Midnight in Paris, Noon on Facebook, what's the diff?

Son of Snarkshelf and I went to see the new Woody Allen movie "Midnight in Paris" yesterday.

That was a much better decision than last weekend's viewing, "Blue Valentine," but live and learn, mother of a teenager. We both loved "Midnight in Paris." We also loved "Blue Valentine," but let's just say it was a little, um, educational for my son.

To review:

"Paris" was clever in a way Allen hasn't been in a long time. Owen Wilson and Rachel McAdam (yes, you will smile at the thought that in some twisted movie universe this is a sequel to "Wedding Crashers," where the same couple was last seen peeling away from a reception and making up their next line o'bullshit "We're a folk singing group from Salt Lake City....") are great. Wilson does a good job as Allen's neurotic avatar; McAdam is the kind of clueless ingenue that three decades ago would have been played by Diane Keaton.

Story line: the couple is on a trip to Paris (accompanied by her very rich, very Republican parents). Wilson is a writer captivated by the literary and artistic history of the city; McAdam just wants to shop and eat.

Walking down one of Paris' quaint cobblestone side streets one night, a car (filled with F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald and a lot of champagne) picks up Wilson. He finds he can time travel, and soon he is partying every night with Hemingway, Picasso, Dali, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald and the rest of the creative heavyweights of Paris in the 1920s.

Owen WIlson's short tie defies the ages. Perfect for time travel.

If only he lived in THAT time! Then everything would be fabulous (and he wouldn't have to deal with his increasingly grating fiancee). Except he meets a woman in the 1920s - who wishes she lived in Le Belle Epoque, Paris' golden era of a few decades earlier.

Moral of the story: the old saying "wherever you go, there you are."

At the core of this movie was the flip side of nostalgia. And with the popularity of Facebook and other social media connectedness, everyone in my age group should see this is a (funny, engaging and with lots of yummy Paris street scenes) as a cautionary tale.

These days, lots of folks in my middle age crowd - OK, myself included - are spending crazy amount of time thinking about the past. Thanks to Facebook, I'm connected to 100s of people with whom I went to high school and college.

We are further connected through subgroups like "Growing in up Cleveland in the 1970s" and "Camp [girls camp I attended]" and "We want a Michael Stanley Band Reunion." (The latter was a popular Cleveland band back in the day. Trust me, we really don't want an MSB reunion).

Thirty years have scrubbed the past clean of the bad stuff. The camp girls have a particularly busy message board where they chat about the synchronized swimming show and beloved counselors and the lyrics to the James Taylor songs we sang after dinner. That's great, and I enjoyed all those things.

But is anyone talking about the mean girls I still remember, the cabin politics, the raging strep throat I had in the summer of 1975? I am noticing that the nerdiest girl in our cabin - the one who was always picked last for teams, was left out of the private joke - she is not contributing to the nostalgia thread. In fact, she probably wants no reminders of the "good old days."

How many times recently have you heard of someone who reconnected (again - thanks, social media) with "their long-lost high school" boyfriend or girlfriend? It is happening all the time. Best of luck to them, but I am skeptical that 48 year olds can capture the magic of being 17, simply because you are not 17 anymore.

What did I have to worry about at 17? Nothing! That's why 1982 is my "Le Belle Epoque." Who wouldn't want to go back to a time when you had this list of concerns? 1) how does my hair look?; 2) I will buy that! Daddy will pay the bill; 3) where's the party?; and 4) I am tan.

Lost in the nostalgia is the reality: I probably had an eating disorder. I barely graduated from high school. The economy was terrible. I fought with my boyfriend a lot.

Similarly, Wilson's character in "Paris" is forgetting that the Depression and World War II were right around the corner, and that lots of those 1920s creative types were suicidal alcoholics. And there was lots of syphilis.

So if I were to be Owen Wilson/Woody Allen and pick a time traveling spot, I'm taking 1977, New York City. Mick Jagger and Bjorn Borg - and how's this for synergy? -Woody Allen are gonna pick me up in a tricked-out Camaro. We're heading to Studio 54, where we're going to dance with Liza Minelli, then head over to CBGB to watch punk rock emerge right before our eyes.

Dear Rolling Stones, pick me up at midnight at the corner of 1977 and WTF. Bring Qualludes and members of The Who as well, OK?

Pay no attention to that summer's Son of Sam murders, the blackout, the junkies and the crumbling buildings in lots of Manhattan (they'll all be expensive condos and a Whole Foods in 35 years, mark my words).

See what I mean?

Son of Snarkshelf and I discussed the movie over leftover pizza.

"I guess what he was trying to say is the best time is the one you are living, so you should find a way to be happy there," he said.

Smart boy. In 20 years will be trying to recapture the magic of being a high school freshman?