Writing has not been good to me this week. Nothing makes sense, words avoid each other like pepper and soap. Posts cross the threshold into an exquisite foyer, saunter into the wondrously dignified main dining room, then fall down the cellar stairs and crack their heads on the boiler. Thank the gods we have contemporary pop culture to perplex us enough to conquer the blank page.
TwoBert and I went to a "ReelMoms" movie this week. Appropriately, the film was WEDDING CRASHERS. Because I am a man, an interloping rooster in the henhouse, stomping around and ruining everyone's fun. That's really why they called it Reel Moms, you know. We men are just a bunch of unkempt horndogs whose sole purpose in life is to spin staggering webs of lies just to get some.
I was apprehensive about having TwoBert to myself for so long, what with all the terrible yelps associated with the teething. But he was a trooper and slept through most of the movie. Oh, how I envied him.
The movie began auspiciously. Vaughn and Wilson riffed well on lines they were born to deliver, and only a few baby shrieks out-decibeled the blaring sound system. But then came the startling hue and cry during the third act. There was discomfort in the ranks, because these babies were bored. Bored, bored, bored by the tedious storyline and the rampant clichés:
- The foul-mouthed, bigoted grandma!
- The slutty, drunken mother!
- The raging asshole fiancé!
- Christopher Walken!
Plus, these babies were appalled once again by the MPAA' s hypocrisy. This is supposed to be an R-rated movie? Just because of some nipples and a few f-bombs? For most of these newborns, that's just another day at the office. And when they grow to 13, they will learn that boobies are filthy and raunchy and must not be viewed in celluloid format for years to come, but they are free to watch Anakin Skywalker get sliced and maimed and burned within an inch of his life. Then, they can fire up the Xbox and pop a few caps in some perp on Grand Theft Auto. (Oops. They can't, because it too has boobies. Pixelated boobies.)
My wife and I have gone to great lengths to show Robert that nudity is no big deal. (It's summertime, after all, and we keep it casual.) All we can do is hope this idea takes root in his mind before our culture of bloodlusting prudes tries to rip it out.
We also hope he never hits on anyone at a ReelMoms event, because cradle cap is a terrible ice-breaker.