Ignorance and Innocence

Only half that title is applicable to this post. I just liked it because it had nice assonance and sounds kind of Jane Austen-y.

(That's a good pickup line, by the way: "Say, nice assonance.")*

I hate having my ignorance flaunted about in public, or even to find out that I've made some kind of silly mistake on some subject of which everyone else is seemingly aware. Worse is when those same know-it-somes seem just flabbergasted that you could be such an ignoramous.

Some of these incidents I feel no shame over; they were clearly the fault of others (as most things are in life). I recall that when I was old enough to attend the "grown-up" service at church, and at the end everyone launched into the Lord's Prayer, I didn't know the words. My mother regarded me with the horror one can only associate with St. Augustine facing a Manichaen heretic. Where I was supposed to pick this passage up word-for-word I do not know, but it wasn't taught in Sunday school or elsewhere in my life. Apparently it was supposed to pass to me through cultural osmosis.

Similarly, my father was horrified when, upon receiving my driver's permit, I didn't already know all the directions to every destination we had ever visited in my pre-driving days. Children, take note: when you are riding to Auntie Mumu's house, pay attention to street name and turn directions. One day you will drive and it will be important.

Other cases, though, are unambiguously my fault, and for these my shame has no bounds. Even on subjects that the average person wouldn't know about I feel dopey when I don't know better. I want to be clever and hip, and I'm often neither. It's why I don't talk to John Eldevik too often--he assumes I know smart-person things about history and culture that I have as much knowledge of as a doorstop.

Why on earth, you cry, are you going on about this? Well, two recent examples come to mind. One was public, the other private until this moment as you read it and know my shame. (Yes, my blog is a confessional and therapist's couch. You walked into this of your own free will; don't blame me.)

First off, the public example. During my class with Ned, the casting director from Disney, he was discussing Howl's Moving Castle and some of the casting, particularly relating stories of working with Lauren Bacall. Apparently she is delightful and charming, full of old Hollywood grace and wit. He mentioned that he worked as well with Jean Simmons, another golden-age star of verve and vigor. However, my brain not working on all cylinders, I blurted out, "Oh, from KISS?", thinking, of course, of Gene Simmons. Ned laughed, but it was not the carefree laugh of one appreciating a clever witticism; it was the nervous, disgusted laugh of one who is fairly well convinced that the comment in question is uttered by a toad who doesn't realize the inanity of the words that he just vomited forth. I tried to chuckle myself and nod slyly, as if it was my intention from the first to issue such a bon mot, but I'm not sure I carried it off. I might as well have had CRETIN tattooed on my forehead for a few hours after.

The private example happened last night. As I was posting my last delicious commentary, I was watching the there-mentioned Battle for the Planet of the Apes, and was delighted to find that the Lawgiver telling the story was none other than John Houston, the voice of Gandalf from the Rankin-Bass animated version of The Hobbit. His voice is absolutely iconic, but because of my deep love for that cartoon as a youth, I've always thought of him as Gandalf (he also happens to be terribly tall and gray-haired, so he even looks like the Grey Pilgrim). Feeling saucy, I decided to look up Houston on the IMDB to see if he had done anything else.

Good gravy.

I'm so glad this never came up in conversation. Sure, I'd heard the name "John Houston" bandied about in relation to movies, but I never connected the dots. If someone had said, "Say, do you know of John Houston's work?", I'd have replied, "Oh, sure. I love Rankin-Bass," and then probably tried to do a lame imitation of Houston saying, "I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means ME!" Of course, my conversational partner would be looking to discuss the director of The Maltese Falcon (The Maltese Falcon, for Mithrandir's sake!), or the writer of the screenplay for The Man Who Would Be King, or the son of Walter Houston, who won an Academy Award for his performance in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (which John also directed), or the father of Angelica Houston (whom he directed to another Academy Award in A Walk with Love and Death). You know--that John Houston.

A problem for non-movie buffs? Not really. It wouldn't have made me a bad person. But I'd have felt really dumb.

Man, my link-creation facilities are worn out.

* Sorry--I couldn't resist. I am a bad person after all.