Friday, February 29, 2008

What Is that In Kryptonian Years, Anyway?

Little known fact:

Long ago, in Julie Schwartz's "Answer Man" letter columns, we learned that Superman's birthday was on February 29th - meaning that Superman only had a birthday once every four years! Apparently, this is Superman's equivalent birthday according to the Earth calendar; Krypton's calendar was slightly different, with eighteen Kryptonian years for every twenty-five years on Earth. Presumably, Superman also has a Kryptonian date for his birth that he celebrates, just as Jewish children have a birthday in the Hebrew calendar. Make of that what you will.

Happy birthday, Kal-El!

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Court Sighed

It seems New York attorney John Eardley was shut down yesterday in his attempts to prove Britney Spears is being held captive, and that her conservatorship case should be heard by a federal judge. No one could figure out what angle this guy was working, but it obviously didn't work. People reports:

"Mr. Eardley fails to explain why he can bring this claim for her in the
first instance. He cannot," Gutierrez said in his three-page ruling. "Mr.
Eardley had no authority to remove the case from state court. He is neither a
party nor a defendant. While he claims to be Ms. Spears's attorney, the probate
court ... found that she was incapable of retaining her own counsel."

Britney's legal conundrum is so ridiculous that the judge could file a ruling stating, "So I communicated to Mr. Eardley: 'Dude, what the fuck? Your shit makes no sense and I ain't got time for no jibber-jabber.'" This once again proves that Mr. T should handle any and all legal cases. Fool.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Planet Earth Is Blue And There's Nothing I Can Do

Pet Peeks are torture devices for dogs that make them look like space cadets. They consist of an acrylic plastic bubble you install in the fence so your pet can see out. They cost $30 apiece and make me sad. I'm not really convinced that a Pet Peek is better than your dog just not knowing what's happening on the other side of the fence. I mean, at least you don't have to wipe dog snot off a good old-fashioned hole.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Video Killed The Video Stars

So, I posted Shock the Monkey a couple days ago. It's my favorite video evah... but that's actually not why I posted it. But posting it made me think to myself: "Self," I thought. "You should post more videos from your formative years... if for no other reason than to ease this burden of posting something that requires any kind of effort every single day." So, in the spirit of doing less work, and spreading the joy that was the analog-to-digital age... here you go.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

I'll Show You The Life Of The Mind

I've loved these guys since I watched Blood Simple on HBO with my dad in... what? 1986?



They're quirky... and so clearly outsiders... yet they know us better than anyone.



They surround themselves with people who go on to great, quirky things themselves. Barry Sonnenfeld, I'm looking right at you. Come back to Pushing Daisies!



They live on the outskirts, yet still, somehow, manage to piss the Academy off less than Woody ever did.



I mean, come on. Two words: Barton. Fink.



We saw No Country For Old Men immediately upon its release, and I announced that yes, this is the best picture of 2007. That friggin' spoiler There Will Be Blood appeared a few weeks later... but I stuck by my guns (as it were) and to my story that yes, No Country For Old Men would reign supreme. In typical Coen brother fashion, it did... but they didn't crow, or hoot, or holler... their film spoke for itself... while Cormack McCarthy sat in the audience, speaking to no one.



Perfect.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Who Has The Upper Han now?

Ohhhhhh emmmmmm geeeeee do I need this "Han Solo Frozen in Carbonite" desk in a bad, bad way. It was made by Tom Spina Designs for somebody who is much wealthier and cooler than I am. They'll make you one too if you're rich. I'm starting to save today. And by "starting to save" I mean taking a loan out with the intention of buying one of these, but then blowing it all on Transformers and booze. Awesome desk though.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Driver Down

If you read this blog regularly, my love of all things David Lynchian is hardly news. So it shouldn't surprise you that I've watched Lost Highway at least a gazillion times.

I've been thinking a lot about the ending of that film lately. Because no matter where or how you see it, it adds up to exactly this:



See? If you've seen Lost Highway, or if you haven't... or if you drop this scene into the middle of an episode of Hazel or a State of the Union address, it means the same thing:

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

I Find Your Lack Of Face Disturbing

Just when you'd written off every museum but the Exploratorium as a waste of donations and real estate (why is everything in them so damn old?) we learn that apparently they have Darth Vader's helmet on display in the Star Wars exhibit at the Franklin Institute Science Museum.

I'm glad there are pictures of it because I didn't remember it too well from the movie. Sure I can recall the part in Return of the Jedi when Luke takes it off and all, but I was too enamored with the dried and misshapen rutabaga that was Darth Vader's head to notice anything about the helmet. You remember that head?

It looked awful -- kind of like a conehead, but with serious dents and scars. That shit kept me from sleeping for days. And I still can't eat rutabaga.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Summer Of My Glengarry Glen Ross



What? The trailer for Redbelt isn't enough Mamet for you? Here you go. Here. Right here. You go.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Federal (Head)Case

Stop that pigeon now!

Britney Spears' father and attorney Andrew Wallet (hee hee) will continue their conservatorship over Britney until March 10. Yesterday's hearing also placed Britney's brother Bryan into the ongoing legal clusterfuck. People reports:
"Britney's father and Wallet were also granted the power to handle the singer's taxes, and Britney's brother Bryan, 30, was named as a trustee of her trust. According to court papers, trust funds are used "to pay for Britney's continued security, and to pay for her medicine, food, other day-to-day expenses and for psychiatric and other medical services."
Sam Lutfi is still hiding and has yet to be served the now two-week old restraining order. He's rumored to be behind a New York lawyer's attempt to make Britney's legal troubles a federal case, according to an insider for OK! Magazine:
"He's upset because he can't see Britney and have her pay him money," explains the insider. "If Sam gets paid, then he can pay the lawyer and Sands. It's all ludicrous."

As for whether there is any merit to this motion, the insider tells OK!, "I'd be willing to bet that aside from Sam and Sands grandstanding on the courthouse steps, this is the last we hear about it."
I think the federal government has more dire and pressing issues on their plate than worrying about Britney Spears. I'm talking about matters of grave national security... like determining exactly what Roger Clemens injected into his ass. Okay, in hindsight, these dudes have time on their hands. Let's get America's braless sweetheart in front of Congress and pray those old bastards survive the experience... or not.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Mama Tries


"If the whole world were put into one scale, and my mother in the other, the whole world would kick the beam." ~Lord Langdale (Henry Bickersteth)

"A Freudian slip is when you say one thing but mean your mother." ~Unknown

"All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his." ~Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895

"Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What's that suppose to mean? In my heart it don't mean a thing." ~Toni Morrison, Beloved, 1987

"God could not be everywhere, so he created mothers." ~Jewish Proverb

CHARLES

by Shirley Jackson

The day my son Laurie started kindergarten he renounced corduroy overalls with

bibs and began wearing blue jeans with a belt; I watched him go off the first morning

with the older girl next door, seeing clearly that an era of my life was ended, my sweetvoiced nursery-school tot replaced by a long-trousered, swaggering character who forgot to stop at the corner and wave good-bye to me.

He came running home the same way, the front door slamming open, his cap on

the floor, and the voice suddenly become raucous shouting, “Isn’t anybody here?”

At lunch he spoke insolently to his father, spilled his baby sister’s milk, and

remarked that his teacher said we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain.

“How was school today?” I asked, elaborately casual.

“All right,” he said.

“Did you learn anything?” his father asked.

Laurie regarded his father coldly. “I didn’t learn nothing,” he said.

“Anything,” I said. “Didn’t lean anything.”

“The teacher spanked a boy, though,” Laurie said, addressing his bread and butter.

“For being fresh,” he added, with his mouth full.

“What did he do?” I asked. “Who was it?”

Laurie thought. “It was Charles,” he said. “He was fresh. The teacher spanked

him and made him stand in the corner. He was awfully fresh.”

“What did he do?” I asked again, but Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie, and

left, while his father was still saying, “See here, young man.”

The next day Laurie remarked at lunch, as soon as he sat down, “Well, Charles

was bad again today.” He grinned enormously and said, “Today Charles hit the teacher.”

“Good heavens,” I said, mindful of the Lord’s name, “I suppose he got spanked

again?”

“He sure did,” Laurie said. “Look up,” he said to his father.

“What?” his father said, looking up.

“Look down,” Laurie said. “Look at my thumb. Gee, you’re dumb.” He began

to laugh insanely.

“Why did Charles hit the teacher?” I asked quickly.

“Because she tried to make him color with red crayons,” Laurie said. “Charles

wanted to color with green crayons so he hit the teacher and she spanked him and said

nobody play with Charles but everybody did.”

The third day—it was a Wednesday of the first week—Charles bounced a see-saw

on to the head of a little girl and made her bleed, and the teacher made him stay inside all

during recess. Thursday Charles had to stand in a corner during story-time because he

kept pounding his feet on the floor. Friday Charles was deprived of black-board

privileges because he threw chalk.

On Saturday I remarked to my husband, “Do you think kindergarten is too

unsettling for Laurie? All this toughness and bad grammar, and this Charles boy sounds

like such a bad influence.”

“It’ll be alright,” my husband said reassuringly. “Bound to be people like Charles

in the world. Might as well meet them now as later.”

On Monday Laurie came home late, full of news. “Charles,” he shouted as he

came up the hill; I was waiting anxiously on the front steps. “Charles,” Laurie yelled all

the way up the hill, “Charles was bad again.”

“Come right in,” I said, as soon as he came close enough. “Lunch is waiting.”

“You know what Charles did?” he demanded following me through the door.

“Charles yelled so in school they sent a boy in from first grade to tell the teacher she had to make Charles keep quiet, and so Charles had to stay after school. And so all the

children stayed to watch him.

“What did he do?” I asked.

“He just sat there,” Laurie said, climbing into his chair at the table. “Hi, Pop,

y’old dust mop.”

“Charles had to stay after school today,” I told my husband. “Everyone stayed

with him.”

“What does this Charles look like?” my husband asked Laurie. “What’s his other

name?”

“He’s bigger than me,” Laurie said. “And he doesn’t have any rubbers and he

doesn’t wear a jacket.”

Monday night was the first Parent-Teachers meeting, and only the fact that the

baby had a cold kept me from going; I wanted passionately to meet Charles’s mother. On

Tuesday Laurie remarked suddenly, “Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school

today.”

“Charles’s mother?” my husband and I asked simultaneously.

“Naaah,” Laurie said scornfully. “It was a man who came and made us do

exercises, we had to touch our toes. Look.” He climbed down from his chair and

squatted down and touched his toes. “Like this,” he said. He got solemnly back into his

chair and said, picking up his fork, “Charles didn’t even do exercises.”

“That’s fine,” I said heartily. “Didn’t Charles want to do exercises?”

“Naaah,” Laurie said. “Charles was so fresh to the teacher’s friend he wasn’t let

do exercises.”

“Fresh again?” I said.

“He kicked the teacher’s friend,” Laurie said. “The teacher’s friend just told

Charles to touch his toes like I just did and Charles kicked him.

“What are they going to do about Charles, do you suppose?” Laurie’s father

asked him.

Laurie shrugged elaborately. “Throw him out of school, I guess,” he said.

Wednesday and Thursday were routine; Charles yelled during story hour and hit a

boy in the stomach and made him cry. On Friday Charles stayed after school again and

so did all the other children.

With the third week of kindergarten Charles was an institution in our family; the

baby was being a Charles when she cried all afternoon; Laurie did a Charles when he

filled his wagon full of mud and pulled it through the kitchen; even my husband, when he

caught his elbow in the telephone cord and pulled the telephone and a bowl of flowers off

the table, said, after the first minute, “Looks like Charles.”

During the third and fourth weeks it looked like a reformation in Charles; Laurie

reported grimly at lunch on Thursday of the third week, “Charles was so good today the

teacher gave him an apple.”

“What?” I said, and my husband added warily, “You mean Charles?”

“Charles,” Laurie said. “He gave the crayons around and he picked up the books

afterward and the teacher said he was her helper.”

“What happened?” I asked incredulously.

“He was her helper, that’s all,” Laurie said, and shrugged.

“Can this be true about Charles?” I asked my husband that night. “Can something

like this happen?”

“Wait and see,” my husband said cynically. “When you’ve got a Charles to deal

with, this may mean he’s only plotting.” He seemed to be wrong. For over a week

Charles was the teacher’s helper; each day he handed things out and he picked things up;

no one had to stay after school.

“The PTA meeting’s next week again,” I told my husband one evening. “I’m

going to find Charles’s mother there.”

“Ask her what happened to Charles,” my husband said. “I’d like to know.”

“I’d like to know myself,” I said.

On Friday of that week things were back to normal. “You know what Charles did

today?” Laurie demanded at the lunch table, in a voice slightly awed. “He told a little

girl to say a word and she said it and the teacher washed her mouth out with soap and

Charles laughed.”

“What word?” his father asked unwisely, and Laurie said, “I’ll have to whisper it

to you, it’s so bad.” He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father

bent his head down and Laurie whispered joyfully. His father’s eyes widened.

“Did Charles tell the little girls to say that?” he asked respectfully.

“She said it twice,” Laurie said. “Charles told her to say it twice.”

“What happened to Charles?” my husband asked.

“Nothing,” Laurie said. “He was passing out the crayons.”

Monday morning Charles abandoned the little girl and said the evil word himself

three or four times, getting his mouth washed out with soap each time. He also threw

chalk.

My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the PTA

meeting. “Invite her over for a cup of tea after the meeting,” he said. “I want to get a

look at her.”

“If only she’s there.” I said prayerfully.

“She’ll be there,” my husband said. “I don’t see how they could hold a PTA

meeting without Charles’s mother.”

At the meeting I sat restlessly, scanning each comfortable matronly face, trying to

determine which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them looked to me haggard

enough. No one stood up in the meeting and apologized for the way her son had been

acting. No one mentioned Charles.

After the meeting I identified and sought out Laurie’s kindergarten teacher. She

had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate cake; I had a plate with a cup of tea

and a piece of marshmallow cake. We maneuvered up to one another cautiously, and

smiled.

“I’ve been so anxious to meet you,” I said. “I’m Laurie’s mother.”

“We’re all so interested in Laurie,” she said.

“Well, he certainly likes kindergarten,” I said. “He talks about it all the time.”

“We had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so,” she said primly, “but now

he’s a fine helper. With occasional lapses, of course.”

“Laurie usually adjusts very quickly,” I said. “I suppose this time it’s Charles’s

influence.”

“Charles?”

“Yes,” I said, laughing, “you must have your hands full in that kindergarten, with

Charles.”

“Charles?” she said. “We don’t have any Charles in the kindergarten.”

Friday, February 15, 2008

Curling Q&A

My friends, there is a dilemma right now facing all soulless television executives.


Now that reality TV has explored everything from "You'll Listen to Whatever Crap We Feed You" (American Idol), to "You're a Fucking Liar: The Series" (Moment of Truth), to "My Dad Can Kill Your Dad" (I think that's actually what it's called), where do you go from there? NBC, falling quickly behind Fox in terms of depravity entertainment, think they have the answer: comedically boring sports.

The network has confirmed that they have rights to a 10-episode curling competition, Rockstar Curling, in which winners get a shot at competing in the national championship. Curling, like the thing with rocks and brooms that no one seriously watches? That's the one.


"This show is all about the opportunity to expose American viewers to
curling," said Colin Campbell, Canadian president of mktgpartners and one of the
creators of the show. "We feel there might be some great athletes out there who
might develop into good curlers given the chance."

I know what you're thinking. When even the best curlers--whoever they might be--are complete unknowns in the U.S., where does the "Rockstar" aspect come in, you wonder? I'm glad you asked. NBC hopes to get rumored "closet curlers" Bruce Springsteen or Jon Bon Jovi in on the action, possibly as the host. Whether or not they succeed in this mission, Wanted Dead or Alive will forever be tainted by the knowledge that Jon Bon Jovi may have been riding his steel horse to a curling tournament. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Button, Button

So who wants to go halvsies (or thirdies/fourthies/etc.) with me?




I've always wanted an underground missile base from which I could rule the wor-- I mean, throw wicked rave parties. For rent or lease is the former Larson Air Force Base Complex 1A Titan ICBM Facility in Washington state. Prices start at $495/month for a 1200 sq. ft floor in the equipment terminal building and go up to $1,500/month for an entire missile silo (160' tall, 44' in diameter, 150 ton doors). I'm thinking we'll go for a silo. It also says that they'll remodel to suit, so maybe we can get some work done before moving in.

I'm calling right now to see if any missiles are included, and if so then I'm putting down a security deposit immediately. So anybody who wants to move to Washington state and live in a missile silo with me should let me know right away. It's going to be way fun. And lonely. So bring board games. Winner gets to push the launch button.

Monday, February 11, 2008

Mama Tried

Kevin Federline has been beckoned to Fashion Week in New York City by Marc Jacobs and must heed the call. But what about the children? Won't someone think of the children? Oh, phew, Mama Spears is watching them. Wait, whaaaaaaaaaa? E! News reports:

"A source tells E! News that Lynne Spears is supposed to take a break from trash-talking Sam Lutfi and head over to Federline's Valley home to babysit today, which we're guessing is going to stretch through Kevin's visit to the Big Apple."

"(K-Fed's rep has confirmed he is going to the Marc Jacobs show and will be in NYC for one day on business meetings but would not comment on who's caring for the children.)"

I predict that, by the time Lynne is done watching the boys, Jayden will have knocked up two girls on the playground and Sean will have checked in and out of rehab no less than five times (whether he's strung out on smack or Oreos is up for debate). You see, folks, when Lynne Spears shoddily parents, she shoddily parents to the MAX!

Saturday, February 09, 2008

Friday, February 08, 2008

Thursday, February 07, 2008

BS

She's out!

Britney Spears' release from UCLA Medical Center has many people scratching their heads. It turns out that a court-appointed lawyer stepped in and decided that Britney was no longer a danger to herself and others. People reports:

"The procedure calls for a hearing at the hospital to find out whether
the hold is justified. The rep for the court, called a "hearing referee" – who
is usually a lawyer – interviews the patient and doctor to determine if there's
"just cause" for detainment.
"

"This is when law and medicine collide," says attorney Terry K.
Wasserman, who's not involved in the Spears matter, "when a lawyer can override a doctor's opinion."


Britney Spears' parents are obviously none-too-thrilled and issued the following statement last night to the media:
"As parents of an adult child in the throes of a mental health crisis,
we were extremely disappointed this morning to learn that over the
recommendation of her treating psychiatrist, our daughter Britney was released
from the hospital that could best care for her and keep her safe.


"We are deeply concerned about our daughter's safety and vulnerability
and we believe her life is presently at risk. There are conservatorship orders
in place created to protect our daughter that are being blatantly disregarded.
We ask only that the court's orders be enforced so that a tragedy may be
averted."


My sources tell me that, after releasing the statement, a concerned Lynne and Jamie Spears met with Pentagon officials, The Super Friends and that kid from Home Alone who, sadly, forgot his paint buckets. So much for devising a fully functional crisis response.*


*My apologies to anyone whose never watched Home Alone and has no idea what I'm talking about. You also have my sympathy for living what must be a shallow, empty existence. Even if you're a doctor who saves orphans.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

'till It's Over

In today's point-counterpoint, we have on one side the fact that if you brought some sort of audio recording device into Cloverfield, stayed past the credits, recorded the strange voice, then used a program to reverse that audio, you can hear a voice saying, "It's still alive." I assume everyone already did this, but here's the clip if you didn't for some reason.

boomp3.com

On the other side of the argument, we have this image, just updated on the official site:

I have to say, it makes a pretty convincing argument for "not alive."

Monday, February 04, 2008

On A (Bat)Wing And A Prayer

Okay... I'm probably really late to this observation, but this new shot from The Dark Knight is the first where I realized that the latest Batman mask is getting dangerously close to Bibleman territory. He's just a Willie Aames and a prayer away from a lawsuit.

If you've already noted this, I apologize for taking so long to come around.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

Ultra Maroons

Presenting your World-Champion Pottsville Maroons!

On December 6, the Pottsville Maroons defeated the (then) Chicago Cardinals, 21-7, to establish the best record in the league and seemed to all but officially clinch the NFL championship.

Remember, under the league rules during that time, the NFL title was automatically given to the team with the best record at the end of the season instead of having the winner be determined by a playoff tournament. What's more, there was an open-ended schedule during that season; although the final listed league games ended on December 6, teams could still schedule contests against each other through December 20 so they could make more money. Sadly for the Maroons, two things happened: first, the Cardinals hastily scheduled games against two weak teams which had disbanded for the year and second, NFL President Joseph Carr suspended the Maroons for playing the University of Notre Dame All-Stars in Philadelphia (and unbelieveably winning 9-7) on the same day the Frankford Yellow Jackets were scheduled to play a game in Philadelphia, violating Frankford's franchise rights. Although Carr warned the Maroons in writing that they faced suspension if they played the Notre Dame All-Stars in Philadelphia, the Maroons claim that the league office verbally approved the game during a telephone call.

Their victory in Notre Dame was huge for the NFL, which was struggling for acceptance in a nation that held fast to college football, and didn't see the point of these so-called "professional" football players. The arguments -and the victory- didn't matter, though. and Chicago was declared the 1925 champions by default as the result of Pottsville's suspension.

Although the NFL attempted to officially award the 1925 NFL championship to the Cardinals, they refused the title at first. Years later, though, they seem to have no objection to claiming the 1925 championship. You'd think the curse would make them think twice.

The (now) Arizona Cardinals franchise currently holds the NFL record for the longest championship drought, having won only one title since 1925 (in 1947) and only one playoff game in sixty years. Maroons faithful insist to this day that the Cardinals are cursed to wallow in this futility until the NFL returns the 1925 championship to it's rightful, coal-stained place in Pottsville.

Me? I have to say that in an NFL era that legislates parity, there's really no other explanation for the Cardinals perpetual failure. None. It's like the curse is Lucy Van Pelt holding the football for Charlie Brown: sure, he can keep running at it time after time, but at some point he has to learn that there's a better way... right? You listening, Charlie Bidwell? Chuck? You learning yet?

Saturday, February 02, 2008

In For A Pound

When Britney Spears was taken to the hospital early Thursday morning she had her own motorcade which included at least a dozen LAPD officers, a helicopter, and a special mental health unit. Some people consider this a tad excessive, but Ana Aguirre, a spokesperson for the LAPD, says that Britney’s house is practically a tourist attraction with over 100 people camped outside. E! Online reports:

"Another reason for the law enforcement parade: history. The last time
Britney had to go to the hospital—on Jan. 3—the scene got pretty nuts.One
photographer even attempted to jump on top of Spears' ambulance, Aguirre tells
me. "At that point we were out-resourced," Aguirre explains, and the police
didn't want that to happen again."
However UCLA law professor Gary Blasi thinks that a few cops with guns could handle the unarmed paparazzi:

"In terms of equipment, repairs and possible overtime—and whether they had
to do overtime—I would guess [the escort] cost well over $10,000," Blasi says.
"I wouldn't second-guess the tactical needs of the police, but I hope if any of
my friends need emergency transport they can get the same service."
Seriously, the paparazzi aren’t that hard to deal with. I tangle with them every morning. Sure, some might say it’s just a bunch of stuffed animals I put in my yard with disposable cameras and I yell profanities at them until my neighbors call the cops. I fail to see the difference. Those Pound Puppies need to respect my privacy or else I’ll bring the thunder. And by thunder I mean the garden hose.

Friday, February 01, 2008

Thrown To The Curb

What the hell kind of name is "London" for a dog, anyway?

Oh, wait. The point I wanted to make: Britney Spears got into what is assumed to be an argument last night with Sam Lufti. Britney and Sam were pulling up to the gate of her house when Britney jumped out of the car. She appeared to be crying and was clutching her dog London. People reports:
"Wearing brown high heels, cutoff shorts and a plaid fedora, Spears then
seemed to downplay the incident, saying, "I'm fine. I'm . . . having a nice time
with my dog." (She later hopped into a car with another photographer, Filipe
Teixeira, who gave her a lift to Ralph's supermarket in Studio City, before
bringing her home. He and another photographer pal were then invited inside,
where they spent the remainder of the night.)"

After being out of the picture for a while, Adnan Ghalib appeared was not allowed past the gate. The guards had instructions to keep him out. Adnan showed his fellow paps a text from Sam that claims he is a “manic trigger.” Meanwhile, Britney’s parents showed up at the house:


"The family reunion didn't last long, however – as Spears, clutching a bag,
bolted from the mansion, says a source. She hopped into a car with Ghalib and
the two sped off.Their getaway hit a speed bump, however, when their car got a
flat tire. (Spears is no stranger to vehicular malfunction.) The two pulled into
a Chevron to pump air into the deflated tire, then returned to the Summit house
– where mom Lynne, and the two photographers, still waited – at around 11 p.m.
(Ghalib left soon afterward)."


TMZ is reporting Britney’s parents, along with Sam Lufti and Alli Sims, are finally having an intervention with Britney so she’ll get mental help. I hear Sam has already threatened to pee on Britney’s grave and feed her to Satan if she doesn’t listen. He’s, uh, not very good at these things.
NOTE: Britney's wild ride to the hospital yesterday hasn't escaped my notice! Stay tuned!