecrate our flag and claim our country for their own! Those little Hitlers were relentless! They had to be stopped.

And so being the peacekeeping young soul that I was, it was my job to defend the right. I was somewhat fast as a youth, and I took down many invaders seeking to thwart our country’s noble ambitions of peace. Our jail became full. So many prisoners of war…

Rarely did I seek to thwart the coming invaders by stealing their flag myself.  Seldom did I ever even cross the border into enemy territory. Because I was a good kid. A kind kid. Occasionally, as a last resource in the name of peace I would have no other choice and yes–it would have to be done. But I had seen too many fall for such madness. Too much bloodshed. Too much mindless aggression. I didn’t seek to make their country my own. I had no desire for world domination or tyrannical rule. [At least not then.] I simply wanted to live out my P.E. time in peace. So I only defended my home from enemy invaders. Those crazy Nazi terrorists… When will you people learn that war is not a game?! IT’S NOT A GAME!!!!

But as the war grew on, my brothers and sisters in arms would fall. Our numbers on both sides would be depleted. Our jails full with the scattered bodies of casualties of war.

Only then would I even consider to cross into enemy lands, and usually only on a mission to save my fallen brethren. Operation: Jailbreak, as it came to be known, was among my specialties.

Carefully I’d wait for the opportune moment. Studying my opponents. I only have one shot at this, I would tell myself. One life to give, for the sake of my country. There could be no mistake. My mission was too great. I had to succeed. It had to be perfect. And when the moment came, I’d be ready. And I would strike.

“I’m going in.”

I’d take off like a whirlwind, my enemies suddenly taken by surprise that this seemingly peaceful citizen of the West would ever even consider an attack on their soils. They were never ready for my cunning strike. My sudden burst of speed and aggression. I’d fly through their lands, weaving and dodging until I reached the deepest depths of enemy territory. Carefully I’d avoid the clutches of the sinister jail guard, until finally reaching my captive comrades and freeing them from the satanic prisoner camps of evil.

A cheer would erupt from our lands. With jubilation and great valor we would all return safely as war heroes. Citizens of a free and noble country.

Such was my cause. In the name of peace.

The post “I’m Going In” appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

Those who know me well may have noticed that I avoid using foul language. As a youth I had a standing arrangement with my best friends who knew that if they swore in my presence they were to receive a painful slug to the arm. Obviously that proved to be of benefit to them as they all became intelligent and upstanding citizens who went on to receive fancy business degrees with fancy jobs and fancy pensions. (We’ll just ignore the fact that I have none of those.)

I imagine that some may have formed their own conclusions as to why I don’t use bad words. Maybe Matt is extra religious or something. Maybe he’s too intelligent and too eloquent in his skills of communication to resort to lazy and undignified coarse language. Maybe he doesn’t really get out much and he actually doesn’t KNOW any bad words…

Well the truth of the matter is, you’re all wrong. And now, I will tell you exactly why I do not use bad words.

It all began (as many of my stories do) back in the days of elementary school. I was in the 3rd grade, and was a clever lad, if I do say so myself.

One day, my teacher Mrs. Radwin approached me during one of the math sections of class. We had been studying long division, and apparently I had been long-dividing like a champ, because Mrs. Radwin desired that I might help one of the students in the class who was struggling with this particular math challenge. Flattered that the teacher recognized my supreme intellect, I obliged.

Mrs. Radwin called a young girl by the name of Jenny Jennings over to my desk and requested that the two of us go outside to one of the picnic benches, where I could impart my great knowledge of all things long-division.

Jenny Jennings was one of the cuter girls in the 3rd grade. She was especially fond of using the swing set at recess and achieved great heights there due to her excellent pumping form. But what she was really known for was her absolute, borderline obsessive, boy-crazy puppy love romance for a boy named Robert. Oh how she loved Robert. And she made sure everyone knew it.

Every conversation it seemed, would center around Robert. If you were a girl she would sit and tell who how wonderful Robert was. How smart he was. How he could do the mile run so fast. And if you were a boy she would sit and ask you for your advice on how to get Robert to like her. Never had I seen such devotion in a 3rd grader.

But today, something about Jenny was different. The two of us sat at the picnic bench and I began to teach her how to do long division. Something was distracting her I could tell, but I was under orders to help her in her math skills, so I continued to press on, convinced that she would soon excel in the subject and that it would all be because of my incredible teaching skills.

Finally in the middle of my discourse, Jenny interrupted me. It seemed she had something to tell me, and nothing–not even long division was going to prevent her from saying it.

“Matthew…” she started. (Yes, I went by Matthew back then.) “I have to tell you something.”

“Um…ok?” I responded…bracing for another lovesick monologue about Robert and her undying love for him.

“I’m kind of scared to tell you,” she continued.

“That’s alright,” I said trying to offer my support. “You can tell me.”

“Well…” she began again shyly. “You see…I…um…”

“Yes?”

“I like you Matthew.”

“Oh.”

“I mean I really like you. I LIKE like you.”

“Oh! You do? Me? I thought you liked Robert?”

“I used to. But now I like you.”

“Oh.” I sat there on the picnic bench taking it all in.

“I like you because you’re so nice to everyone. And you don’t say bad words. You know…like ‘#@*%’ and stuff.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I like you because you’re nice. And you don’t say bad words like ‘#@*%’ and stuff.”

I had never heard that particular word Jenny mentioned, but in this context it seemed it was some sort of cuss word I was unfamiliar with.

“Well yeah,” I said, surprised that simply avoiding swear words had won me the affections of this young girl. “I try not to say bad words.”

“Well that’s why I like you. You’re not like all those other boys.”

“Oh. Well, thank you,” I responded.

For a moment we sat there in silence. Jenny sat there and stared at me with a smile on her face, and those big eyes looking right at me. I remember admiring her for her courage in telling me her feelings.

“Well…” I resumed, “about long division…”

I would soon discover that the word Jenny had cited as a “bad word” was in fact not just any bad word, but the mother of all bad words in the English language. I had never heard it before, and it wasn’t something uttered on our young school playground, but in my young 3rd grade mind I filed it away as a word not to use.

I have no idea what ever happened to Jenny Jennings. But since that moment and throughout the years I have tried to avoid harsh language and cuss words. And while it probably ended any chance I ever had at being a successful actor, sailor, or reality TV chef,  I can’t say that it is a decision I have ever regretted.

So that’s the real reason I don’t say bad words. Not out of any moral decree. Not out of any desire to sound smart or cultured. Not because I want to come off like some saint, and not even because my parents taught me not to use them. But because somewhere back in the 3rd grade is a little girl who liked me because I was nice and didn’t swear. I don’t want to let her down.

Even after all these years I can still see Jenny twist her fingers anxiously as she told me how she felt about me:

“I like you because you’re nice. And you don’t say bad words like ‘#@*%’ and stuff.”

It’s been decades since the 3rd grade. I’ve never said the word once.

The post Why I Don’t Say Bad Words appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

Once upon a time, I used poor judgement. I know that may come as a shock to many of you on account of my excellent and spotless record over the years -cough- but I must confess, I have not always been the exemplary pillar of valor that I am today.

It all went down in the 3rd grade. 3rd grade was a weird year you see. The teacher to which I had been assigned was on maternity leave. As a result, the teaching responsibilities for all of the 3rd grade classes were divided up between a host of different teachers. When it finally became obvious to everyone that the absent teacher was enjoying her maternity leave far more than originally anticipated and would NOT be returning to her teaching duties at any point during the school year, the district finally got their act together and hired an additional teacher. The result, was Miss Brooks.

Miss Brooks was young. Likely the youngest teacher at our elementary school. Her figure was thin and attractive which set her apart from all of the other elementary school teachers. She wore her hair in a pony tail that whipped around whenever she turned her head. In truth, Miss Brooks was kind of hot. I desperately wanted her to like me.

But instead, she hated my guts.

Before I plead my case, let me first explain that as an elementary school student, I was a really good kid. I’m not being clever or sarcastic this time. I WAS a REALLY good kid. I was quiet and good-natured. I never got in trouble. I got along with most everyone. Boys liked me because I knew a lot about baseball. Girls liked me because I could draw and didn’t say bad words. I always raised my hand. I was a good kid. I can provide character witnesses if need be.

But for reasons that still baffle me to this day, Miss Brooks hated my guts. She began her tenure by instructing some of the classes on Fridays. Every week I tried so very hard to please this beautiful and attractive women. And yet, she always treated me with harshness. Her responses to my questions were cold. Her patience continually wore thin with me. My trademark Matt Taylor charm was rendered useless on her. More than once I found her muttering unkind epithets about me under her breath. I couldn’t understand it. I was a good kid! I KNEW I was a good kid! Teachers always liked me! How could this teacher not like me?? I felt like she had somehow gotten the wrong idea about me and I was continuously trying to prove to her the kind of student that I was.

But no matter how hard I tried, this young and vivacious teacher persisted to hate me. I suppose now that I’m older I shouldn’t be surprised that a beautiful and attractive women was capable of treating someone with such disdain for no particular reason, but as a young 3rd grader I had not as of yet experienced these things and it was the source of much anxiety in my young and troubled 3rd grade life.

And then one dark and fateful day, there was the incident…and any remaining hope of moving into the graces of this young and vibrant teacher were forever destroyed.

On that particular Friday, our school had been invited to attend the local theater to see a play. These field trips were always welcome distractions. We would board the school buses and make our way across our little town and watch whatever performance was being displayed for our amusement.

As we piled into the noisy theater I took a seat next to a fellow classmate and we anxiously awaited the beginning of the performance. But before the house lights dimmed, Miss Brooks walked by. With her evil and twisted glare she looked at me and the classmate to my right.

“You must remove your hats inside the theater,” she exclaimed.

Politely, we protested. No other teacher had ever made us remove our baseball caps in the theater before. We had been attending these plays for 3 years! She had been at the school for nothing more than a few weeks!

She insisted. We pointed to the literally COUNTLESS other boys in the theater who were wearing baseball caps. To make matters perfectly clear, this was immediately following the year in which BOTH of the professional baseball teams in our area went to the World Series. As a result, literally EVERY boy came to school wearing a baseball cap.

But she didn’t care about what all the other kids were wearing. We would remove our hats, or she would remove them for us.

Begrudgingly, we removed our beloved baseball caps and set them on our laps. Proudly, Miss Brooks marched down the aisle like some kind of baseball hating hat-nazi and sat at the other side of the theater.

Let me pause here for just a moment to reiterate something that should already be clear to you. 3rd grade boys wear baseball caps. They wear them everyday. And a boy’s baseball cap is his identity. It’s like his soul. You don’t ask a boy to remove his soul.

And so like clockwork, as the play was about to begin the theater lights dimmed. And when the room was dark, each and every one of us took our baseball caps from off our laps, and placed them proudly upon our heads once more. It was not an act of defiance. It was an act of honor.

When the play ended the lights came on. Miss Brooks immediately walked in my direction. We had removed our hats once the lights had come back on, but it was to no avail. Miss Brooks snatched the hats from our grasp.

“I saw you put your hats back on as soon as it was dark! You’ll have to get these from me later!”

Words do not express the horror of the situation. Even now, the very thought of that abrasive woman stealing my beloved Giants hat away from me causes me to tremble. It was truly traumatizing. I should probably seek therapy.

For the rest of the day I had to endure a hat-less day of misery and hat-hair. My identity was missing. My soul was lost.

I waited anxiously through the course of the day. I thought for sure she would eventually return my hat to me. But the end of the day arrived, and my head remained bare. I saw no other recourse, but do timidly approach Miss Brooks after school and ask for my hat.

Terrified, I arrived at the classroom. She opened the door, her cold, icy stare piercing my poor child-like frame. With all the 3rd-grade humility I could muster I asked for my hat to be restored.

Blatantly, the woman refused.

I pleaded for her to see reason.

With a sort of twisted sense of satisfaction glowing deep within those burning, vengeful eyes, she refused again. My hat would remain in her custody over the entire weekend, and perhaps longer, until she saw fit.

The thought of being without my hat for a whole weekend or perhaps longer sent me into a frenzy. Frantically, I searched my mind for a way to restore my beloved baseball cap. I saw no answers. I saw no appeal to reason. There were no amount of pleasantries or charm that would melt this woman’s complete and utter hatred for me. It was at this darkest moment, when I was left completely without options, that I did something that I am not especially proud of. I hope that you will not judge me too harshly considering the nature of these circumstances.

As she stared at me with all of her bitter spite and animosity, I realized there was only one thing I could do…

I admit it. I pretended to cry.

Never before had I managed to command a well of tears so quickly and in such abundance. The waterworks poured over my face with tears streaming from my eyes like torrential rain. I knew what I was doing was wrong. But this was the only answer to her injustice. My hat—my identity, my very soul, was on the line.

Panicked, Miss Brooks ran into the classroom. In a sort of exasperated and reluctant huff, she thrust my beloved hat into my hands with a mixture of anger and fear.

“Fine. Here’s your hat.”

I still remember the moment in which I held my baseball cap in my arms once more. It seemed to emanate love and admiration for my sacrifice in its behalf. I felt as if I had been reunited with a long lost friend. I was myself again. I was whole.

Tearfully, I offered the sincerest “thank you” to Miss Brooks that I could. But in truth, it was all an act. No longer was I trying to seek this woman’s approval. Inside I was mocking her. Laughing that she had believed my performance. What an actor I must be! When at last I had my hat, I turned from her classroom and placed it proudly on my head. I wiped the crocodile tears from my face and literally laughed to myself as I walked away, a devious grin stretching across my face.

“Hahaha!” I laughed under my breath, so that she wouldn’t hear as I walked proudly across campus. “Stupid fool.”

I plead guilty your honor. I throw myself upon the mercy of the court.

The post Poor Judgement appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

Not too long ago I was a finalist for a very fancy “dream job” for Major League Baseball. They wanted someone who could write well, who would be entertaining on camera, and who lives for baseball. Needless to say, I was a prime candidate even before they received my awesome video. They ended up flying me to New York City for an interview/audition. It was a thrilling experience to be seriously considered from among what they said was over 100,000 applicants.

When they first told me that they would be flying me over to their studios, they randomly asked if I played guitar.

“Um…yeah, actually I do,” I said.

“Bring your guitar,” came the response. “Maybe you can write a baseball song. Because people who like baseball, like songs about baseball.”

And so I sat down and wrote a veeeeeeeery simple 3-chord song about baseball, and the true story of what it was like for me growing up and playing little league.

In the end, I was not selected for the position, which would have required me to move to New York City, and cease writing and doing comic strips until November (yes, it was actually in the contract, I would have had to take a hiatus). So those of you love reading my work every week should probably be happy that I’m still on the West coast, and self employed.

Anyway, my silly little baseball song went over so well with MLB executives, I thought I would animate a cartoon to the music for you, the Raccoon Toons faithful.

And so here it is! The song is called, “This Is Baseball.”

Help a guy out and share it with all your baseball and cartoon loving friends. And for those who asked, the song has been submitted to the iTunes store and will be available there for download shortly.

Hope you enjoy it, it was fun to make.

And for the record, I absolutely nailed my interview/audition. Nailed it.

The post This Is Baseball appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

Ok, I broke the 4th wall. I’m sorry. But I had good reason.

When I was a kid I read possibly every book there is to read about Walt Disney. Once in jr. high school, I even chose Walt Disney for my autobiography book report. The book, was in fact, not an autobiography, and I didn’t actually read it because I forgot about the assignment and the in-class essay until the night before. I ended up just writing the essay using only the knowledge I’d acquired about Walt Disney over the years without ever actually having read this particular autobiography…which again, wasn’t really an autobiography at all. Where I was required to use quotations I quoted or paraphrased actual quotes that I had previously committed to memory.

When all was said and done, I earned a “B+” on this paper on a book that was not only invalid for the assignment, but also one that I had never actually read. It was ironically, the highest grade I ever received from that particular English teacher, who for some inexplicable reason, just really hated my guts.

But I digress. My point is, I have always really loved and admired Walt Disney. In the 4th grade I did a report on him and dressed up in a suit and fake mustache. My report included posters with drawings of Mickey Mouse that I had made to illustrate the difference between how he looked in the first Mickey Mouse cartoon in 1928 (which by the way was Plane Crazy, and NOT Steamboat Willie thank you very much).

I think I let the fake mustache get to me, because it wasn’t long afterwards that I decided I really wanted to BE Walt Disney. That was my dream. I had great ambitions as a 4th grader. It was shortly after this that I created my very own cartoon characters. You know them here, as Michael and Wendy Raccoon.

It was my plan to do as Walt did, and create animated cartoons that surely the world would embrace as they did Mickey. Shortly thereafter, I would branch my newfound and lucrative stardom into my own animation studio just as Disney did. Then I would continue to build until my work was all over the movies and TV stations on Saturday mornings (because back then all the good cartoons were on Saturday mornings). Then, to complete my raging success, I would build my own theme park somewhere in California. There my raccoon characters would greet all of their adoring fans that would come from all over the world just to see them.

Somewhere along the lines I grew up a little, and realized that no one would ever repeat the talent, the entrepreneurship, and the lucky timing with technology to equal Walt Disney. So naturally I decided that I would just have to get Disney to distribute my cartoons, so that my characters could greet their adoring fans at Disneyland. It all seemed like a good plan.

And so here today, I have this little comic strip. The dream of a 10 year old boy. Forgive me if indulge him ever so slightly. The truth is, the older I get, the more I think I had it right in the 4th grade.

The post Can I Have Your Autograph? appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

It is no secret that I have a thing for Disney princesses. While most of these movies were probably designed to appeal to young girls with father issues, inspiring them to be true to themselves, forge their own path and make friends with animals, I embraced these movies for an entirely different reason: the women. I love those Disney princesses.

Each of them have a special place in my heart. I often like to think about which one of them would make an ideal wife. For example:

Princess Aurora (that’s Sleeping beauty for you non-princess aficionados) has that sweet innocence about her. Although to be fair, it’s probably pretty easy to be innocent when you live out in the forest with no one around but some bickering fairies and a lot of woodland creatures.

What about Cinderella? Man…that girl can cook, clean, sew…she does it all. That’s like, every man’s dream right there! Although…it’s a little weird that someone who is so OCD about cleanliness is fine with so many mice living in the house… I guess she never heard of the Black Plague…

How about Ariel, the little mermaid? I do like redheads… She seems a little young though…kind of immature… And talk about father issues! Also, I have to question the intelligence of someone who goes around pawning her voice off to sea witches, and thinks that’s a good idea…

Jasmine? No thanks. That girl is way too indignant. Way too spoiled. I mean, here her father is going to all kinds of trouble to find her a husband she might like. He brings in all these big shots, all these princes from all over. He’s giving his daughter every chance to find a decent guy, and all she does is complain about it. “Oh no! Another handsome rich guy likes me!! Woe is me!!” Can you imagine being married to her? “Take out the trash! By royal decree! I don’t want your Valentine’s presents! I am not some prize to be won! Don’t touch me, go jump off the balcony!” Nothing but trouble that girl. Even if she does have a great figure.

And then there’s Belle. Ahhh Belle…my perfect beauty. She really is the full package. She’s absolutely gorgeous, but she’s bright and educated too. She’s got a killer voice. She likes to read. She’s been taking care of her father for years so she’s great around the house. But she’s playful and fun and has a great arm, as evidenced by a snowball fight at the castle, so she could probably play on my softball team! I think I could probably even put her at third base. I mean, yeah the ball is a little more lively there, but I bet she could handle it… Ok…right about now is the point when I need to remind myself that I’m talking about an animated cartoon character. -sigh-

I suppose that the downside of any of these princesses is that they all went and got married to some charming future king of unknown region. Man…if only I could have been born a prince…

The post Prince Charming appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

I’m about to tell you a story. It’s a throwing up story, so you are officially forewarned.

Once a group of high school students including myself were going up to the hills to camp. On the way, we decided to stop at a popular restaurant that I may or may not have worked at at some point in my life. Y’know, one of those places that has one of those catchy jingles about baby back ribs (which oddly enough, I cannot find an original video of anywhere in internet land). I, being the well-prepared forward thinker that I am, already ate before we went to the restaurant, so I opted to order just a soda. Then I noticed the price. $1.29?!?! For a soda?!?!  For a substance I knew to be no more than mere water and sugar?!?! Outrage!!! It was then that my moral indignation took over, and I decided it was my obligation as an American, to get my money’s worth of soda.

The restaurant, while charging a ludicrous amount for sugar-water, offered free refills. You can see where this is going…

17 glasses of soda later, we were in the car driving up into the mountains. On a curvy, winding road. 17 sodas…windy road… Yeah. I started feeling sick about 30 minutes up the mountain. I rolled down the window to get some air. It was a good thing I did. The next thing I knew, there was a cascade of Sprite flowing from the back seat, out the window, and onto the road behind us. The other car in our caravan stared with utter amazement.

I scurried out of the car and stood by the side of the road where liquid soda spewed from my innards like a waterfall down the mountain. I stood for a good 5 minutes straight, blown away by how my stomach was behaving like a water pump, shooting soda out of my mouth in a constant horizontal stream. Honestly, it was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever been a witness to.

When it was all over, I returned to the car and my newfound celebrity status, and we continued to our camp. I was however…disappointed that I had at this point, wasted $1.29.

The post So Magical appeared first on Raccoon Toons.

One of my absolute favorite things to do when riding roller coasters is to figure out where the camera is and try to get a good picture. It all started many, many, many, years ago when this guy (who would later become my brother in law), and I rode some roller coaster by the beach. The line was really short, and since we fear no roller coaster we went again and again. We figured out where the camera was and made sure to plan something bizarre for the photo.

From that moment on, I loved finding the camera and trying to do something in that fraction of a second that we would later find amusing. If you haven’t already done so, I highly recommend it. The possibilities are endless, really. You can scream really loud, or pretend to be ridiculously scared, you can take a phone call, or just do the most awkward and somewhat disturbing thing you can think of at a moment’s notice. The point is to have fun with it, and laugh about it later.

Have a good roller coaster you’re especially proud of? E-mail it on over to me. I’d love a good laugh.

The post Say Cheese appeared first on Raccoon Toons.