If I had some photo software here, I'd make this small and would have worked it in below, but it's just too funny not to share. Brad Pitt uses communication methods of yore.

I leave the country for one week and they go and release Van Helsing. They advertised the shit out of that movie in France, by the way. There were video loops and posters in every subway terminal. Just an FYI. But let's stop looking toward the past for our cinematic sweatmeats. Rebecca pointed out that Kate Beckinswhatherface has severe lines on the sides of her mouth that they airbrushed out of the publicity materials. But whatever. Onward!

Breakin' All the Rules: That Jamie Foxx! He so crazy! Check it out. When his girl dumps him, he gets revenge by writing a book on dating that becomes a huge success. Now who's sorry!? Jamie is livin' large now and the girl is all sad because she dissed him when he was low, but now he's up high where she can't reach and making women feel bad like that is what Jamie Foxx does best. Because that's what Breakin' All the Rules is all about. Not being a pussy. So, you go Jamie! His next movie: He's playing Miles Davis. Seriously. Be afraid.

James' Journey to Jerusalem: This movie is about a student of religion who goes to the Holy City (Jerusalem, not Orlando) and his adventures, and... oh, man, I'm geting sleepy already. But you can't dismiss a film like this because if you do, you're either anti-Semitic or anti-Jesus or anti-Middle East or whatever and -- YAAAAWWWWWNN. I'm sorry. I'm just having trouble staying awake here. Let's get back on track. Jerusalem. Young religious scholar who encounters racismsmmmmmmmmmmm WHU!?! I'm awake! What? Agh, What's this drool? Ew. Let's move on.

Super Size Me: This film is part of a new breed of sorta-funny documentaries that I like to call "Crockumentaries." They're not really reliable as works of fact because they play soft with journalism and aren't really menat to be taken at face value, yet they do raise valid points and are entertaining to watch. This may not please purists, but it's better than documentaries of old, which were boring-ass pieces of shit that only smug graduate film students could sit through. Michael Moore is the pre-eminent Crockumentarian, creating films that most smart people know better than to believe, yet we can't help but enjoy his films and they do raise real problems and points. I just wouldn't trust Michael Moore to do my taxes or to testify on my behalf before a grand jury, if you know what I mean. In this film, the filmmaker eats nothing but McDonald's food for 30 days and films the results. Sounds like a Web-based prank, huh? Like the guy who let a cut get infected and took pictures of the nasty results of not cleaning the wound or the girl who didn't shower for 30 days. Oh, wait, that's lots of girls who spend too much time on the Web. Sorry, ladies. Didn't mean to slight you there.

Troy: That's right, TROY, bitches! Movies don't get much bigger than this. It's The Iliad with Brad Pitt. How ya like that? Van Helsing? Fuck Van Helsing. Does Van Helsing have vast armies and a big wooden horse? Hell naw. Van Helsing has a crossbow and CGI fog. Troy's just... BIGGER! Big, big, big! This movie is so big that if you don't go see it and tell all your friends to see it, movie studios and countries they own will go bankrupt and plunge into the sea. (Caspian, if you must know.) You MUST see Troy. It's got Orlando Bloom. You love Orlando Bloom. And Peter 'O Toole, the drunken fuck. It has to be good, right? Right? Come on, people, get excited here! Epic battles in the desert! Brad Pitt! Swords and shit! YEAH! You're excited, right? You can't wait to go see this three-hour movie that doesn't even have The Gods, right? Stick with me here. TROOOOOOYYYYY! No? Really? You're gonna stay home? Well, screw you, mister. Troy doesn't need you. Troy is bigger than you. And there's no way Troy is gonna flop. Uh uh. No way. People love big-budget seige movies. Look at The Alamo. No, wait, come back! Where are you going? You love me! You must love me! Sigh. troy.

Young Adam: Ewan McGregor has sex. Rebecca was like, "Ooh, really? My Ewan?" Then I told her that he plays a sulky, morose Scotsman who has joyless sex with Tilda Swinton. She said that didn't sound like her Ewan. I had to remind her she's got a husband now. And thus ended our Young Adam conversation.

DVDs: Too. Much. Must get out from under this pile of entertainment. I Netflixed The Fog of War, though, so I'm looking forward to that one, at least.

Tech TV tonight: behind the scenes at TWOP. Are we really that angry?

Link courtesy Ms. Pamie.

Speaking of cable TV, did I tell you guys I'm switching my longtime allegiance from Dish Network to DirectTV? It's a long story and I'll fill you in later, but let's just say it involves high definition, the recording of such rich signals and Dish's inability to deliver a TiVo-like device for such that doesn't have more bugs than an entomological special on the Discovery Channel. Discover HD, of course. But then, it's been a little busy lately, so you'll forgive me for not revealing why I can't keep it in my pants in terms of new consumer technology. How perverse is it that I found myself in Paris thinking about UHF indoor antennas and what exact date the satellite switch should occur on my honeymoon? Pretty perverse, I know.

Movies this week will make its return a little later today, promise.

If you had told me years ago that while still in my '20s, I'd be at the store buying a Loretta Lynn CD, I would have called you a dirty liar. I might have spit at you.

Such is the power of Jack White.

L'il Floaty Omie Head reads in France and writes about Le Bush. The phrase "tingly in their Major League Baseballs" didn't make the cut, but now I'm sort of glad for that.

Also, this appeared online while I was gone -- it's a short review of David Cross' new comedy CD.

Front desk.

Omar: Do you have some utensils we could borrow?

Hotel Clerk: (Absolutely thunderstruck, borderline offended look) SIR?! You... you need what?

Omar: ... Utensils? Knife and fork? (Mimes knife and fork steak-cutting movement.)

Hotel Clerk: (Horrified) You want to take them upstairs?

Omar: Yeee..yes.

Hotel Clerk: We normally do not allow in the rooms. But I'll get you knife and fork. You will bring them back?

Omar: I will bring them back.

Hotel Clerk: (Reluctantly hands over silverware) Do not forget!

Omar: I won't.

Hotel Clerk: Have a nice day!

Look who else is getting married.

This wedding bug is catching. Daddies: hide your daughters!

Since my lazy ass is too tired to do it right at the moment, here are two entries that are about (or at least write at some length) about the wedding. Rob loved the mariachis (shit, who didn't) and my bro was a fine best man who delivered a wonderful toast that I thought (based on our history as goofballs) was going to be silly, but which was instead sweet and touching. As many in the family noted, it was the most we've ever heard my brother speak at any one time.

I'm back, I'm exhausted, I'm at work, I'm happy.

There are so many things to write about that it exhausts me even more to think of it, but we're safe, things are good and Paris treated us well. (Or as well as it will treat you when you spend way too much in Euros in a country more than happy to take such rich currency from you in plastic and funnymoney.)

While I'm thining about it, I'll just say that we're glad to be back because the lack of beef and all the bread and cheese was really starting to get to us, but we bought lots of clothes and saw lots of sights and shivered at a chateau in the rain and cold. I got just as lost in Bruce Wagner's I'll Let You Go, which after months of trying I finally finished reading on the flight back and through lots of late-night reading in France. How weird is it to be in Paris, but be reading a neo-Dickensian novel set in L.A.? It was very strange indeed and after an incredibly slow start, the book finally won me over about 1/3rd of the way through and didn't let me go (eek, awful punning) until the end. I'm going to try to tackle Still Holding soon.

We arrived home to a full PVR and both sets of parents waiting at the airport, a living room of lovely gifts, lots of photos, memories, peace and a soft, soft bed that I sank into as if I'd never left.

Oh, about that title. Our unofficial mantra through the trip was, "Stoopeed Amahricuhns." As in, "Look at those stoopid Amahricuhns. Tipping their waiter when it eez already included in ze cheque. With their Starter jackets and stoopeed canvas bag with ze Jay and Silent Bob. Why is he so silent, anyway? Because he is a stoopeed Amahricuhn."

And thanks, Rumsfeld, for making our aspect of our trip shitty -- by making people think we were going to put them in pyramid stacks and put women's underwear on their heads whenever they found out we were from here. They loved us for that, Rummy.