Marathon

New video blog up on Fanhouse. Reckanize.

Overheard at an audition

The callback I attended yesterday afternoon was two hours behind. This wouldn't have been a problem had the casting directors not scheduled a different session immediately following ours. Not only was a different spot scheduled to go in, it was a spot for some retirement fund product. So, tens upon tens of elderly gentlemen began to stagger, wobbly and confused, into a space the size of a closet. And, these septuagenarians all knew each other. And, they had poor hearing. Which lead to conversations like:

OLD BLACK MAN 1: I just came back from the Frederick Douglas tour of Europe!!!

OLD BLACK MAN 2: Oh?

OLD BLACK MAN 1: You can go on the tour too!!! Just go to national slavery dot com!!!

OLD BLACK MAN 2: National what?

OLD BLACK MAN 1: (screaming at the top of his lungs to a now silenced room) SLAVERY DOT COM!!!!!

The elderly black gentleman also went on to say, very loudly, that "while I was in Europe, everybody told me to go to Krakau!!! Krakau is the new Paris!!!"

Now, I have not been to Krakau ever, and I'm sure it has a vibrant tourism trade now, but I'm pretty sure I never thought Krakau would be equated to Paris. Paris is the City of Light. Krakau is the City of Gas? Maybe? No? Too soon?

Gabriel, the Wrath of God

You bet I am. Wouldn't this make a kickass tattoo?

Feel the burn

I found a pretty awesome route/mileage calculator in WalkJogRun.net. As I train for the Tucson Marathon, this will be an invaluable tool. So will beer. Lots and lots of beer. It's like liquid cereal!*


*9 out of 10 doctors maintain that beer is not "like" liquid cereal. The 10th doctor, however, is Doctor Detroit, and is awesome.

The Bible Belt needs to loosen that shit up

Sad but true:


The winner of fattest state, and still champeen, is Mississippi. Is it any wonder why God and obesity sort of go hand in hand? Maybe it's that "God loves me" complacency that keeps these people stuffing their faces and watching bullshit daytime television which keeps assuring them that their obesity is a disease and there's nothing they can do about it. Maybe it's the depression following the lingering ghost of the Civil War. Maybe Americans are just fat fucks. THERE'S ONLY ONE STATE IN THE WHITE ZONE!!! ONE!!! FUCKING!!! STATE!!!

God Bless These United States

Only the United States of America could produce someone as woefully stupid as she. Sure, other countries have their share of insufferable morons, but only in the USA would said moron speak in bullshit television cliches. Just empty language. People in Germany speak flawless English and this girl, raised in South Carolina, speaks like a fucking malfunctioning Stepford wife.

You could argue that it's a tough and loaded question, I guess. The only way to answer that question is to say that the American education system sucks. However, to win Miss Teen USA, you can't say that. I'm sure her tiny mind spun around like a fucking hamster wheel when the question was asked. And you know that her weasel of a mother/manager prepped her by saying in a deep southern drawl "just say South Africa, baby. Just say South Africa."

Gotta be proud.

Over my dead body

Death at a Funeral is one of the few comedies in a long time that has wrenched from my evil, cynical person a genuine, soul-scraping belly laugh. It's a simple, classic farce and it is perfect. Alan Tudyk needs to be in more. Well, I take that back. He is in a lot, but no one knows who he is. This movie ought to turn heads. To paraphrase Dr. Foreman on House: it's dangerous, it could kill you. You should see it.

This is not as easy as it looks:


Sunday turned out to be Waffle Fest 2007. Cuisinart's waffle iron has proven itself the culinary equivalent of an electronic bull. One false move and it will destroy you and all of your blueberries. The first waffle attempt was seemingly smooth, as delicious batter (which is also the title of a porn I once rented) was spread evenly over the griddle surface and the lid lightly shut. The Cuisinart is kind of a pushy little bitch in that it has a red light/green light system that alerts you when it feels your waffle is ready. The green light went up on waffle number one, and the lid was lifted. Terror ensued. The waffle had stuck perfectly to both the top and bottom griddle, giving the waffle maker the appearance of the frothing maw of a goddamned demon, which prompted its user to close the unit in horror, as if slamming a coffin lid shut. However, the lid was in close proximity to a small carton of fresh blueberries that had the hopeful ambition of one day adorning a waffle. This dream was suspended as the blueberries shot through the air like fat purple children, all madly scattering upon contact with the floor. After the plump bastard imps were harvested from their resting spots, the five second rule was employed. THESE BLUEBERRIES HAVE A DATE...A WAFFLE DATE...HIGHWAY TO DELICIOUSNESS!!! Cooking spray was brought in to ensure the demon wouldn't return and there were waffles. Soggy, but waffles nonetheless, damnit.

Have you seen Billy's Baldwin?

My problem with Billy Baldwin is that he looks like an Alec Baldwin impersonator:


Kind of like this guy "is" Robert Deniro:

Baby, shake that ass

Either hot or batshit insane:

Welcome back...

...to all our travelers out there.

Thanks, Bryan Curtis...thanks...

Slate.com's Bryan Curtis has written the essential critique of America's sweetheart, Dane Cook. I couldn't have said it better myself.

And now Dane Cook is the official spokesperson of Major League Baseball's post-season. There will be a vlog, oh yes, there will be a vlog.

Dial W for Wrasslin

"Am I right or Amarilla?...

...man this song's a killa dilla!"

There's a Tom & Jerry cartoon called Texas Tom in which the song "If You're Ever Down in Texas, Look Me Up" makes an appearance. I've been humming this song to myself since I was eight years old, and only yesterday did I realize that the lyric above is said the way it is. In my head was:

"Am I right or am I rilla?"

Which makes little to no sense. The lyric is actually a pretty clever pun about Texas:

"Am I right or Amarilla?"

Conceding, of course, the pronunciation of "Amarillo" as "Amarilla." It seems an easy mistake to make. When I was eight, I didn't know anything about Amarillo, Texas. Now that I have met friends like Davey Jones and Sam Douglas and, as a result, have been beaten to unconsciousness with a map of Texas, I get the joke. But it led me to wonder what other song lyrics I have horribly wrong.

Seal's "Kiss from a Rose":

I always thought the hook line went "I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grave." Admittedly, it's a little morbid. You might as well say "kissing you is like hanging out in a cemetery." In fact, several lyrics sites cite this as the correct line, so I'm not sure. The most prominent "correct" line I can find is: "I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey," which makes even less sense. I guess it conjures imagery of, perhaps, the ocean on a bleak afternoon, each melancholy crest lapping contemptuously at a solitary rose discarded in the sand, its petals now faded with the incessant torture of love and love unrequited. But fuck that, I don't have time for poetry.

Tenacious D's "Fuck Her Gently":

A romantic at heart, I used to sing this song to myself all the time. Alone. In my room. I was convinced that at one point Jack Black croons "and fuckin give her some smooth juice too." I assumed this colorful phrasing had something to do with semen or...well, semen. It completely clashed with the sentiment of the song, and I doubt "fucking her gently" included "spilling one in her mug." It was only when Kath corrected me that I discovered the true line: "and fuckin give her some smooches too." Clearly, my mistake.

AC/DC's "Thunderstruck":

When I was 13, I mumbled over the end of one of the lines which goes "could I come again please?" simply because it sounded an awful lot like "could you suck up some bees?" and that didn't sound very rock n' roll. And having no real knowledge of the slang for ejaculation, I just grunted and made devil horns with my fingers. This kind of behavior, coupled with red cheeks and a mullet, contributed to my being wholly unappealing to girls. Honestly, I looked like Billy Ray Cyrus' fat nephew.

Does anyone else have mistaken lyrics they'd like to share?

I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey

U F**ing C*nt

This is the end of the world

Matthew Bellamy's voice, as it penetrated and caressed the thousands of collected bones and souls at Madison Square Garden, remained impossibly, ethereally beautiful. His band, Muse, is opera and classical composition and rock thrown together with a tinge of urgency. And this is the key element: urgency.

And to hear, cascading over the dire and poignant immediacy of the music, this otherworldly keening is preternatural and strangely comforting. This hermaphroditic voice pierces through the intensity and offers a way out of the maelstrom.

Its swelling, meaningful grandiosity compels me to call it "epic rock." Which Kath assures me has already been said. FUCK!

Good Morning from 1977

The only way to face the incessant machinations of corporate America:

I am hip...to the jive

And another one:

Dash-a-peppah

The work fellas and I got to talking about Tom & Jerry and I came across one of my all-time favorite episodes.



My sister and I would sing that last song for hours on end.

Get out of here, Nebulon! No one likes your style.

I have tech tonight for the show. Tech is notoriously excruciating. Sitting there. While people focus lights and figure out sound cues. As my grandfather used to say, it's for the birds. To make it interesting, I'll do it naked. Or on fire. Or both.

A bit of dialogue that occurred to me while eating hot dogs at Grays Papaya yesterday:

MAN 1: Do you know the origin of the hot dog, Jack?

MAN 2: No.

MAN 1: Heaven, Jack. The answer is heaven.

I found out today that one of the people I work with is a lawyer. This fact surprised me a great deal because I always thought of him as an incompetent fuckface. Speaking of fuckface, I'm reminded of names my dad used to call me (bear in mind he was never very clever):

1. Fuckface
2. Boner
3. Asshole
4. Shithead
5. No Common Sense
6. Gabriel Don (during his clean phase or when I had done something wrong)
7. Dingleberry
8. Dickhead
9. My son (when he thought he was being pious. Though, he doesn't know what the word pious means)

None of these names were ever said in anger, oddly enough. Not that it mattered. I always took comfort in the fact that I was smarter than he could ever be. And, that he isn't really my father. Still, they were a crude man's lexicon of love and affection.

My favorite and telling ongoing exchange he had was with his brother (my uncle):

UNCLE: What's up?
DAD: My dick! Wanna suck it?!

Good times. Good times.