Michael Jackson put a voodoo curse on Spielberg. I wonder what constitutes bad luck for Spielberg? Tripping over piles of cash in his den that he didn't have room for anywhere else? Major champagne spill in the hot tub? There's no word on how the rest of us can get Jackson to send some bad voodoo our way. Spabooks? Is that like Spizz-ooks or something? Can't this man be stopped? I guarantee you that nose ain't prosthetic, though. Any second grade art class clay session could work up something better than that.