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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.