Welcome to the worst week of my life, pop-culturally speaking.  First, Bones went and broke my heart.  After a day of mourning, I’ve decided this wasn’t the worst that could happen — Booth and Brennan could have hooked up, and then the tension would be gone, and then the show would be over, and then what am I gonna do with my life?  (Get one of my own?  Maybe.)

But then there’s Indy 4.  If I could control the world with my thoughts, Indy 4 would never have happened, and George Lucas would never be allowed to create/ruin anything ever again.  But it exists, and worse than that, I went to see it.  For someone who totally lacks self-control, I’m usually pretty good at avoiding terrible sequels (I’ve never seen Speed 2 or read Buttercup’s Baby, the “bonus chapter” in one of my copies of The Princess Bride, because I see no reason to sully perfection), so I’m still not sure why I went to this.  It was like watching a beloved childhood pet or (more accurately) babysitter getting shot in the head.  I didn’t cry once, although my jaw did the quivering thing a lot and at the end, Andy turned to me and said, “I now know what it’s like to watch you die.”  So I guess I know why he went to see it.

I left the theater feeling detached, like I was surprised I didn’t die right along with my childhood.  Nothing can faze me now.

(Except of course if Mr. Lucas goes ahead with his plan to make an Indy 5 about Shia LaBeouf’s character instead of Indy. If that happens, I’m boycotting movies made after 1995.)

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