...That I couldn't share before.

Janney + Bateman = Awesome.

More from Ain't it Cool News.

Arrested Development fans, feel free to spooge yourselves now!

I have found it.

I am currently accepting a very important call on my hamburger phone at Sea-Tac Airport.

What's that, Mr. Murnau? Oh, I promise to emote convincingly in your picture!

Yesterday was Day 3 of the shoot (for those of you who must "quantify") and it was Movie Camp Supreme. We got to do an "effects" (read: destruction) shot depicting a federal offense, and Olivia Thirlby dedicated the first swing of her crowbar to a certain moon-eyed writer. As I stood in the unceasing B.C. drizzle and watched our gal bash the shit out of a prop, I didn't think the moment could improve. But then J.K. Simmons suddenly materialized at my side, and it did.

I'm on my way back to Minnesota (hence the airport) but with any luck, I'll be back in Vancouver soon enough. After almost two weeks of convoluted travel, a flu, and very little organization, I'm totally Raggedy Ann-ing it. I was out until 3:30 last night watching a covers band acquit the Killers at a ridiculous club called Roxy. Perhaps that wasn't the wisest decision on the night before an 11-hour travel day, but it was worth it if only to learn that Canadian cocktails are not very efficient. It took a lot of drinks to bring down this horse, is what I'm saying.

I rode to the airport with Reitman today, and I had to thank him for handling every shot with such loving, obsessive intuition and care. I'd compare the experience to raising a child with someone and realizing that even though you naturally anticipated he'd be a great parent, it's breathtaking how good he is with her.

My friend Russ Smith punked me pretty good about an hour ago. He passed me his Crackberry and said "There's someone who wants to talk to you." I blithely accepted the phone, figuring it was a studio-type person. But it was JOHN MALKOVICH! Calling from AFRICA!

I mean, I figured I'd meet the guy eventually, seeing as he's a producer on this picture. But surprise-Malkovich (as opposed to scheduled Malkovich) was so bracing, so thrilling, like a headlong plunge into a churning sea.

And what did I say to conclude the call? What do you suppose ol' Idiot-Wind said?

"Have fun in Africa!"

I felt like Baby after she first meets Johnny Castle. "I carried a watermelon?"

You heard me. There are five (5) pairs of prosthetic testes being utilized in our production today. All because some deranged pervert (me) wrote a scene about adolescent crotch-watching.

Here's a picture, snapped on my unwieldy laptop, that shows but a hint of the tantalizing chaos outside. We trucked in snow! I MADE WEATHER.

Apologies to everyone who tried to email me or call me on my Sidekick yesterday, as it refuses to pick up a signal on location. On location. I think I'll abuse that phrase flagrantly. "YES, ACTUALLY I HAVE TRIED ORANGE MENTOS. I BELIEVE IT WAS AT CRAFT SERVICES, ON LOCATION".

Honestly, which is less noxious: a.) freaking out about something fuck-awesome or b.) pretending to be to cool to care? I hope you chose a.) because I'm incapable of b.)

The shoot was/is one of the weirdbeautifulest spectacles ever. I was doing a really good job of not crying until transport actually pulled up to the first location, where Reitman was already shooting. I saw Ellen sitting in her chair in the rain. Then Michael Cera came out of the house in his gold shorts and everything got very foggy all of a sudden.

It was a long day (I can't even imagine how long it felt for the crew, seeing as I was basically motionless with shock the entire time) and it's about to start again. Which means I have to move my dimpled ass into the shower and sift through my filthy laundry for an outfit I can recycle.

Why yes, I DO have a champagne flute embossed with the (temporary) Juno logo! Look at my crazy eyes. I probably looked like that all day.

I neglected to pack the charger for my digital camera, which means I will be capturing some of the most important images of my life on one of those yellow tourist disposables. I feel like my wife is in labor and I forgot the massage oil. And the ice chips, and the pom-poms.

Hopefully, the poor quality of the resulting pictures will seem charming. Like the faded '70s relics in the Stride-Rite box under Mom's bed. Also, the non-digital format will mean I'll have to think long and hard before violating anyone's privacy on this blog. I mean, I'll have to get a scanner. Ud!*

*How Peanut used to say "Ugh."

I'm leaving for the (reportedly freezing and rainy) set in a half hour. Paulie Bleeker's house is Location #1; for those of you who don't know who Paulie Bleeker is, I hope we can remedy that soon. Everyone should know Paulie Bleeker.

I don't typically care about Valentine's Day-- every day is horribly romantic in my head, probably because I'm hitched to a stud-- but this is the best Valentine ever.

It's Juno Eve, ladies and germs.

Speaking of germs, I endured the wrath of a brutal stomach bug today. Forceful vomiting + sewer ass = a lost Tuesday. I spent the entire afternoon in bed, nibbling room service toast and watching bad Canadian daytime TV. Tomorrow is going to be different. Actually, I don't know if anything will be the same again. Maybe that sounds cornball, but I mean it on multiple levels.

I felt such tenderness watching "the kids" rehearse today. They're so smart.

And now, for all you lovebirds, an early Valentine's Day treat courtesy of Vh1:

"I'm really feeling the fuck out of this nerd." - New York, I Love New York

(Disclaimer: I realize that many of my readers are genuine Canucks who are already familiar with these mouthwatering perversions. Please forgive my enthusiasm/xenophobia. Also, please stop putting loons on your currency. Loons are the official bird of Minnesota. We don't have much. Leave us our loons. Leave us our loons!)

While I was in Vancouver (City of Mist!) on Wednesday, we stopped at the small market where Juno will purchase--and subsequently befoul--her first pregnancy test. There were a bunch of us there, traveling Almost Famous-style on a big tour bus. While Jason lined up shots and convened with the D.P., I became distracted by the bounty of retarded Canadian snack foods in the aisles. When it comes to foreign foodblogging, I'm no Elyse Sewell-in-Taipei or nothin'. But you'll take what you can get, won't you?

Hm. Doritos make the shortlist of Things I'm Surprised Would Appeal to Francophones. I'm not saying that just because a person speaks French they can't enjoy a fluorescent shingle of MSG. We fat, monolingual Americans don't have a patent on hypertension. But still: mordant? If I wasn't so damned cultured, I'd think they were telling me my chippies were corrosive.

Hello, nurse! I'll be courting this soft-serve beauty in my dreams. What you're seeing is a half-gallon sundae with an enticing peek-a-boo window on the lid. This is the sluttiest frozen novelty ever; even the logo seems to shimmy and undulate. JEZEBEL! GET THEE BACK!

Show me this and Dirty Dancing on TBS and I'll show you a party. P.S. There is no reason we shouldn't have this product in America. They could market it as a single-serving item.

At home or abroad, Old Dutch can always be counted on to offer the freakiest potato chip flavors. When I went off to college in Iowa, I discovered Old Dutch's Dill Pickle variation, which remains my favorite potato-based chip to this day. But seriously: b-b-bacon? I suppose these could be kind of sickeningly awesome stacked on a cheeseburger. The "crispy" modifier is so unnecessary here--could a potato chip really approximate the taste of soggy bacon? I'd like to see them try.

What a bossy confection! It's like your mother, only with nougat. A Canuck from Juno art department informed me that the Eat-More is like the original PowerBar. Apparently, they're packed with triathlete fuel or something. Doesn't change the fact that it's trying to tell me what to do. Fuck you, Eat-More. Just for that, I'm going to subsist on snow peas and water until March.

I apologize for the shitty image quality. All you need to know is that these are "roast" chicken-flavored potato chips, brought to you once again by the lunatic opium fiends at Old Dutch. I find these gruesome, probably because I'm picturing a wild-eyed Old Dutch employee pouring liquified chicken fat into a tub of potato sludge. I also can't think of a time I would be in the mood for these. Crushed elegantly atop ramen noodles, perhaps?

More fun stuff later. I'm off to the Valley to have dinner and sing "Free Falling" as I drive down Ventura Boulevard.

Two days ago? Minnesota, freezing my labes off.
Yesterday: Vancouver, bursting into tears when I saw the art department.
Today: Los Angeles, listening to disco and drinking Absolut Pears.
Tomorrow: Here. Disco. Pears.
Saturday: Back in Vancouver.

What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to acheive. (Canadian snack-blog forthcoming!)