I admit I know next to nothing about current popular music. When it comes to recognizing artists and songs, I dropped out somewhere in the 80s. In fact, I have a recurrent nightmare that I’m a contestant on Jeopardy’s Tournament of Champions, and way ahead of my two challengers. Then comes the final Jeopardy category: Today’s Top 50 One-Name Artists. Luckily, I awaken just as I’m about to write Liberace.
Although I have no clue about what is broadcasting through the ear buds of some 16-year-old, I haven’t failed to notice a general escalation in weirdness. It appears that it’s no longer enough to have talent. In fact, talent may not necessarily be required if you have a really good schtick.
(For those uninitiated in Yiddishisms, schtick is a GermanYiddish word that literally means “piece,” but in common usage refers to a gimmick or someone’s signature behavior.)
I consider myself to be a peaceable person. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 representing the highest tolerance for any situation that portends violence, I would rate myself a minus 5.
I’m against the death penalty. I bring a scarf to the movies so I can pull it over my eyes if the background music suggests that something ominous is pending.
I contribute to the ASPCA. I don’t even kill the insects that find their way into my home, but instead, try to shoo them outside. Except for mosquitoes. But I consider that self defense.
I was at a gathering the other day when I overheard a remark that caused me to commit an impulsive act. I shot out of my chair, ran over to a perfect stranger, and delivered a huge bear hug.
This very large man, who could have been Tony Soprano’s younger brother, was engaged in a conversation about popular music. His female companion, pointing a finger, had said in a mocking tone, “Don’t ask his opinion. He likes Barry Manilow.”
“You like Barry Manilow?” I repeated as I hugged him. “I love Barry Manilow. I have always loved Barry Manilow.”
I have a bone to pick with Hollywood. Which just goes to show how annoyed I am, that so soon after the festival of engorgement I’m still talking about picking on bones!
Do you like movies? Do you like going to the movies, or are you one of those people who prefer sitting on your couch with a Netflix rental or scrolling through the On Demand list for something worth watching? If you are the latter, then don’t bother reading any further. You just won’t get it.
But if you’re like me, and enjoy getting out of the house and, for the price of a senior ticket, watching a good film on a really big screen with Dolby sound (whatever that is) then perhaps you’ll share my frustration at not living in a Select City.