I was supposed to go see if Marvel could convince me to be a cat person today, but underestimated the depth of public interest in Black Panther. I tried, at least. Woke up early, went to the theatre and walked smack into a lineup of everyone wanting tickets and the show I wanted to see sold out. To be fair, I was there fifteen minutes before start time, and I didn’t pre-book because I wanted to live on the edge, but Black Panther is showing everywhere in the freaking city, you’d think there’d at least be a few seats left.
So instead of having a review, I have regrets. Because reasons. And because I had three days to watch it, but my couch wouldn’t let me. The Olympics wouldn’t let me. I wouldn’t let me. Sometimes I really am just too lazy for my own good.
Maybe it’s also my subconscious rebelling at the thought of me, a dog person, watching a movie about what is essentially a large cat with superpowers. And maybe it’s because when I googled Black Panther for showtimes, someone wrote about how there’s not enough LGBTQ representation in the movie, which was my cue to mentally throw my hands up in the air and give up on humanity.
I swear to the good sweet baby Jesus I’m sick of how there’s always something wrong with something. How there isn’t enough women. Or enough minorities. Or enough gays. Or enough lunch meat.
You know what there isn’t enough of? Sanity. I wonder if our parents saw us in the nineties with the baggy pants, exposed midriffs, beepers and the Alanis Morrisette and thought to themselves that the world was going to hell in a handbasket? Because they were right about that, just wrong about when. And how.
Can’t we just be happy? Can’t we just get along? Can’t we just focus on what’s there instead of on what isn’t, for one shining moment?
I hate it when long weekends end. I always get so emo. And godamnit I really wanted to see Black Panther.