I've got a bad feeling about this...

...and when I say 'bad', I mean 'good'.





















Yes, you're seeing that correctly - it's a brand-new shot of Harrison Ford dressed up as Indiana Jones. Actually, no - that IS Indiana Jones. To me, anyway.

According to those grave-robbing scum at IndianaJones.com, the shot was taken by Steven Spielberg himself, on set of next summer's fourth movie in the Indiana Jones series. No title yet, but according to a few sources, it's set in the 1950s, and focuses on some kinda cool-ass sci-fi plot, maybe something that even involves UFOs or something. How cool is that? Get this - John Hurt is playing Albert Einstein. Cate Blanchett might be the villain! There are even rumored secret signings-on of Marion from the first movie, and for a tough-girl-loving guy like me, that's just music. I'm your goddamned PARTNER!

















I remember my dad taking me out of school for the day to see 'Temple of Doom', and for some reason, I was really scared to see it. I WANTED to see it more than anything, but from what I'd heard about the dude getting his heart ripped from his chest while he was still alive, I was a little weary. My dad calmed my nerves by telling me we'd go get pizza afterward. Heh. So we went, and when we walked into the theater, there was no one else there. NO ONE. Big empty theater that was about to show a movie that had a REAL GUY getting his HEART ripped from his CHEST. I was both terrified and excited beyond belief. My own personal Temple of Doom. Two hours later, I was the happiest 11-year-old boy on Earth. I had just seen a man getting his heart ripped from his chest, and I was eating pizza. Life was good.

Welcome back, Indy. I'm not exactly 11 anymore, but I sure couldn't tell when I saw that picture this morning.

Pictures Of Me Getting Blown On The Internet

Yeah, like I could get that lucky.

No, what I'm talking about is that brand spankin' new picture of me over there in the right-hand margin. Yeah, that's me. Sorry. I was trying to make it appear as if my face was being blown right off my head, but instead, it just looks like some rejected special effect from 'Max Headroom'. Just wanted to brighten the place up a bit, is all. Please to be enjoying.

Meanwhile, I'm $200 overdrawn in my bank account. I've got 11 bucks to last me until either a) my next paycheck rolls in, or b) I graft some mechanical arms onto my spine and rob a bank like Doc Ock. At this rate, all those girls at my college who are decades too young for me aren't EVER going to want to get in my Benz. It's probably a good thing, that.

Love Train

If the kids in this video were speaking English, it wouldn't work even remotely as well. Bad-ass!

Mural Moral

Okay, so according to TMZ.com, they've got an excerpt from the O.J. Simpson book that was supposed to come out last year, 'If I Did It'. Like to hear it? Here it go. It's a little out of order and context, but you'll get the jist soon enough.

I'm going to tell you a story you've never heard before, because no one knows this story the way I know it. It takes place on the night June 12, 1994, and it concerns the murder of my ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her young friend, Ronald Goldman. I want you to forget everything you think you know about that night because I know the facts better than anyone. I know the players. I've seen the evidence. I've heard the theories. And, of course, I've read all the stories: That I did it. That I did it but I don't know I did it. That I can no longer tell fact from fiction. That I wake up in the middle of the night, consumed by guilt, screaming.

I looked over at Goldman, and I was fuming. I guess he thought I was going to hit him, because he got into his little karate stance. "What the fuck is that?" I said. "You think you can take me with your karate shit?" He started circling me, bobbing and weaving, and if I hadn't been so fucking angry I would have laughed in his face. "O.J., come on!" It was Charlie again, pleading. Nicole moaned, regaining consciousness. She stirred on the ground and opened her eyes and looked at me, but it didn't seem like anything was registering. Charlie walked over and planted himself in front of me blocking my view. "We are fucking done here, man-let's go!"

I noticed the knife in Charlie's hand, and in one deft move I removed my right glove and snatched it up. "We're not going anywhere," I said, turning to face Goldman. Goldman was still circling me, bobbing and weaving, but I didn't feel like laughing anymore. "You think you're tough, motherfucker?" I said. I could hear Charlie just behind me, saying something, urging me to get the fuck out of there, and at one point he even reached for me and tried to drag me away, but I shook him off, hard, and moved toward Goldman. "Okay, motherfucker!" I said. "Show me how tough you are!"

Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened, but I can't tell you exactly how. I was still standing in Nicole's courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there, when I'd arrived, or even why I was there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital-with little Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping balls into my neighbor's yard; Paula, angry, not answering her phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly shit about Nicole's behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive from Rockingham to the Bundy condo. And now?

Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened, but I can't tell you exactly how. I was still standing in Nicole's courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there, when I'd arrived, or even why I was there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital-with little Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping balls into my neighbor's yard; Paula, angry, not answering her phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly shit about Nicole's behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive from Rockingham to the Bundy condo. And now? Now I was standing in Nicole's courtyard, in the dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I couldn't get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of me was covered in blood, but it didn't compute. Is this really blood? I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?

Right. So... on the planet I come from, O.J., what you experienced is called a 'black-out'. When they don't involve alcohol or drugs, black-outs happen when you are under such extreme duress and psychological emergency that your conscious mind basically shuts down. You might still be able to carry on physical actions, but you might not remember any of what you did during the black-out once it passes. Did you watch 'Hell's Kitchen' two weeks ago? Yeah, that's what happened to Aaron the Catatonic Cowboy. Now you know.

O.J., look - if this thing is actually a confession, fine. Say so. Turn yourself in and do the time you deserve to do. I'm not even sure you'll go to jail at all, actually. You've already been acquitted of the damn thing, but it's worth a try, right? I mean, shit - this was your wife you killed. Don't you think her life was worth at least that? You might be in the can for the rest of your life, dude, but that's a fair exchange for the two lives you took that night, isn't it? It certainly fits the crime better than playing golf and dreaming up ways to get paid for admitting that you killed some people, doesn't it?

O.J.? You still with me, man? Or are you having another black-out?

You know, there's a restaurant in San Francisco called The Connecticut Yankee, and right across the street from it is a wall. Yeah, it's in the Potrero district, right around where you grew up. That wall's got a mural on it, and you're in it. Yup, there you are in your football uniform, looking far more innocent than you do now. The mural of you isn't looking too good these days, either - someone went and scrawled the word 'GUILTY' across your likeness in red paint. They even put devil horns on your head and a bloody knife in your hand. It wasn't me, but I sure as hell wish it had been. I make up for that fact by spitting on the mural whenever I walk by it.

Well, not the WHOLE mural.

Big in Japan

Because of my perpetual man-crush on Johnny Depp and my total wide-eyed fascination with the complete and utter weirdness of Japanese television and pop culture, I had to bring this clip your way. It combines everything that I love about both Depp and Japan, so strap on your ADD-defeating strap-on again and check out these glorious eight minutes.

WARNING: MAY CAUSE SEIZURES.



I think the little Japanese kid with the pirate costume and Hitler moustache is my favorite. Is helium cheap over there or something?