Manipulating ye olde remote control and landed upon the opening sequence of a film I had not seen since it first was released in 1977: Saturday Night Fever. Why am I wasting my evening thinking about or, perhaps even worse, writing about a disco movie, you ask? I was ready to become all haughty and stuck up when I noticed the film was coming up on the tv guide — and I didn’t have enough time to find something on my 500 channels to interest me — so, still surfing, the film began. My half-attention swiveled towards the tv and Jesus Christ (!) the Bee-Gees, and the camera keeping time with John Travolta’s gait, and I had to watch.
Sure, it’s dated. The clothes are embarrassing. The way our lives have gone on, for good or ill, can be messy. Even mortifying. Watching the 1970s (what I can remember about it) can be downright terrifying. I often wonder how, why, am I still alive? I have done so much harm to others because of my own inability to believe in the possibility of happiness. If I could not feel something how could I imagine what it would be like?