Yesterday, Rockford and I got a babysitter and went to the movies (and then to the grocery store, because we’re cool like that). I’m not sure what the last movie we went to was, but I think it might have been “The Chronicles of Narnia” two days after Christmas. If you know us, you know that’s crazy talk. Four months without a visit to the theater?

Anyway, we joined our friends Monica and Amy to see “The Matador” at our local funky downtown theater. We donated our ’70s-era, orange couch to the theater awhile back and were hoping to get a chance to sit on it one more time. It’s in the very front row, though, which is a little too close for comfortable movie-watching. But here’s a brief exchange from the people who did sit on it, while they were standing behind me in line for the bathroom at intermission:

Mom (I’m guessing, anyway), gently holding daughter’s hand: Do you want some soup?
Teenager: I can’t even think right now.

Shortly before the movie restarted, the girl walked in with a bowl of soup, so I guess things had mellowed for her. Good for you, Girl Who Sat On My Couch Eating Soup And Watching A Movie. (Hey, I’ve done that before!)

So. “The Matador.” Rockford is much better at this review-writing thing (and I’m still hoping to get him to post his thoughts, but he keeps yammering about “packing” and “moving” so I’m not sure he’ll get around to it), so I’ll keep it short.

Pierce Brosnan, you are so much better than those silly James Bond movies. What were you thinking, squandering yourself on that? Oh, you were thinking about the very big paychecks? Well, OK then. I can see that.

And you, Greg Kinnear, I think I love you just a little bit. You’re so cute and nerdly, just like my Rockford.

“The Matador” is funny and sad and touching. But it does have some R-ratedness to it, so have your eye-covering pillow at the ready.