It's just like eating the eyeball out of a deer's face

Every holiday season brings with it the warm, simmering sense of dread and panic here at the office (sometimes, I call it the "Orifice," and we all sit around and laugh a little. Then we put the mailman's clothes back on and send him on his sobbing way, covered in our seed). A lot of this peace on hell and ill will toward men stems from the fact that every yuletide reminds my boss that he is very much old and alone. This realization manifests itself in him as irrational anger and seething cruelty (i.e. creating a load of unnecessary "busy work" to keep slaves tethered to their desks, making little to no sense, smelling like Jackie Joyner Kersee's camel toe...I suppose that one is independent of the season). Needless to say, there are a lot of tense situations all centered around trying to remedy perfectly innocuous problems with a sad, delusional old lunatic. Regardless of how much this time of year makes me want to choke him to death with the plastic needles from a singing, animatronic Christmas tree, a good deal of the holiday loathing is dissipated when a certain coworker invariably brings in a giant batch of buckeyes.



Buckeyes are spectacular in that not only are they very simple (chocolate and peanut butter), but apparently, I can eat three hundred of them due to the fact that they are delicious. They are so unbelievably good that, while I was sucking down my fifteenth of the day, a coworker mentioned that he doesn't like peanut butter with his chocolate and I almost punched him in his fucking skull. You don't like peanut butter with your chocolate? Go fuck yourself, Commie. If you don't like buckeyes, you don't like life. What kind of international terrorist doesn't like to welcome, into his mouth hole, a delightful ball of slightly fleshy chocobutter? STOP PRETENDING YOU DON'T LIKE THEM.

And speaking of stopping things, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE STOP THIS LAWYER BEHIND ME FROM SINGING? I used to love Garageband. I thought to myself, what a wonderful world we live in, that there exists a music production program that makes creating li'l ditties fun and accessible. However beautiful that idea is, in the hands of someone whose voice is reminiscent of a platypus getting raped up its bill, it gets a little tiresome after the eighth or ninth warbling rendition of Galileo, king of night vision, king of insight. All I think about doing is cracking her Macbook over her head WWE-style. "He hit her with a laptop, Mean Gene!"

In closing, Merry Christmas one and everyone. I'm not sure if the rules of capitalization were thoroughly employed there, but you get my drift. GET OFF MY BACK!

Three Vignettes

I. As I began to finally regain feeling in my right hand, the blood gingerly creeping back into its veins after having made a hasty retreat from the arctic winter air, I could finally focus my attention on the ridiculous page of copy sitting on my lap.

"WRITER: CONVERSATIONAL IN TONE"

Conversational? When has anyone in the history of humankind ever attempted an at least half-serious conversation entirely in disclaimers?

"You want another cigarette, Fred? Oh, and by the way, cigarettes increase your chances of getting cancer."

"Hey, sorry I shot my load directly into your eyeball. Use as directed."

"I'd love to go to the Dane Cook concert! Possible side effects include nausea and intense hemorrhaging."

It was at this moment in my amusing myself that the attractive woman next to me asked, "excuse me, how long have you been waiting?"

"Oh, I don't know. About ten minutes. Then again, I have a poor sense of time and space."

The weak smile that had had the audacity to appear on my lips met her blank stare with the awkwardness of two incestuous brothers offering each other hot dogs at the family reunion.

"Do you want mustard...?"

"No...no thanks..."

It reminds me why I don't often attempt to be charming and personable. And that reminds me:

II. Coming home from Germany, I caused a slight stir at the airport with my hastily packaged bundle of souvenirs. However one is supposed to prepare his trinkets, I neglected to follow suit, opting instead for the crisp, studied packing technique of a half-asleep stroke victim. As a punishment, British Airways condemned my gifts to a giant plastic bag with a zipper and floral print, the colors of which would make a gay man slap that cock right out of his mouth and never pick another one up again. This bag looked like it belonged on the floor next to P.T. Barnum while he was getting blown by a clown. Needless to say, it was designed to be ostentatious so that the Heathrow's finest could keep an eye on you.

Imagine my surprise when, waiting in the Customs line, a fellow strolled up behind me with the same bag. I was so pleased that I wasn't the only fool to be burdened with this bulky atrocity that I eschewed my normal paranoid contempt for a genuine stab at solidarity. After turning around and lifting the hideous bag in the air, I said with a laughing smirk:

"Huh?"

The gentleman, who turned out to be German, stared into my eyes with piercing condescension and let out a curt, "yeah." After assessing that I was no better than a pile of shit, ol' Happy German Face made a big deal of ignoring me.

This, in short, is why I dislike small talk.

III. Two short conversations with my increasingly senile boss:

HIM: Cammy told me about the Xonax boxes that need to be integrated into that shipment we're sending out.

ME: Xonax? No, you're talking about that other collection we looked at. Not Xonax.

HIM: (as if this whole mistake came from me) Xonax?! Of course not!

**********

HIM: I identified those boxes and put them in order. I'm going to ask Timmy to do the labels.

ME: So Timmy's doing the labels?

HIM: No. No no no. And someone needs to put those boxes in order.

ME: I pray that you will die in your sleep.

Wasn't Bob Ross also an Afro-American?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Michael Richards lost his fucking mind and peppered the audience, Dick Cheney style, with a smattering of racial slurs. What he's paying for, here, is that his comments weren't funny. There was clearly no joke behind them, and that makes an audience, especially one with actual "tinted Americans" in it, a li'l nervous. But what offends me in the clip above is Seinfeld telling Letterman's audience to stop laughing because "it isn't funny." Isn't it? It's not funny when an entertainer, whose career has been ironically crippled by its own success, has a total breakdown and starts doing David Duke impressions only to nervously apologize for them days later (the apology, of course, getting more laughs than Michael Richards' actual routine ever would)? Isn't Larry David working on a script like this every day? Weren't the awkward repercussions from one's personal quirks, fears, and problems the building blocks for your show, Jerry? COME ON! Won't somebody at least give me the small comfort in having the only good aspect of this ridiculously oversensitive society be the depths to which its celebrities must sink in order to gain forgiveness? Can't I at least have that? Can't I be allowed to laugh at Michael Richards for screwing up so badly that he is reduced to a quivering, teary-eyed baby in front of a national audience?

In unrelated news:

As I stood in Pennsylvania Station awaiting my train to Philadelphia on Saturday, I watched as an obese woman plodded down the corridor. As she passed, a single dime sprung from her fingers and fell to the marble floor with a distant tinkle (ooh! Urine from beyond the grave!). She hunched forward slightly, heaving her weighty skull over the precipice of her bosom just enough to get a decent view of the fallen coin. In less than a second, she determined, with a sort of strange weary familiarity, that the dime was lost forever. As she wandered off, I could only imagine a small fortune scattered about the streets and sidewalks of New York that this woman had somewhat begrudgingly donated because she was simply unable to reclaim it.

05:13:24

Net time: 05:05:46

Next year: Toronto

Dirty knees, look at these

Dear Cat Fancy,

Attached please find the best thing I have ever seen. It has long been said that the Japanese sense of humor is peculiar. Most of it involves terrifying pedestrians, kissing massive insects, and screaming women (note: I have no concept of parallel structure. In fact, how'd I even make that joke?). I have long resisted the Japanese, or indeed, all Asian comic sensibilities (I was All Asian in high school) as they seemed bizarre and macabre. Fortunately, the steady string of Will Ferrell vehicles has made me doubt American comic tastes and seek out and embrace alternative comedy sources.

It's not that I don't like the King of Queens. Far from it. Situation comedies have been my passion since I was a smallish child watching I Love Lucy reruns in an abandoned warehouse (I was an orphan/dock worker). It's just that if I have to endure yet another clumsy plot line about the ignorant husband unwittingly dismantling a time-honored family event only to learn deep values that actually bring his family closer together, I'm afraid I will be forced to hunt Kevin James down and feast on his succulent flesh. Do you see? Do you see how it's easier to laugh at the heart-wrenching yelps of frightened Japanese preteens than to admit that Jerry Stiller is funny?

In closing, I love your magazine. It's written purrfectly (feel free to use that). Maybe you can do an article about the woman in the picture I've sent. Maybe I can find more interesting cat torture pics and I can write for you! It could be a column about cats in comedy! Called That's My Pussy! Or Pussy Chuckle! Or Elbow Deep in a Pile of Pussy! Think about it.

Pussy,
G. Gordon Liddy

It's a corpse on the course, of course

The very fact that I haven't been able to train for Sunday's marathon in Philadelphia has built itself in my head as a somewhat comical truth which has gone on to become a more successful and grand joke, a joke that has no doubt bought a house in the Hamptons and brand new Porsche with which to torment me (its license plate would read: "ULLNVRFNSH"). To be sure, it has gone beyond the sobering reality of "running a marathon" and has achieved the loftier ponderousness of "wrestling a pack of wolves" or "fellating a demi-god." Still, the sheer lunacy of participating in a marathon (I am loathe to use the word "competing" as I'm concerned that such a lie would make even liars blush) with very little training does have a certain charming appeal. Kind of like watching a fat man ascend stairs. You're pulling for him, but you know that he'll be ducking into the fifteenth floor elevator as soon as he becomes disgusted with his own chunky heaving.

This time around, however, I am orchestrating a bigger support team, lead by my family who will be holding signs reading "Don't Die" and "You can do it, Grabe!" and maybe even "I'm glad it's not just cancer that runs in our family." Ho Ho Ho. I hope to equip them with various elixirs, tonics, and spells to sustain me at key elements of the race, like, you know, the whole thing. I also hope that I can keep from sharting out bloody stool and vomit (that's right, ass vomit) like some hairy, red-cheeked version of Uta Pippig.

As race day approaches, I find myself torn between nervousness and almost irrational hysteria. But, I know that, on the day, I will try to have fun. As I bleed. From my eyes and skin.

That shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly

Wow

Every once in awhile, a bit comes along you wish you'd written. This is one of those bits (forgive me if you've already seen this, but I don't have cable, so, you know, frankly you can go pound sand):

Oddly fitting...

You are Alison Parker, alcoholic tragedy case in heels. It's not that you're dramatic, right? It's that your life is. Work, love, the apartment ... you can't keep it all together. Know that while you can't control everything, you are responsible for own life.

Which Melrose Place Character Are You?

Thanks, Anju.

I forgot to pay homage to Gorto!

About 35 seconds into this video, two things happen. The first is the featured Corgi puppy channeling Satan. The second is your face falling off from how adorable it all is.



This is the kind of video serial killers watch while they're filleting a sobbing pre-teen.

Isn't there an "o" in country?

Run Ronny Run was a terrible movie. However, there were nuggets of delight beneath that slow-moving tragedy.

How precious

Mayor Michael "Poohbear" Bloomberg's youngest daughter, Georgina likes to give back, according to the "Talk of the Town" section in this week's New Yorker. She performs this selfless philanthropy by recycling used equestrian gear. It seems that the desire to mount a horse and participate in show jumping isn't exclusive to wealthy cumguzzlers hell bent on divvying up our country into larger slices for themselves. In fact, according to Ms. Bloomberg, that's a gross stereotype and should be lopped in with other bigoted presumptions (i.e. blacks dominate at sports, brown people are dangerous, people who drive SUVs should be ritually executed). She says in the article "It's a stereotype. Yes, there are a lot of people who are wealthy in our sport; we understand that. But I have a couple of friends who have no money. They work at a barn to be able to get a riding lesson."

By "a couple of friends" do you mean "the help?" By "work at a barn" do you mean "work at your barn?" Just want to clarify. After all, we're talking about a self-made woman here:

"My father pays for the horses, and he pays for school, but other than that I support myself."

Other than that you support yourself? Supporting oneself does not include delivering encouraging monologues into a mirror. Seriously, I don't mind someone having money. I hear it's really nice. However, please don't try to bullshit the proletariat and, I suppose, yourself with this nauseating attempt to relate. It's embarrassing. She purports to support herself by show jumping. SHOW JUMPING!!!! SHOW FUCKING JUMPING!!!! AW, COME ON!

I would like to wrap this post up in a grand, concise way, but I have a thing. Night all.

Hitler was here

The Germans are a people of inclusion. For instance, if one is enjoying his third liter of fresh beer at the Hofbrauhaus, he can witness the impromptu and unified chanting of drunken German citizens and somehow get caught up in it himself. Soon, the whole place is aroar, and you've formed a National Socialist Party. See? It's easy.

My trip to Germany had many highlights, but I'll hold back on the details until the photos are up.

I come three time champwoon

I received an email from west coast friend and former roommate Matt Stubbs suggesting perhaps The Iron Sheik might want to run for office. Why, that's not a bad idea, I thought, as I finished snorting blow off of a hooker's asscheeks. Then, I considered Matt's idea. I support The Sheik in 2008. Some of his issues:

- that jabroni Brian Blair
- being a PROFESSIONAL
- making sure people are lucky for to Hacksaw come save you
- fighting the moral degradation brought on by Michael Jordan
- make that: Michael Jackson
- education

I'm all for it. And if North Korea has the audacity to attack the U.S. with nuclear weapons, President T.I. Sheik will put the missiles in the Camel Clutch, break their backs, make them humble, for God, and Jesus, and Mr. McMahon.

Holy fucking shit! Kittens!

My family's two cats totally had fucking kittens. These kittens, who are adorable, are almost too much to fucking handle. Here's a picture of my mother putting the screws to one of these manipulative bastards, asking the tough questions like "why are you so fucking cute, you fuck?" and "what's to stop me from squeezing your little fucking head until it pops, you're so cute, you prick?"



Here's a series of pictures where the infant cats are purposely being woefully precious. What they're saying here is "love us." It's offensive.









I'm pushing for the white one to be called "Tank" because it refuses to be deterred by anything. ANYTHING. It's "aunt" cat beats the shit out of it, but it plods forward with steely determination like the Terminator. Kittens are just too fucking much and need to be stopped.

So, I guess the Iron Shiek's a Yankee fan

I accompanied D.W. Jones & friends to an early evening ballgame at Yankee Stadium on Saturday. This would be Davey Jones, but not this blog's Davey Jones, who has become a sort of strange, mythological beast who is nine feet tall and fourteen axe handles wide and can split logs with his laserface (song coming soon!). Seeing Davey always warms my heart. Seeing the Yankees play warms my heart too. So, I was feeling pretty warm all over. Then, Davey raped me.

I've grown to really enjoy sitting in the bleachers. Not just because it's cheap, but because it's filled with raving lunatics hellbent on giving at least one poor dope a hard time. That poor dope, in this instance, was a particularly brazen dullard who had the sheer audacity to don a Mets cap in the midst of drunken barbarians (one can't drink in the Yankee Stadium bleachers these days, but there are plenty of bars across the street to aid in maintaining a steady stream of brash, blind fandom). Needless to say, the Mets fan was burned alive at the stake, as an impressive and concerted chant swelled from the bubbling mass: "YOU ARE GAY! YOU ARE GAY! YOU ARE GAY!" Indeed. Continuing on this theme, the crowd gleefully screamed a bastardized version of the song YMCA, which was now reworded to ask the simple question "Why are you gay?" In addition to this, one particularly clever Neanderthal bellowed "I saw you suckin' a D! I! C! K!" The fact that these chants were not only boisterously performed but premeditated was astonishing. These guys actually set time aside to deliberately construct an alternate version of an already woefully gay song just so they had fodder for potential hapless enemies trying to mix in with their own. Of course, their banter didn't stop there. They also attacked the Red Sox, anyone snooty enough to sit in a box seat, Iraqis, Communists, eugenics, and the fact that Rocky Balboa hadn't come out sooner. These are my people. Angry. Ignorant. Abusive. New York sports fans.

How the mighty have fallen

Despite however much I've curbed my drinking habits, it's difficult to convince people who've witnessed my heavier days (is this a tampon commercial?) that I'm not a bumbling idiot. And even without alcohol, I'm seemingly incapable of grace and tact, so it is no surprise that Saturday night's lovely karaoke party in honor of Kath's 30th birthday saw yours truly make an utter ass out of himself on exactly three occasions. The first, having somehow magically channeled Rob Halford, was when I took the microphone and did my version of Judas Priest's "Breakin' the Law," which, admittedly, went over pretty well. However, my "Bill Cosby sings Superfreak" was ill received as it was evident that I wasn't so much entertaining as I was a sad, silly little man. It was then brought to someone's attention that I do a raptor impersonation. I hadn't done the raptor in some time, as was made abundantly clear when I assumed the raptor position and chased a small gaggle of Japanese girls down the street who (impossibly!) turned abruptly, causing me to reel back, lose my balance, and fall to the concrete. As I fell to the unforgiving platform of cold, cold shame, I couldn't help but think, "I deserve this" and "this is my life" before my shoulder collided rather clumsily with destiny. I stared up into the heavens, a shooting star flitting by as if to mock me, when my field of vision was consumed by a massive, hulk of a figure. Apparently, a giant Samoan man had taken an interest in my plight and was now aggressively offering his assistance.

"Yo, man, you ok?"

(waving my arm) "Just leave me here..."

"Yo, get up, muthafucka."

So now, Samoan Joe wanted to beat me up because I didn't want his help. Only in New York will you find someone who WILL slap you silly if you won't succumb to their generosity. It's like violently raping an old woman because "the bitch wouldn't let me help her cross the street, nigga!" I believe it was new roommate Rachel's poignant comment that "he wanted to kick you BECAUSE you were down." Too true. Too true.

I have been informed that I shall be honored tonight, along with other performers and contributors, by my friend Jonathan's production company, who are celebrating ten years of service to the film & theatre community. Now, I'm not entirely certain what there is to honor, unless they're giving out awards celebrating "Angriest Performance by a Whining Douchebag." If that's the case, then I'm a shoo-in. Or a Shaolin. Or a racist.

Aw, little cutie wants to say somethin' cute

During my recent trip to Philadelphia, my ears were gang raped by some of the most vile and aggressive language I'd ever heard in a public transportation station (except, of course, for that time a black gentleman sat at the door between cars on the uptown 1 train and painfully described, in colorful detail, how he was going to kill me and my white children. We made out a little, but I still feel kind of violated). I'm well aware that Philly's filled with thuggish louts, but the sheer cartoonishness of their banter raised the experience into a whole other realm of wonder and delight. A sample:

"Jimmy, you fuckin' gotta put the fuckin' fuck into the fuckin' machine or you're not fuckin' gonna get no fuckin' place."

"I fuckin' know that, fuckin' Tommy, fuckin' you and your fuckin' mouth."

"Fuck."

This went on for several minutes, fading into the background like the ever present drone of the natives' drums in an island picture. FUCK fuck fuck fuck FUCK fuck fuck fuck FUCK fuck fuck fuck. It was oddly soothing. Well, soothing if you enjoy being rocked to sleep by the world's most obscene chicken. FUCK fuck fuck fuck FUCK fuck fuck fuck.

My favorite rap lyric of the week? Glad you asked. Missy Elliott's line on the Biggie Duets album:

"Don't you know I'm the ultimate, to get this nookie be fortunate, just like tasting pussy with pork in it."

You simply cannot beat that. CAN. NOT. BEAT. THAT. Every cunnilingus enthusiast out there knows that the troops have been clamoring for the great taste of pork for YEARS. Finally, someone has the guts to say something about it. Maybe something will get done, at long last. Might I suggest something in the way of the Pork/Pussy Reform Act? PORK + PUSSY 2007! Actually, I think that's Hillary Clinton's slogan for her '08 campaign.

Cross swords, more like

Honestly, there is absolutely nothing that brings me joy in life. I have no hobbies. I have no interests. I don't like people. Most of life's fruit is rotten long before it's been displayed in the case, its musty pulp decaying under the hot lamps of my scrutiny. Except for crossword puzzles. Crosswords are the one facet of my existence with which I am fully satisfied. What jolly mental romp does Mr. Shortz have for me today, pray tell? What? The answer for "Chair person, perhaps" is "lion tamer?!" YOU SCAMP! Every answer to every clue fills me with a sort of smug delight, as I stroke my penis under my desk, aroused by my faux-brilliance.

On a seemingly unrelated note, actors are loud, arrogant fuckfaces. I say this because as I sat waiting to go into an audition, I noticed a fellow across from me doing the New York Times puzzle. This alone is no big deal. Plenty of actors do the crossword. However, this audition was for a "funny" spot, and the standard issue rogues gallery began piling in, one by one, each an obnoxious canker sore filled with woefully longwinded tales of improvisation and one-man-shows. They all know each other, because they all secretly hate each other. So, it was no surprise that when one sinister cad sat next to the fellow doing the crossword, he very loudly began to help. The two of them sat there, unaware that they were ruining the only thing to which I look forward, and systematically called out each answer. Every. Single. Answer. What's more, they announced, with the sort of ironic nonchalance that makes the studio audience go "ooooooooh," the trick of the puzzle. Now, the trick of the puzzle, especially Wednesday through Friday, is the central theme, the thoughtful gimmick that makes the entire puzzle worthwhile. Nothing is more satisfying than solving the trick of the puzzle. It's figuring out the murder mystery before the detective does. It's nailing a preteen black hooker and not getting AIDS. It's getting the last oreo cookie before your roommate does because you've murdered him in his sleep with a rolled up copy of Woman's Day. But all that...all that was taken away from me. I'm pretty sure I'll never know what it's like to be raped (maybe you can make that happen, Davey), but this as close as I'll get. Violated. Betrayed. My words were crossed against my will.

U.N. whose army?

The pretentious motorcade rolling by the office building this week can only mean that it's U.N. time again. In order to accommodate the world's most powerful men (I believe they have all been awarded "World's Greatest Grandpa" mugs), 42nd street has been tri-sected to form a very special "center lane" because, you know, God forbid Kofi Annan has to sit in traffic like the rest of us. Fuck these people. Let them take the bus.

Despite how loathsome people in power tend to be, occasionally a gem pops out of their sweaty, over-indulged mouths: Hugo Chavez called President Bush the Devil. Now, I think Hugo Chavez may have played third base for the Yankees in the mid-90's, but he raises a valid but ultimately trite point. Yeah, yeah, yeah. The Bush administration's evil. We get it. Can we all please give up this ridiculous idea that somehow it matters? It makes no difference if it's George W. Bush or TV's lovable Conrad Bain sitting in the White House, the machinations of democracy are an illusion. You can rock the vote, march on Washington, make a macaroni peace sign and annoy people all day in Union Square, but it will never make a difference. What Chavez wants to say is that America is evil. And we are. Evil and rich. Which brings me to Kentucky.



A Comair flight went down in Kentucky and killed 49 people. Conan O'Brien did a sketch for the Emmys involving a plane crash which aired not long after the accident, prompting NBC affiliate WLEX to express outrage and offer an immediate apology (both on behalf of NBC and against it. I'm sure provincial governors in the Roman empire did a lot of this sort of thing too). This country is going out of its fucking mind with the apologizing bullshit. And the plane crash was an ancillary part of the sketch. I can see if Conan O'Brien lit a model plane on fire and threw it into a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and screamed "THAT'S YOU FLIGHT 5191! THAT'S WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE!" But he didn't. So who are we apologizing to? The families of the 49 people who died? What are the chances they were watching the Emmys mere hours after their loved ones collided with a planet? What are the chances they watch the Emmys period? Apologizing for a completely unrelated comedy sketch is an empty gesture, a senseless public relations move. And any Americans audacious enough to be offended by something like that are frauds and cads. What's offensive is the speed with which these groveling apologies come these days. Our people are preemptively sorry and they stink.

"These days?" What am I, 95?

More hot pics...

Or maybe it should be "more hott pix." I just want to increase my hit count on Google. Speaking of which, have you been to Google Fight yet? It's the idea Mike Solomon should have had. In fact, I'm sure he DID have the idea, but dismissed it as being too sophomoric...then he made the interactive pile of shit game. This is why everyone loves Mike and why certain negroes up in Washington Heights will miss him (cue scene where I pour a forty on his still-fresh grave...rest in peez).

Anyway, here's the sexiest food item I could find in upstate New York since I eyed that package of "Cap'n Crunch's Fellatio Nuggets" after a particularly crippling bender:



Apparently, Brenda loves this idea (for the record, Brenda has no recollection of posing for this photo):



Nor this one, but I'd like to post it because it's pretty great:



Finally, here's a candid photo of Mr. Sanzone and Ms. Cunningham. They were discussing the horror that is Pirates of the Caribbean 2.

It begins...

I know I should've done this about eight years ago, but today marked my first mailing. Filled with childish wonder and energy, I stuffed each lil' envelope with an eye toward hope (and a legit agent). I was instructed to be concise, so each headshot was accompanied with a Polaroid depicting me begging for representation kneeling in a pool of my own urine. Let's hope good taste prevails.



While scrolling through my phone pictures looking for the above hot pic, I realized I had a few photos I neglected to post. Here's one of Johnny Sushiface:



And another of Lil' Stacy Crotchface (I couldn't believe that Daddy wouldn't shift a little so as not to attract attention):

Gnome Chomsky

The devilish imp of a lawyer who works just behind the partition wall in my office has grown into a major irritant. I've written about her and her transgressions before: her mild catfood aroma, her tactless criticism hamfistedly disguised as wit, her running a side-business out of her office ever since I started working here (about four years), not to mention her thunderous farts that shake one's very soul. I felt she deserved my wrath, at the time, because I found on my computer a folder containing a document constructed, by her, for the express purpose of forming a harassment case against my boss, a case in which I was implicated as an annoyance because of all the "noise" I make (the irony being that her eruptions of flatulence sound like whale calls and she likes to sing along to her music in an ear-shattering falsetto that ACTUALLY INDUCES NAUSEA...I believe I likened it once to a cat being strangled, but it's more like a cat being gang raped behind a giant, industrial-sized exhaust fan). She deserved it then, and she deserves it now, largely because somehow, in this dying office, she's managed to manufacture a "project" for herself that involves continuously crossing in front of the threshold of my office door every five minutes. AND, she overtly stares into my office, which would be a completely innocuous act if I didn't know her. Because I know her, I know she's keeping track of what I'm doing, despite the fact that she has been an obsolete fixture in this place for at least two years and RUNS A TOTALLY UNRELATED BUSINESS OUT OF THIS OFFICE.

I'm no psychologist, but I believe her problem is called "projection." She's constantly taking tactless stabs at my wrinkled clothing (I like to sleep), yet, her wardrobe consists mainly of sweatclothes and awful sundresses. She does nothing, yet has the audacity to make a snide comment to one of the many extra temps, saying "Oh, so you're actually WORKING today?" She asks me to turn my radio down, then sings her shrill, crooning tunes at the top of her lungs (a warbled fit of random notes emitting from her mouth the other day, upon further listening, turned out to be "Galileo" by the Indigo Girls...but I had to REALLY work at that conclusion). I feel like I'm under surveillance and it stinks.

On the lighter side, everything else is great. I've decided that I'm going to take a lil' vacation to Munich. German sausage all around!

How fortunate...

Because Verizon is a giant, automatous whore, I needed to deliver my Motorola RAZR (I like to pronounce it "Rah-zir") to my nearest Verizon Wireless store in order to update my firmware (ooh!) and re-enable my phone to transfer files between the handset and my computer (Verizon conveniently "turned this function off" in the factory installed software when I originally got the phone. After irate customers threatened to, I dunno, get, uh, good and angry I guess(?), Verizon decided not to crush its patrons with a single, networky blow and allow them to have their petty file transferring, flabbergasted that not everyone was killing themselves to sign up for VCAST).

And so, I had to give up my lil' guy to get serviced (also, my phone too...ho ho!). Now, as soon as I got my RAHZIR, I customized it right away by adorning it with a banner which reads: "YOUR FORTUNE: YOU WILL DIE OF AIDS" You know, so anyone who opened my phone could have a nice, good-natured chuckle. As silly as I am and can be, I plum forgot to take this banner down before servicing my device, and the Verizon Tech Support man was not pleased:

HIM: That's not a very nice fortune.

ME: (frustrated and annoyed) What?

HIM: (genuinely hurt) I said, that's not a very nice fortune.

ME: (realizing what he was talking about) Oh! Oh...I'm...I'm sorry. I should've taken that...I should be careful who I show that to.

And silence for the rest of my visit. Nice and awkward, the way God intended.

Content content content

A little vintage FODJ to stick in your ear:



Ahhhh. To be young again.

?

The Washington Post ran this picture of Ms. Spears and then continued with a pretty catty article about her appearance. In regards to her breasts, hard-hitting, and I'm sure infallible, reporter Robin Givhan writes:

"Pregnancy cleavage can be a beautiful development, but serving up one's bosom like melons at a picnic is aggressively self-indulgent, enormously distracting and, unless you're auditioning for a spread in Penthouse, unnecessarily vulgar."

Is it? You know what's vulgar to me? The fact that there's a Pulitzer Prize for Criticism and Robin Givhan won it for 2006. Don't get me wrong, I don't like defending celebrities at all. Part of their job is existing perpetually in the public eye. But demonizing their appearance under some ridiculous air of moral superiority is absurd, especially when it maintains the Puritanical superstition in this backwards country that the female body is to be cocooned in a fucking burlap sack. Pregnant or not, the female figure is certainly nothing to be ashamed or afraid of, regardless of what it's clothed in. And pretending that fashion reporting carries any sociological weight, enough to warrant a coveted Pulitzer, is more dangerous to me than the influence of the trailer park lifestyle Britney Spears unconsciously champions.

The funny thing is that I started this post wanting to tear Spears apart. I kind of feel sorry for her. And Robin Givhan is from Detroit, a city which, from recent personal experience, can be considered the worst fucking city in the entire fifty state union. How's that for hard-hitting criticism, Suzy Pulitzer?

Krrish!

Last night, I had the most fun I've had at the movies since Paul Reubens and I went to see Newsies clad in only a tub of popcorn and a dream.

I don't think I've ever watched an entire Bollywood film. Ever. Maybe they were being projected on a wall at some hipster's summer BBQ and Scoffing Party, but, for the most part, the little I know about Bollywood is limited to a vague recollection of fantastical love stories and unnecessary dancing. However, when Mike "Where does he FIND this shit?" Sanzone informed me that a Bollywood epic about a superhero was playing as part of the New York Asian Film Festival, I couldn't resist. I love superheroes. And let me just say, I hope Superman Returns is HALF as good as what I saw last night: the heartwarming tale of Indian superhero Krrish.

And speaking of the Man of Steel, it can be argued that Krrish is basically an Indian Superman (insert a bunch of trite impersonations of Apu saying Superman-oriented things...like, "Look up the sky! I am thinking very much that it is a bird!") and the two characters share a lot of particulars in the origin department. Krrish's father is an unfortunate retard (just like Marlon Brando!) who was rendered so after a car accident. This is where it gets delightfully crazy: an alien called Jadoo descends to Earth and endows Krrish's retarded dad with superhuman strength and intelligence for absolutely no reason (that the audience is aware of, anyway - this movie is a sequel). Krrish's father then becomes world-renowned for his exceptionality and is hired, exploited, and killed by some sinister business man (Lex Luthor?). Meanwhile, Krrish (Krishna) is born and his mother dies of grief because of the loss of her husband. Krrish's grandmother, believably played in heavy makeup by a thirty year old, decides to shelter her grandson when she discovers he shares the same superhuman powers as his father. They move to the woods, where he grows up to be the hottest Indian man ever. A group of tourists from Singapore (including a man who can only be described as the Indian Squiggy) visit the woods near where Krrish lives and, of course, Krrish falls desperately in love with the hottest Indian girl ever. Then, there's dancing and singing about love. Then, the girl returns to Singapore, where she loses her job, but decides to feign a love for Krrish in order to exploit his powers and get her job back (she works in television...no shit?). Then, there's dancing and singing about love. Meanwhile, the evil business man is plotting to restart the project Krrish's dead father and he began 20 years before: a computer that can SEE THE FUTURE. Then, Krrish and his fake girlfriend go to the circus, where he becomes a superhero (I'll leave out the details, because it's funnier that way). Then, there's dancing and singing about love. Then, Krrish becomes a national hero. Then, he finds out his girlfriend was using him (but, secretly, she has REALLY fallen in love with him, but he won't buy it because of the initial deception). Then, just as he's about to return to the woods and live out the rest of his life in loveless solitude, there's dancing and singing about love. Actually, he's stopped at the gate by an Indian John Goodman and told that his father is still alive (!). So, he has to return to the super computer that sees the future and save the day, but not before performing in some of the most absurd and wonderful fight sequences ever. Then, there's dancing and singing about love.

Seriously, this movie was three hours long and I never became bored. It was so terrifically funny, insane, beautiful, goofy, endearing, touching, entertaining, and ridiculous at once, that you couldn't help but like it. And the "superhero" stuff was done the way superhero stuff should be done: right out of a comic book and awesome. Sadly, last night was the only showing of Krrish in the festival, but it is, right now, the biggest movie in India, so I'm sure it'll be available on DVD in the near future. At least rent it. It's a superhero. With singing. And dancing. About love!

Also, the actor who plays Krrish (Hrithik Roshan) has two thumbs on his right hand that are fused together. Somehow, this is not disgusting.

Yeah? Well, you like the Prince of Wales' ex-wife AFTER the crash

While breezily joining SAG today, one of the membership employees and I had a lil' chuckle when she sportingly asked me:

"How's your wife Tori doing?"

"I'm sorry?" I replied, a bewilderedly good-natured grin yawning across my face like I've just been told, simultaneously, that I just won a million dollars, but, somehow, the money is INSIDE OF ME.

"Your wife...Tori Spelling?"

I don't know who Tori Spelling is married to. Largely, because I don't give a shit, but, mostly, because I can't even remember the names of the spouses of close friends and relatives, let alone the quasi-celebrity husband of some over-privileged dildo. And yet, despite my obvious embarrassed confusion, she continued:

"You look just like him. You must get that a lot."

"I don't."

"You will."

And with that last bit of ominous prophecy, she was gone; back to the computer where she will no doubt suck the remainder of an extra's meager funds for his crowd scene in Spider-Man 3. Again, because I don't know what Tori Spelling's husband looks like, I was terrified. As I've written before, one of my biggest pet peeves is the average American's sometimes desperate urge to tell you which celebrity you resemble most. For some, like my girlfriend, this is NOT a problem. She gets Angelina Jolie, arguably the current front-runner for most attractive female celebrity on the planet. Not long ago, I got Colin Hanks, who, up until his part in King Kong, I assumed had some sort of mild Downs Syndrome. It is this very unpredictability in the sport of star-equating that makes me extremely nervous. HOWEVER, the good news is that Tori Spelling's husband ain't half bad. His name is Dean McDermott, and he looks like this:



I'm just kidding, he looks like this:


So, if I must be billed as a younger "Dean McDermott," so be it. I'd like to hear his Cosby impression, but I'm sure he's very talented.

Speaking of talented, an old friend of mine, James "I'm not hispanic" Roday has got himself his own show on the USA Network called Psych. I say we support this show come Hell or high water. I, personally, don't have cable. So, you know...it's up to you. Besides, this man used to touch my balls...that's...that's something special:

If you haven't seen it already...

Some prize-winning journalism:


What other possible slip-ups could've been made?

"But, he's a child-pornographer...I mean, he's autistic."

"But, he's into Cleveland Steamers...I mean, he has cancer of the hair."

"But, he's a salad tosser...I mean, he tosses salads...I mean he's dead."

Any others?

Who IS that hot Irishman?

Brendastic has posted about her recent exploits, some of which include video of yours truly jumping into an ice cold river with as much grace as Michael J. Fox performing an emergency abortion.

Too soon?

Marathon: CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL

That made only Jeff, Jordan, and I laugh, but it was worth it and I'd do it again if I had to. I've re-issued FODJ episode 2 with absolutely NO extra features or adjustments of any kind. The only upside is that these newly uploaded gems no longer have that ear-shattering RIZZA tag at the end of them, or whatever it was called (Snoop Dogg's podcasting host). That feed again, if you haven't entered it into your iTunes, is:

http://switchpod.com/users/fodj/feed.xml

"Gabe," you may be asking yourself, "what the fuck do I want with old shows? Haven't you been writing anything else?" The answer is, "Go fuck yourself, grandad. You ain't the boss o' me." And other cliches. But the reality is that I'm doing more reading than writing right now in preparation for two things: 1) the one man show I'm working on, and 2) the play I want to do in August. This weekend, I shall be reading The Philadelphia Story and a few plays by Eric Overmyer. Right now, I'm leaning toward keeping it Philly strong. Overmyer seems like it'd be a chore just making sense of everything.

AND, SPEAKING OF PHILADELPHIA. I've signed up for the Philadelphia Marathon. I've been remiss in my running for the past four years (2002 New York Marathon being my last), so I've joined the ranks of the New York Road Runners Club again. My first race since 2002 ended in my doing 4.8 miles in 40 minutes, a pace of 8:20, which is my fastest official time on record. This could be a result of my excitement for being involved again, or it could be that I'm not drinking my body weight in scotch the night before anymore. "The night before anymore..." Oof.

So, come November 19, I'll be announcing projected earnings for this network...(ha ha ha...a Frank Hackett moment). Come November 19, feel free to join me on a no doubt chilly late autumn morning in Philadelphia. Here's the route:



And anybody who suggests we take a picture next to the Rocky statue gets punched in the tits.

Rebuilding the empire

Because my old host died like an AIDS joke at a gay pride parade, I'm reissuing the first seven episodes of FODJ through the new site, Switchpod. If you've already subscribed to the feed, there is no need to take action, the episodes will come to you (in fact, if you already have the episode saved, you can tell the reader to stop downloading it so you don't have doubles! How delightfully complicated!). If you haven't subscribed yet, pop this RSS feed URL into your favorite RSS reader (iTunes or iPodder will do):

http://switchpod.com/users/fodj/feed.xml

That's it. As I re-upload all of the classic bits your parents loved, you'll laugh at such timeless moments as:

1. Gabe wrestles a man dressed as an interpretation of "hope"
2. Gabe invents a "Democracy Gun"
3. Gabe steps into the Quantum Leap Accelerator...and vanishes
4. Gabe gets pissed off about all the fucking assholes, he means, like, what gives?
5. Gabe fits his entire head inside a Japanese condom

...and many more.

Best Weekend Ever

A Portrait of a Young Man in Repose:


This Memorial Day weekend may go down as my favorite ever. And, like most great things in my life, I forgot to take pictures. But, I'd rather it be that way, of course. There was enough food to sate Katherine McPhee's ass, Kelsey Grammar dressed as a good luck troll, and plenty of bad impersonations of Canadian-Indian comedian Russell Peters. There was even a trip to the ol' swimmin' hole, which featured water so unbelievably cold that I can comfortably say that my balls are floating around somewhere in upstate New York. I believe Brenda's blog will feature some video of the riverside event, including my jumping girlishly into the frigid water from a seemingly benign rockface, but, seriously you guys, once you get up there, it's totally higher than you think and pretty daunting (shut up, it was). However frightening, it was observed that jumping into the river was the "in" thing to do, relieving stress and worry through loss of motor functions and hypothermia. It should be said that the second time I jumped in, the granola bar in my pants (read: penis) I'd forgotten about made a break for the Canadian border. I hunted the errant snack down in the water and returned it to the warm shore, where I resuscitated it by consuming half of it (read: I ate half of my own penis). Also, I bemusedly watched a baby drink beer. Not only did she drink it, she brushed her sippy cup aside in pursuit of more beer. These are my kind of people.

We also screened the 1982 mini-epic (?) The Dark Crystal, which, to my surprise, really holds up in this jaded, computer-generated entertainment environment. My only question: Was the role of Jen Lou Diamond Phillips' first screen appearance?

Better late than never

Yours truly, the notorious G-A-B-E, hopped a bus to Pennsylvania to visit the rest of the G-Unit (all of my siblings and I have names that start with G. Shut up). The first order of business was to pick up my mother's belated Mother's Day gift, a car kit for the XM radio I got her for her birthday. Little did I know that the mission would be compromised by my mom's need to pick up a new frying pan, a task that had my sister Gracey and my brother Gunner and I trapped in the pan aisle, a strange, magical place where everything does the same basic thing yet the decision regarding which pan to choose takes a half hour.





Walmart, K-Mart, S-Mart, Target, Pennypincher's, Radio Shack, Stereo Hut, Circuit City, Motherboard Town...no one had the simple XM accessory I was looking for. Defeated, we looked for new feet. Defeated, I decided that I'd just order the item online, thereby rendering my trip to Pennsylvania more of a lark. Like this one:



All for me sainted mudder, who went to the Sean Penn school of photo posing:


This is why I love my mom: I told her the old joke about the penguin driving around in the desert. His car breaks down, but, luckily, it does so just outside a mechanic's garage. The mechanic tells the penguin that it's going to take awhile. The penguin panics, "I'm a penguin!" he says "It's far too hot out here for me!" The mechanic calmly points out that there's an ice cream shop just across the street. Delighted, the penguin goes to the ice cream parlor and loads up on vanilla ice cream, but, due to his unfortunate inability to manipulate a spoon with his flippers, gets ice cream all over himself. It cools him off, so he doesn't worry about it. He looks at the clock and decides it's time to see if the mechanic is ready for him. So, he returns to the garage, covered in vanilla ice cream. He asks the mechanic, "so, what's wrong with my car?" The mechanic replies, "looks like you blew a seal." The penguin, embarrassed, says, "no, it's just ice cream."

After hearing this story about a penguin thinking he was mistakenly blamed for fellating a fellow aquatic animal, my mother says, "AWWWWWWW, that's so CUTE!"

There was also a rainbow sighting in PA off of the back deck:


And, for the first time in my life, I believe, I finally beat Super Mario Bros. I can rest in peace.


Ghosts N' Goblins will have to wait for my next visit.

A New Hope

My agent has informed me that the legit representation search would best serve me if done in June. Apparently, May is reserved for MFA students. Although understandable, what the fuck are these agent cretins doing wasting their time with MFA students? If you went to school for a second time to learn how to pretend, chances are you weren't all that great to begin with. There's something to be said for natural talent.

I'll have my day, it's just that I'm gnawing away my fingernails with anticipation. Then again, I was waiting around for eight years, I'm pretty sure I can last one month. In the meantime, Aaron and I are going to put on a play. Originally, we thought the Philadelphia Story, but I recommended Rozencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead as another option. The decision hasn't been set in stone yet, but when it is, rest assured that I'll post it.

Back in Black

There is no city like New York City. I've been around the world and I I I, I can't find my baby, (actually, I did find my baby, but that's not funny in this context), and I will go on record as saying no city compares to New York. I understand folks buying places in the country, but in terms of cities? Don't bother moving. Chicago, Detroit, London, Moscow, Rome, Dublin (EVEN DUBLIN) have NOTHING on New York.

And Detroit knows it, because it wanted to keep me there. The job I was in Michigan for became suddenly complicated on my last day, and it started to look like my plane ticket was increasingly becoming obsolete. However, I went the distance and was allowed to head toward the airport in a faint smug fashion...perhaps...too smug? The car I had rented, the PT Cruiser, served me well for 18 days of incident-free traveling. Until, that is, it knew I would be leaving it. I took the exit off of I-94 to return the car and, a mere half mile from the National rental facility, the car started shaking like Michael J. Fox on the Tilt-a-Whirl. As I slowed to a crawling fifteen miles and hour, I suffered a barrage of expletives from inconsiderate truckers who seemed unable to hear my suggestions that they fuck their mothers over the deafening vibrations of my car. As soon as possible, I pulled over to the curb expecting a flat tire. What I found was an exploded tire:



It was then that I vowed that this backwards, sissy state of Michigan WOULD NOT DENY ME MY RETURN TO MY PEOPLE. I called National and they sent a gentleman caller:



A few seconds before he was finished, I wiped his chin a little bit...NO, OF COURSE I DIDN'T. A few seconds before he was finished, he asked, "You DID rent with National right?"

It was ALL I could do to not run with this and make my new mechanic friend think he just spent fifteen minutes changing the tire of a Thrifty customer. Unfortunately, all I wanted was to be done with this place, so I gave him an emphatic YES and a smack on the ass and I was on my way.

Safely on the plane, I chuckled to myself a little bit. Then I cried. Then I enjoyed my complimentary beverage. Then I got home. Then I watched House M.D. Then I saw Brenda, who looked more beautiful than anyone ever. Needless to say, all of Tuesday felt like getting released from jail.

Art Official

I greeted the rainy Saturday morning here in Detroit with the knowledge that my time here has been given a solid ending point. Tuesday. I'm out of here Tuesday. Will I miss it? No, are you fucking kidding? If I had survived a brutal eye socket rape, I'd miss that more than living here for two weeks. It's a pity, because I'm beginning to think part of me grew up here.

I wanted to make sure that I checked out the Detroit Institute of Art before I left. You know how most of New York's art museums are surrounded by pretty affluent neighborhoods? Detroit doesn't enjoy such distractions. As soon as you get out of the car, you get this urge to run to the cluster of museums or run the risk of being mugged by the most art-conscious criminals on the planet. Still, the DIA was charming and diverse and I enjoyed myself immensely.

I live near the Cloisters in Manhattan, a collection of medieval art and structures that flank the very northern tip of the island. If you've ever visited, you know it's an extremely calming and meditative environment. I was happy to find a similar set up in Detroit's art collection.


If there is a single idea, a solitary zeitgeist that permeates practically all of Detroit life, it is the automobile industry. One can see it in the city's subtle apprehension of Asians, its blue collar taste in food and drink, and, of course, in its art. In the Grand Hall of the DIA, there stood two murals on opposing walls depicting an elaborate car manufacturing scene, replete with conveyor belts, engine parts, employees, and employers. A mere camera phone can't capture the overwhelming movement in this piece, but you might be able to see a person enjoying the mural in this next picture to give you an idea of just how big this thing is.


In a lot of ways, the murals are perfect images of the soul of the Motor City. Busy, dynamic, confusing, difficult, bold, cheerful, sinister, and beautiful. And all tied together with cars.

I was happy to discover that I can still recognize specific artists by style alone. There was a nude study by Francis Bacon, one of my favorites, an Alberto Giacometti sculpture, and an amazing portrait study also by Giacometti of his wife Annette. This is one of many iterations of this pose and I don't believe it's the final version, but I think it's something special (it's also sharp and almost violent, a bit like Bacon).


I sometimes think of my old high school art teacher from Britain and wonder if he knows how influential he was and probably still is. How many of his students still go to see art? If they're like me, if they "got it," chances are a lot.

I also couldn't help but realize how much art comes out of love. Not just romantic love, but all love. Love of nature, humanity, machines. And not just love in practice, but love in absence. And it's that eternal pulsating of the human heart, whether it's beating with elation or remorse, that fuels everything worth seeing. It's not what it's beating for, but the simple fact that it's beating at all.

We're getting the band back together!

I ventured out to sample Detroit's local music scene this evening. You can imagine my disappointment when I discovered that the "local scene" is also a place that looks very much like where they take people to be shot. Still, the Paycheck Lounge had a certain ashy atmosphere that reminded me of a place where a band like MC5 would have certainly originated. I got there in time to pay the five dollar cover.

BOUNCER: What band are you here to see?

ME: All of them.

(BOUNCER makes strange "You asked for it" face. I would later find out why)

The first band I got to see I believe was called Philo. Two guitars, one drum, zero charisma. The pity was that their songs were actually pretty good, but lost in the performance, which would have been improved if actually breathing humans were on stage. No such luck.

Philo was followed by Sister Elsewhere, a band so called most likely because that's the response the average listener gives to the question, "where would you rather be right now?"


I don't remember how many guitars were on stage. I lost count at seven. But they were fun and happy to play. The lead singer, an elder stateswoman of rock and roll, sang with a certain studied animation, as if she saw these moves in a rock documentary once. They did the 80's. They did the 70's. They did the 60's. They did the 50's. Before they got into ancient ballads written in Middle English, I left. But, I did manage to get a clip of the opening of White Rabbit.

Family Business

Inspired by Amanda's blog find, Permanent Monday, a study of Garfield comics from which Garfield's thought bubbles have been removed, I've collected a small sample of Bill Keane's Family Circus and removed the dialogue. What we get is a strange and disturbing look into a dysfunctional and somewhat violent family. I give you a sample:













It leaves a lot to the imagination.

Friends With Money

All I can say is that Nicole Holofcener's Friends With Money is fantastic. It's a study of friends, relationships, and the intricate web of complications they can cause. For me, the film relays a simple message: happiness is a virtue independent of success, security, or sense. It's found in simple places. Superbly acted, directed, and written, Holofcener delivers a cinematic rarity: concise honesty. And even that small gift is blurred in the end. I really, really enjoyed it and recommend it, even though it's being marketed as a Jennifer Aniston movie, though it's more of an ensemble piece. Simple, but not predictable. And it doesn't even let you believe everything's as it seems come credits time.

I found a restaurant that I will be frequenting until I leave this midwest inferno. It is called Fishbone's and it is superb. I had seafood gumbo followed by Pasta Orleans (crayfish, shrimp, crab meat, pasta in a creamy pesto sauce) and it was delightful. And for eighteen bucks? Reckanize.

Got some new shoes, ghetto fab-o-lus style:


You cannot leave Detroit without at least taking a modicum of pimp with you.

All the news that prints in fits

One thing is certain: this assignment in Michigan is as slow as Star Jones' metabolism. However, it DOES make one hunger for reading material, if not a hunting knife to fillet the next person who has even a vague midwestern accent. In the past two weeks, I've averaged four to five crosswords a day, attempting to consume the news in their respective papers as well (yes, I eat the news...wiseass). Now, two of you (Jordan and Solomon), know about my favorite headline of last week (as reported by USA Today, of all periodicals):

"Free Comic Book Day is Graphic, Novel"

It gave me a chuckle. So, I've been keeping an eye out for headlines or stories that raise a wry smile. They don't have to be clever. They can be also be worded in an unfortunate manner. Here are today's:

NEW YORK TIMES -

"Iraq Set to Unify Security Forces to Battle Chaos" (reportedly, the Greek "Founder of all things" could not be reached for comment)

"An Agency's Worst Nightmare: Ads Created by Users" (the heroin spots for Nike are particularly fucked up)

"Judge in Enron Case Delivers a Serious Blow to the 2 Defendants" (tee hee)

THE DETROIT TIMES -

"Babies Get Their Own TV Channel"

"Are We loving Orcas to Death?"

"'Poseidon': What a Sinker!"

"Police: Boyfriend Apologized in Murder"

"Medicare"

DETROIT FREE PRESS -

"Squid Saves Drifters"

You can't beat our meat

And other cliches.

After my five mile run, I distractedly wiped off the "good" hotel treadmill and nonchalantly got some water from the cooled dispenser in the fitness room (such decadence!). The fellow on the other treadmill stopped his run and greedily ran over to the machine I was using and realized that his eagerness was greeted with the realization that sometimes you have to let things dry off. Serves him right, the self-satisfying cad. Honestly, having used both machines, there's NO difference, save, MAYBE, that the "good" machine has one or two more buttons. But, seriously, how practical is it to see how much energy you're exerting in units of newborn babies? Not very, sir, not very (I used up eight babies).

So, I ventured out to get new shoes. My Docs have seen better days and my "new" dress shoes have already fallen apart. TO THE MALL!

The mall had nothing. NOTHING. I want something snazzy (first on my wishlist is the pair of two-tones the guy who opened for Carlin wore...red and white two-tones...that is mad fly, yo) and all Michigan has to offer is stuff in which one might get buried. Then, I realized, "Why am I looking for shoes in the Detroit suburbs?" I scrapped the idea and decided that I'd take it up again once safely in New York.

Across from the mall sat a Fuddrucker's. When I was a wee bairn in a steel mill, a co-worker made a big stink about visiting a Fuddrucker's (there aren't any in Eastern PA) and kept saying the restaurant's name over and over until he finally called out the obvious, "Hey, Fuddrucker's kind of sounds like motherfucker." Indeed it does, Biff, indeed it does. Needless to say, I forgot what he thought of the burgers.


In my mind, I assumed Fuddrucker's was not unlike a Hooters; a bar-like pestaurant filled with frat boys and truckers. Not so! It's for families! Families who like beef, and lots of it. Upon ordering and paying for my food, I was given an electric tracking device in case I made a break for it and tried to flee the area, in which case they would hunt me down and force me to eat my burger.


I was ordered to enjoy my drink and await my burger. With this kind of ruthless efficiency, I looked around to see where they were herding the Jews into the showers but found nothing. Fuddrucker sounds German, no? Then, my GPS megachip went off, letting me know that either my food was ready or the Luftwaffe was on its way.


Now, I "upgraded" to onion rings. Big mistake. If ringworm could be made into a side dish, Fuddruckers has the recipe. The burger, however, was both great and awful at the same time. The beef was, by far, the FRESHEST meat I'd ever had. The bun was like two flaccid breasts powdered with sugar caressing a lil' beef patty. I like my buns the way I like my women: serious, firm, and unseeded. This was a clown's bun. It was FAR too sweet for the meat. Huh? Yeah, I said it. It was so donutty what it took a great deal away from an otherwise delicious beef treat. I offer a picture.


So, overall, Fuddrucker's gets a seven out of ten. The service gets a Nazi out of five. Seriously, it's almost like the midwest charm is dropped as soon as you enter the place and the brow-beating begins. Just eat your burger and shut up.

As close to Nirvana an atheist can be

I was given a gift last night. It's a gift I had before and had brutally squandered. I don't intend to fuck it up this time.

Here's a bold promise, but true: I will be represented by a legit agent by the end of the summer. I will book something significant before next year. In the words of Mr. T, I pity the fool who gets in my fucking way. And, more poignantly I feel, in the words of Bone Crusher, I ain't never scared.

It's long been said that what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. What they haven't noted is that when that shit happens to me, it makes me unstoppable. Just ask my grade school chum David Doll. When we'd play homerun derby, I would put in a passable performance until I got mad. Once I got mad, the waves and particles of quantum reality came into sharp focus and I could do anything. Because I cared. And I knew what I was capable of.

That being said, I am eternally grateful to the person who got me to care again. And I will not fail. This is a guarantee.

My Hair Acts Too, or, I'm bored in Michigan

Sometimes when I'm feeling caged in and spunky, I like to screw with my hair in the mirror and create different characters. I mean, we've all done that, right guys? Guys? Anyway, I thought I'd take you along for the ride.

"The Ryu Hayabusa" or "The Gay Rapist"


"Disaster" or "3 1/2 Minutes with the Gay Rapist"


"The Gentleman Caller" or "Kissable, Aren't I?"


"Paper Mister?"


"Angry Euro Star" or "Michigan Gas Station Attendant"


It is now clear who the "office card" is at the copy place. It is the younger sister, a girl called Amanda, of one of the scanners. She actually isn't all that unfunny. An exchange I witnessed:

AMANDA: I don't know what kind of drugs she be doin', but she was foamin' out da mouth.

SISTER: Nawww.

AMANDA: (with studied timing) FOAMIN'....OUT...DA...MOUTH.

(HOWLS OF LAUGHTER)

AMANDA: And don't you take any more of my candies. Because I WILL sue you.

SISTER: Shut up.

AMANDA: I will. I sue you for stress in the workplace.

SISTER: Nawww.

AMANDA: IN...THE...WORKPLACE.

I think I'll miss these people.