You know me: I love the night life. I got to boogie. And so forth.

I cannot hear that song without scenes from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert flashing through my head. What a great, great movie.

And it’s a short leap from there to my college years, to the many nights when my friends and I piled into the — what the hell building was that? I can picture the interior perfectly, the auditorium where we watched so many movies, but I have no idea how we got there. I think it was one of the science buildings.

Anyhow, I have happy memories of apparently magically transporting ourselves into that auditorium, then sitting back and watching, laughing with each other, forgetting about term papers and obsessive professors and all of that. Priscilla. Quiz Show. Singin’ in the Rain. It was a broad and odd range the film society chose, and we took much of what they doled out.

Of course, some movies were important enough to go see in the actual theater. Schindler’s List. Mr Holland’s Opus. Single White Female.

Um, yeah … that last one I recall seeing my very first week or two of college, with my new roommate and some of our new roommate-pair friends. Somehow that experience was a little more awkward than the sheer joy, a couple years later, of watching Australian transvestites sing and dance their way through the Outback.