Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Content content content

A little vintage FODJ to stick in your ear:

Ahhhh. To be young again.

Friday, June 23, 2006


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?


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.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

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:

Friday, June 16, 2006

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?

Friday, June 09, 2006

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?


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:


"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.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

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):


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.