Friday, March 16, 2007


I am not Steve Buscemi

So many people have been emailing, writing and even phoning me (at four in the morning - thanks, you loser stalker freak, whoever you were/are) about this issue that I feel obliged to set the record straight. (Somebody telexed me, and I don’t even know what that is.)

I am not Steve Buscemi.

I don’t know quite how the idea that I was him managed to take hold amidst the collection of social inadequates, weirdos and douchebags that haunts the nether reaches of the internet. You, dear reader, in other words. I have never obscured my identity. I’m an Englishman in his thirties who is variously a morgue attendant, a doctor, and a vigilante fighting against the creeping peril of the undead when they raise their rotting collective head to disturb the suburban peace. Nowhere in that potted CV do I find anything to support the notion that I’m an Italian-American actor born in Brooklyn in 1957 who has appeared in some of the coolest, most iconic films and television series of the last fifteen years and has usually been killed off during these films and television series in interesting ways (more about this in a later post). I mean, I am pretty cool, but I’m that way not because I’m a Hollywood movie star but rather through a combination of good genes, tremendous and sustained effort in the gym, rigorous dietary self-discipline, and innate talent, as well as excellent and expensive skin- and hair-care products. Plus, my tailor is old school: East End Jewish, the third generation inheritor of the family business, and in total control of his shit. A modern-day alchemist, he turns his shit into gold, silken gold in a blue-black navy wool blend with the most imperceptible pinstripe weave. The other day he was fitting the jacket of my new suit over my shoulders as I stood before his full-length mirror with my torso bathed in a pink and white Aquascutum slim-fit shirt which had set me back two Cs and was worth every penny. It was as though I was slipping into an orgasm induced by the velvet friction against my chest and thighs of cloth hand-woven from natural fibres. As I stroked my off-mauve Daniel Hechter tie into a casually perfect half-Windsor knot, I reflected that Steve Buscemi, my demi-hemi-semi-namesake and the man all those rancid bloggers thought I was, would have at best gone for something tacky like Versace or, Madonn’ forbid, Gucci.

So no, I’m not Steve Buscemi.

And if any of you motherfucking cocksuckers says so again, I’ll find you, clip you, whack you and then kill you.

With respect.

That's too bad. I love Steve Buscemi.
One of our work trucks fucked up Steve Buscemi's retaining wall last year. He was rather annoyed.
Congratulations on being picked for the Comic Relief book by the way!!!!
Guys, I love you all. Eddie, don't worry about it. My wife says I'm too retentive, anyways.
Hey everybody! I've just seen Steve Buscemi Naked!!!

Seriously, Foot Eater, how can you have a post like this without making reference to Reservoir Cogs??
Oh, and Congrats on the Red Nose Day blog book!
Aquascutum and pinstripes? Surely not, footsie - I had you down as a cool dud in skinny jeans and t shirt - a sort of dark cadaverous version of Brad Pitt!
And congrats for getting in the book! Well deserved.
Foot Eater my jealousy knows no bounds.

Watch your back.
I never thought you were Steve Buscemi. Yaphet Kotto, perhaps; but that's just because I enjoy typing "Yaphet Kotto".
I think you look like a slightly younger Will Self. How tall are you?

Maroon is a flame-haired Craig Ferguson with adorable freckles, although it took me a long time to get over the fact that he isn't the fellow on the boat.

Fmc is like Dr. Tanya Byron only with red hair.

Nanas is sublimely hairy and of course gorilla-like.

Eddie's pointy nose photo gives me the willies for some reason so i prefer to see him as a livelier Jack Dee.

Knuds looks exactly like his picture.

Kim doesn't look anything like his picture.

I don't know Philip.

I know what everyone else looks like.

Everyone knows what I look like.
Yaphet Kotto.

There, I did it again.
hello...had to check you out *don't ask*, dr maroon looks like craig ferguson but with red hair? *swooning*
Steve: you're not helping my case.

Kim, SheBah: thanks for the congrats. Don't like skinny jeans, though; I'm more a flary type of fellow.

Dr Maroon: don't worry, I will. If I were in the shower with you I certainly wouldn't pick up the soap.

Philip: yes, I can see how I might come across as a sexagenarian Jewish African American actor who once played Idi Amin (rather well as it happens). You've rumbled me. I on the other hand know exactly what you look like. Just Google him, people.

Sam: your FMC idea is intriguing, and quite possibly accurate. Will Self, though? If we're talking writer lookalikes, H.P. Lovecraft is nearer the mark.

Philip: that's a Britney Spears song title, I believe.

Savannah: I don't know how Dr Maroon could have red hair since he's from Namibia.
Eddie: I left you out. It was a mistake.
Aren't you supposed to be pimping the Shaggy Blog Stories and linking to the site to buy it and everything?

Or are you suffering from survivor guilt by making it through?
"my torso bathed in a pink and white Aquascutum slim-fit shirt"

I had no idea you were gay.
Kim: you're absolutely right. Will remedy this in my next post.

Fat Sparrow: damn. The one time I change out of my check lumberjack shirt and jeans you happen to be there waiting to pounce.
Dear Steve, Your secret is safe with me. I'm masquerading as a short, plump, middle-aged English woman with thick ankles and bad skin. In reality I'm a slim, stunningly beautiful and sexy half-French woman with a movie God boyfriend and a load of adopted kids. Lots of love, Angelina, whoops, I mean, Agnes. XXXX
His part in Mr Deeds was the definitive role of his career.
There is a chain of convenience stores in my area called "Buscemi's." They serve pizza by the box or slice, and booze in whatever containers the vintners/brewers/distillers saw fit to place them in.

Interesting fact: they have nothing to do with FootEater.

What's this on inclusion in a whatever you've done?

Ah, Foot. I miss the way things were before I fried my inspiration on the alter of bad conversation. Did I ever tell you how I became a "card carrying Nazi"?
Why does it seem as if I always kill the comment threads hereabouts, Foot?
Very worrying.
I'll do the fucklestopping around here, Mr inspector, thank you very much.
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