I forgot to post a note before I left for my big summer vacation last week. I’m currently soaking up the free wi-fi in the gorgeous lobby of my hotel in Stockholm while I wait for check-in time to roll around. I’ll be back soon with harrowing tales of my trek across Denmark, Sweden, Estonia, and Russia.
Jul
19
Mommy, Why Is Harry Potter Forcing His Clam Juice Down Dumbledore’s Throat?
While watching Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, I couldn’t stop thinking about how many incredibly homoerotic (and creepy) moments were crammed into two hours of what should have been a delightful family film. Here are the examples I was able to recall from memory after seeing it once. I’m sure if I watched it again I’d discover even more.
Dumbledore arrives just as Harry is about to hook up with a cute black chick and insists that he grab Harry’s arm so they can take a magical journey somewhere far away. He tells Harry he won’t be coming back to see the girl.
Dumbledore takes Harry to Slughorn’s house where they discover Slughorn dressed in old-lady drag.
Slughorn keeps photos of his favorite students on a creepy shelf/shrine in his house.
Dubmledore takes a knitting pattern book from Slughorn’s house on the way out.
Harry asks if he should allow Slughorn to “collect” him, just like Slughorn “collected” one of his former male pupils. The former pupil, it turns out, went crazy shortly after this professor took an interest in him. This psychotic break could be related to the repressed memories of the “little secret” Slughorn and Voldemort kept for decades.
Professor Slughorn invites Harry to an intimate dinner just for “special students.” Harry remains behind afterward to get some alone time with the professor.
Dumbledore asks Harry why he’s spending so much time with Hermoine in what appears to be a slightly jealous flirtation.
While playing quidditch, there is a lot of phallic broom thrusting, straddling, and grasping.
Harry takes Luna Lovegood to Slughorn’s Christmas party despite the fact that she is clearly a fag hag with a quirky fashion sense that Harry finds endearing.
Harry eats “dragon balls” with the hot quidditch player guy (McLaggen) behind a curtain at Slughorn’s party. Snape discovers them, the hot guy throws up, and Snape separates them.
Dumbledore asks young Voldemort about a flaming box of stolen goods in Voldemort’s closet and says something along the lines of, “Don’t you think it’s time it came out?”
Malfoy and Harry whip out their wants in the boys restroom, shoot mysterious white balls at each other, and get everything all wet. After enduring serious physical punishment from Harry’s wand, Malfoy is left bleeding on the bathroom floor.
Dumbledore notes that Harry needs a shave and points out that Harry is no longer a boy.
Before Dumbledore agrees to take Harry with him to find the Horcrux, he says, “You must obey every command I give you without question.”
To find the Horcrux, Harry and Dumbledore must enter a very vaginal cave opening, a place Dumbledore claims is very dangerous.
Harry must force the “clam juice” down Dumbledore’s throat. Harry is told he can’t stop no matter how much Dumbledore begs him to.
After the clam juice incident, Dumbledore prevents Harry from being gang raped by a bunch of scrawny old men by channeling a flaming whirlwind.
When Harry and Dumbledore return to the castle, he tells Harry to go get Professor Snape immediately. It’s implied that Professor Snape is the only one who can help Dumbledore with a very important, er, “problem.” (Perhaps he needs a “potion” to counteract the clam juice?) Then, he tells Harry to hide under the floor and not to come out no matter what he hears.
Jul
09
If Only Melrose Place Had a Chili’s
I spent the Fourth of July with friends in Minneapolis. While I was there, we did a lot of relatively ordinary things. They threw a small party and made some wonderful food. We roasted marshmallows over the fire pit in their backyard and made smores. We ate at a great Mexican restaurant downtown, watched fireworks from a bridge over the Mississippi River, and barhopped until 2:00 a.m. We watched house porn reruns on HGTV. We drove by a house made out of metal shipping containers, examining it from every angle until the owner came outside and scared us away. We walked their greyhound and we talked about the future.
The Backyard Party Buffet
There were several moments during the trip when I felt completely at peace—the kind of moments that you try to enjoy quietly so as not to scare the feeling away. I told myself perhaps this is the meaning of life: good food, good friends, and simple pleasures. Who needs a life of constant surprise when you’re surrounded by people you love? Why do I need to live in Tokyo or Buenos Aires when there’s so much to marvel at right here in my own backyard (or the backyards of nearby friends)?
During the visit, my friends talked about looking for new jobs and moving. For the first time, they even seemed open to the idea of moving to Chicago. It wasn’t long before we were scouring job boards online together, discussing how to update and polish their resumes, and searching Chicago real estate listings for affordable two-unit buildings we could rehab together.
Would we drive each other crazy? Probably. But that’s not going to stop me from fantasizing about how wonderful life would be if my friends moved here. We used to live less than a mile away from each other before our careers pulled us apart, and I often regret that we didn’t spend more time together then. We saw each other somewhat regularly, but typically only with advanced planning that lead up to some special event or celebration. While I fondly remember the great parties and the nights on the town, what I really treasure are the mundane and, in many cases, completely ridiculous things we did together. I miss our impromptu trips to Chili’s. I miss playing with the abandoned flying squirrel baby we tried to raise it as a pet. I miss playing Scattergories and arguing over whether or not “Fergie Fear” is an acceptable response for “Phobias that start with F”. (And if so, does it merit two points?)
Now whenever it seems possible that old friends might move to Chicago, I find myself vowing to spend more purposeless time with them if God will just get them here. I swear we’ll order pizza and watch bad reality TV together. I tell myself I’ll knock on their door just to show them my new shoes or drop off some brownies or gossip about the neighbors. Then I remember I haven’t baked brownies in over a year. (But surely I’d bake brownies every day if I had gluttonous neighbors to help me eat a whole pan.)
Obviously the joy we experience when visiting friends who live far away is not sustainable. There’s usually a moment during most of my visits with old friends when we look at each other and, in our best Brokeback accents, one of us says, “It could be like this. Always.” Of course, we know that’s just not true. It’s easy to forget all the little things that drive us crazy about people we only see for a few days at a time a few times a year. And it’s easy to get accustomed to having someone nearby and forget all our promises to visit each other every day and savor every mundane moment. But that’s not going to stop me from fantasizing about the day when my friends and I live in our own little Melrose Place and all is right with the world. Of course, to truly recapture my youth, I need our Melrose Place to be above a Chili’s and be infested with flying squirrels. But I’m sure that can be arranged.