Starting left but turning right

When I was smaller and less cynical...well, smaller, I used to enjoy the all-request shows on the radio. Since I spent most of my days listening to the radio rather than going to school, I suffered through a seemingly endless cycle of awful Doobie Brothers songs, oh so smooth Steely Dan tunes and generally unnecessary pablum, most of which seemed to have Paul Rodgers singing in a bluesy rasp. I'd sit there for hours on end hoping to hear some Yes song that I already had in my collection and probably had just finished listening to. Meanwhile, my friends chatted up girls. Boneheads.

So what a godsend the all-request hour. For one brief hour, the entire programming was turned over to us dutiful listeners, some of whom, I liked to think actually had taste. The inmates were in charge of the asylum. No doubt, the dusty vaults of years and years of free records were a treasure chest waiting to be discovered and giving an hour a day would ensure we'd never run out of quality obscurities. Up until the very end of the hour, I always expected the throngs of us more refined, cultured ears to break through and pummel the masses with ELP's Karn Evil 9 3rd Impression, instead of the (still) overplayed Karn Evil 9 1st Impression, part 2 (Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends...). It never happened. This is probably just as well.

Instead, we newly empowered listeners were more like the dog who finally caught the car: now what? The more I listened, the more I noticed that the request hour really didn't differ a whole lot from regular programming. Instead of Hot Rockin' Ronny hipping us that "Up next is Bad Company with their song, Bad Company, from their album, Bad Company," was Doug from the sticks hoping to hear "a little Bad Company by Bad Company because that song is, like, bad." Being fairly clever and all, after several years I began to suspect that the DJ was just playing what was next on the playlist with some yahoo "requesting" it. Surely, no one actually wanted to hear Bad Company. And if one actually did, it was a fairly safe bet that it was coming up right after they got through playing Bad Company. There was no need to waste a request. Boneheads.

Flash forward a few years and I find myself interning at a real radio station that had real, live DJs. Ever since watching WKRP (still my favorite show of all-time), I'd dreamed of being in this environment, going behind the curtain as it were. I'd talk about music all day, hang around with super-cool people and take drugs with rock stars. And there'd be a sales guy with impeccable fashion sense, a goofy owner and a night-time DJ who, while cool, really didn't fit with the overall vibe of the station. Of course, we'd have all manner of hi-jinks as well. And try to see if turkeys could fly.

Though I enjoyed my time interning and have some good memories, the reality was more like actually meeting the Wizard of Oz: a myth-destroying soul crusher. For every cool DJ really into music and eager to talk at length was another one who just landed at that particular station because he saw a help wanted sign. As interested in music as he was the dissolution of the Soviet Union, which is to say not at all. Then there were the lifer DJs, the ones who bounced from station to station, format to format with an genre-appropriate name. Alex Steele for a rock station would become Al Friendly for a top-40 station would become Uncle Al for an oldies station.

Those "dusty vaults" were a simple wall of cds that probably wasn't much larger than what I had at the time. The "totally happening" on-the-spot-remotes where "everybody really should be because it's where the party was" were usually just me and a DJ at some abandoned location hoping for a teenager or some drunk to pester us for a sticker. Trust me, a bored DJ trying to fool folks into thinking an empty bar is the nexus of fun is an image that even Charles Bukowski would find desperate. Go wild.

But it did confirm my suspicions about all-request hours. They were rigged. Even the phone calls weren't live but were usually taped at some point during the day and played back when needed. Even now, I still feel bad for Jim from Scranton, calling in at 1:30 pm and being told by the DJ that his request was coming right up, only to hear the very call much later followed by his "instant request." I suspect Jim from Scranton had been hanging from the ceiling fan for a couple of days by then, which is what he gets for listening to The Smiths anyway.

Looking down from Olympus on a world of doubt and fear

I'm not sure if it's WDW specifically or just being on vacation, but generally people are friendlier down there. There's a surprising amount of patience that comes along with an overcrowded resort full of screaming kids and annoyed parents. Maybe because we're all in it together. I don't know. I do know that I find myself striking up conversations with total strangers from time to time, which is something I would NEVER do in the real world. Yes, I hate strangers just that much. But at WDW if there's a fellow wearing interesting apparel, usually plaid, I've been known to comment on his sartorial choices.

Being a runner, I have this ability to recognize what could best be described as "running clothes". It's a pretty useless ability I will admit, but we can't all cure cancer, can we? So when I see a gent wearing some high-tech, moisture-wicking, shiny clothing along with running shoes standing by himself doing nothing much, I thinks to myself, "Self, there's a runner. Why not go over and talk to him because that's what runners do to fellow runners. Trade secrets, compare ipod playlists, swap bread recipes. "

Almost immediately I was reminded of why I generally avoid talking to people. Especially strangers.

Me: "You must be a runner."

He: "Used to be, but mainly cycling. Did 100K. EVERY ride." (Emphasis his)

Fearing I was too stupid to know the basics of the metric system and recognize this was a ride of some significance, he quickly added, "That's 60 miles you know."

Me: "Yeah. Way to go."

Hey pal, I watch the Tour de France. Got a brother with a degree from a fancy institute of technology to boot. I know all about the metric system. Suddenly this didn't seem like a great idea.

He: "Look at my calves. There huge!"

Yes, he actually requested a complete stranger, another male no less, look at his huge calves and flexed accordingly. My loins remaind unstirred. Though they were indeed "huge" and were no doubt intended to let me know I was in the presence of a deity just down from Olympus, I was able to contain myself enthusiasm. Just. I did bow, but only slightly.

Me: "Yeah. Way to go. You got me beat."

So for the first time and hopefully last time in my life, I find myself comparing calf muscles with a complete stranger at Disney World. I'm generally not into such blatant displays of homoeroticism, but sometimes one gets caught up in the moment. Particularly when making idle chatter in an ice cream line. And when fortune smiles like that, I suppose an ice cream just has to wait.

He: "Yeah, my father in law's was a runner but his knees gave out and he's barely 60. Knew as much as I was doing, I'd be next. So I got me a $2000 treadmill."

I was in awe of his continued awesomeness and started to offer that I run outside for free. But I figured this was another of his one-upmanships so I needed to reestablish my dominance. I considered telling him I had a $50 ipod shuffle. However, I knew I was all but defeated and resistance was futile. So I stayed with the script.

Me: "Yeah. Way to go."

For the first time and hopefully last time in my life, I actually hoped that Buster would run up screaming, maybe even bleeding (but not seriously, of course) for me to come quick.

He: "It's really awesome. But I don't get on it that much."

I can't really blame him. That would take away valuable time from him marvelling at his "huge" calves. There's only so many hours in a day and when a large chunk is already spent flexing and massaging baby oil on them yams, well, priorities. Speaking of which, bowing my head because I knew that I'd been beat, I mustered up the courage to split. I figured that if I'd been invited to feel up a dude, learned about his $2000 treadmill and, in general, how incredible he was in the span of about 2 minutes, there was no where to go but down. Unless, he was going to tell about the time he turned that water into wine or walked on water. I decided these were stories I'd just have to miss.

Me: "Hmph. Guess I need to go. See you later."

He: All right. Take 'er easy."

It's a toss-up between who gave the dumber final remark. I had no plans to see him again. We certainly weren't going to hit up at Dumbo for a couples ride. And unless I have an incredible string of bad luck that finds me looking for $2000 treadmills in New Jersey, I can't imagine ever running into him again.

But "take 'er easy"?!?! Is this 1975? Are we comparing calves in a Chevy van with Frank Frazetta artwork on the side and a bumper sticker that says Gas, Grass or Ass: No one rides for free? Somehow this all seemed fitting for reasons I still can't even understand. Perhaps this is the way people still talk, and I'm just really, really not with it. And I guess I should give him credit for not calling me "bro" or even worse, "brah." Regardless, I made a vow then and there to never speak to a stranger ever again. Probably won't even speak to most people I know unless I'm bleeding or they're on fire. I'm sure people will understand. I apologize in advance but my fragile psyche can't take many more instances of friendliness being met with an impromptu Mr. Universe contest. Keep on truckin'.

I think that is the case

Obviously, I love the whole of WDW, but if I had to rank the parks from favorite to least, Magic Kingdom would be tops by a ginormous margin and Animal Kingdom would bring up the rear. I don't hate Animal Kingdom and usually spend the better part of a day there on my trips, but generally, it's not a repeat stop like the other parks.

Since Buster is slightly enamored with animals I figured I'd spend a bit more time there this go around. We did. Just not looking at animals. Sure, we did the safari and gawked at all the animals, even took a few pictures along the way. For some reason, Buster has an odd fear of rhinos and was fearful they would come after him if he left the safari vehicle. Being as Disney and good, old common sense frowns upon leaving the vehicle, I assured him we were probably safe if we followed the rules. Maybe not as much adventure that way, but it greatly increased our chances of walking out with all limbs intact and our skeletal systems free of any fractures.

But what really grabbed Buster's goat was the new Expedition: Everest roller coaster. He'd been rather geeked up about it all along. I had told him before we left that I would ride anything he wanted to ride, but honestly figured once he saw Everest, he'd back out. I think Custer guessed more correctly at Little Big Horn. We did it once, which was fair enough. My eyes shut most of the way, praying he'd never want to do it again. My prayers were answered for about 10 minutes. And then we hit it 5 times in a row whilst Marisol patiently waited in the gift shop. Thanks, Mom. Somewhere in the middle of the second ride, I was able to open my eyes and maybe, almost enjoyed ride #3. The fourth spin found things getting a little dicey in the stomach region and on the fifth I vowed I would not ride Everest again on this trip. Had we not told Buster firmly that that was it for the day, he'd probably still be riding it right now.

Everest was not reserved just for fun, however. I also used it as an opportunity to drop some knowledge on him, telling him all about the real Mt. Everest. I know all about it since I watched both seasons of Everest on Discovery Channel; not because I actually read a book or really cared. Though it took some convincing, he did finally accept that this tall structure, for WDW, was not, in fact, the highest peak in the world. That there was an actual, real Everest and it's taller than all the buildings put together on the entire Disney complex. His mind was blown and he scarcely said much the rest of the day. I suppose a crack about his silence being a blessing would be a bit too predictable.

Speaking of predictable, there is the Florida weather. In the summer, it's always going to be hot, humid and one can count on an afternoon thunderstorm just about every day. This trip was no different, except that I discovered that when it rains really, really hard Disney has really, really bad drainage. So I squished around Hollywood Studios and Epcot on subsequent evenings wondering how they could bring Abe Lincoln to life, but put enough of a slope on walkways for water to run off. I vowed to fire off a nasty letter to the powers that be about such matters, but have thus far resisted the urge. Like most white folk, I find civil disobedience and community activism ain't all that important once you get home. Unless its something really important, like the cable going out or McDonald's getting one's order wrong. Then it is on.

Hawaiian gospel music is something

It was about this time last week that I was heading down to the Volcano pool at Disney's Polynesian Resort. I suppose when I pulled out of Marisol's driveway shortly after 4:30 am, I didn't really figure our first stop in Disney would be the pool, no matter how volcanically impressive it was. But then, I never fail to underestimate the pull a giant hole full of chlorinated water has on a 7-year old. So when my somewhat leading question of "What do you guys want to do first?" was answered with "Go to the pool," it was all I could do to shrug.

Pools have never been my thing. I'm far from hydrophobic and am actually quite competent with all the major swim strokes. Admittedly, the Butterfly generally doesn't see a whole lot of action. I'll go so far as to say I've only regretted a handful of my swimming excursions. However, were I offered the choice of going to a pool with a really cool slide or "the happiest place on Earth" I'd pick "the happiest place on Earth" every time. I would have presumed most people not named Andy would take that option as well. Apparently, Buster's super secret lost middle name is Andrew. So with Magic Kingdom beckoning in the distance, we headed for a swim.

One of the more pleasant aspect of being poolside is that females tend to wear fewer clothes. Likewise, one of the more unpleasant aspects of being poolside is that males tend to wear fewer clothes. And at a family resort like WDW, the overriding characteristic of both sexes could best be described as sagging. The French Riviera this ain't. Thanks to all the running, I don't sag quite as much as I used to, but I more than make up for that with my complexion, which could best be described as White Out on a particularly white day. Given the pummeling my eyes take at the pool, I suppose it's only fitting that I blind everyone else.

Though the swimming segment lasted a wee bit longer than I'd had hoped, we did leave the same day we arrived which was no small feat. Every time I'd suggest to Buster that there was even more fun just across Bay Lake, he'd throw water in my face. He found this funny for some reason. Finally, I'd had all I could take and ordered the lifeguards to remove him from the pool area. Sure, this upset him but we were at WDW to have fun, not swim and by gum, we were going to have fun even if it meant scarring him for life. I knew Buster would admit his error when we saw Cinderella Castle and apologize for wasting such precious, precious time on something so frivolous as a swimming pool. I'm still waiting.

We still had plenty of time to hit all the high points. Actually, we had enough time to hit them a couple of times, except for Splash Mountain. This water ride is one of my faves and since it's normally closed during January, I haven't been able to ride it on my past few trips during the marathon. Therefore I was pumped. Pumped is a tad strong and a bit scary, but I was eager for Marisol and Buster to experience a soaking at the hands of Brer Rabbit. Perfect sense that for this I left the pool.

Alas, the 110-minute(!) wait assured we would not be thrown into the briar patch until another day. Other families were not as fortunate and I could see the pleading looks coming from the queue, begging for the sweet release of death. Feeling the queue's pain beginning to assail our joy, I ushered Marisol and Buster towards Pirates of the Caribbean because what's more uplifting than pirates pillaging unsuspecting villas?

For the rest of the day we gradually made our way around Magic Kingdom and nothing of interest to the world at large really happened. Forgive the assumption that something of interest had already happened. Though the crowds were large as expected, they were not overwhelming. Or at least nothing a swift kick in the pants couldn't take care of. Buster was offended by the pirate giving rum to the kitten on Pirates and vowed never to ride it again. Marisol did her best to get sick on Big Thunder Mountain and vowed never to ride it again. For my part, I continued to be amazed at how miserable "the happiest place on Earth" makes some people, but then I like to assume that if they're miserable at WDW then they're probably miserable everywhere. Except Andy. He's usually pretty happy at Tech games.

Laziness pt. 17

Attention, Please Note, Etc.: If you stumbled upon here through a Google search expecting to hear of my meeting with Captain Beefheart, prepare to be disappointed. I've never met him. Ever. I am somewhat of a fan though I'm pretty sure he doesn't know I exist. *sigh* But just in case, "Hi, Don." I accidentally published my working title of this post (How I Met Captain Beefheart) before it was changed to Laziness pt. 17.

Look at the other posts around here, the titles are generally non-sensical or somewhat cryptic. This one was no different. Except. Said working title was apparently immediately entered into every search engine known to man and now anytime anyone searches "meeting Captain Beefheart" this is what they get. My mistake. So...sorry I can't give any clues as to how he really felt about Zappa or what his favorite brand of cola is. Probably Coca-Cola, Beefheart's pretty all-American.

And now the actual post.

I promised I would return, and for the most part, I'm good at keeping promises. As expected, WDW still charges for internet access. I still refused to pay. Perhaps on my next trip I'll organize a protest against this ridiculous policy. Until then, I'll continue to bear a burden only people with nothing much else to complain about can understand. Never fear though, I'll give a complete rundown of all the parts of the trip I choose to run down over the next few days. And probably a word or two about Seth's, Bonnie's & my delightful evening with high-quality yukster, Paul F. Tompkins, in Atlanta. Maybe even a random tale from my past. Oh, there's so much to look forward too. In fact, the only thing that gets this combo more excited is some good old-fashioned, white-bread Dixieland. Well, that and clear cutting.

Guilty of caring too much

Tomorrow, or more accurately, tonight is departure time for WDW '09 round 2. This is the first trip in 3 years that will not be centered around running a marathon. Accordingly, I've actually been able to look forward to this trip as a vacation and not an exercise in stupidity. So to speak. Which is not to say those recent trips haven't been fun and filled with much levity involving reasonably sane adults interacting with folks dressed as cartoon characters. It's just that before the marathon there's the fact that knowing I've got a good 5-hour run ahead of me which sort of puts a damper on my whimsy. The bulk of the post-race visit is spent trying to recover the energy I left somewhere between mile 18 and 21. The energy is usually found huddled in a corner, shivering and cursing me.

In order to squeeze the maximum amount of hap, hap, happiness into this trip, I have informed Marisol that the bus will be leaving at 4 am. Her response: We can leave earlier if you want. What a gal. My heart skipped a beat. But no, a 4 am call should put us through the gates around lunch. More to the point, it also means that my companions could (they won't) sleep much of the way down there, and no stops will be needed. Snacks will be provided and any major hunger issues will be dealt with via drive-thru. Should nature call, there will be a bottle. If privacy or discreetness is required, I recommend Depends and will roll down the windows. If we have a blow out, God forbid, I'll drive on the rim until we get there. Roadblocks? I'll be driving a Tahoe, 'nuff said. In short, my attitude towards driving is like being on the lam but without the danger of guns and knowing that I'll be headed to federal-pound-me-in-the-ass prison when I get caught.

I did surprise myself yesterday by going ahead and packing. I'd like to think it was to get ahead of the game, but it was really so when asked if I was packed I could say, "Indeed I am." Right on cue this morning, the EPJ had scarcely closed the door before the inevitable was asked. "So Jerms, are you packed?" She had already started the follow-up, "Well, when are your going to?" when I cut her off. "Yep, yesterday afternoon while you were probably taking a siesta. So in yer face, EPJ. I am unstoppable." She then fired me.

So while the world is sleeping this evening, I'll be heading out for Florida. I will be taking my laptop, but may not have internet access. Disney used to charge for in-room access which is ridiculous. Andy would say it's par for the course. Hopefully, there are some free wi-fi spots around. I love my readers dearly and generally don't put a price on our relationship but $10 is $10. If I was made out of money, it's all gone into this trip. With any luck there will be daily updates, but who knows. Regardless, I'll give a wrap up when I get back because if there's anyone who deserves to know what I did on vacation, it's random strangers or folks who stumbled on here through an internet search for learning French. In the meantime, world, please do not blow up.

What if it is cheese, indeed

In all the hubbub surrounding my car blowing up, deciding to get a new car, talking with actual, real, live salesman, deciding which car to purchase, eating several delicious bowls of tapioca pudding, entertaining second thoughts on a decision (cars, that is. When it comes to pudding, Je ne regrette rien.), ignoring obtrusive phone calls from overeager salesmen, wondering why I thought spending 5 figures for a new vehicle made more sense than spending barely 4 figures to get my Jetta fixed, and ultimately, scrapping the whole idea in order to better enjoy the Tour de France, I neglected to mention that I'm going to Disney World. In fact, one week from today that's where I'll be along with Marisol and Buster.

Sometime ago I had this crazy notion that I would try to take them this summer. Partly because they'd never been and partly because I'm always looking for an excuse to go back. I was not particularly demanding in my planning but did have a few modest goals in mind. Namely, go when the crowds would be their largest and the Florida temps would be their most hellish. I figure what better place to be miserable than "The happiest place on Earth." After much thought and prayer, I chose the final week in July. Yes, I am awesome. I know.

As this is Marisol's & Buster's first to Mouseville, I wanted them to get the full experience. And that includes long lines, tired feet and screaming kids. I can't lie. It's great fun when you can hop on rides with little wait or march right up to Mickey and shake his hand without having to kick a rugrat or two out of the way. But in order to truly appreciate those moments, one has to earn it. To be in the shit, as we said back in 'Nam. Admittedly, even on the best of days at WDW, Andy would probably rather be in Vietnam but then he's not invited. He (and us) will get our chance with Baby Zeigler in a few years. Andy's already started popping Valium for that trip.

Much like last fall's trip abroad, the EPJ has been expecting my bags to have been packed sometime ago. Each morning for the past 6 months, I've been asked if I was packed. Much like last fall's trip abroad, I expect my bags will get packed sometime Monday night. Unless the EPJ comes over sooner and does them, of course.


Yeah, I know I'm a day late. It took that long to clear the publishing clearing house. Which is not the same as Publisher's Clearing House, just so you know.