www.sleeveface.com: its simple, take a picture of yourself recreating a record sleeve cover and have your body fill in the parts where the cover stops. This is a pretty cool site w/ some creative contributions… man do people have too much time on there hands or what?

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Worth the mental break, watch the whole thing, you’ll be glad you did.

Smart People for Dummies.

I saw this film in Santa Monica in a theater filled with elderly and disgusting people who farted, burped, made retarded out bursts of screams and every woman saying every line back to their hard of hearing husbands. Sadly, that was the best part of the movie, the muppet filled theater of human antiques.

This movie thinks its smart, but doesn’t really give you any reason to believe so. There is zero chemistry between the two crusty genital love birds, there is zero chemistry between scholastic family members and there is zero film plot for you to grab onto. There is however some great performances, that could have been made into the mirror in their spare time. Ellen Page proves she can be more then the witty Juno, she can also be a bitchy young republican robot with no friends. Thomas Haden Church phones in his “loser adopted brother” role, Sarah Messica Parker forgot how to connect to her co-star Dennis Quaid who was completely one dimensional for being such a smarty pants, overall, you just just start wishing someone would fart again in the theater so you could have something to live for. Also, the soundtrack is noticeably to worst audio experience of a life time, its like a shower douche commercial of Lilith fair bullshit.
1 madex out of 5 madex’s.

Its not the worst thing in the world, but its not worth a dime of your hard earned cash.

Old people, keep going to movies, its hilarious.

Dear director Noam Murro, you had the recipe for a good thing, I think you just added too much suck.

Today I decided I would make some pan fried chicken from the Betty Crocker cookbook. I prepped up my batter, dipped my chicken, and preheated my oil. Sometimes when I cook an artist pops into my head and they seem appropriate accompaniment to my cooking. Today Johnny Cash called my name.

I went upstairs and set up my remote speakers, clicked on a “Best of” album, and checked a couple of mails. I could smell a little chicken cooking from downstairs. That was strange as I hadn’t put the chicken in the pan yet. As I went down the stairs, I could hear the baritone coming through the kitchen door:

“I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down,
and the flames went higher…”

Strangely appropriate.

I hit the bottom step and turned into the kitchen only to be blasted with a wall of heat and see flames shooting up to the ceiling.

SHIT!

Grease fire. No water. Of that much I was sure. I couldn’t remember anything else.

“FIIIIIIRE!!!!”

My roommate came running down. “Shit!”

“Grease fire. No water. Uhh… flour?”

“try it.” OK, flour seems to catch on fire.

He grabs a towel, but it’s wet. “Shit. Let’s just get it out of here, mate!” (He’s Australian) He wraps the towel around the handle and slowly but surely moves the pan of flames outside.

Inside no major damage. Some smoke damage, some melted screens, some black boogers.

Pork chop sandwiches.