One resounding truth about guys in the movies is this: They don’t last. Five years ago I was fantasizing about dinner with, oh, Mel Gibson (I know, I know. Terrible taste). Or Jason Statham (even worse). While on-screen, these guys did what they do best, which is offing evil-doers in crowded public venues or on congested freeways. They were cute and brutal and exciting and they could hold a drink or 10. What would it be like to hang out with these guys? Would they like Lobster Thermidor? What if they wanted to go to Hooters instead? These urgent ponderings yielded a lot of joy for me.

Then time goes by, and although the exact same guys are doing the exact same things, somehow their charm fades. As fantasy date material, their shelf life ends, and though it hurts, you cut them off and move on.

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