When I found out that SyFy was airing a sequel to Sharknado (appropriately named Sharknado 2: The Second One) I made sure that I kept the night of July 30th free. Nothing was going to keep me from the premiere of Sharknado 2. I was giddy. I screamed the phrase “Let’s go kill some sharks!” no less than five times yesterday. And that steaming pile of shark sh*t did not disappoint. Continue reading
One time at band camp, fun things happened.
Exactly seven years ago, Sara and I were spending a night at our Uncle Earl and Aunt Jennifer’s. The reason I remember that is because I sat up until midnight in the top bunk of my cousin’s bed. When the clock struck twelve, I knew that thousands and thousands of people—many in costume—were at the city’s Barnes and Noble, madly grabbing for a yellow book that depicted a certain teenage wizard raised a hand to the sky. I was eleven years old. Even at eleven, I knew how significant this night was. At eleven, I was so jealous of those people that I briefly considered breaking out of the house to go to the bookstore.
I’m writing this from Port St. Lucie, Florida. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Florida’s geography, as I am, Port St. Lucie is less than an hour from West Palm Beach and about two hours from Orlando. A short car trip could get you to a half-dozen famous beaches, the best seafood on the east coast, or to Harry Potter World. It’s eighty degrees right now. I went swimming twice yesterday.
But I miss the heck out of Maryland.
I hate soccer about 98% of the time. Of the remaining 2% of my life, I spend half of it enjoying soccer, playing pickup games or watching people get nailed by a ball to the face. The other half of the time, I love soccer like I love no other sport. I pretend to understand it, I suddenly want to play it, and I take no shame in sitting down for hours at a time rooting for players I’ve never heard of before as if I’m an active fan. I’m talking, obviously, about the world cup.