My smoking buddies are in their mid-twenties, and one of their favorite hobbies is to bring up songs from the seventies and early eighties that have context in my life but not theirs. Ten minutes ago, they regaled me with selections from “Grease.” I hate this movie with my whole black heart, hate everything about it. Hate it. They were hoping one of these songs would get stuck in my head and I’d be whining about it until Hell froze over. Instead, I bet they’re fighting the urge to sing along with the Olivia Newton-John songs repeating on their mental jukeboxes. Ah, revenge.