For days I’ve been on an Ethan Hawke marathon. Pouring over pictures, reading passages from his novels, and watching a daily diet of his films. I pretend to friends that this is a real chore. Secretly, I’ve been a virtual shut-in on a dopamine drip. For a moment last night, my DVD of Antoine Fuqua’s Training Day turned frozen and I felt my body go limp and mouth the words, “do not fuck with my delivery system.” Looking over his history of films is a little like revisiting my own past, certain actors you can’t help but grow up with. I never had a poster of Mr. Hawke over my bed, or a t-shirt of his smoldering face with ETHAN emblazoned below, or a doll-size version of him in my knapsack.