Con Air (6/29/97)
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Possessed by that desperation that grips you when you’re standing in the video store looking over the new releases knowing that you simply have to watch something, but that you’ve already seen everything that doesn’t suck, I plucked
Michael from the rack the other evening, lurched home with a mounting sense of foreboding, stuffed the tape into the machine, arranged my Australian shepherds Boris and Natasha on either side of me upon the couch, opened a fresh bag of popcorn, and punched the go-button. And sure enough.
I wonder, accordingly: why hasn’t anyone taken a contract out on Nora Ephron? surely it must have been obvious that after
Sleepless in Seattle it could only go downhill. Maybe it’s expensive, but can’t we take up a collection? mark me down for twenty. And doesn’t anyone care about Travolta? a wife, a girlfriend, an agent, a drug dealer. There must be someone who can chain him in the basement between calls from John Woo.
And why did they have to kill the dog? Even if they brought it back to life, everyone knows: you never kill the dog. Particularly when my dogs are watching the movie with me, but, no matter what, you never kill the dog. Never.
____________New Mexico (6/26/97)
