Tag Archives: disney world

Disney’s Blizzard Beach Presents: The Unspeakable Horrors Of The Aging Male Physique

"Excuse me, sir, but are you going to use that innertube?"

GateHouse — Having spent New Year’s Day at the Blizzard Beach water park in Disney World — the Happiest Place on Earth, particularly if your happiness revolves around disbursing $27.95 for chicken fingers — in sunny, godawful Orlando, Fla., I have already learned in 2011 these two important lessons:

  1. To beat the crowds at a Disney water park, go in January.
  2. The human body is a thing to be reviled and abhorred.

Visiting friends and a bit of pleasing randomness brought us to the county-sized neon bacchanal of Orlando, Fla. (town motto: “A Black Angus On Every Street Corner, But The Lord God Help You If You Need To Purchase A Vegetable”) over the New Year’s weekend, a time for new beginnings, personal re-energization and, in my case, the opportunity to ring in 2011 wandering around Downtown Disney listening to a didgeridoo player cover Ozzy Osbourne while drinking smuggled-in champagne. Yeah, that’s right. We smuggled hooch into Disney World. This makes us the COOLEST PEOPLE in the entire tenth grade! (Jeez, a lot of my Disney stories have drinks in them. I find I have the same problems with weddings and first communions.)

Anyway, I’m not usually one for making New Year’s resolutions — I’m keenly aware of my raft of personal failings on most days, thank you very much, designating a holiday to accentuate them seems needlessly vengeful — but I will tell you this, faithful reader(s) and/or people who got here by Googling “Tinkerbell Is Of Satan” and/or “Xerox Scrabble Cha Cha”: There is literally nothing on the planet that will leave you more relentlessly dedicated to your workout/exercise resolution than spending six hours at a Disney theme park in which most of your neighbors are unclothed and absorbing for yourself the unspeakable horrors of the aging male physique.

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Staple Singers – The Weight

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It’s A Small World: Now with 45% less Boring

mediumGateHouse — There are things in life that by design must be regularly amended and upgraded, if not replaced entirely — things like computers, TVs and Howie Mandel. These are created to be temporary (except Mandel, who cannot die except through the use of dark magic) and users understand that their fleeting nature is part of the deal; when you invest in one, you know that in a few short months you will be re-investing in it again, probably while biffing yourself in the head with a stapler wondering why you could possibly spend this much money on the same object. I’ve had to do this just recently with my phone, some tires and a horse.

Conversely, there are other things that, if they are changed in even the slightest, whisperiest, most insignificant manner, will cause a great deal of the American populace to spot-cease being reasonably calm, obedient “Idol” fanatics and instantly erupt, en masse, into a fierce, primal mob of roaring, pitchfork-and-torches rioting, and they are things like income taxes, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s number of children, the removal of Bobby Knight from anything, the scene where Greedo shoots first, the national anthem at monster truck shows, federal economic stimulus plans and It’s A Small World.

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Time for some Disney magic ($24.95 a vial)

img_1222GateHouse — Big week here — we’re taking the boy to Disney World. He’s old enough now, and besides, it’s the Happiest Place on Earth, especially if your happiness involves purchasing for $35 a lunch bucket of fries with which you could nourish a horse.

It’s also, if I might take just a moment to be grumpy, not terribly happy on the Carousel of Progress, which is the Most Boring Place In The Universe, at least the parts I know about (frankly, Venus looks stupid). The Carousel of Progress is the opposite of fun. If fun touches the Carousel of Progress, both cease to exist. And the Carousel’s continued existence in TomorrowLand not only makes you suspect that someone lobbied for a government Carousel bailout, but also that it pretty much mocks the entire idea of TomorrowLand.

This is entirely true: Last time we were at Disney, we spent the afternoon at EPCOT enjoying cocktails, after which we hit the Magic Kingdom. And at the prodding of my friend Aaron, we proceeded immediately to the Carousel of Progress, where we learned that a light international-flavored buzz can actually be killed by talkative animatronic families from the future (Aaron loves progress and things that move in a circular pattern, so this is basically Party Town to him). Yeah, that’s right. We went to Disney without the kid, without our 4-year-old son. This is only the first in what will be a lifetime of half-truths involving Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and what really happened to most of his goldfish. (No, son, we did not put them in the ocean to be free.)

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Seriously How Is Disney’s Carousel of Progress This Boring

Island Packet – Having just returned from a trip to Disney World, which is the Happiest Place On Earth — particularly if your happiness revolves around spending $34 for a horse-worthy feedbag of french fries — I’m hesitant to write about anythingthat makes people there not happy, something that actually makes them grumpy, something that takes what should be the happiest day of their year and turns it into an inky-black godless horror show of misery.

I am talking, of course, about the Carousel of Progress.

Sweet head of Walt, have you ever been on that thing? It’s animatronic, it’s got that ghastly “It’s A Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow” song and it takes about four hours to complete. Listen, I like Disney World, and I like progress, but I’d rather take an hour-long bath in a scalding hot spring of ranch dressing than ever set foot on the Carousel of Progress again.

But also, there’s this thing called the FastPass, a semi-new (to me anyway) Disney development that allows you skate by the suckers in the regular line and get right up front. It’s part of a somewhat recent trend here in our convenience-happy America that allows people to obtain (pronounced “purchase”) means to instantly jump to the front of lines or, more importantly, feel like they have. You may be familiar with this if you’ve ever bought a “pre-sale password” for a concert or first-class airline tickets.

And let me tell you this: You may have walked a picket line, you may have been in jail, you may have spent the last three weeks facing down your oppressive Burmese government, but there is nothing on this giant melting Earth to equal the resentful looks you get while using a FastPass to scoot right by a couple of monorailfuls of sweaty Midwestern vacationers who have been waiting an hour and 10 minutes to go on a 90-second roller coaster involving Aerosmith. It was like our party was traipsing around the Fat Camp with a box of piping hot Krispy Kremes, rubbing the glaze all over ourselves and laughing maniacally like comical animated pigs, or maybe Larry Craig.

Here’s how we landed the FastPass: Twenty minutes into our day of Disney magic, which cost $43,500, we stumbled into a Disney-MGM Studios representative handing out what amounted to FastPass variety packs: lanyards that had FastPasses for six rides on each. For someone like me, who enjoys standing in lines at theme parks about as much as, say, clawing out my eyes with a straightened-out paper clip, it was like a golden ticket to FastPass Shangri-La. I hate to be hyperbolic, but when you’re walking around Disney with a FastPass lanyard, you feel like I imagine God does, when he’s at Disney World, anyway.

So not only did we get to whiz past the jokers in the regular-jerks line, we got to do so a fairly unbelievable six times in a row. It goes without saying that about halfway through our FastPass adventure we were pretty well hammered on our own power, and felt like we were in some alternate Disney universe, where lines did not exist and you were welcome to all the mouse you’d care to eat.

It felt a little like this anyway, as I must confess here that though we have a small and vibrant 3-year-old at home, he did not accompany us on the Disney trip. Why would we leave a 3-year-old at home on a Disney trip, you might ask, shortly before calling Child Services? The answer is simple: I am an unconscionable swine. Not only did we not take him to Disney, we didn’t tell him we were going to Disney — only to Orlando, which he seemed to buy, indicating that even 3-year-olds want nothing to do with Orlando. (One day, my son will read this column and realize that the time Daddy told him his parents were going to the “newspaper conference,” was the first official time they lied to him, setting off a lifelong string of appalling untruths that would include, but not be limited to, Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and what actually happened to many of his goldfish).

Anyway, the FastPass lanyard got us through Disney-MGM Studios, so we headed to Epcot, now without lanyards but still feeling pretty invincible. As such, we got a regular old FastPass for something called the Maelstrom, an alleged attraction in Epcot’s Norway that may be the second-worst ride ever. The Maelstrom is less like a ride and more like a casual afternoon stroll through some kind of fjord; I don’t know how you make Vikings lame, but the Maelstrom totally nailed it. Point is, using a FastPass to bop past 40 minutes’ worth of Maelstrom riders made us feel pretty awful about ourselves, actually, and we decided then and there to use our future FastPass powers only for good and not evil. Unless, of course, we could use one to shut down the Carousel of Progress.


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