There are a lot of things I get tired of -- people who spit in the streets, swearing in front of kids, waiting for the cannibalism to break out on Jericho. And one of the things most likely to make me roll my eyes back in my head is the tiresome, never-ending self- congratulation of the Baby Boom generation. Yes, yes, we get it -- you were really special, you truly were. If by 'special,' you mean 'numerous and annoying and in love with your own mythos.' I mean, I saw Bobby at Toronto; I fell into a bored, listless coma, snapped to attention only by the musical-hallucination number (and God, I wish I were kidding) featuring Ashton Kutcher in a bad hippie wig saying 'No, you shut up. ..." over and over to an orange. To an orange. I got up and walked out, figuring that anyone with a shred of self-awareness would recognize it for what it was -- yet another round of Hollywood's aging leftist dinosaurs, Liberalsaurus Rex, dislocating their own shoulders to pat themselves on the back. But then I read San Francisco Chronicle reviewer Mick LaSalle calling Bobby " ... one of the year's best films." (In the interests of disclosure, I know Mick, see him all the time at screenings, and he's one of the warmest, brightest and most considerate guys you could ever meet. But then again, he also thought Click was one of the year's best films.) I don't know if people are flocking to see Bobby -- Rotten Tomatoes has it at a paltry 44% "Fresh" rating, and the box office is abysmal; it's made six million dollars in 12 days on 1,600 screens. At the same time, I know it's going to be crammed down our throats this awards season -- and hey, if everyone who was in it votes for it, it might actually have a shot. That's one good thing about a movie with such a nonsensically huge cast, I guess: When you've made a miserable failure, at least you have lots of company.

Have you seen Bobby?

J.