For reasons too perplexing to elaborate, the gang at work put together a little morale-booster in the form of a trivia competition. Which means some poor slob was tasked to write, on his own time and for no additional pay, dozens of toss-up, bonus-round, and lightning-round questions for us to answer. But that's not the troubling part.
My team was beating the other team's brains out. Truly. The dais was beginning to reek from all the rotting brains spilled at our feet. And then came our team's lightning round subject: movie directors. In the old days, when I could afford to while away the hours seeing three or four movies a week, this would have been Game Over.
Then the questions came our way, and I confused James L. Brooks with Jim Burrows. I thought that Frank Capra directed Some Like It Hot (instead of Billy Wilder, obviously). And I completely blanked on John Landis as the director of Animal House. John Freakin' Landis! Who directed Britain's all-time favorite music video! It was appalling.
The human mind is a finite vessel, and parenting is slowly supplanting my vast accumulation of worthless minutiae in favor of inoculations, playgroups, 529 accounts, and figuring out when I can sleep next. You know, stuff that matters.
Adulthood blows.
