Tuesday, June 17, 2003


I saw "Hollywood Homicide" and throughout this atrocious film, all I could think about was how the people in 'Nam felt in the P.O.W. camps. I was contemplating whether killing myself would end the pain that much quicker. The only hope I had was seeing the day when I would watch the end credits. Oh, those end credits possessed such glorious, drool-inducing hope. The kind of hope that keeps you warm on those cold, air-conditioned afternoons in the office where the maintenance people have a really hard time distinguishing between -43 degrees Fahrenheit and 70 degrees Fahrenheit.

Harrison, how could you have done this to me? How could you have raped my eyes with a visual crime as heinous as "Hollywood Homicide?" How could you have fooled some of the critics who actually told me (not personally, but am I not the only person who reads Slate.com?) that this movie was ok, albeit a summer-blockbuster-ok?

And to be honest, I expected nothing--NOTHING, I TELL YOU!--from Josh Hartnett. After all, he is the man, the eye candy, the shallow "hunk" that gave us "40 Days and 40 Nights" which had Noah--I assure you--rolling in his grave. Harrison, Harrison, Harrison. You once had charm. You once had talent, the ability to make a wisecrack out of the smirking side of your mouth and then make me laugh. LAUGH! Ha ha hahah. Like that. But not this time. Instead, I cried tears of frustration. Of anger. Of pain and rejection. Because you rejected me, the audience, and told me that my $10 was all you needed from me. Not my pleasure. Not my cinematic fulfillment. You wanted none of that. You wanted to sit at home on 72nd and Central Park West with Calista and count your bank account which included my hard-earned $10, forced out of me like an elementary school bully steals lunch money. You are that bully, Harrison. Yes, you. And I am the nerdy kid who has just made in his pants.

I hope you can sleep at night knowing that I will never be able to see Indy or Han in the same light anymore. Because they were so tremendous then, bigger than any movie screen could contain. But last night your character was so small, I had to squint to see him. With my thick lenses in my "trendy" "alternative" glasses, I had to squint.

I want my $10 back, Harry. And one day I will get it. I will show up at your house and I will knock on the door and I will say, Harrison, I am Arye.
And you will say, who the hell are you?
And I will say, I want my ten dollars back for "Hollywood Homicide."
And then you will say back, you saw that trash?
At least, that's what I hope you'll say. I have to believe in that. I have to because you're an icon of my childhood and if you're taken away then what's to say the rest of the world won't slip away as well?

Christopher Reeves is paralyzed.
Mark Hammill is doing voice-overs for a Pamela Anderson cartoon called "Striperella (no, seriously)."
Mr. T has cancer.
Todd Bridges is in jail.
And the Hulk looks more like Shrek (and Lou Ferrigno could easily kick his ass).
I need you to be better in the future, Harrison. Dump Calista (she forced you to do this, didn't she?) and do some credible indie flick. Pull a Pulp Fiction/Travolta (but do not, I repeat, do not accept any romantic comedies about an angel that comes to Earth). Do it because you can. Because you must. Because I need to sleep again with the comfort of knowing all is well and that you will finally be at peace with my $10. And that sacrifice, that financial sacrificial lamb was necessary to get to a better place.

Need I bring up your line when you said "you have the right to remain silent," as you began to make out with your girlfriend. And she said back, "You've been a naughty cop. No donuts for you."
I mean, who writes this crap? Fabio?

[My apologies to Jenny who was mentally violated last night, as well. Misery indeed loves company and it apparently also likes frequenting the Loews in Union Square]


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