We settled in with our charcuterie while Michael McDonald sang “Take Me In Your Arms.” I was transported back to 1979. Young. Bell-bottomed. My hair cut in a Kristy McNichol shag. Mark made a dissatisfied noise, as if he had chosen a bad selection from the cured meats and had to commit to swallowing. “God! I hate Michael McDonald,” he said. 
Oh, boy. Here we go.