Here in the house of doom we pride ourselves on bringing fresh new talent to light; on lifting up the mouldy backyard brick of the world, and allowing its incredibly attractive slaters to scurry free. So today it’s time to give a little bit of ku-doomin-dos to Criminal Minds’ Matthew Gray Gubler, known variously chez nous as ‘Matt’, ‘The Gube’, and ‘Furrowed Gray Forehead Skies’[i].
I first became interested in this hot nerd because he bears an uncanny resemblance to a guy I once slept with, except he’s actually attractive, and almost certainly doesn’t have a testicular piercing (this was a guy who got me back to his house by saying I could sit up all night and smoke in his room – what can I say? I was young, and needed the emphysema).
Our Dr Spencer Reid has a deliciously whiny/sensitive/intelligent voice and is always having Alison Dubois-esque flashbacks[ii] to the time(s?) he was kidnapped and tortured, which totally helps him empathise with the victims of the terrible crimes that this hard-hittingly emotional crime drama, the name of which often escapes me (because despite having all the elements of a flash-trash favourite – gripping storylines, Not-Dan[iii], an uptight female FBI boss who’s always getting up in the team’s grills about playing by the book when everyone knows that out in the field, it don’t work like that, ma’am – this televisual blancmange is no NCIS[iv]) regularly ‘explores’.
Phew! What was I saying? Ah yes, on Dr Reid: the guy’s so smart, he’s pretty much psychic!
Gaze into those vest-wearing, bathtub-sitting, Guby-licious eyes and tell me it ain’t love, people. He used to be a ‘reluctant’ Hilfiger model, for Chrissakes (which, I’ll admit, does make my earlier assertion about discovering him, bug-brick-light-style, a pretty dubious one. Whatevs. That was totally prior to my having googled him.)!
He also writes poems on his myspace page (ok, so it may have been a list. But it was a pretty list containing ‘ghosts’, ‘patience’ and ‘fireflies’). This could explain why, in addition to being a clear god of nineties nostalgia, there’s something of the bard about him; a figurative toe dipped in a freezing-cold Middle English lake, perhaps. Does no one else think he’s a combination of the gay Prince and his lover-who-gets-thrown-out-the-window in that nineties masterpiece of Scottish hagiography, Braveheart[v]?? But in a good way, obviously, not in an ‘ah, the King’s homophobic and now I’m lying in splattered on the ground whilst simultaneously crying in horror over my un-moving corpse’ way. Obviously.
He’s an amazing sketch artist (see http://matthewgraygubler.com/) and makes mockumentaries – about himself (see Matthew Gray Gubler Unauthorised DocumentaryVolumes 1-6)! What’s more, he totally directed the video clip to that mormon horror anthem of our times, The Killers’ ‘Don’t Shoot Me, Santa!’. And if all that weren’t enough, he’s been to Berlin!
So, Matthew Gray Gubler, the Gray Gube of all our post-adolescent hearts, I’d like to finish this homage with a message à toi: if you’re googling yourself right now, don’t feel ashamed. Scroll down that little bit further, say, fifty pages further. I hope you read this post and know that someone in the land of the white lunchbox loves you, and it is a love not hampered (get it! rofl!) (‘lunchbox’ and ‘hamper’ are totally thematically aligned, you nincompoops) by geometrical boundaries.
Just know that my love’s quotient is the sum of your heart’s Pi-R-Squared.
Or some other such smart thing, relating to maths.
[i]Actually the last one is mostly used by our Native American exchange student, Magaskawee. Incidentally, we call her ‘Pocahontas’ for short, and she sometimes plays Aaliyah in our Great Martyrs of R’n’B festivity serial. I might add that she looks smokin’ in a top hat and cane, and I’m not just saying that because smoke signals are a popular method of communication amongst her people. Dakota, Magaskawee! (Means ‘hello’ in Sioux, you morons.)
[ii] Ok, so she technically has flash-forwards. But guys, really, what’s a little a-temporal narrative interlude between friends, eh? (speaking as someone who’s mighty partial to parenthetical asides, myself. Herself? Anyway.)
[iii] Tell me this guy does not bear an uncanny resemblance to Sydney photographer and dashing possible spy about town, Daniel Boud, and I’ll tell you… you’re wrong, alright? You can’t argue with this evidence:
[iv] And I attribute this to their respective female nerds – but more on that one, to come.
[v] I know, I know, Mel Gibson made it and he’s a fucktard, but let’s not let that get in the way of our appreciation of this beautiful love story of insurgency and hairy be-kilted men, ok? Art divorced from origins, etc, etc – and art like that has a highland life of its own. Argh… Yer have the look a yer mother, Wulliam Warllace. (Sorry. I could riff on about Braveheart for literally days. Like that one time, we were watching it really stoned and thought we saw a tank in the background, and everyone was like, how did they not realise that’s a total anachronism? But then we re-wound the VHS and it turned out to be a burning pyre of witches, and then we realised we were actually watching The Crucible! Rofl!)