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?
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
