Broadway Danny Zuko

Being a fairly decent boyfriend (if I do say so myself) and an all-around good guy, I took Marisol and Buster to see Grease in Atlanta this past Saturday. Though I saw the movie upon its release 48 years ago and wore out the soundtrack when I wasn't listening to Kiss back then, I'd sort of lost touch. Though there were no hard feelings at the end of my relationship with Grease, it wasn't one that I've ever had much desire to revisit either. And truth be told, I suspect Grease hasn't missed me a whole lot either.

Every new crop of preteen girls seem to find something more relevant than the last in the coolness of leather-clad guys who know how to rumble and smoke, but can still sing and dance as any well as any Joel Grey. And I suppose preteens can relate to lyrics about "being lousy with virginity" and "getting lots of tit." That the movie, soundtrack, musical and place mats are more popular now than ever says something about us as a society. I'm not sure what, but it can't be good.

A few weeks ago on one of our amazingly, incredible nights on the town, Marisol purchased the Grease soundtrack with the promise from me that we'd "definitely" listen to it on the way home. I "forgot" since I had no intention of hearing "Summer Nights" again. I keed. But even the most cold-hearted bastard couldn't help but notice Marisol's excitement over her new purchase. Therefore, I vowed then and there that we'd take it in when the production came to Atlanta. True, I figured that would be sometime in the middle of the next decade. It just happened to be coming to Atlanta in a couple of weeks. Hot damn. Figuring that Buster could use a little more culture than he was getting from SpongeBob Square Pants we decided to take him as well. It certainly seemed age appropriate.

For Marisol the couple of weeks wait was interminable. I, however, was willing to wait a little bit longer. Not because prolonging the anticipation sweetens the enjoyment, but more because I figured that gave the world a little more time to end. Again, I keed. The big day arrived and after an uneventful drive to Atlanta and an even more mundane march to our seats, we sat.

The crowd grew restless and a gent came out to tell us all about the super-fab season of musicals that was on tap. And maybe we'd like to get some tickets now for some of those. Amid heaves of tomatoes and cries of "Give us Zuko" and "Get to Greased Lightning, greaseball", mostly from me, the host announced that this production would contain songs from the movie not in the original Broadway version.

Apparently, this announcement was a big deal since the audience oooh-ed like they were going to be privy to some special performance that a more pedestrian crowd wouldn't appreciate. I must confess, however, it had no real effect on our enjoyment of the proceedings. Or lack thereof. I did briefly consider standing up and asking if the original production wasn't sacred then what was, but decided were I ever going to riot it would be over something a little more visceral than a musical. Even if said musical involves delinquent teenagers, hot rods and the somewhat questionable notion that being good is good and all, but if you want to get the super hot dude with the duck tail you'd best become the tramp he really wants. Good girls go to heaven; bad girls go everywhere, I suppose.

It's probably not much of a shock that I'm for a constitutional amendment to ban musicals. There's scarcely any need for anyone to ever "jazzbox" and there's even less need to do it whilst singing. And even more less need to do it whilst singing in the midst of telling a story about how tough life was for horny teenagers in the '50s. Nevertheless, I kept looking over at my two companions and couldn't help but notice they kept enjoying the show more with each number. A warming sight to this silicone heart if ever there was one. Honestly, my protestations to the contrary, it really wasn't that bad of a way to spend an afternoon. Well, compared to having to actually endure life in 1958.