-I've seen both Frida and The Quiet American in the last two days. Frida continued the annual based-on-an-artist-and-titled-with-one-name movie trend (see Pollock, Iris) by exaggerating all the elements of a biographical subject's life and overlooking unquestionably important events. And now I can safely say that Salma Hayek still can't act. It's as if she's saying (in a thick accent), "Oh my God, id es so muj fun running around wit de cameras on me! Loooog ad me, I'm actin'!"

Michael Caine fared much better in The Quiet American. However the most startling fact remains that Brendan Fraser can actually act. Who knew?

-Last night I engaged in one of my favorite combinations: innebriation and karaoke. After drinking entirely too much, I sang my heart off to the dozens of 40-year-old women in the audience. My friends encouraged me to strip for my fans. I considered it but decided not to because the prospect bore no monetary incentives.

After karaoke, we broke into my restaurant's patio and drank Bud Lite while playing "I Never" and "Truth or Dare." My dare? To strip in the freezing weather and sing the National Anthem.

-I paid the ultimate price for my drunken stupor in my dreams last night. In my dream, I was back in Columbia shopping for a $200 sweater in some unnamed clothing store. The store was empty, save a very rude woman who called me a "ball buster." As I was trying to leave, this woman's cats started attacking me. Now, I mean no offense to my readers who happen to be cat owners, but I really hate cats. And the thought of a bunch of them jumping on me and meowing in my ear really creeps me out. So if I see your cat, I am going to kill him or her. Just a heads up.