Not that I expect the usual roughneck "man's man" archetype out of every single fellow testosterone farmer, and Jeebus knows that when he's on his game, few can match wits with The Ocicat Whisperer. Still, I find it difficult to believe that an adult heterosexual male can spend so much time watching ballet, and is holding out for the sequel to Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (a movie which one assumes had made its point the first time around) over the sequel to a creatively exhausted franchise which has undergone a genuine rejuvenation. Maybe he was kidding. It's hard to tell, which is not a good sign.
I admit to being pretty tired myself of the seemingly endless supply of profound opinions on What Batman Means, one way or t'other, and I haven't even seen the freaking thing yet. It's an action movie based on a comic book; belabored pronunciamentos on its ontological significance might be overthinking it a tad. And yet, reverting to giggly adolescent girlhood had not occurred to me. Surely a Steel Vaginas bonbon-and-comfort-food party can't be far off. Homeslice might want to rent a Harley for the weekend and hit a steakhouse en route to a B&B for a romantic romp with the wife, if only to prevent ending up on the same menstrual cycle as Vageena Hurtz.
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