My last full day, and I was at the gates before rope drop. There was nothing as concrete as a plan in my brain. That dream, the one where I’m riding my bike through an empty Disneyland, still lingered in my head. Time for instinct, Kev. You’ve done this enough that you know what you can hit early without having to wait too long in line, and to do the stuff that your friends just won’t want to do. I poised myself in the Hub in front of … well, it’s just the most adorable “castle” in the world … and waited for the announcement. It’s here that a good dose of German word combinations would really come in handy, because there’s no other way to describe the run-walk-gallop I did through Sleeping Beauty Castle on my way to Peter Pan’s Flight. Runwalkgallop? Anyway, Peter Pan is one of those east coast/west coast washes. It doesn’t have the moving cars of London … but holy gremlins, that starfield.
In rapid succession, I did me up some Classic Disneyland proper: Dumbo, Autopia, the Matterhorn. Twice. Someone needs to make a Lifetime movie about me and the Matterhorn, because it always hurts me and I always go back for more. Mother, May I Ride the Matterhorn? By the time Paul arrived, I’d had my fill of solo time and was ready for some good ol’ Star Tours excitement. Little did I know Paul was the Rebel Spy!
(For those not familiar with how Star Tours works, you get in a Star Cruiser, and you’re about to fly through the beautiful vacuum of space, when suddenly it turns out someone in your cabin is the Rebel Spy. They even show a picture of you! And by “you,” I mean everyone but me, because I don’t need to be the Rebel Spy. Is this because I’ve publicly stated that I don’t much care for Star Wars? I like Empire! Come on!)
“I’ve never been the Rebel Spy!” Paul exclaimed as we disembarked.
“Me neither,” I managed not to grumble.
“I’ve gotta get the T-shirt!” Because of course there’s a T-shirt.
Joe texted soon after, letting me know that friends of his – ours, as it turned out – had arrived: Mike Brister, who I knew back in the dim old days of LiveJournal, when everyone was there and no one was anywhere else, and Jonathan Belford, who I think I knew from before, but I couldn’t remember, because I’m terrible at names and likenesses and being a person. They were over in California Adventure, so we sauntered over and got ourselves situated by the Paradise Garden Grill, because omg tzatziki.
“Hey,” the Rebel Spy said to me as I literally licked tzatziki off my plate. “I think … I’m going to take off after this.” Paul lives in San Diego, which seems local to me, but is apparently like two hours away, and that’s without traffic. I mean, here he’s got the Haunted Mansion and California Screamin’, but back home he’s got a fiancée and a doggie and fine, the real world wins. This time.
Still, saying good-bye to Paul isn’t easy, because since that first time in Disneyland all those years ago, he’s become one of my best friends. Most of my best friends live far away, in other states, in other time zones. Seeing him again this year is currently up in the air, and even though we talk every day, I still miss him. Melancholy might be good for the writing, but it sucks when you’re in a happy place and you have to watch your friend walk away.
* * *
Dave was running late, so Mike and Joe and Jonathan and I busied ourselves on Goofy’s Sky School and the Silly Symphony Swings while we waited. For some reason, I was pretty sure that no one but me would be interested in the Swings, which swoop up and down high up over Paradise Bay, all to the tune of the “William Tell Overture.” But Joe stepped up readily enough, strapping in and taking off right in front of me. You don’t really know joy until you’ve seen Joe soaring. Sometimes I forget that he’s a theme park guy from way back, and that he’s been going on rides like this since before I even knew what a Disney park was.
With Dave trying his darndest to park and tram his way over to us, we settled in line for the Aladdin show, and I went to go get everyone drinks and snacks (and not, as far as anyone knew, hang out in the Animation building for a full six minutes because air conditioning and quiet). We shuffled in and took our seats and Mike and I were just starting to talk about the stage sets when the side door burst open, and there was Dave, because making an entrance is just something he does.
Joe seemed as impressed with Aladdin as everyone else (including my my buddy Josh, who isn’t the world’s biggest Disney fan, and is a theater guy); he laughed all the way through it, and hearing Joe laughing is one of life’s great pleasures. The show ended and we used our Fastpasses on Tower of Terror, everyone else expertly making the Olympic rings in the photo, and me doing … look, I don’t know. Maybe I’m shape-blind. Maybe I don’t know what shapes are, okay!? I learned it from watching you!
Then … guys, I don’t know if it was the giddiness of the day, or my need to shed some excess emotion, or the fact that we’d all stopped for some absolutely necessary Ghirardelli banana splits, but as we collapsed at the tables in Pacific Wharf, something in me snapped. And not bad snapped. Dave had this picture of a pug trying to get at a tennis ball. It was one of those stupid “ERMAHGERD” pictures that I always find sort of funny, but this was somehow next level holy fire laugh apocalypse. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I laughed till tears flowed out of my eyes and my banana split belly ached (even more) and I couldn’t breathe. And Dave kept going, “His legs just can’t reach,” and, “why doesn’t someone just roll the ball to him,” and “he’s trying so hard.” None of it helped. All of it helped. Hysteria never felt so right.
Eventually I calmed down and there was … well, I know we did Flo’s for lunch. Was Paul there for that? We did a full loop on the Disneyland Railroad, and Mike pointed out that the dinosaurs were the same as the ones in Universe of Energy, a neat little east/west combo that Joe seemed to get a kick out of. Eventually, Mike and Jonathan took off, and Dave and Joe and I got dandied up for our final dinner together, this time at the super fancy Steakhouse 55, right inside our hotel. Our hotel. The Disneyland Hotel. It’s still impossible to believe I stayed there.
The dinner was more subdued than the Ghirardelli meltdown had been. I was in my collared Disneyland shirt I’d bought on my second trip out and Joe was in something buttoned-down. I didn’t drink this time around, contenting myself with Shirley Temples, because they taste good and I’m an adult. I talked to Dave about some of the stuff he’d brought up the day before, about theme park operations and how fans, no matter how knowledgeable, don’t really know everything that goes on. It’s okay to be miffed at something Disney does that you don’t like, but it’s not the end of Disney, and it’s certainly not the end of the world. It came back around to my thoughts about why I’d done what I’d done with WestCotCenter. Does Disney need me to defend it? No, of course not. The people who think so much is wrong with Disney have labeled people like me “Pixie Dusters,” claiming that we think Disney can do no wrong. That had always bothered me too, because of course Disney does some stuff wrong, or at least some stuff I don’t like. I just had never let those things worry me overmuch, because for me, the good had always overwhelmingly outweighed the bad.
One of the things that had really set me to thinking was a bunch of tweets I’d seen from people who, like me, were very pro-Disney. When the concept art for the new Harry Potter land came out, most everyone was suitably impressed. I was suitably impressed. The last time I’d gone to Universal was pre-Harry Potter, and I had hated the park. Nothing impressive to me. But this stuff? This stuff looked very impressive. I found myself wanting to go and see and get immersed in these places that came straight out of the books I’d loved so much. And yet … and yet there were all these tweets from people saying they’d never go, because it would just give the Universal fanboys too much satisfaction. There were nitpicks. There were eyerolls and shrugs and a general sense of “meh, not Disney.” And that, more than any anti-Disney vitriol, made me slow my roll. No. This stuff is awesome. Just because this stuff is awesome doesn’t mean Disney isn’t.
It’s because the Internet allows extremes – rewards extremes. Subtlety isn’t one of online’s strong suits, especially in a world of 140 character thoughts and tl;dr reasonings. My stance had been to match extreme with extreme. To present a version of myself that was heightened all the time. When I would read fabrications or lies or half-truths or just really angry opinions, it would set me off, and here was my little forum to shout my disgruntled responses. Make it funny, I always told myself, and they’ll like it. They did. I got retweets and responses and likes, and that’s currency. That’s food.
But it’s also detrimental. My own honest reactions were being filtered by what I thought my followers would like me to like. I would look forward to Disney essays I thought were ridiculous and tear them apart. Only now do I realize I never asked myself two questions: 1. What right did I have to rip up someone else’s work, even if I hated it? What fucking right did I have, especially knowing that they put a lot of effort into taking pictures and constructing paragraphs and making it readable to the public at large. I may not like this stuff. I may not agree with this stuff. I may think this stuff is full of shit. But writing is hard. Putting yourself out there is hard. And here I come with my retro alternate Twitter account, saying that all this work you did was stupid.
2. Who appointed me the standard-bearer? I mean, that’s the question everyone should ask when they put themselves in the position of being an expert or a big name fan or a widely-followed pundit. But I’m not everyone. I’m me. I got into Disney seven years ago and fell in love with what the parks did, what they were and are and would be. How they made me feel, every time I was there. Did that make me the guy who deserved to tell other people how to like (or dislike) the parks? No. No, it didn’t.
We finished our steaks – I got a sirloin, and man, was it cooked perfectly – and headed out of Steakhouse 55. Dave headed toward the trams following a flurry of hugs and see-you-soons. Joe and I spent our last night in Disneyland together flying on the Matterhorn Bobsleds in the dark, riding the sleek red Monorail from our hotel to Tomorrowland, sailing the seas of the Caribbean. It was one of the few times Joe and I had the park to ourselves, and I was determined to make the most of it. I won’t be seeing him again until December, and that’s too long. It’s way too long. And before we go to sleep that night, our last night at the Disneyland Hotel, I realize I miss him already.
* * *
I am up early because I always am. I’m in the parks alone. I ride a double-decker bus up from the castle to the train station, then I turn around and walk right down the middle of Main Street, USA. I ride the Astro Orbiter because I can. I ride Indiana Jones because I love it. I’m a single rider on California Screamin’, and somehow I get put up in the front row. That’s when I know it’s over. I’m always looking for narratives, for guideposts, for signs. Random front seat in your favorite west coast rollercoaster? That works as a proper closing number.
I collect Joe and soon we’re outside, waiting for my friend Josh to come in his jeep. Due to a clerical mixup (and the fact that I can’t read a calendar), we have an extra day in California. Joe will be spending it with Dave, further on up the road. I’ll be hanging with my buddy Josh, who is one of my favorite people in the world. We pile in and Josh turns the radio up and soon enough we’re cruising down the highway, wind in our hair and the sun blazing above us.
It’s been a wonderful trip. Is it trite to say it was magical? Nah. It was magical. Time spent at a place you love with the people you love is never time ill-spent. I hope to be back here next summer, when I turn forty. It’s a long wait, but I can be patient. Forty’s a good year to be.
As for what I’m doing back home? Well, finishing this exceedingly long trip report up, for starters. I considered deleting my WestCotCenter account, because my thinking is different now, and because it made me someone I’m not, not really. The initial intent for the handle was to celebrate my love of Disney World, and Disneyland, and the movies and the history and the joy of it all, without overly bugging my regular friends who don’t care.
But the snarking? The meanness? The fighting negativity with aggressive positivity? Nah. I’m putting down my scrivener’s pen. I prefer not to.
No comments:
Post a Comment