Last week, in talking about the movie Mister Lonely, I referenced my favorite Harmony Korine story:
I had a friend of a friend who supposedly hung out with Harmony Korine (doubt it, I’m probably a liar and don’t even have any friends), and my favorite apocryphal story was that after Donkey-Boy, Harmony Korine got too into drugs and ended up burning his house in Connecticut to the ground, and the only possession he had left was a Polaroid of himself smoking crack with Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Even if it’s not true (it can’t be true), it is the best.
I’ve always just assumed that this story, while amazing and the best story, was nonsense. That’s why I was surprised to read this in the New York Times yesterday:
At some point, Mr. Korine said, “I lost interest, not just in films but in life. It was never the intention to become the center of attention. The people around me, the social stuff, the narcotics — it was just like, what the hell happened?” He seemed to be cheating death, and not just with drugs: he survived two house fires, first in Connecticut and then in Queens. “The first one I don’t know what happened,” he said. “The second one was my fault. I fell asleep smoking.”
He burned two houses down. One of them in Connecticut. Wait, wait. Imagine this. Imagine that the friend of a friend got the details wrong, and that it was after the Queens house fire that he was left with nothing but a Polaroid of himself smoking crack with Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Because after two house fires in a matter of months, you’re down to only a few prized possessions/Polaroids at that point. Man, I’m going to become like Julia Roberts in I Love Trouble and dedicate my life to this shit. Or someone could just send me a scanned copy of the Polaroid and we could all move on with our lives.