Oh man - Adrien Brody is totally channeling my creepy downstairs neighbor in this picture. That guy who stands around all day smoking cigarettes (I think they're Old Golds - fucker doesn't have a job) and rambling about Stendhal. I don't think he's ever read Stendhal. I don't think he knows who Stendhal is. Neither do I, but that's doesn't really matter - I'm not the one rambling about him (or her). That look on Beyonce's face is the exact same one I always get when that goof tries to rope me into a conversation - about Stendhal. "No habla. No habla." He knows good and well I'm not Mexican. I don't look remotely Mexican. I drive a car manufactured after 1983. You'd think the fucker would get the hint eventually, but no. He's always there outside his door with his Old Golds and his dirty beard with the crumbs caught in it and his robe falling open. And his little dog yipping at me yip yip yip. I hate that cocksucker.