Enough with the Uppity

I saw an exceedingly average movie yesterday--"World War Z"--a zombie-filled twitch fest made surprisingly palatable by the chiseled chin and ice blue eyes of Brad Pitt (although, really, he could have used a nice cut and style).  It was a tense, exciting and ultimately forgettable flick, making it a fine way to pass a summer afternoon.

Back in the early and mid 80s, I tried really hard to make room for some high-brow culture.  I really wanted to say profound things about 'The Seventh Seal," even though it scared the heck out of me. Back then,  I choked down platefuls of albums by harpists and sitar players, hipsters and divas.  But they always kept coming back up in the middle of the night.

Eventually, I just gave up trying to fit in with the In Crowd and shuffled my way back in line with the other commoners, our mouths agape, ready to be fed the next piping-hot pop-culture entree.

"Mmmmm, I'm detecting synthy notes of "Wham" married with a subtle undertone of Finger Lickin' Good!"

Gone is the 30-year-old shame of being caught with my hand in the Target till.  No more do I preface my weekend recollections with "Well, the Underground was closed for a private party." Even better than having to frame my experiences in apologies, I don't even have to bother recalling them at all, mostly because they are already forgotten.

I had long-ago hints that such forgettable fare was a good fit for me.  Back in the disaster-laden 70s, when a kid could watch Shelly Winters swell up and explode like a beached whale ("Poseidon Adventure," 1972) and O.J. Simpson bust a fiery move on the 13th floor of a flaming skyscraper ("The Towering Inferno," 1974), I could step outside the theater and no sooner get my pupils back in order when I realized I had absolutely no detailed recollection of what I'd just seen.

There are times, it seems, when synapses are over valued.  And, while I'm at it, there are also times when it just isn't worth the work of impressing others.

And so, I'm glad I went to that mediocre movie yesterday. The seats were comfy, the theatre was dark and cool, I got to spend two hours with my man, I enjoyed a smuggled-in Cookie Company ET cookie and I didn't have to bother with all the details.  Like the plot line, for example.

I may not be able to regale you with the clever twists and turns of "World War Z," but I've still got the stubs to prove I was there.  And, for me, that is enough.