As if sensing that I needed validation for my post where I claim Ryan Phillippe’s son would rather be the offspring of a pizza delivery driver, Us Weekly brings us news that Ryan bawled and cried like a little girl after his divorce from Reese Witherspoon:
“I was a physical wreck. I wanted to die…. I was ready to kill myself. I was not taking care of myself at all. I would wake up and cry and vomit.”
However, the experience has made Ryan Phillippe a better actor. He can now cry on cue:
“Now, it’s fucking easy,” he says. “When I was younger, I didn’t have enough to cry about. But since I’ve had kids, I feel my work has become better, because my life is fuller and more complicated, and I’ve experienced so many highs and lows.”
Alright, let’s talk about crying. If a man’s seeing a beautiful woman naked for the first time and tears fill his eyes; not very cool. Perhaps he’d cry less if it were a dude. If he’s been shot in the stomach and probably going to die, it’s marginally acceptable to cry but frowned upon. There’s really only one acceptable time for a grown man to cry, and that’s when one of those Ewoks dies in Return of the Jedi. I mean, not that I do or anything. So what if they’re just cute, innocent little teddy bears that live in trees and want to blow stuff up. That doesn’t get to me. *sniff* No, man, I’m a castle of manliness. *sniff* Excuse me, I’m going to curl up in the fetal position for a little while and, uh, think about how much I love girls and steaks. And fixing tanks with my shirt off. Yeah, all that stuff I just said.