Hancock

Yesterday at work I rented a water tricycle—in a nutshell, I have one of the best summer jobs working as a 9^th grade algebra math tutor at Mission Bay High School. I work five hours, from 7 a.m. to noon and my job mainly entails pacing around, keeping kids on task, telling jokes, and making sure kids are being challenged by their math. In my downtime, I flirt with the many other cute tutors, drink coffee, tell stories, hang out with the kids, think up clever word problems / math jokes (which rarely get the laughs I feel they deserve), and yes, go to Mission Bay to rent water tricycles and paddle around the bay. Education is definitely the field for me.

I saw Hancock last night and realized several things. First, a quick review: this movie was fantastic for the first thirty minutes, in which we meet Will Smith, who is essentially the black superman with a hilarious drinking problem, stumbling around destroying Los Angeles and catching bad guys while Jason Bateman (Michael Bluth from Arrested Development) convinces him to turn himself into jail and join a 12-step program. Brilliant!

The movie quickly disintegrates into a shoddy love story, clearly put there to appeal to the sentimental saps who want some shallow, drippingly dramatic excuse for a romance which bases itself on complications that a starry-eyed fourteen-year-old girl probably could have come up with after watching Pride and Prejudice. (“We’ll say he’s an angel! And all angels are made in pairs! And they love each other! But they can’t stay close because if they get close they’ll lose their superpowers! It’s like the hedgehogs dilemma and it’s so tragic!” *sob*)

Speaking of the fourteen-year-olds, the Del Mar Highlands shopping center is an absurd place. Kids these days, honestly! What are they wearing? Do these kids look at themselves before they leave their houses? Do they have any concept of their appearance? What is up with these thirteen to fifteen-year-old kids trying to dress as if they are dark, mysterious, badass hobos? It is hard to describe this fashion, but it generally includes tight pants of dark color, some sort of studded belt, a hoodie, terrible posture, and a number of bits of flare meant to emphasize their world-weary, life-hardened nature (ha!)

Not to mention the girls. In fact, I won’t mention the girls. I’ll just say that 1) girls under eighteen should be forced to wear some sort of badge that declares this fact and 2) I hope I never have a daughter.