Once upon a time, I saw just about every movie I wanted to see. I knew in advance when good movies were coming out, and I waited excitedly for the release dates, and I bought my ticket and my popcorn and slid into my seat and hoped the audience wouldn’t be loud, and then I melted into the darkness of the theater and the vivid glories of the big screen. I was a happy cog in the Hollywood machine.

More than many of these outings were with TGOTS, especially during high school, college breaks, and the post-college years when we lived near (and with) each other. This was a perfectly normal part of our daily patterns at the time, but upon reflection — and apparently to others — it was a lot of cinematic escapism. “You guys sure see a lot of movies,” my sister remarked to me some time in the late ’90s. She, by then, had a baby, which might have had something to do with her lack of moviegoing — but I got the feeling that even if that hadn’t been the case, she would have viewed our predilection for The Pictures as somewhat odd.

When I moved to Boston I kept up the habit, seeing every damn movie I wanted to with whatever roommates, friends, or co-workers I could corral. I suppose there’s nothing so remarkable about that, but I can still feel the grime and glamour of certain city theaters; recall with crystal clarity the small talk made while waiting for the lights to go down; savor the good feeling of knowing you were in the company of someone who appreciated moviegoing as much as you did.

Despite all that, I don’t recall who I was sitting next to when I saw High Fidelity — was it you, TGOTS? — but I cannot hear “Let’s Get It On” without picturing Jack Black cavorting on stage, John Cusack and his punky girlfriend making (believable) surprised faces and happily reuniting as they watched him sing. This was, I think, one of my first exposures to Jack Black, when he was more of a revelation than a smug, preening ding-dong. I mean, not to cast apersions or anything. But I’m kind of over him.

Warm in the glow of that half-memory, I changed stations this morning and heard “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” and immediately pictured Whoopi Goldberg being dragged through the street in a phone booth, croaking, “I’m a little black woman in a big silver box!” An entirely different movie in an entirely different era — but etched forever in my archives.

Today the Kitt Award goes to the — what are they called? Sound artists? Soundtrack creators? Musical technicians? — anyhow, the people who pick the songs used during key scenes in movies. They’re clever, those people. And even though I don’t get to drink in their work as often these days, they’ve littered my brain with happy memories.