I took my son to Hogwarts. We arrived yesterday and found our room at the Hard Rock Hotel. While at check-in my son regarded the oversized portraits of rockers littering the giant lobby. "Are these guys all dead?"
I smiled at my young son and glanced about the room. Upon this further consideration, my smile faded. "Yes. It seems they are all dead." The false smile on the registration lady dropped.
"What did they all die of?" he asked curiously.
The registration woman raised her eyes questioningly to me while I signed something else away.
"Drugs. Drugs and poor decision making, sweetie."
I smiled brightly at the woman and slid my room keys across the marble counter before commandeering my rolling luggage back into the fray.
We were on vacation.
There are two parks that make up Universal Studios. There is 'Universal's Islands of Adventure'... And then there is the bad one. The bad one is called simply 'Universal Studios' park. We went to the bad one first.
At the bad one I was immediately reminded of a glorified Busch Gardens. And I am basing that off of the commercial totally. I am too naturally sarcastic and suspicious to feel comfortable in large group settings. I blame this trip on my son and the author of The Harry Potter series. We affectionately refer to her as "what's her name" or "the rich lady."
Bizarrely, all of England is here with us at Universal. Literally 8 out of every 10 people here is seemingly British. It's like 10 minutes after the Olympics ended they evacuated to holidays en masse. Seamus can't understand their accents. I love that. I keep telling him they are Dutch people. In his mind British people sound like Dumbledore. In my mind Dumbledore sounds like someone who lived in Connecticut too long and was once a professor of Shakespearean Literature. And had an obvious robe fetish.
Unhappily there is a new trend in England. Or as I have started calling it "fashion terrorism." Stupid females have taken to wearing squeakers in their flip flops. Similar to the ones inserted in dog toys. So imagine you have two Jack Russell terriers following you EVERYWHERE squeaking once for each footfall. Maddening, no?
Now multiply that by 80.
I spend a lot of time glaring at these people in lines. Openly. Hatefully.
And there are a lot of lines. The rides are pretty good. Lots of 3 dimensional, creative and efficient uses of space. Lots of projection and wind machines. No open vomiting. Yet. But shorty doesn't like the big coasters. And that's fine. My chiropractor already has a lot to work with on me.
We return midday to the hotel pool. A veritable nightmare fantasmagoria for a life guard. Some brilliant person said it was okay to have inflatables in the pool. And drinks. Lots of drunks in the pool. Everyone is bright red from intoxication or sunburn, or both. And their drowning children can be found beneath the smartcar sized turtles, whales or floatie rafts. Did I mention the waterslide? There is one. And it's big. Sadly the pool it deposits you in is poorly engineered (for fat people). I noticed this directly after my first trip down the water flume. My girth picked up considerable speed in it's descent. Frightening speed. The kind where you laugh when you shouldn't laugh.
I hit the bottom pool with a Swoosh! There was NOT enough depth to that pool! My knees bent (one very unnaturally) and my hands went to secure my dignity(swimsuit) while I dragged my new pedicure off onto the bottom of the pool along with the skin of my knees. There must be a very vivid line of color along the bottom of the pool. I would borrow Seamus's snorkel when I came back from the hospital.
Wtf? That was VERY dangerous for anyone over 175 lbs. - but the sign at the top of the stairs says people up to 300 lbs. I knew what I had to do as a concerned guest of the hotel. I immediately got an alcoholic drink and a spot near the bottom where I could watch people heavier than myself hurt themselves.
"Go Seamus. I'll wait here at the bottom for you. Have fun."
And there I sat for an hour. Watching large British boobs create horrifying waves alongside the dopey strange smiles of men who had yet to determine what they had hurt. Sunglasses breaking here and there. One fuckwit father came down his plastic cup and promptly cut his manboob. This was awesome. There should be a webcam here.
Screw that - this should be a show in high definition. Where is TLC?
I want some production value added where you get to know what happened to the people.
"Holly reported getting boob-lash and is going to buy swim suits better engineered for her size in the future."
"Cecil broke his femur, three toes and ultimately lost all three of his gold rope chains."
"Nigel has a rash doctors are calling 'very serious' from impacting the textured pool bottom at speeds cars normally reach on highways."
Seamus and I discussed all of these imagined headlines while dining at Emeril's for dinner later that night. We also discussed how we thought dark chocolate was a mean trick of the culinary arts. Then we tried naming tasty foods that would be unhappily ruined by the incorporation of dark chocolate. Kit kats seemed to be the overall winner there.
I have nothing but rave reviews regarding the food at Emeril's. The food was exceptional. The wait staff all hate each other and are in a power struggle of some sort - but the food was cooked expertly. I ordered the duck and Seamus got a pizza with pancetta, field onions and greens. He tried to eat everything of his AND mine so we had a bit of a fork fight 10 minutes in.
We retired back to the room with some banana cream pie to watch the Avenger's in bed. Dead asleep by 9pm.
It's like heaven.