I could never fully trust someone who doesn’t love Woody Allen films. I have experimented with giving certain people the benefit of the doubt, but in the end, I just find Woody Allen’s movies to be so pee-in-your-pants funny that I become dreadfully uncomfortable by anyone who cannot appreciate at least two of the notable gems ( Manhattan, Love & Death, Annie Hall, and my new favorite, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, to name a few). I was recently on a first date with someone when they told me that they found Vicky Cristina to be “prosaic, full of stereotypes, disappointing in terms of the advertised lesbian sex scene, and not very funny.”

This fellow was neither the desired level of pimp nor the charmingly flawed mimbo, but his comment about Woody Allen put me off the experience like the site of day-old fish in a restaurant in the Mexico City airport. He will have to do something unexpected to redeem himself from this offense—like confess to his love of the original Brideshead Revisited BBC series with Jeremy Irons, but then, the fellow would probably be gay, and that wouldn’t improve matters either.

On a different note—one of unquestioningly good faith: it is the last day of February.

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