Kevin Smith (with wife Jennifer) wants YOU to know how many trips he made to the bathroom today (Photo: Ken Kwok)

Somewhere on the road from minimum-wage nobody to auteur prince of New Jersey, Kevin Smith got it in his head that the minutiae of his life possesses some cultural value beyond its influence on his films. Which are largely overrated to begin with.

This became achingly clear after Cinematical referred The Reeler over to Smith's ViewAskew message board/diary entry addressing the director's stalled Fletch project. I really like not only Michael Ritchie's original film, but also just about every book in Gregory McDonald's Fletch canon, and so there is no reason I should not want to read more, right?

Sure--but like "7,300 words" more? Have things in Kevin Smith's life slowed down so dramatically that he is more inclined to elaborate sketches of poker table prowess, Catch and Release set recollections and blowing off his wife in bed? Is shitting, showering and checking e-mail so potent a gag that it bears such flogging? If Smith died tomorrow, would he really want retarded shit like this among his last published writings?

If you haven't seen (War of the Worlds) already, rush out and peep this flick. ... It's the most tension-inducing flick I've seen since J.F.K. From the moment the lightning strikes my beloved New Jersey, you're sucked into the flick and feeling unsettled. It's so enveloping, I found myself feeling "Christ, this is what it'd be like if aliens came. Never mind E.T. or Close Encounters -- these fucks are all about destruction and extermination. I never want this to happen."

Please, Smith fans, I get the whole "joke" (I guess). But admit it: His so-called "boring-ass life" really is horribly boring, like his wife and kids are boring, his friends are boring and his films after 1997 are boring. Send all the hate mail you want, but just tell me I am wrong about this one thing: You deserve a movie from this guy, not another prattle-opus dispatch from Pony Camp.