Notwithstanding, Michael Cera is the nuts

Twee, as a musical genre, also as a word, really, is pretty much indefensible. It's precious, tinny, poorly-produced saccharine tripe that will rot your teeth in mere seconds. And yet, here I sit, a few days after Wife and I saw Juno, feverishly downloading Kimya Dawson and the Moldy Peaches. I don't have to steal anything by Tilly and the Wall - so cutesy their percussion comes from a tap dancer - because my iPod is already stocked with them. The sight of Michael Cera and Ellen Page harmonizing to "Anyone Else But You" provoked Wife's gag reflex - although 38 weeks of pregnancy didn't help - and compelled me to dream of simpler times, when none of the girls over whom I obsessed knew anything about good music, let alone how to play an instrument, and how much cooler it would have been if they did.

Cheesy? Um, a little. Embarrassing? Thoroughly. So why am I posting this information here of all places, where you can all read and mock me?

Because it's not my fault. It's the Fetus. All of a sudden sentimentality is acceptable to me? What's that about? I'm supposed to root for couples to get together at the end of movies, instead of one of them turning out to be a zombie? Somehow I got roped into watching Love Actually, and some guy in the movie proclaims his love for his best friend's wife, and everyone watching with me - Wife, Brother A, and the Minyan Makers - seemed to think this was sufficient. And I argued - ARGUED, vehemently - that he should have pursued her further, that he was pussing out.

Who gives a gigantic Indian food crap? It's cheesy nonsense! I should have been rooting for more boobs, or for someone to be revealed as an alien, or maybe a brainwashed assassin. But no, I'm getting upset because I didn't get closure. And this is Fetus' fault.

And don't think this will be the first thing I'll blame on the little sucker. If you see me months from now, and I'm critiquing, expertly, an inferior stroller or swaddling blanket (and admitting I know what swaddling blankets are for), it won't be my fault. Fetus - soon to be renamed Baby - has already sucked the cool from my brain. It's disappeared into the gaping maw of Wife's ever-distending belly button.

For those of you who cluck your tongues, and remember certain events that might suggest the Fancy Pants were always and forever somewhat substantially less than cool, let me remind you that I know where all the bodies are buried. I know who Amanda was, and what she did By Night. I remember clearly Mrs. S' unnatural and startling fixation on a certain large, uncouth, spaghetti-making golfer. So keep your snickers to yourself, if you know what's good for you.