Seasonal Threats and Obscenities

When you say the phrase “Summer 2014” to most people, they do not fly into murderous rages threatening bodily harm to all those with the misfortune of being within reach of the business end of a swung phone charger.  Rather they think about Fourth of July cookouts, swimming parties, and road trips to exotic locales like Atlantic City.  And any indeterminate rage is generally attributed to mosquitoes and empty bottles of aloe vera.

But I live an hour and a half from Orlando, my rage is quite determinate, and I will beat you to an incoherent pulp with your own arm if you so much as think the obscenity “Summer 2014” in my presence.

Now, to some of you this may seem extreme and somewhat puzzling that mere proximity to a major metropolitan area should induce such troubling behavior in one normally so even-tempered and emotionally measured as myself, so I’ll explain.  (And I’ll expect you to keep your snide comments to yourself.)

You see, the mention of “S*mm*r 2014” did not always cause me to shatter whatever glass I was holding in my vice-like Hulk fist or shout obscenities at old people passing on the sidewalk, but that was February and this is June.  I wake up dehydrated every morning and spend my days throwing lizards out of human living spaces.  I haven’t worn sleeves or socks in a month and a half, and last week I ate a brat.  It’s summer now!  So tell me, Universal Studios, how much longer do you think your TV commercial telling me that Diagon Alley will open in “Su**er 2014” is going to cut it? 

 

www.universalorlando.com

[Say the alphabet backwards while breathing deeply.  Think about strawberry Greek yogurt, and Dirk Gently, and the lady who sits behind me at church who looks like a Doctor Who villain.  Okay, better.] 

If I’m honest, Universal Studios and I are in something of a feud at the moment.  I’m not entirely sure Universal has noticed, which is, frankly, a bit insulting.  Now, I fully intend to forgive them as soon as this unknowable “*umme* 2014” rolls around because if we have learned anything from Oscar Wilde it is to “always forgive your enemies [because] nothing annoys them so much.”  So I will go to Diagon Alley this *um**r and I will eat lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, and I will briefly consider buying a new rearview mirror for my Firebolt at Quality Quidditch Supplies, and I will swoosh wands around Olivander’s with exceptional savoir faire, and, as I do all this, I will assume that the coals of forgiveness that I am heaping upon the collective head of the Universal Studios junta are hitting their mark with fiery accuracy.  So, when I finally stroll toward Gringotts Wizarding Bank with a Babbling Beverage in my hand, it will be with the high-minded magnanimity of a victor and we will again be friends.

In preparation for this happy outcome, I’ve been rereading the seven books and should be done soon.  I took great pleasure in the bit about Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, knowing that before long I could partake of my own strawberry and peanut butter sundae if I so wish, and I plan on paying particular attention to the chase through Gringotts since that’s basically just research for what’s to come. 

Even Mom has started reading the books for the first time and, since she apparently remembers virtually nothing of any of the Harry Potter movies, all of which she’s seen at least twice, it’s all coming as quite a surprise to her.  In fact, if you were to pass our neighborhood pool on any given Saturday you would be likely to hear two things: me, shouting bon mots like “Ack!” and splashing bugs out of the water in my never-ending struggle to be the dominant life form in the pool, and Mom, chortling gently from her pool chair and then explaining, “Ron’s mom just sent him a howler,” or “The mandrakes are ugly plant babies.” 

Even if she can’t remember much about the movies, she does like to be reminded who played which character so she has the right faces saying the words in her head.  So when she says, “Who’s Lockhart?” I know that the correct answer is Kenneth Branagh.  And when, upon finishing a chapter, she lays her book down with conviction and makes a startling revelation like, “Well, we’ve been talking an awful lot about why the barrier didn’t let then through so I bet that’s going to be important later,” it’s best to be noncommittal and mysterious because in her heart, no matter how much she may hint or wheedle, she doesn’t really want anyone to tell her that it was Dobby.  Also, that sort of thing is against our family code, right up there with ever throwing away a Christmas ornament and talking bad about Calvin and Hobbes, which is why her telling me the ending of Gran Torino before I’d seen it was such a base betrayal that cut so deep that it’s still bleeding four years later. 

Not that I’m bitter.

 

Still of Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino (2008)

In any case, Mom really enjoyed The Chamber of Secrets and, after several weeks of steadfastly ignoring it, I finally picked up book six again and suffered through those last five chapters that make me more depressed than a whole lot of actual sad things that happen in the world.  I blame Michael Gambon.  If he could have wrenched my gut a little less in the cave, I’d have a whole lot less post-traumatic stress now.  Post-traumatic movie stress.  I’m pretty sure that’s a thing.  The prospect of reliving that experience every time I read the end of The Half-Blood Prince is grueling, but the promise of butterbeer and Harry Potter and the Secret Chamberpot of Azerbaijan on YouTube got me through this time.  It doesn’t hurt that the YouTube Harry is played by the remarkably well-endowed Dawn French (who also plays the Fat Lady in the actual Harry Potter movies), but Jeremy Irons as Alan Rickman as Severus Snape, swishing his new and improved wig around with admirable aplomb, saves the day every time.

And Universal Studios has the nerve to smile at me and dead Michael Gambon and say “Su*me* 2014.”  Jerks.

Still of Michael Gambon in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (2009)

Oddsmakers are guessing by the end of this month the Alley will be open, but they also thought California Chrome would win at Belmont so, really, who it there left to trust anymore? 

Dad seems to be holding up under the torment of waiting better than anyone else, but I can tell the strain is beginning to get to him.  Oh, he pretends not to be affected, but when Mom called him a muggle the other day things got very tense for a while.

Basically, it’s a pressure cooker over here and I’m not the only one swinging phone chargers.