Failure to Swoon

I have to get something off my chest. It's something rarely spoken of, but it's about time. Let's be real here, folks, and address the elephant in the room that is Tinseltown.

Richard Gere.

Partying like it's 1999

Who finds Richard Gere swoon-worthy? Anyone? I can't remember ever sighing at the end of one of his movies, my heart aflutter, bemoaning the fact that I had yet to find "My Richard Gere."

Maybe he's too feminine-looking? Too peace-loving? Too "I can't tap-dance but hope Chicago audiences won't notice"? Maybe I just don't want to be kissed by someone who looks constipated every time he wants to express his inner thoughts.

I don't think he'd appreciate a good hike. Unless the end destination was the Dali Lama. Or Julia Roberts. And I'm scared that he would break into an awkward English accent if I dragged him to Stratford with me. (I'm ignoring the fact that he's older than my father, mostly because my knees don't exactly buckle at his early flicks either.)

Sigh. I just don't get it.

I didn't know I had a type until today. My type is "Not Richard Gere."

But I do love Joel McHale. And Nicholas Sparks (when Ryan Gosling's involved).

"This movie is literally making me go through menopause...."

I'll concede and admit he's sort of pretty. And I'm thankful that he hasn't injected poison into his face. But that's as far as I go.

Lancelot is no William Wallace.

P.S. Primal Fear is an amazing movie. Gere is given a free pass to be awesome in that one.