Last night a large cross section of our gang plus special guests went to see the Dark Knight at the Scotia Bank Theatre downtown. As an added bonus, my favourite Keeth was sitting two rows behind us and I got in some hugs. Yay!

The Dark Knight was the best movie I’ve seen all year. It’s also the only movie I’ve seen all year, so some of the glowing praise loses the shine when you realize the competition field is very, very small. I enjoyed it well enough – I think I liked the first one better not wholly due to my secret schoolgirl crush on Cillian Murphy – but it was nice being out in public with people, eating popcorn.

I might see another movie this year. I never did get around to seeing the first X-Files movie in a theatre – I think I saw it on a bus on my way back from Edmonton before I got a car. It’s been long enough now that I can forgive the boring mess the series turned into, and simply try to enjoy a visit with old friends. Also, I want to play Spot the Vancouver. I’ve also heard the movie is not part of the aliens-walk-among-us story arc that bored me to tears but instead fits into the Monster of the Week category, which were my personal favourite. So, yes. I believe I will see this movie in the theatre. By myself, if I have to. I am brave when sitting in my living room, wearing a fuzzy bathrobe.

While I managed to avoid the usual post-movie headache, I didn’t get much sleep last night thanks to what I can only assume is the pre-Pemberton party the idiots upstairs held. At 3:11am, our front door buzzer rang a bunch of times. It was, as it almost always is, friends of the idiots upstairs – not knowing which suite they’re in, they decided to buzz everybody and hope someone would just let them in. Big mistake. Not only did they wake up Steve At His Limit who went downstairs to rip them a well-deserved new asshole, they woke up almost everyone and caused Ed (who normally shrugs off the amazing inconsideration shown by the top floor) to open our door and call them assholes as they made their way upstairs. I hate the people upstairs. I hate their friends. I hate their parents for utterly failing to instil any sense of decency in their crotch droppings. A pox on the penthouse!

I am filled with an delicious sense of relief that I am not going to the Pemberton Festival. Every single thing about it sounds incredibly uncomfortable, from reports of 10,000+ people attempting to pick up wrist bands and being shut down by the fire marshals to stories of people trying to beat the rush by driving to the campsite last night and waiting 4-6 hours to park and get in. There’s the sheer cost of the ticket, too. Also, I hate camping. I know a lot of people are very excited about the entire thing and ten years ago I would have been right there with them, but now it just seems so .. icky.

Does this mean I am old?

I don’t think I am old.

I am just .. prissy.