The Kingdom

You haven’t truly experienced Disney World until you come as an adult – unclouded by any taint of the “Disney Magic.”

Disney World is a land unto itself. It’s set up in such a way that it separates you by degrees from the world around it. First you get off the highway at a dedicated interstate exit ramp that seems to go on for miles without any clue as to where you are going. Then, like Muslims entering the Holy Precincts you pass beneath a gateway that looms over the highway. Then the parking lot; Goofy Lot. Can you remember that? Next to the light pole? Good. Then you walk on foot to a spot where the souls of Goofy Lot are made to wait behind a yellow line for the tram. People are pushing and shoving, selfishly staking out a place on the tram as it comes along. It’s like the Holocaust, I remark, noting how we are gradually being transported by degrees through a dehumanizing system. We miss the first tram, but when the next comes we shuffle on board with the others who have pushed and shoved and hustled the hardest to get there. The tram driver has such a thick Southern drawl that not even I can understand him.

From the tram they bring you to a queue. An automated machine swallows your debit card and silently removes 70 dollars from your checking account. There is less pain that way. A ticket bearing the likeness of Tinkerbell is spat out at you and you hustle inside. Then you are given two choices: will you take the monorail or the ferry into the Kingdom? We choose the ferry, since it is closer. You’ve changed conveyances and locations so often that by this point you begin to think you’ve traveled further than you actually have. In reality we’ve been conveyed little more than a mile, but all of the changes make you think otherwise.

The ferry arrives at a late 19^th century streetscape that looks like it’s straight out of the Columbian Exposition. First you must pass through the security check. All bags are searched. Then you pass through the ticket queue. A perky young woman demonstrates to us how we should slide our ticket through the scanner; as we do this we are made to press our thumbs onto an electronic eye. The computer notes us and we are hustled through. I felt a slight feeling of discomfort at this. Walt Disney now has my thumbprint. There is less pain that way.

Finally, after seemingly uselessly (but quite brilliantly actually - whoever designed the system was really rather smart) traveling by three separate conveyances over the space of little more than a mile and half, you arrive at the park itself. The Magic Kingdom, ruled over by its empty, hollow fairyland castle. And the Golden Mouse. The main thoroughfare that leads to the fairyland castle reminds me of Silent Hill. The Town That Takes All.

There is so much to consume there. It’s all empty, but there is so much of it. We make for Adventure Land. First we sample Pirates of the Caribbean, the ride that spawned a multi-million dollar film trilogy. It’s been updated with an animatronic Johnny Depp; throughout the ride we see him hiding here and there, evading his enemies and ultimately coming out with all of the treasure. I’ve never seen raping and pillaging presented in a more jolly fashion. It’s worth it just to see the part where the pirates auction off the virgins of the town to be deflowered by syphilitic rapscallions.

Then we head for Splash Mountain. It’s based around the “controversial” 1946 Disney film “Song of the South,” which is actually one of the few quality pictures Disney has ever done in its long history. There are a lot of Brers involved, animals which are symbolic of slaves, overseers and masters, but most people just wanna ride a log flume. A huge plus of this ride is that it’s the only ride in Disney World where you’ll hear “Wabash Cannonball” being played on the fiddle as you wait in line. We get wet; the animatronics involved are genuinely humorous and the final drop at the end is enough to elicit a yell. It’s the best non-Space Mountain ride at Disney World.

We sample Frontierland (I was sorry to see no Searing Gas Pain Land) and stop off at the Hall of Presidents. I’ve actually looked forward to this for some time. We are told by our host not to use flash photography to “preserve the dignity” of the presentation. In reality they fear flash photography will send the robot presidents on a murderous rampage. A 20 minute video presents American history solely as the story of slavery-as-the-original-sin-of-the-nation. Lincoln is presented as a Christ-like martyr and secessionists like no-good rabble rousers. Then the robots emerge on stage; Robot Bush introduces the presidents, then Robot Jefferson introduces Robot Lincoln, who dominates the presentation and seems rather wooden. Robot James K. Polk, however, is incredibly lifelike. Really, they should change the name of this attraction to “The Hall of Lincoln,” because that’s who it focuses on. You hear nothing substantive from the other presidents.

Then it began to rain. It rained heavily, non-stop for over an hour. Big buckets of rain all over so many childhoods. How many kids had their childhoods ruined because of that rain? We sought shelter in Tomorrowland, quite possibly the lamest Land of them all. C. had to sample the cuisine of Tomorrowland, which for some reason included massive Renaissance fair-esque turkey legs.

Then it was on to the Carousel of Progress, the worst “ride” (which it isn’t really, only a room that rotates slowly) bar-none at Disney. Did you know that there’s a great big beautiful tomorrow, smiling at the end of every day? Or so the singing automata of this “ride” constantly remind us. The Carousel of Progress is Walt Disney’s paean to the consumer culture of the 20^th century; it charts the changes brought to the lives of an American family from the dawn of the 20^th century to the dawning of the 21^st through all of the gadgets they fill their lives with. Every 20 years we find new gadgets that “improve” the lives of this family of whitebread automata (and their dog who looks like Falkor from the Neverending Story). The sign out front indicates that it’s been updated for 2007, but the circa 1990s clothing and technology (VR helmets) in the last installment are just laughable. In a delicious bit of irony, the final section of the ride malfunctioned and the robots began talking out of synch with their voice recordings.

Space Mountain was closed for an indefinite period of time, so we decided not to wait, despite having obtained fast passes three hours previous. We departed from Disney early, hoping to beat the evening rush as families left for Kissimmee. As we were leaving we passed a Disney gas station – inside the park you can actually purchase gas much cheaper than on the outside. Just one of the perks of genuflecting before the Golden Mouse.

Yes, they appear to have thought of everything. But one day it will all come crashing down in Westworld fashion, complete with Yul Brynner killbots.

In the words of C., “Walt Disney was truly a madman.”

There goes the summer

Not long after I returned from Greece, my friend C. arranged a trip down to the Florida Keys. I'd never been to the Keys and his girlfriend, K., had never been to Disney World. So, it was decided that we'd take a 10-day trip down to America's Wang.

I insisted that we visit St. Augustine. It's old and it's got a fort, so I love it. Well, that's not totally true. I enjoy it, but the touristy area of town is far too packed with gimcrackery for me to love it. It's an old town; I mean hell, the city was being constructed while Suleyman the Magnificent was still kicking. It's the oldest city in America, but it doesn't deserve the "Ancient City" nickname I see so often. I just got back from a part of the world where towns and cities have been settled for 5,000 years or more, but none of them dare to nickname themselves "Ancient."


The night we arrived in St. Augustine, C. discovered that the front tires to his car had been worn almost completely bald. The tires were brand new, but the front end was so utterly out of alignment that between North Carolina and Florida the tires had been destroyed. There was no way we'd be able to drive much farther on those tires; the metal was almost visible on the inside of each, and there was no telling when they would burst on us. Unfortunately it was 9:00 p.m. and no tire service garages were open. To make matters worse the next day was a Sunday; we weren't optimistic that a tire place would be open. So, we looked for a place to stay and hoped that a tire place would be open in the morning.

Now, I forgot to mention that C. brought a bike with him to Florida. It was perched up there on top of the Jetta's roof rack, adding a good four feet to the car's height. Bringing it would turn out to be a mistake.

In our search for a motel to stay in we came to Knight's Inn that looked like it might have a vacancy. It was one of those old motor lodges built during the heyday of American motor travel - before everyone traveled hither and yon by jet, when cars were built to look like aircraft. Originating in that era, the motel office was built to vaguely resemble a futuristic moon lander. The old sign resembled a fin and the entrance was a wing-like covered carport that was a little over 8 feet above the ground. Not thinking (I must confess it didn't occur to any of us at the time), C. pulled into the carport. What followed was a loud scraping sound followed by a swift CLAP. The blue Raleigh cruiser bike, including the Thule rack, were laying in the middle of the carport. The manager, a stubby Indian fellow, peaked his head out of the office window - he noted the bike and the rack, and returned to the interior of the office.

We thought we were up shit creek without a paddle. We didn't dare look at the damage the bike had done to the carport. I thought the manager/owner was calling the cops, but he never reappeared. We quickly reattached the rack, re-affixed the bike, and made tracks out of there (as a side note, Thule racks are hella durable. It was torn from the top of a car moving at 15 mph, but reattached like nothing had happened). The bike's headset had taken a gash from its impact with the carport, but otherwise it was unhurt. The motel, however, was not so lucky. As we drove past the entrance we saw a basketball sized dent in the aluminum of the carport roof.

To make a long story short we found a tire place the next day. According to the tire dudes the tires on the front end were just moments away from bursting. The front end was realigned and C. purchased new tires.

I was somewhat disappointed with St. Augustine this time around. The old part of town has gotten to be too commercialized and it seems everyone is cashing in on the popularity of "Pirates of the Caribbean." We stopped off at St. Photios Greek Orthodox National Shrine, which is my favorite little corner of St. Augustine. It may seem rather dull to you, but Greek Icons are a hobby of mine. Other than that we saw some out of shape reenactors - and did I mention that C. ate food off of someone's half-eaten lunch plate like a hobo? Yeah, he regards this as his "upward spiral." First you start dumpster diving, then you start eating food off of strangers' half-eaten lunch plates.

I'll continue the tale of our trip to Florida in the next post.