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.
Like having your best friend berate you.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
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.
"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.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, July 10, 2006
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):
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):
Friday, July 07, 2006
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!
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!
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
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?
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.
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:
"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?
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?
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.
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.
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):
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
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?
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?
Monday, May 22, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
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.
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.
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