not my disney world
I’m going to catch a lot of shit for this but I find it’s best to just come out with these things. I’m not the world’s biggest fan of Disney World. I liked it better when I was a kid. When I could watch The Wonderful World of Disney on TV. Escape from Witch Mountain. Herbie the Love Bug. The Incredible Mr. Limpett. That was my Disney.
I have this romanticized notion that back then anyone could afford Disney World if you could just get to Florida. I’ve never set foot in the other Disneys, so I can’t speak for them. Anyway, I want to remember that they marketed it as a magical, family-oriented vacation with larger than life (a.k.a. scary as shit to toddlers) characters walking around miming for the masses.
I think I was five years old the first time we went to Disney World. It may have also been the catalyst for my love of bucket hats, but that’s another story for another time. Even then I loved a roller coaster, so I was over-the-moon (pun very much intended—you’re welcome, Goon) about the brandy-new Space Mountain. There was no FastPass back then, so we waited in line. And walked. And waited. And walked some more. It was an eternity to my five year old self, but I knew it would be worth it.
We finally made our way to the top. We could see the excited faces of people getting into the cars and the thrilled faces of people getting out. And then it happened. My brother lost his shit in a horror movie kind of way. Inhuman sounds of terror flew out of him at such volume that onlookers cowered in fear. At least that’s how I remember it. Because about 30 seconds after it started my father lost his very own shit and decided that no one would be riding Space Mountain that day. No one in our family anyway. So together we descended the staircase of shame, while (I imagined) everyone pointed and laughed at us behind our backs. Good times.
Fast forward four decades. My own youngest child is 17 and wants to spend her last spring break as a high school student with her family—not a decision I made when I was her age to be sure. The love and pride surges through me and I hear the words, “…and I want to go to Disney World.” Fuck. Really?
Really.
So I take the only shot I have. “You know Disney World is in Florida, right? And you get violently ill every time we go to Florida!”
“I know and I don’t care,” she says. “It’s not happening this time. Can we go? Please? I need to meet Peter Pan.” I say again… fuck.
I can endure anything, anywhere if I get to hang with my kids. Especially when they are together—they feed off each other like an improv duo. So Jenni made the plans and off we went, but not without Emily getting sick the night before we left. Apparently even anticipation of Florida makes that one throw up. And then it got interesting.
We checked into the hotel just fine and then headed out for dinner. As if there was any doubt we were in Florida, the first two restaurants we saw were Ponderosa Steakhouse and Sizzler. Yes, Sizzler is apparently still open for business and doing quite well among the blue-haired set. We opted for the more contemporary but equally mediocre Chuy’s and then headed to the local supermarket for room snacks and found one more memento from a bygone era.
Were the openings on these cans always so creepy? I have to admit I was a little uncomfortable pointing at them while standing next to my kids. But enough of the “fond” memories.
The new Disney is a lot different than the one I remember. Good family fun has long been replaced by six-dollar cups of coffee and forty-dollar per person brunches with food that looks and tastes like they trucked it in from the Ponderosa down the street. But at least we got to take pictures with the giant, scary characters, which was all well and good until the creeper in the Pluto suit wanted Emily to kiss his gross plastic dog mouth. Of course, she got caught up in the moment and complied. She was even semi-okay with it until I wondered out loud how many other people had put their lips on the very same spot on the gross plastic dog mouth. I didn’t mean to ruin her day—it just happened. Apparently I really suck sometimes.
And someone please join me in message-bombing the good people of Disney with these extremely important five words:
More
Bathrooms
Fewer
Gift
Shops
Some of us drink our weight in those six-dollar cups of coffee or five-dollar Diet Cokes and the last thing we need at those critical moments is four of every five doors leading to a room that’s filled with more crap than my mother’s basement. I’d be half okay if you put bathrooms inside the gift shops. Hell, there were times I thought if there was anything concave (or is it convex) in the gift shop I might use it to meet my need.
I think you’re starting to catch on… replace the things I want to pee on with things I should pee in. Got it? As my good friend Faye Porter would say, “Bless…” Damn. I wish I could say it like she does.
In all seriousness, the number of places where you’re prompted to buy overpriced junk that serves as a reminder of all the time you spent waddling around with an over-filled bladder is pretty offensive. Don’t we spend enough on the tickets? They should just give you free shit every time you turn a corner—like the nice people in Las Vegas who hand you those fliers for their “special” shows.
Sadly, there’s nothing family-friendly about Disney anymore. If there is, I didn’t see it. We were there during college spring break week, so in fairness I may have been distracted by the co-eds in their “thorts” (use your imagination). Maybe I was baffled by the genius I overheard telling his buddy that the Chinese invented meth to train their kamikaze pilots during World War II. Or maybe I’m just a jaded man of a certain age who drinks too much coffee and has to pee a lot.
Of course, I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything—not even a life-sized bottle of Cabo Wabo. My family makes me smile every day and I’d go with them anywhere. Even into a Styrofoam room filled with avocados.
Cheers!
