Disney Diaries

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2009-09-15T22:09:00.000-07:00

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He's A Tramp

2009-02-28T08:14:00.000-08:00

Why do we love fallen heroes? Is it really human nature or have we learned to crave schadenfreude? Christian Bale, Amy Winehouse, Madonna, the Pope . . . For a while, there was a rumor about Mister Rogers, and I had to stick my fingers in my ears to make the bleeding stop.

Today, I had a guest try to convince me that Walt was a pedophile. I mean, come on, if you're going to pull something out of thin air, at least be creative! Why not a Nazi cross-dresser or a sex doll collector or a mole? But a pedophile? Have some fucking self-respect.

Waiting Just Around the Riverbend

2008-08-23T09:15:00.000-07:00

Tranny, T-girl, shemale, chick with dick, shim, gender-bender, gal with bells, transgender, ladyboy, pre-op . . .

She is the hottest Pocahontas I've ever seen. Full pouty lips set in an angular jaw. Deep brown eyes with long lashes that generate actual wind-speed when she blinks. She has long, tanned legs, shaped from hours of volleyball on the sands of Ipanema. And perfect, small breasts.

In her leather tunic, she casts the perfect image of a proud Native American princess. I've been attracted to her since I first saw her in Camp Minniemickey, crouched in a circle of children, showing them how to feed birds manageable crumbs of hot dog bun.

"Not too much," she cooed, offering a pinky-nail-sized bite to a curious squirrel. "They shouldn't learn to depend on us." Her slightly broken Portuguese accent made the whole scene adorable.

When I met her at the party last night, I'd already had a half dozen Pooh-psicles - a whimsical mix of rum, 7-Up, mint leaves and Pooh-berries (which looked suspiciously like blueberries, but who am I to complain - they were free) - so the filter between my brain and mouth was pretty non-existent.

"You're a good person," I declared, handing her a Pooh-psicle.

She smiled, radiant, white teeth that somehow conveyed carnivorous intentions. "How do you know?"

"I have a talent for seeing the person behind the mask."

In hindsight, it was one of the most slapstick moments of my entire life. The person behind the mask, in this case, had Y chromosomes and spent the first 18 years of her life standing at the urinal in the men's room. But that's what Fantasyland does to you. It takes everything you think you know about your talents and your place in the world, and it stuffs it all down the rabbit hole.

It wasn't until we started kissing that it started to dawn on me. At first it was just a tickle on my upper lip and cheeks. Then, I started to notice that her body was reacting . . . differently. Her kissing became more voracious until I started to fear that I'd start bleeding.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom and cornered my roommate, Johnny. "I see you met Paula," he said. He was drunker than me. I'm surprised he could see anything at all.

"Is there anything I should know about her?"

"She's a sweetheart," he smiled warmly. "Very caring, genuine. I like her a lot."

"No back story?" I interrogated. "No checkered past?"

"Not that I know," he said, sipping his cocktail.

"OK." I said, my confidence rising again. "I'm off to find the bathroom."

"Have fun," he slurred, and then added, "Of course, she is a transvestite."

I left without saying goodbye, then regretted it. Then admonished myself for my regret. Then justified my actions for about an hour. Then began deeply questioning myself. Eventually, I fell asleep and woke up dehydrated and unsure anything truly exists beyond the pain in every molecule of my body.

One thing's for sure. I will never mix rum and Pooh-berries again.

I Am Deformed/ And I am Beautiful

2008-07-20T09:46:00.000-07:00

I didn't want to accept the news that Disney is shutting down Pleasure Island. It felt like a cold blood murder to me, the senseless destruction of something wonderful in the name of consumerism? Barbaric.

When I first landed in Orlando from LA, PI was my purgatory. The ultra-pristine lands of Disney World were too contrived, too pristine, too orderly. But there was a gentle chaos in PI that appealed to my baser anarchic nature. The crooked turnstiles were a welcome sign, inviting me into a park whose theme was discord and frivolity. It was Pan's park, and Dionysus and any character who made the world a little more interesting by virtue of his inability to conform.

For anyone who doesn't know it, Pleasure Island is a life force. It writhes like a rabid animal, pinned to the ground by white hot shafts of light that drop from the thick clouds overhead. It chatters like an angry squirrel, mutters like a lecherous outpatient stranded in the swamp in a garish wheelchair. Bucking and shivering against the surrounding golf courses and retirement resorts, it refuses to lie quietly. It spits. It groans. It struggles with a resolve that intensifies as the night goes on, cackling and squealing, grunting its low, rhythmic growl in defiance of its ensuing, inevitable demise.

When I think about it, I'm surprised that Disney allowed PI to exist as long as it did, grabbing its crotch, thumbing its nose at Walt's wholesome values. At Pleasure Island, things get loose; they fade. The combination of music, testosterone and booze an engraved announcement for a VIP housewrecking party every night of the week. For the most part, PI smells like tequila vomit and urine, and more semen has been spilled here than any break room in the park.

And so PI will shut down for good on September 27th. And it will become another shopping mall. As I imagine it, I try to channel my inner Buddha to explain the torment I feel over its loss, but I can't quite hear his explanations of metamorphosis and life cycles over the agonized sighs of my selfish, selfish memory.

Like a Snowflake In a Fiery Grip

2008-06-02T12:50:00.000-07:00

Whether it's deliberate distraction or accidental osmosis, I find myself learning more than I ever cared to know about the characters that make up the animated films of Walt Disney. I've learned Sleeping Beauty’s real name (Aurora) and which prince goes with which princess. Splinters of trivia stick in my memory and refuse to dislodge.

“Where’s the bathroom?” a guest asked me one day.

“Just up ahead on your right,” I said, pointing naturally with two fingers. “Just past the Tree of Life, where you’ll be interested to know there are 325 animals carved into the trunk and branches.”

I cautiously watch The Eyes And Ears for reports of a Guest passing at one of the parks, but that news never comes. Disney World remains immune.

About a month ago, I began researching death, bookmarking web pages that outlined the possibilities of immortality: Taoist sites with hopeful messages of reincarnation, discussion boards about stem cell research and nanotechnology, dark magic. I've spent entire nights researching cryonics, the historically disastrous “science” of freezing a body into a state of suspended animation, which, ironically, supposedly attracted Walt Disney (There's an amazing story on This American Life about Bob Nelson, the first President of the Cryonics Institute).

These days, I'm seeing death from a philosophical angle, not as a final state of rest, but as a transition that relies on tangential factors like technology and privilege and faith. Each reference to eternal life lights a fresh spark of hope in the caverns of my mind, and I cling to these hopes to fight off the demons.

Pink Elephants On Parade

2008-04-22T08:20:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling really sick the last couple of days - congestion, nausea, burning fevers at night. It's rare that I get sick, so I'm always a little bit in denial when it happens. "It's probably just allergies," is my stock blow-off response. After a sleepless night of the sweats, however, I finally decided I had to do something.

I didn't want to miss work, so instead, I brought a little bottle of Robitussin to DAK with me. I haven't had cough syrup since my raver days, “strobing” behind the speakers, so dosage is completely foreign to me. I simply decided that every time I felt a cough, I'd take hit from the bottle. In hindsight, I'm pretty sure that wasn't how it was meant to be used, but it certainly took care of my symptoms. In fact, by 11 am, most of the bottle was gone and the park was starting to melt into an Impressionistic Wonderland.

I began to see Animal Kingdom as a living organism, a creature that pulsed and grew with its own energy. Each of the lands became an extremity - Camp Minniemickey an arm, Dinoland a leg, the Tree of Life with all its carved totems became the womb of Animal Kingdom. The animals in their habitats were excited little organs, cleaning and eating and performing important organic functions while the guests flowed along the pathways like platelets traveling through arteries.

At first, I felt like a casual observer, flowing from Africa to Asia with my camera limp in my hand, fascinated by this new perspective, but the clouds started to roll in and things turned gray, and suddenly my presence wasn't quite as innocent. I was a virus, invading this beautiful organism, sickening it. Forgetting my time sheet, I ducked into A Bug's Life and sat in the dark theater with a hundred other guests, trying to calm myself down . . . This was perhaps my worst idea yet. The 4D Bug's Life experience is terrifying when you're not on drugs. With that much cough syrup in my blood, it was horrific. Stinkbugs exploded; spiders dropped out of the sky. By the time the lights came up, I was fetal in my chair. I'm pretty sure I'd wet myself.

It was enough to get me to admit to myself that I was not a victim of allergies. I clocked out, drove my Jeep back to my safe, stable apartment and vowed to the Holy Mouse himself never to do THAT again.

Drink Up Me 'Earties Yo Ho

2008-04-09T18:33:00.000-07:00

Maybe I wear too much black. Maybe I sketch too many skulls or obsess over E.A. Poe and Morrissey. Or maybe I'm just in a spiritual cul-de-sac right now, looking for double chocolate relevance in a vanilla circumstance.

Whatever the case, I can now confirm the rumors. I was on the Pirates ride at Magic Kingdom yesterday with an adorable greeter - dirty blond hair, pouty lips, a Scottish accent. We were light petting in the boat when the solitary woman in the back row, right behind us, pulled out a mason jar. I probably wouldn't have noticed her since she was almost completely smothered by a black dress, but at the time, I was half-turned around nibbling my greeter's ear, and I couldn't help but notice a gleam of light as she unscrewed the tin cap. Over the Jolly Roger BGM, I could hear the woman sobbing, her shoulders shaking out of sync with the drunken sailor tack of the boat's track.

I positioned my date's hand in my crotch (as you do) to keep her distracted while I watched the woman through a veil of dirty blond hair. Very carefully, she dislodged the contents of the jar into her hand. Under the dim light of the caverns, it looked like dirt, but I've seen her brand of sorrow before, and I knew she wasn't mourning a few ounces of earth. Muttering a prayer to herself, she scattered a bit of the ash into the waters of the Captain's Room and again at the Wench Auction. When we got to the Burning Jail, she reluctantly opened her fingers and let the rest go.

She was so caught up in her grieving, she didn't notice me, which was just as well, since I would have been hard pressed to say anything appropriate, what with my awkward position and the Scottish Banger in my shorts. When the boat brought us back to the Bayou, we disembarked and the woman disappeared into the crowd.

Buddhists believe there is value in circumstance. Western cynics believe in the Self-Fulfilling Prophecy. Now that I have allowed the somber ghost of death into my consciousness, have I opened myself to the world of the macabre? Was my front row view of this woman's grief meant to comfort my own grieving?

Disney is supposed to be my safe harbor, a sanctuary from the quiet wrath of the Reaper, but lately, I've been finding dark symbolism in even the most mundane activities, Hidden Mickeys skulls in my wainscoting. Until this spate of wanton morbidity passes, I think I'll stay away from the Haunted House.

Everybody Has A Laughing Place

2008-04-06T09:25:00.000-07:00

If Disney World is the conservative First World Power of Orlando, then Universal is the racy Third World neighbor, the Brazil to our Mother England. It has rules and government, a society as sophisticated as our own, but, in comparison to our prudish society of short hair and clear fingernail polish, the culture of the Universal Cast Member is a seething fondue pot of individual expression and favella-chic parties.

Last night, I was invited to a performance at a gutted office building on the wrong side of the tracks. The glass front door was opaque with seasons of wheat paste and posters. The address was spray painted onto the brick. A coded series of knocks signaled the deadbolt to slide open, revealing a shadowy view of a scruffy E-Gen Queen in black tights and a pashmina, who pointed me up a set of stairs. The music was a haunting melody - part Danny Elfman, part Cocteau Twins - BGM to the least Disney of themes I've known since coming to Orlando.

The first landing opened to a series of small empty offices, all of which had been papered with white butcher paper, like somebody was prepping for a brutal chainsaw attack. This is where people were chilling, brooding in doorways, pouting and sipping red wine from plastic cups. They were tattooed and pierced, hair cut into actual styles (mohawks and dreadlocks and ironic mullets, oh my!) that didn't exist anywhere in the Disney Look Book. They were, I knew, Universal Cast Members, the red-headed step-children of the Orlando theme park civilization, like guerrillas from the Island of Misfit Toys.

The performance itself was a dance tornado that touched down in every corner of the office space, raging from room to room and even the staircase. It was beautiful and brave, deconstructed from music video choreography into a modern porridge of movement. As the music rose to a climax, the dancers writhed against the papered walls, painting perverse Disney images with pots of black acrylic. Mouse-eared heads with devil horns and giant phalluses. It was the brainchild of a group of uber-talented Universal dancers, beautiful girls and boys whose modern training instilled in them a vicious hatred of tepid and tame Main Street choreography.

"Genius!" I heard someone shout when the music ended and the dancers had collapsed into their final poses. "Fuck Disney!"

It was an odd cheer, and something inside me was offended. I turned to the audience member who has disparaged my employer. He was rail-thin and pale with an emo haircut and zits like golf balls on his forehead. "Fuck you," I offered.

Mine was not a popular position to take in this environment, but what did I care? Dissent was the night's theme. Who were these emo jackoffs to dictate the appropriate object of my defiance?

"Corporate tool!" somebody accused. "Sellout!" somebody else shouted.

The Universal Cast Members didn't appreciate my opinion, so I explained. "You think you're being subversive, but an uprising that uses the symbols of the enemy only reinforces your enemy's dominance. If you really want to subvert, then create something unique, something better."

At least that's how it sounded in my head. Everyone else heard, "You people are fucking lame."

I don't remember exactly how I traveled from that upstairs room to the sidewalk, but the next thing I knew I was picking chewed gum and pieces of pavement out of my (regulation length) sideburns.

That's the problem with pledging allegiance to the First World: people are always trying to take down the Alpha. And one day, it might happen, but one thing's for sure. The revolution will not be led by douchebags like that.

Just Around the River Bend

2008-04-03T09:51:00.000-07:00

It's comforting to know that I can leave Orlando for a few months, come back and find that nothing has changed. Same BGM. Same inane Guests. Same blissfully mindless Cast Member parties celebrating unprotected sex, non-prescription drug use and Kermit the Frog. I missed the same-ness of WDW. I missed the safe insulation of Imagineered Magic.

Maybe I'll go into it later, but right now I don't feel like writing about LA. I will say that I've spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating death - Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine's Day - all brimful of medical minutiae with syllables that hack away optimism with the efficiency of the Reaper's swinging scythe . . .

Too dark? Not to worry. Between the Thai Kush in my toilet kit and the easily influenced College Program co-eds, I should be able to fuck and stone my way out of this dark place in no time. Already, I've made a new friend at DAK. His name's Derrick and he's another photographer who does tour guide work on the side. He's got gray hair, but I don't think he's much older than me. We invent new characters while we shoot - superheroes for the information age: Blogman and Libel Boy, Passive Aggressive Guy and the Codependent Twins. Then we act them out onstage.

"I'm going to put that photo on my blog," says Blogman. "What were you thinking when you pulled those shorts over your ginormous ass this morning dot wordpress dot com."

"Don't forget to get a waiver," Libel Boy advises. "And keep it 'til you get your check from the Palm Beach Liposuction Clinic."

Disney is exactly what I need right now. A familiar pattern with a pinch of novelty. My roommate is still an alcoholic pederast. My boss is still a barely closeted Queen. And tonight, I have a date with a petite, raspberry-scented Pluto. And, best of all, same as it ever was, I'm in a place that's death-proof.

Buddhists say you can't step in the same stream twice. Maybe, with Disney Magic, it just might be possible.

Homage in Photos

2007-11-01T07:34:00.003-07:00

A few sick new shots from Annie Leibovitz, featuring Roger Federer as King Arthur, Julie Andrews as Pinocchio's Blue Fairy with her apprentice fairy, Abigail Breslin and Rachel Weisz as Snow White.

Like A Snowflake In A Fiery Grip

2007-10-27T21:50:00.000-07:00

There's a fine line between passion and obsession. Most of my friends from the action sports world straddle that line with varying degrees of success. For example, compare Travis Pastrana's passion for rally driving with Tas Pappas' obsession with psychotropic drugs. Pastrana just became the youngest ever title holder in rallying history, while Pappas spent a few quality months in an Orange County jail, where he received divorce papers from his wife's lawyers and, upon his release, was banished to Australia, where he won't be allowed back on American soil to defend his 2006 skateboarding title. Unfortunately, to the casual observer, most examples aren't that black and white.

My roommate's fascination with boy bands, for instance.

I'm not going to try to claim that my musical idiosyncrasies are beyond reproach - God knows, I have plenty of skeletons in my ipod - but there's something sketchy about a straight-laced 30-something dude, monitoring the career path of manufactured musicians. It would be one thing if he guiltily subscribed to fan site newsletters or confined his listening to the soundproof interior of his pristine Corvette. Buying limited-edition boxed CD collections is sort of acceptable. Framing pictures of himself with Mark Wahlberg and Justin Timberlake is justifiable. But last week, he broke up with a perfectly decent fling because the guy didn't want to contribute to his Lou Pearlman fund.

"Ah just don't see myself getting serious with a guy who has no soul." Johnny and I were at a pre-Halloween party in Kissimmee, eating hash brownies and Pixie Sticks. "Ah know what you're going to say," he interrupted himself. "You think ah'm overreacting - just because he doesn't respect Pearlman's fantastic body of work, it doesn't mean he's soulless, right?"

I poured a Pixie Stick directly onto my teeth, and imagined I could feel the sugar eating away at my enamel. The brownies were stronger than I expected - I could actually feel the Pixie Dust aligning in Romanesque attack formations, preparing to assault the high white walls of my incisors.

"The thing is, it's not just the music. It's what he stands for. He created an empire. Boyzone, Take That and all the others that followed are just imitations of Pearlman's work."

We've been down this road before. In earlier incarnations of this conversation, I would bring up The Monkeys, Boys II Men, Menudo and all the other boy bands that didn't hitch their star to Pearlman's wagon, but Johnny stubbornly sticks to his version, that franchise-ability is what makes a formula successful, and Pearlman owns the rights to that market.

"Actually," I told him, washing away the Pixie army with a shot of vodka, "I wasn't going to say that."

Johnny looks disappointed. "Oh."

"I think it's admirable that you're able to create a checklist for relationships. Young - check. Hot - check. Likes boy bands - check! You know what you want and you're not willing to settle if your man doesn't meet the basic requirements."

"That's right."

"I wish I had a system like that . . . One time, I made a list of the five qualities I wanted in a girl: college-educated, big boobs, likes foreign films and giving blow jobs and doesn't smoke. Sure enough, the next girl I fell for was flat-chested, working on her GED, smoked like a Chinese pai gow champion and wouldn't suck my dick if I covered it in chocolate."

"But she liked foreign films?"

"If you count South American telenovelas."

It was true. At least on some level, I was envious of Johnny's concrete relationship rules. Sure, it was oversimplification, but who could blame him for trying to bring order to a complex emotional process.

I don't know Johnny well enough to tell him what I really think. The guy hasn't been in a serious relationship since his 20s, since he was dumped by a Magic Kingdom character performer, who had been the love of his life, who supposedly still worked in the program. It doen't take the opiate clarity of a hash brownie to understand that Johnny's real issue is fear of commitment. Once bitten, twice shy at Disney, even as in the real world.

"Hey," Johnny was whispering like a snowboarder hatching a plan to break in to a ski resort. "Do you think they'll let us put on the new Westlife album?"

Passion vs obsession.

Oh well. I suppose there are worse things than a roommate with a bad music obsession.

Following the Leader Wherever He May Go

2007-10-23T19:13:00.001-07:00

A few words about the Disney Look . . .

When I first rolled into Orlando, I was a prototypical skate punk - long hair, torn jeans, piercings. I scoffed at monotheistic belief systems, and openly mocked anyone who spent money at Starbucks. I wore BDSM jewelry to symbolize my commitment to my anti-establishment principles. I once shaved the words "FUCK" and "YOU" into my five o'clock shadow. I was seriously considering dreadlocks.

It seems reckless now, looking back on it, bringing beach culture values into a Disney job interview, but at the time, it made perfect sense. As the publisher of a high profile action sports magazine, I had spent a great deal of time cultivating a look that was both recognizable and authentic. Every scar had a story; every piece of jewelry had meaning. What company wouldn't want such a unique individual on its payroll?

And so it came as something of a shock when I was informed that if I wanted to work at Disney, I would have to completely transform myself in both appearance and attitude.

"What's all this?" I asked Orville at the end of our first interview, as he began stacking notebooks and folios on the table in front of me.

"Guidelines," he answered simply. "As a Disney Cast Member, there are a few simple policies you have to follow to make the Experience more Magical for the guests."

By this time, I was having trouble seeing over the stack. "Are you serious?"

"And it wouldn't hurt to visit the salon before your Traditions class."

The spiral-bound folder on top was called "The Look Book" and it was filled with corporate branding and registered trademark symbols.

"No matter where you work or what your role is," the Book states, "anytime you are in a public area, you are 'on stage'." And when on stage, there is no end to the regulations that bind your behavior.

For example, a Cast Member is required to display appropriate body language: stand up straight. Hands off your hips. Don’t cross your arms. Make eye contact with the guest at all times. A WDW Cast Member never points with a single finger, instead using two fingers (the index and middle) or, to be on the safe side, the whole hand in the style of a karate chop.

A Cast Member should act professional and exercise good judgment in respect to appearance. Prohibited activities include chewing gum, having poor posture, using a cell phone, frowning, eating and smoking. And these restrictions are not limited to work hours.

“When participating in meetings or other activities backstage,” it says in the Look Book, “even when not on Disney property, you are representing the company and naturally, all Disney Look guidelines still apply.”

Costumes can only be worn as intended, free of personality-inflicted flair. Nametags go on the left shoulder and can be modified with no more than two pre-approved pins. Sunglasses are permitted, but only if the guests can still see your eyes. No conflicting logos are allowed.

Body modification is strictly prohibited. This includes “visible tattoos, brands, body piercing (other than traditional ear piercing for women), tongue piercing or splitting, tooth filing, earlobe expansion and acquiring visible, disfiguring skin implants.” In addition, heavy fragrances are forbidden and deodorant is required.

For women, conservative hairstyles only. This means no shaving of any part of the head and the only dyes allowed are natural looking colors. Same for nails – no red, pink or metallic; no charms or decals and tips can be no longer than a quarter inch.

Men’s hair must not cover the ears or shirt collar and their sideburns can be no longer than the earlobe. After twenty-five years of rigid suppression, moustaches are now allowed, but only if they are trimmed and don’t extend below the corners of the mouth. No beards.

Wrist watches are OK and you can wear one ring per hand. However, bracelets, necklaces and anklets are strictly forbidden. Men are not allowed to wear earrings, but women can wear one per ear – hoops if they're smaller than a dime or posts if they're smaller than a quarter.

Of course, my first reaction was mutinous. Who did they think they were, suppressing my individuality, dictating my appearance, modifying my behavior? I considered refusing - actually I considered putting Orville's Minnie Mouse pen through the back of his hand, yanking the Walt photomosaic off the wall and storming out of the office, but something stopped me.

Working for Disney meant undergoing a complete metamorphosis. My identity, my counter culture pride, my nihilist intellectualism - everything I held dear would have to be demolished and rebuilt in the shining image of Walt.

In a perverted way, deconstructing myself to work for Disney was the ultimate rebellion. It meant crushing the most despotic system I knew: my own.

And there was something else. I could have gone to another company; hell, in Orlando, I could have driven fifteen miles in any direction and found the hiring department of a dozen other amusement parks. But I had left everything behind and crossed the country specifically to work at the Wonderful World of Disney. And that, I decided, was exactly what I was going to do.

Even if it destroyed me.

Supercalifragiliciousexpialidocious

2007-10-19T17:07:00.000-07:00

“I haven’t done this since I was a kid.” Tink tugs her golden hair back into a ponytail.

The sun is resting on the tailored rooftops of Celebration. Long shadows from even fence posts stripe the immaculate front lawns of matching townhouses. Every so often, a car drifts down the wide street and into the mouth of a yawning garage. I’m sitting on the back bumper of Tinker Bell’s car, pulling a Rollerblade over a starchy white sock, admiring the sanitation of the freshly swept streets of Disney’s prototypical community of tomorrow.

We push away from the car and skate along the bike path. Compared to her fairy princess grace, I’m skating like a baby elephant with oversized ears. This is not an auspicious start, considering how long I’ve been flirting with her. I like Tink because she's grounded and a little dark; she doesn’t get carried away with the gossip and backstage shenanigans. And she has a sexy smile.

As we roll along, I look up through the branches, where streaks of color are smeared across the deepening blue sky, just above the tree tops, like a scoop of rainbow sherbet melting in an abalone dish. Tink’s eyes are closed. She’s rolling sightless along the pavement, her face lit with the warmth of the sunset. I reach over and take her hand. She squeezes my fingers and smiles, but keeps her eyes shut against the wind. The gentle downslope of the path gives us momentum on our skates, pulling us toward the abalone sky.

As smoothly as I can, I roll in behind her. The inside of my skates rub against the outside of hers as I wrap my arms around her waist. Her hair smells like clean blossoms. The tip of her ponytail tickles my neck in the wind. When she gets too close to the edge, I steer her back to the center of the path. She responds instantly, trusting my instincts as her own without a second thought. Her trust flatters me. I keep my cheek pressed against her head, breathing her in, guiding us down the path like a bobsled.

“Tink?”

Her eyes are closed. “Yeah?”

“D’you ever imagine what it might be like to settle down in Orlando and live happily ever after?” I’m trying on the words like they’re a ridiculous costume I’m modeling for Halloween. “Get a little house in Celebration and have window dressing and community gardeners and picnics?”

She turns her head and opens her eyes slowly, flicking her gaze from my eyes to my mouth and back to my eyes.

“You know what?” she asks sweetly.

“What?”

“You have a love bug wing caught between your teeth.” She breaks out of my arms and takes off down the path, skating at a speed I can’t possibly match.

By the time I catch up to her again, she’s sitting on a park bench next to a fountain, looking up at the darkening sky. The sunset colors have faded, but the fountain lights are dancing against the twilight, flickering a web of prisms against the tree branches. I’m dripping sweat from the exertion of the skate. She doesn’t appear even to be perspiring.

“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might have this wish I wish tonight.” Her hands are clasped together like a little girl reciting prayers before bedtime, her head tilted back to stare beyond the treetops.

I wipe my forehead with the sleeve of my T-shirt. “That’s not a star,” I point out. “That’s Venus.”

She doesn’t look at me. “I know.”

I roll over and sit next to her on the bench. “I'm no astronomer," I say, "But I happen to know that planets are notoriously vain. Venus'll never grant your wish if you call her a star.”

Fountain light dances across her face. “I can call Venus whatever I want. We have a special relationship. And besides, it’s my wish.”

“So what do you wish for? True love? World peace?”

“Financial stability.” She looks at me sideways. “My mom married for love, and it almost killed her. I don’t want that to happen to me.” She stretches her legs out in front of her. “What do you wish for?”

I decide to tell her the truth, but keep it vague. “Lately, I’ve been wishing for a Magical Moment – a sign that I’m doing the right thing.”

Tink stares at me with an odd little smile. “Really?”

“I've made a few questionable choices in the past year. I figure if there's such a thing as Magic, Disney's the place I'll find it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

The derisiveness in her voice catches me off guard. “No, it's not.”

She looks at me with the pity of an alcoholic confronting another alcoholic in denial. “Disney is a business. It’s not a religion. It’s not a lifestyle. They make products that make money. Not Magic. Money.”

"I dunno," I say. "Most of the Cast Members seem pretty happy here, and I'm pretty sure it's not the paycheck."

"Most of the Cast Members," she fires back, "are morons."

“What about the guests?” I counter.

“Who cares about the guests? They’ll take whatever you give them. If you offer your soul, they’ll snatch it up and scrapbook it before you can say 'have a Disney day'.”

“You can’t believe that! What about that little girl at MGM? You helped her at the drinking fountain when her parents weren’t there.”

“That was common courtesy.”

“Or that day at Epcot, you remembered that little boy’s name. That’s Guideline #6. Preserve the Magical Experience.” I’m playing with her now, offering arguments with Disniac precision.

“It’s not guideline anything. It’s short term memory. It’s hard to forget a boy’s name when his mother is screaming it.” Tink shakes her head. “At the end of the day, all those guests go back to wherever they came from and they turn on the TV and they pay their bills and they forget all about the boy dressed up as Aladdin who rubbed his sweaty cheek on them.”

I pout like it’s personal. “They don’t forget.”

“Let me tell you something. You work your ass off. You sign autographs and you pose for pictures and you believe in your heart that you’re a hero to these kids. But you’re not. You’re slideshow fodder. You’re a silly souvenir. And do you know how I know this? Because I was one of those kids. My parents bought me everything I wanted, and every year at our summer garage sale, they sold it all for a buck. And guess what? I didn’t care.”

I spice my words with a little defensive hostility, and I’m surprised that it feels genuine. “Do you think that makes you better than me? Because you don’t care? Because you can look at these kids and see through their happiness?

“I see it for what it is,” she says calmly. “And I don’t waste my wishes on absurd Magical Moments.”

With a jolt, I realize that I no longer care about this conversation, and worse: I no longer care if we hook up. Against all odds, I’ve found a girl whose cynicism turns me off.

Be Our Guest!

2007-10-04T12:22:00.001-07:00

Every time I step back into my old life, it feels a little more awkward, like I had these action sports experiences once when I was really drunk, but I can only pick up fragments of familiarity.

Last weekend, I went to Camp Woodward for the Amateur Inline Championships. It was three days in a row of ramps, grommets and pad stench, somewhere in the middle of the Mojave Desert. In years past, this would have been my description of heaven, but this time, that glorious anarchy of a skate event somehow just didn't feel right.

I blame my manager. From the moment I entered the photo lab on that first day for my job interview, Orville baptized me in the waters of the Disney Way.

It was an Orlando Winter afternoon (read: perfect temperature with a few clouds gathering for their regular 3:00 overture). To signify my dedication to the photographic profession, I wore a neatly trimmed goatee and just a hint of disdain in my scowl. My hair was pulled back into a pony tail, held in place with a black band which made me look, I felt, artistic. The Disney security guard looked me over for a full minute before directing me to a row of office trailers on the edge of the theme park property. He stayed a half pace behind me and kept an anxious hand on his hip as I walked up the stairs to the photography trailer and opened the door.

“I’m looking for Orville,” I announced.

“And you would be?” The man behind the desk was so large he seemed to be overflowing out of his chair.

“I’m a photographer,” I said. “We have a three o’clock.”

He ducked his head so that he could peer at me over his spectacles. I counted one-two-three chins. “Meeting,” he said.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You said ‘we have a three o’clock’.” He smiled proudly. “I finished your sentence.”

I found Orville to be supportive in a way that the action sports community doesn't get. People in LA don't smile at you unless they suspect you might be casting the next Mark Burnett reality series. Nobody at the Amateur Inline Championships finished my sentences.

And so, I find myself going into October with a new criteria on my judging sheet: hospitality. And so far, it's not even a contest.

Who's Always Eager To Extend A Friendly Claw?

2007-09-24T19:23:00.001-07:00

A word about my roommate.

I met him the day I moved in - not generally a good idea and I wouldn't recommend it, but through a benevolent twist of Luck and Fortune, Johnny's turned out to be a nice guy. Anal retentive, yes. Alcoholic, yes. But decent in a way that escapes skaters and Disniacs.

Johnny is a quiet guy and a cheerful listener who always has an extra beer on hand. He's relentlessly social, devoted to his friends and ritualistic in his daily regime. Every morning, he gets up at 8, showers, shaves, drinks a protein shake and goes to work. Every afternoon, he walks in the door at exactly 5:30, changes into a T-shirt and his favorite Jeff Gordon baseball cap, and patiently prepares two fingers of Scotch in a glass over ice before settling into the task of checking voice mail and returning calls.

In principle, he sells on-air advertising for Radio Disney – his specialty is auto retail: dealerships, maintenance, promotions – but Friendship is Johnny’s real career. He's an empathetic listener and has a horoscopic knack for giving broad-stroked advice. A few selections from his all-purpose didactical stockroom: “You’re a better man than me.” “Sometimes you just have to go with your gut.” “Who knew?”

As far as I can tell, he holds no opinions of his own so he's never in danger of violating his own principles. If anybody ever notices his inconsistencies, they don’t mention anything. He's reliable and sympathetic and people love him for it. For all the things that Johnny is – compulsive, noncommittal, celebrity-obsessed – he isn’t an asshole.

He's something I'm grateful to have in my life again: a good friend.

Pixie Dust

2007-09-18T10:28:00.000-07:00

For as long as she could remember, Nikki had been using. She started smoking in the fifth grade and learned how to lace joints in junior high. She couldn’t remember a day beyond her fifteenth birthday when she didn’t carry cocaine in her compact. By the time she graduated from Boca High, she knew twenty-six different ways to smoke hash and could eyeball an eight-ball almost to the milligram.

She started selling Mary Kay cosmetics to get enough money for her weekend binges. At first, it just seemed like a fun way to avoid a real job – Make your own hours! Pay taxes as an independent contractor! – but then she realized that being a Mary Kay girl put her on the doorstep of every pharm-addled housewife in suburbia. What started as a weed drop to a lesbian couple near Universal turned into one of the most profitable scams in the history of pyramid marketing.

Unlike most pyramid schemes, Mary Kay moves an actual product, but unlike most brick-and-mortar businesses, the company doesn’t bother to track their inventory. If a Mary Kay independent beauty consultant runs out of, say, Cellushape™ cellulite reduction cream, she can simply buy it from another Mary Kay consultant. At any given time, the company has only a rough estimate of what product is moving through its warehouses. An entrepreneur by nature, it didn’t take Nikki long to realize that she could sell pretty much anything she wanted as long as the receipt said “face wash & moisturizer combo.”

And so, under the guise of Pink Ambition, Nikki started delivering Vicodin, Oxycontin, meth and anything else those Florida housewives desired. In less than a year, she had a client base that spread from Altamonte Springs to Kissimmee, and she was driving the coveted pink Cadillac. She was laundering enough money to get anything she wanted . . . But she had nobody to share her success with. She had never cared much for men, but she loved children. When her gynecologist informed her that she probably would never have kids, she took it as a personal challenge. She spent a month having unprotected sex with anyone she could find, then thoroughly disgusted with herself, she swore off men forever and enrolled in a childhood development program at FSU. Her plan was to start a daycare center, but at the age of 22, she couldn’t get any investors to take her seriously.

Nikki told herself she was applying at Disney World to expand her client base, but really she just wanted to be around children. She was chipmunk height, 5’6”, which also put her in the height range to be a princess. With her perfect dark complexion and high cheekbones, she was quickly approved in Pocahontas.

In the character program, she had a lot of free time on her hands and her natural aptitude for sales flourished. She identified the key buyers in the department and soon became known as the pharmaceutical supplier for the Tunnel Tramps. She was a smart girl, well-spoken and educated. The managers were always trying to promote her to a coordinating position, but she would politely decline. Why would she want a job that took her farther away from the kids? As her colleagues got promoted around her, she found herself in an unusual position: supplier to the management of the Magic Kingdom.

One day, a puritanical Cast Member (who wasn’t one of her customers) caught her in the break room doing bumps before a Poca set. He reported her immediately, and sat back to watch the drama unfold. Nikki, however, had already established a relationship with everybody who heard the grievance. One coordinator was a regular client. Two more were trying to score a bunch of pills for a party they were throwing that weekend. Another woman was reminded of a buying trip/ ménage a trios that Nikki had had the foresight to record on her camcorder. So, the claim just . . . faded away like a Xanax buzz.

As I write this, Nikki is still distributing a wide range of “skin care products” in the Tunnels beneath the Kingdom. She and her partner are on the list for Central American adoption.

Pluto On a Rampage

2007-09-14T16:17:00.000-07:00

This violates pretty much all of our Guest Service Guidelines, but I'm sure Pluto had his reasons . . .

Vanessa Hudgens In the Nude

2007-09-09T10:04:00.000-07:00

I have to be honest. I've never payed any attention to High School Musical . . . Until now.

A King In A Queen's Kingdom

2007-09-06T15:38:00.000-07:00

For the most part, being a straight guy in a predominantly gay workplace isn’t a big deal. Gay Cast Members are respectful when they inquire about my affiliations, and sympathetic that I was “born this way.” But this is the workplace after all, sexually charged, brimming with pheromones and inappropriate advances.

Inappropriate, that is, if you’re dealing with the bonding rituals of other straight guys.

Jason is in the College Program, a temporary position for college kids who have nothing better to do between classes. He arrived at the Kingdom in the beginning of summer with hundreds of other twenty year olds, fired up with the promise of valuable interactive customer service experience in exchange for school credit. Like all the other CPs, he went through minimal training, a one-day Traditions class where they teach him to shave, wear deodorant and be polite to the guests. After that, they turned him loose with a Cast Member ID.

He wears headphones around his neck, but I have yet to see them plugged into anything. His basics are slung around his body with the brio of a B-boy: black shorts below his hips, XXXL T-shirt hanging down past his thighs. He never gets tired of high-fiving Pluto, and shouting, “What up, dog?” He’s Tigger height, which qualifies him for all the characters in that range, but he couldn’t care less about proper character animation. For him, Disney is a hunting ground for the most elusive game of all: women.

Jason has gone out of his way to bond with me, because I’m one of the only other heterosexuals in the character program. When he first showed up, I kind of felt sorry for him, so I made small talk in the breakroom. Most of the time, I just listened to his stories, and interjected little expletives during the appropriate pauses. “Sick, dude.” “Whatthefuck.” “No way.” After a few of those conversations, I learned to tune him out. Now, I just nod and smile and punch his fist when he raises it. Having a conversation with Jason is like watching interactive MTV.

“Dude, you gotta see this little hottie I’m working on right now,” he says, walking up behind me in the cafeteria while I’m ordering a burger. His sneakers are unlaced. His headphone cord is hanging down the sweaty front of his T-shirt, the jack banging back and forth between his knees. “She’s a gazelle or some shit in the Lion King show. Bro, she is so fucking fine!” He raises his fist, my cue to knock knuckles with him, but then realizes that I’m carrying a tray with both hands. With an excited smirk, he turns his fisted hand into a ‘right on!’ salute instead.

“Do you want onions on that?” the fry cook mumbles into the sneeze guard.

“No, thanks,” I tell him.

“Oh shit.” Jason bobs his head at the cook. “I’ll take one of them, too!”

A woman in line behind me reaches around to tap Jason on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” She’s dressed in manager wardrobe, nice slacks, a walkie-talkie on her hip. She hides it well, but she has a nice body. “There’s a line,” she says with amiable authority.

Jason is nonplussed. “Oh, it’s cool.” He turns back to the fry cook who, despite my request, is lacing my chicken breast with crisp concentric circles of raw onion. “And a side of fries, my man.”

The manager side-steps me to put herself back in Jason’s frame of reference. “Actually, it’s not cool.” Her voice is still amiable, but I can hear a taut line of tension threatening to tear her patience like a strip of Velcro. “I only have twenty minutes for lunch and I’m next.”

Jason turns to face her. He looks her up and down like he’s appraising a centerfold. I know this look and, instinctively, I turn away.

“How about a little wager?” he leers at her.

“I beg your pardon?”

Jason is obsessed with the prospect of becoming a world-class pick up artist, like the characters in The Game. He has invented a pick up technique he calls “in yo’ face” and inappropriate questions are the cornerstone.

“I bet you,” he levels a cool gaze at the manager, “that I can guess your age within one year, up or down.”

The fry cook chuckles. “Man, I can’t wait to see this.”

The manager is looking at Jason like he just proposed a tea party on the ceiling. “Excuse me,” she says.

“If I win, you have to let me buy you lunch.”

I brace myself for the impending firestorm . . .

“Deal,” she says.

The frycook’s eyes go wide. He and I are both intrigued now, like rubes around a 3-card monty table.

Jason rubs his chin and appears thoughtful. “Let’s see. With Botox and collagen, even the oldest women can get carded at the bar . . . [she blanches] But I can tell from your hands that you aren’t over 40. You have a smooth complexion and your teeth are perfect, so I’ll guess you’re not a teenager [at this, she actually blushes] . . . You’re fit, but you wobble in all the right places. Probably you’re struggling with a work out schedule: you want to get in shape, but you don’t want to look like you’re trying. You recently got out of a serious relationship that left you hurt, alone and sorta distrustful of men . . . [at this, her jaw drops and her eyes dart at the audience: me and the frycook, also open-mouthed] But my guess is your heartbreak won’t last long. You were always too good for him. Your mom knew it. Your friends knew it and you know it . . . You’re 30 – no wait! 31.”

The manager is speechless for a full minute while the burgers burn on the grill. Finally, “Wrong,” she says.

Jason smiles. “I tried.” As he walks away, the manager watches him, not with disgust.

“That was a risky game,” I tell him by the soda fountain.

“What do I care?” he grins. “I’m a temp, remember. By this time next week, I'll be on a plane home. Besides, I have her now.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because I nailed her profile.” He looks over my shoulder to make sure she can’t hear. “She posted all that shit on her blog, yo. She’s from Atlanta. She's a Scorpio. She’s applying for Disney Corporate. She just broke up with some homo accountant that she never loved anyway - get this, her mom actually left a comment - how sick is that? Right now, she's asking herself how I figured all that stuff out. Eventually, we'll bump into each other again; she'll ask me how I did that, and I'll make her agree to have dinner with me. In. Yo'. Face!”

“You’ve got issues,” I tell him.

“Bro,” he says, “My only issue is how many condoms to buy. What what!” Without waiting, he punches my fist that’s holding my soda, then throws up a peace sign.

My First Disney Kiss

2007-08-30T07:39:00.000-07:00

It was Spring of '97 and I was in Orlando, doing a story on an event at a skatepark near Altamonte Springs. After the competition, some locals invited me to a place called Pleasure Island, a nighttime Disney property that they promised "wouldn't be totally lame."

Pleasure Island turned out to be a series of bars, a theme park for adults where every drinking hole had its own identity. In addition to the concierge’s suggestions, there was Technoland, Discoland and Two-Guys-Singing-Funny-Songs-On-a-Pianoland, each theme reinforced by interior design and costumed bartenders. The best part was: you didn’t have to commit to any one theme. For a simple cover charge, you were allowed access to every dance floor on the property.

I couldn’t believe the smut. Pop music, racy dancers, wide screens projecting Ricky Martin videos. Bright colors smeared across the horizon: electric Midori shots sparkling down glowing blue ice blocks, dark Brazilian girls in raspberry miniskirts with warm butterscotch eyes. I wove through a carnival of sensations, anticipation crackling in the air around me like a rice crispie treat.

Could it be that this was the Disney of my childhood? It was so naughty, so tantalizing. How did they achieve such a sexually charged atmosphere and still maintain a G rating?

Eventually, my friends and I settled on the Beach Club, a live music venue decorated with surfboards and beach paraphernalia. I bought a Corona and stood at the bar, where I could watch the chino-clad convention groups mosh to the band’s rendition of Mony Mony.

“I hate it when they change the lyrics!” the girl next to me shouted. “Don’t you?”

"I never understood the lyrics in the first place," I shouted back.

The girl was pretty in a hairspray and fake eyelashes kind of way. “They’re supposed to hold out the microphone so the audience can sing, ‘Hey Motherfucker! Get laid! Get fucked!’ But since this is Disney property, they’re not allowed.”

So that explained it. Sexy, but not sexual. Provocative, but not so much that it could be considered lewd or lascivious. It was just another variation on a classic Disney theme. They took you up to a certain point and then left the rest up to your imagination.

“So what are you doing for New Year’s?” the girl asked.

"It’s March," I pointed out.

She looked at her watch and gasped. “It’s ten minutes to midnight! Come on!”

She was cute, so naturally, I followed her down the stairs and out the door. She grabbed my hand when we got outside and led me to a huge stage where dancers were doing some kind of countdown performance.

"What is this?" I asked when she finally came to rest in front of the stage.

She smiled, her teeth like a perfect row of white Chiclets. “Every night is New Year’s Eve at Pleasure Island.”

We watched in silence for a few minutes while the dancers threw themselves around the stage. When the countdown hit ten, everybody in the audience joined in.

“Ten!” shouted the girl beside me. “Nine!”

I joined in too. After all, how often is it that you get to celebrate New Year’s Eve in Spring?

When the count hit zero, the girl at my side threw her arms around me and pressed her lips against mine. A dozen skyrockets flew into the sky and confetti exploded overhead. We didn’t stop kissing until the lights came up.

“Happy New Year,” she said.

And just like that, I was a believer.

A Queen's Fury

2007-08-22T10:04:00.000-07:00

At 6’5”, Gary is a rising star in the drag scene. As Misty Meaner and Holly Golustly at the Parliament House, he’s sassy and fabulous, and always gets a standing ovation. But for a real performance, you haven’t seen Gary until you’ve seen him as Maleficent in Disney’s Fantasmic show.

For those of you who don’t know her, Maleficent is the Queen bitch of Sleeping Beauty, who challenges Sorcerer Mickey in the second act of MGM's Fantasmic show by turning herself into a fifty-foot tall dragon.

This is no easy feat of Magic. To create the illusion of transformation, Maleficent has to be strapped into a hydraulic lift and hoisted fifty feet in the air. At the musical crescendo, approximately five thousand dollars worth of pyro is detonated and Maleficent’s lift descends in the dark to be replaced with a giant dragon puppet.

Fifty feet on a scissor lift is scary under normal circumstances. But when you consider how much cocaine Gary had in his system the night the lift failed . . .

When he went onstage, Gary was feeling, if not exactly relaxed, then at least in control. The music, the smells, the action – everything was familiar. He conjured his bitchiest persona – a vitriolic combination of Meaner’s haughty attitude and Golustly’s self-involvement – and swept through the hallways backstage.

The tech who ushered him onto the platform made his usual joke about seeing up his skirt. He fastened the safety line to the railing and snapped Maleficent’s dress around Gary’s waist, then gave him the thumb’s up.

When the lights found him on stage, Gary launched into his performance. He shook his fists at Mickey and openly mocked the bravery of the little mouse. As the hydraulics clicked in and the lift began to rise, Gary ground his teeth together and sniffed back the post nasal drip. Fifty feet in the air, the lights went out and he prepared for the descent.

That was when the machine quit.

Explosions rocked the set and gusts of fire billowed around him. Gary was certain something bad was happening but, as coked up as he was, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. From somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled a fire safety tip. In an emergency, Maleficent’s fire retardant dress could be used to shield the body from burns. A blast of flame shot directly at him and he was just able to cover his face with the massive beaded sleeves.

As the pyro subsided, he breathed a short-lived sigh of relief. On the edge of his vision, a massive dragon puppet was making its way onto the stage and his heart jumped. The transformation trick required the dragon to appear right where Maleficent disappeared, which wasn’t a problem when the machine was functioning normally. Now, however, he was six stories high, precariously balanced on a platform that measured no wider than his shoulders. Even as he watched, Gary could see the puppet closing on his position, obviously unaware of the change in plan. In seconds, the contraption would collide with his narrow lift and, he knew, his chances of coming out on top weren’t good.

Locked onto his little platform, fifty feet in the air, he summoned all his wits about him and screamed like a princess!

Somehow, over the music and the explosions, the strobe lights and applause, the techs wielding the dragon heard his scream and swerved out of the way. Word spread quickly through the backstage that Maleficent was stuck in the lift, but nothing could be done about it. There were ten thousand guests in the audience, and each one demanded Magic. Gary was stuck in position for the remainder of the performance.

As the show dragged on, Mickey defeated the forces of evil and the princes and princesses surrounded the lagoon singing. Gary had no choice but to animate the lyrics that he had never experienced on stage before this night. He moved his arms and tilted his head, too far away for the crowd to notice the tears that rolled down his cheeks. Don’t look down, he reminded himself over and over. Keep your eyes on the audience.

It took an eternity for the lights to come up and the guests to leave the amphitheater. Three managers, six techs and half a fire brigade turned up before somebody figured out how to manually release the hydraulic lift.

“We’re going to cut the hydraulics,” a voice shouted up to Gary. “We’re not sure how fast this thing is going to come down, so hold on to something.”

His whole body was shaking from fear and exhaustion. If it weren’t for the massive amounts of cocaine in his bloodstream, he probably would have been in shock. He slipped his fingers around the guardrail and braced himself for the worst.

The hydraulic system released with a hiss and descended to the ground. Onlookers would later recall that it dropped at a normal rate, but to Gary it was a freefall. When he was finally unclipped and released, he staggered out of the cage, into the arms of his manager, who smiled at him as if the whole thing had been a grand adventure.

“Jesus,” Gary’s manager appraised him with a pained expression. “You look like shit.”

Gary could only nod.

“Well, you better get back to the break room. The next show is in fifteen minutes and you have got to do something about that makeup.”

Orlando Man Exchanges Missile Launcher For Shoes

2007-08-19T07:15:00.000-07:00

The Orlando police Kicks For Guns program has a 'no questions asked' rule when handing out shoes in exchange for unwanted weapons. So we may never know the true origins of this 4-foot long surface-to-air missile launcher.

"I didn't know what to do with it, so I brought it here," explained the man, who picked up a pair of size 3 Reebok sneakers for his daughter. "I took it to three dumps to try to get rid of it, and they told me to get lost."

You Know You're A Cast Member When . . .

2007-08-17T11:59:00.000-07:00

This isn't my original work, but some of these are pretty funny so . . .

You know you’re a Cast Member when:

*All your conversations start with “One time at Disney . . .”

*You never point with one finger.

*You’ve worked with or lived with people from every state and at least 5 other countries.

*You know where all of your friends are every Monday night.

*You know that “my Friday” could easily fall on a Tuesday (and it probably does).

*Wendy’s, Taco Bell, Earl of Sandwich… enough said.

*You can calmly say “Yes, the wait really is 30 minutes” 50 times within 10 minutes.

*You know what an alpha-unit is.

*You know what a protein spill is, and you can smell Voban from 50 feet away.

*You speak fluent ‘radio’: 101, 102, 103, 56, 10-4, 10-9 . . .

*You know where someone can find any Disney character at any time (or at least CHIP knows).

*You know what CHIP is.

*You never wait for more than 10 minutes for any attraction.

*Anything heartwarming that happens is now a “Magical Moment.”

*You can spot a hidden Mickey anywhere.

*You regret not having a FastPass every time you have to wait in a line.

*You know it’s a costume, not a uniform.

*You can spot a Mickey antennae on any car that is a mile away.

*You can recite preshows and even entire attraction spiels without even thinking about it.

*You have saved a baby elephant from deadly poachers several times.

*You use the following terms in normal conversation: ADO, ER, MK, the tunnels, DAK, PI, Vista, Commons, Chatham forgetting that no one has a clue what you’re talking about.

*You start friendly conversations with complete strangers.

*You know how to perfectly plan your day so that you can see both Illuminations and Wishes.

*You avoid skipping class more than 3 days in a row and 9 times in 90 days for fear of being kicked out of class.

*Anytime you go anywhere you wonder what the story is behind the particular place.

*”The Man” now becomes “The Mouse”.

*You know the colors of all the Monorails.

*Any WDW commercial brings a tear to your eyes.

*You know that one of the nighttime shows that is impossible to miss is the “Stroller Races down Main Street”.

*You have the overwhelming urge to offer to take people’s pictures.

*You know how to smile and politely answer the question “Why is it raining?” (YES, we seriously get that one.)

*You think nothing of walking up to lost people and offering directions.

*You can spend a day at WDW without going on any rides and you still have the time of your life.

*You have seen the backside of water.

*Guests ask you for directions… when you aren’t in costume.

*You can speak Spanish…or at the least the Spanish part of the monorail. “Por favor mantengase alejado de las puertas.”

*You know what “EPCOT” stands for.

*It’s not unusual to have lunch at a pub in England and have dinner at a sushi bar in Japan while stopping at Norway for a quick dessert.

* You can drive a Pargo like a race car.

* You love using doors that open “Automagically.”

* You know that Ghiardelli’s gives away free chocolate…and you have a hat to get that second piece…

*You know how to answer the question “Do you know what time the 3 o’clock parade is?” (Most common asked question!!!)

*You know where all the dirty references are in each and every disney movie!! (Yes, there are many of them!!!)

*Not “customers”, but “guests.”

*You know what it is like to actually “live” where you work.

*When the mouse becomes the rat.

*When all customer service sucks outside.

X World vs Disney World

2007-08-16T09:36:00.000-07:00

What am I becoming?

I just spent a week back in LA, watching the X Games and partying with my old group of friends. These are the people who, up until a few months ago, I considered to be my peers - skaters, bikers, small time criminals. These are genuine, instinctual people - if they don't like you, you know it. If they want something, they take it. Of course I'm simplifying, but still, the world I grew up in is very different from Disney's plastic, smiling land o' plenty.

In the world of California beach culture, anti-establishment behavior is the norm: punk rock, illicit sex, a healthy rivalry between sports that occasionally expresses itself in a bar fight. Anything counterculture is fair game. I used to stencil graphics on sidewalks and concrete retaining walls. I used to shoplift energy drinks, just for the pre-guarana rush. I used to be a hooligan.

Since I cut my hair into the Disney 'do, my life has done a 180. Instead of indie rock, I listen to show tunes. Where I used to tell people what I really thought of their lame-ass T-shirt graphic, now I smile and point with two fingers and say, "Have a great day!" At Disney, there is no tolerance whatsoever for non-conformist behavior. Everybody dresses alike, wears the same fashion and speaks in Disney code. Cast Members are clones of an Americana that never existed before the Look Book was published.

Until this year, I spent my entire life in opposition to the institution, fiercely loyal to the principles of individuality and independence, but now that I'm a card-carrying member of Mouse Inc, I fall squarely on the other side of the divide.

Can I live with one foot in each world, or, like a schizophrenic, will my personality split until I don't recognize myself?

Disney's History X

2007-08-02T23:01:00.000-07:00

Fantasia, created in 1940 is arguably Disney's most powerful work of art. State of the art animation set to classical compositions performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra, conducted by Leopold Stokowski. Every time it's remastered and released, I marvel at the simple beauty. But there's a dark secret as well.

In its original incarnation, there was a little "nappy" Negro centaur who acted as the handmaiden to the tall, beautiful white centaurs. In 1940, this character, Sunflower, appeared in the segment set to Beethoven's "Pastoral Symphony".

Not surprisingly, considering the growing civil rights movement and the backlash from Song of the South, Sunflower was edited out of the film when Disney re-released Fantasia in the 60s. With all the editors at their disposal, you would think Disney might be able to patch their work, but by the end of the Beethoven segment, the audio doesn't sync at all.

Disney denies there ever was a Sunflower character. Strange, considering these clips I found . . .