TTWA Assignment: Imagine you are on Yelp. Write a review of the restaurant everyone is talking about. In the fourth paragraph, admit you’ve never eaten at the restaurant, but argue why your misinformed opinion is still more important than the other reviews on the site.
I based this story on a girl I once worked with at the National Institutes of Health. Most of the story is true to a point. She was my first real ‘love’ I guess you could say. As is the way with these things, you tend to romanticize the past a bit, an error I’ve tried to remedy by mixing in a little farce.
Panera Bread, E. Jefferson St., Rockville, MD Continue reading
As I mentioned in an earlier post, the boys and I had the opportunity to visit the San Diego Comic Con. Having just returned with oodles and oodles of pictures of cosplayers, figures, and convention halls, I’m a little behind with my post about the con itself. Luckily, while I organize myself and the details of the trip in my head, I wanted to post this little vignette from one of our afternoons at the con. Rodney, Shannon, Kevin and I had just spent six hours in the convention center and eager for sustenance (as Thor would say), we left to grab a sandwich and a beer. En route, Rodney relayed a brief story about a rather awkward party he had attended years ago. Considering myself a seasoned dabbler in the storytelling trade myself, I could not stop myself from criticizing . . . a little:
“And that’s the end of the story? You just left?” I asked, juggling my backpack from one shoulder to the other. “Lame.”
“Murph!” Mom screamed from across the kitchen, her arms weighed with platters of green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, turkey, and stuffing. “What have you done to my floor?”
“Nothing,” I shrugged, submerging an empty pot into the sink, a grey oily substance, the dregs of Thanksgiving gravy bubbled to the surface.
“Dive! Dive! Lieutenant, the engine room is flooded! Jettison all loosh articles through the torpedo tubesh.”
Hunt for Red October was on Netflix an hour earlier, so I did my best Sean Connery.
“My floor! There’s water all over my nice
recently stained and securely waterproofed floor!”
Bree stood next to a damp cloth in her hand, sighing like an old furnace or an older woman suffering her dotard husband. Somehow recreating the Poseidon Adventure with the gravy boat had drowned the last of her patience.
“Mom,” she sighed. “You’re oldest child is an idiot.”
“Damn the torpedoes, man!” I screamed, as my hands manipulated a ladle between the soapy foam. “Sea monster oft the port bow!”
So, the boys and I sat down to watch Blade Runner last night: not the original theatrical release, the remastered director’s final cut with the unicorn and without the voice over — if you’ve ever seen the film you’ll know why it’s important to be specific. Sadly, Kevin and Shannon barely lasted through the first fifteen minutes, citing exhaustion and heavy eyelids as the reason. I can’t really blame them; the slow deliberate pacing of the film is not for everyone, particularly movie-goers in this post-Avengers world. Still the world that Scott drafted in the film delights me with its horrid beauty like a living breathing movie monster. If the boys could get past the pace, I think they’d find a wonderful enlightening experience.
What’s all this got to do with Disney and vacation?
Well, on Tuesday, we had stepped out into the rain to eat lunch at Epcot, which lies within walking distance of the Boardwalk Resort. Epcot unlike the other Disney parks is often ignored I think by the younger generations. It doesn’t possess the flumes, animals, and roller coasters of the more ‘fun’ parks, but offers a worthwhile experience if you’re willing to explore . . . and perhaps old enough to drink. Just like Blade Runner. Continue reading
The first day of our Disney vacation (as appose to our ‘road trip vacation,’ ‘St. Augustine vacation’ or ‘cabernet-induced vacation’) found Tropical Storm Debbie hovering over our resort like a large fly buzzing a particularly spacious picnic. Other families may feel flummoxed by the gloomy weather, bolting themselves inside until the sun should emerge to chase away the gloom to some other, less entertaining state . . . like Ohio, but the Murphey clan does not shrink from natural calamities. We simply bought a quiver of over-priced Disney umbrellas and trod to the local cinema . . . like men! Continue reading
“So which one is Neil?” Rodney asked me between spoonfuls of what looked like rice pilaf. “Is he behind the zombie in the sequined shirt? Or is this still the cover-band?”
I laughed and inspected my friend’s face for some sign of irony. Surprisingly, I saw none. Rodney repeated the question, straight-faced, serious.
“Dude, you do know who Neil Diamond is, right?” I asked, somewhat dumbfounded. ” ‘Sweet Caroline?’ ‘I’m a Believer?’ ‘America?’ Any of this make any sense?”
“These are . . . songs?” he guessed, looking down at his plate. “That ‘Believer’ song was from Shrek, right?”
“Dude, if you didn’t know Neil Diamond, why did you agree . . .”
“Hold that thought,” he cried suddenly, shocked at the sight of his empty plate. “I need another quesadilla.” Continue reading
“So I understand why Murph is here . . .” Bree sighed, irritated that someone had plied her body away from both couch and television.
“Why am I here?” I ask curiously.
“Because you’re gay for Shakespeare and Renaissance crap.”
“Okay, continue,” I nod. This is true.
“. . . but I don’t see why you’re here, Ryan,” Bree asks. Last Sunday, the siblings and I piled into Mom’s Excursion (it has Sirius Radio) and drove off to Clarksville, MD to visit the autumn Renaissance Festival. All of us (well mostly) had anticipated the visit for some time, eager to don silly hats, hurl knives, and consume enormous portions of period foods (i.e. ye olde cheesecake-on-a-stick). For the majority of my family including Brigid, this encompasses the whole of their interest in the Ren Faire, since everything else is ‘useless history and culture stuff.’ Continue reading