He’d like to just let the whole thing go, but then, why did he allow a journalist into his apartment on a Saturday afternoon to discuss it at all?
“The biggest joke of all is that the fact that when this article comes out, it will only make things worse,” Mr. Cross said, laughing. “That’s the ultimate punchline … You can give me this opportunity and this context … but it’s gonna go on and then people will talk about this fucking thing.” (Especially since the Observer‘s website has comments.) Mr. Cross even has a suggestion for the accompanying art: “Please make it an illustration of [me with] a big head, just tears, ‘boo-hoo!’ and a stack of money.”
Participating in his own ongoing evisceration aside, Mr. Cross knows this tempest in a comment section will die down eventually and he can get back to work and, when he has time, spend some weekends in the House That Alvin Bought.
As he described the place in his now infamous posting, it’s “Nothing fancy, a small cottage on at least a couple of acres near some water where I could get out of here, get some fresh air, buy a smoker, make some b-b-q and hang out with my dog on the porch … best of all it’s in the middle of nowhere. No town, no nothing. Two hours outside the city and only about a ten minute drive from the Delaware River. Perfect.”
Reading that description and knowing that his fans’ online attacks are pinged directly to him in almost-real time via Google Alerts sent to his wireless device (“that’s really being a glutton for punishment,” Mr. Cross conceded, calling the alerts “pure vanity”), the Observer wondered whether Mr. Cross ever felt, well, lonely. (It was the Barbara Walters moment: Time for the funnyman to cry on cue.) “Definitely,” he said. “That’s why I’ve got Ollie. And Zoloft.”
So now you know: If an you’re an actor and comic who does the occasional Hollywood work and you need a friend, get yourself a dog.