GenePool Humor

Vacation 1999

Day Seven: The Unholy Grail

10:00 A.M.

As I'm sure you can imagine, we don't exactly wake up at the crack of dawn. Even the kids sleep in for a bit, which is remarkable except that they're so used to Disney World by now I fully expect them to start whining about having to go every summer some time in the next year or two. I'm already starting to whine about it, but I'm a faster learner.

Our agenda is pretty clear today. The last full day is typically reserved for reviewing all our favorite rides and for shopping in the event we still have some money left. This is a somewhat atypical last day, however, since Mamom is leaving early. (You may recall, she doesn't fly, so she'll be catching a train back.) We make lunch arrangements and then purchase some muffins and donuts from Port Royale.

[Note: Evidently, Trapper John doesn't learn from past mistakes. He is holding out for a better contract, even though this is the second-to-last day of this vacation account, and he has no contract to speak of anyway. Since our legal team consists of a guy named Lou whose sole qualification is having once defended himself in traffic court, we have no intention of negotiating with Mr. John. Fortunately, the head of B.J. Honeycutt is still available. He'll be standing in-- more or less-- for the remaining two days.]

11:30 A.M.

After an interminable period of time during which we consume muffins and get ourselves dressed, we all head out. My parents opt to drive to Epcot, as this offers the most promise as regards to their chances of getting back again in time to get Mamom's stuff and make it to the train station. And since it's a big car, they also take Becky, Tim, and the head of B.J. Honeycutt with them. Me, Deb and Bobo take the bus.

12:10 P.M.

Naturally, Mamom, Papop, et. al. beat us to Japan rather handily, but we win a moral victory, being the only ones who know the name of the restaurant. We're eating at Teppanyaki, but this is NOT the name on the outside of the building. I don't even REMEMBER what the name on the outside of the restaurant is. The building contains four different dining areas presenting four different ways to cook food. Or, not cook food, since they serve sushi. (Just for the record, I will not eat sushi. I personally feel that anything that is only one step removed from me reaching into a fish tank and biting the head off of whatever I catch is something I do not wish to try.)

Teppanyaki is one of those places where you sit at the grill and watch the chef prepare your food without severing any of his fingers in the process. The kids love this place, because they've been hearing for years that one doesn't play with knives or touch hot stoves, and here is some foolish adult Japanese person doing exactly that.

1:10 P.M.

Having been fatted and entertained, we all bid Mamom farewell, then dive headfirst into the Mitsukoshi department store. This is our second trip through this store just this week. It's an infuriating place, actually, because it looks like the sort of place you're going to find something truly interesting and unique, and you never really do. The closest we come is when Becky finds a Sailor Moon videotape. Becky absolutely adores Sailor Moon. This is an Anime show she discovered one afternoon on Cartoon Network a long time ago, and ever since then when we go to Blockbuster to spend our rent money on mediocre entertainment she picks out the SAME Sailor Moon tape every time. I have tried watching this show a number of times, and the only thing I can say about it for certain is that Japanese animators think an awful lot of the legs of American women. Sailor Moon looks to be about 5'6", and at least 4' of her is leg.

Tim snaps up a second magic trick (cups and balls this time) and Deb makes another pearl purchase, as does Bobo. The pearls are a problem, because what one does is select an oyster for them to open then and there. They take the pearl and set into the jewelry of your choice, and then you have to wait for the glue to dry. Not willing to wait for this, me and Tim wander outside and watch the drum show.

For some reason, watching someone bang a very large drum is extremely satisfying. Centuries ago, the Japanese people evidently used large-drum-banging to communicate important information such as, say, being attacked by Huns. This would be especially noteworthy since that would mean they were in China. Nowadays, there is no need for drum use, so they just bang the internet instead.

2:15 P.M.

We ride a boat back to the edge of the World Showcase, so that we can delve into a couple of the rides at Epcot. As with the Magic Kingdom, there is actually an entire portion of Epcot we've never been to, in this case the entire left side of the park. This consists of the Universe of Energy, the Wonders of Life, Horizons, and Test Track. We can't visit Horizons because, according to the map "This attraction is closed. We are currently at work on a new concept." I love it that they actually wrote this on the map.

2:40 P.M.

We briefly consider going to the Universe of Energy to see "Ellen's Energy Adventure" starring Ellen Degeneres (quite possibly in person given her current career path) and Bill Nye the Science Guy, but this is a show that starts every 45 minutes rather than a ride that one can hop onto at any time. So instead we go to the Wonders of Life, where there is a ride called Body Wars.

We really have no idea what this ride is. It SAYS on the outside that it is a fast-paced roller-coaster ride, but then, it says that in front of Dumbo the Flying Elephant too. This warning is sufficient, though, to ward off Bobo and the head of B.J. So me, Deb and the kids dump all of our stuff on them and head into the ride.

2:30 P.M.

Body Wars is NOT a roller coaster. It only barely qualifies as a ride, insofar as the implication in the word is that one actually goes somewhere. This is a motion oddysey movie ride, like Star Tours (although Body Wars predates Star Tours.) Our little "ship" gets shrunk down to a microscopic size where we're inserted in to a human body so that we can locate Elizabeth Shue, who has apparently bartered that Oscar nomination into some serious career advancement. Elizabeth gets attacked by a white blood cell, we go after her, and, well, it's just so exciting I can barely put words to it.

3:00 P.M.

Body Wars actually makes Deb nauseous. She can eat on a spinning platform but she can't handle a fake motion ride without her glasses on. (She handed her glasses to Bobo before she went in because she believed the warning sign.) Now that we're out, though, Becky wants to ride it again, so she takes Bobo and the head of B.J. on with her.

I make an important decision. I'd been saying all along that based on what I'd heard Test Track was not going to be worth the wait. I said this without actually knowing what the ride was like, having yet to meet someone who had made it all the way to the front of the line to try it, but my reasoning seemed sound. In other words, NO ride could be worth that wait. The lines we'd seen outside were huge, and we know just as well as anyone else who has ever survived a trip to Disney that there's usually another hour's worth of line inside. Frankly, I wouldn't wait that long even if St. Peter was waiting at the other end.

But despite all this, I consider that first, I have literally nothing else to do at Epcot at this point, and second, I can't really leave yet because there's a show at 5:30 P.M. that Bobo and the head of B.J. intend to see. So what do I have to lose?

I explain my reasoning to Deb, who thinks I'm out of my mind. Tim, noting how annoyed Deb gets at my going to Test Track, considers that I must be onto something good. He tags along.

3:30 P.M.

The line outside really isn't that long, but we're waaaay too experienced by now to think of this as a good thing. Two particularly disturbing things mark our wait. First, we begin at a sign that says "Wait time from this point: 90 Minutes. Seriously." Second, the vast majority of the space in front of the building is not in use; the line we're in pretty much goes straight to the entrance without any bends or turns in it. This means Disney is prepared to handle a wait time of, by my estimate, at least 180 minutes. I grant that Test Track is the current Holy Grail of rides, but it can't possibly be good enough to justify that kind of wait, can it?

3:45 P.M.

I now regret bringing Tim with me. Not because the line is making him antsy, either. In fact, he's gotten very good at waiting in lines. No, the problem is, just before the line curls into the building, a Test Track employee is standing near an opening in the ropes, inviting anyone who is going on the ride alone to jump directly to the front of the line. I'm guessing the wait inside is at least sixty minutes, but if I were alone I could sneak in the side door and be done with it in five minutes tops.

Evidently, the ride cannot have any empty seats, and since most parties are groups of two, there's a lot of extra space that needs to be filled. But if you can't be separated from your party-- because, for example, one member of your party is a six year old who, when unobserved can find something to break in less than thirty seconds-- then this is not an option.

We also hear an announcement just as we darken the doorway into the building. Apparently, inclement weather has been spotted, and we are informed that in the event the inclement weather elects to stop by Epcot for a spell, Test Track will be closed. All within earshot think this is just peachy.

4:00 P.M.

We are now inside. This may be the longest indoor line in recorded history.

As with everything else at Epcot, Test Track strives to be educational while it is entertaining. This is why all the rides at Epcot generally suck. For Test Track, the line is snaked through an endless series of set pieces that show us just exactly how much General Motors cares about our safety when we're riding in one of their vehicles. Every few minutes the line would surge forward and we'd find ourselves standing before a random piece of metal that is having horrible things done to it by another random piece of metal. The plaque would read something like this:

"The Universal Flample Joint was invented in 1927 by some poor slob who didn't think to patent it before we, the Great General Motors Company, stepped on him like a bug and stole it. The Universal Flample Joint is a very important joint; without it, your radio would fall out, you'd lose your gas cap, and the stock market could crash, as it did in 1929 before the Universal Flample Joint was a common feature on General Motors vehicles. To ensure that the Universal Flample Joint on every single vehicle General Motors produces is properly functioning, we test it in every single conceivable way. We boil it, heat it up, cool it down, fire a bullet at it, spit on it, insult its mother, and drop it from the space shuttle to see if it survives atmospheric re-entry. We do this to EVERY SINGLE Universal Flample Joint before it is attached to one of our General Motors vehicles, which is why it takes us twenty years to come up with something vaguely like a new idea. What you are watching is the final test of the Universal Flample Joint before it is installed. Every three seconds a magnetized strip of pure radium strikes the Universal Flample Joint to test its effectiveness in the event your vehicle is attacked by space beings employing projectiles of pure radium. We do this because we CARE. God bless General Motors. Death to the Japanese."

4:30 P.M.

We reach the front of the line! Yaaaay! This exciting moment, which is brought to you by General Motors, is followed by the thrilling trip into the video room, where we are treated to an explanation of what we are about to experience. Those of us who are adults actually get to see all of this. Tim only gets to see half before he gets too heavy to continue to hold aloft.

What we are about to experience, we are told, is a sample of the type of testing every General Motors vehicle undergoes after it's been assembled, which, based on the information on the tour outside, is once every five years. The cars are tested in hot conditions, cold conditions, wet conditions, dry conditions, up hills, down hills, on bumps, and around sharp corners with and without anti-lock brakes. Finally, the engines are tested, at which point the vehicle is accelerated to its top speed very quickly.

Once we've been enlightened we are brought out of the video room and introduced to another line. Naturally. This one is shorter, at least. It ends with us getting into very own nine seater GM vehicle. I don't actually recall ever seeing a GM car with nine seats and no wheel, but perhaps they're still testing it.

Me and Tim strap ourselves down. Now, in most of Disney's Really Exciting Rides there is a mesh bag thingie in front of each seat in which to store the objects we own and would like to continue to own in the future without worrying that it's going to be flung suddenly from our grasp. This ride has no such container, so already I'm questioning the thrill I'm about to experience.

Reportedly, Test Track is the longest ride ever made by Disney-- they don't mean the lines, I think-- and also attains the greatest rate of speed. This is all perfectly true. Here's what it means. First, we are taken along a track that has us racing up a steep hill, skidding down another one, hitting a lot of bumps, etc. We also go through an extremely warm room and an extremely cold room. All of these things we do at, I'm guessing, fifteen miles an hour, tops. Consequently, this takes a while. Hence the "longest" part.

Then we get outside. The bumpy/icy/slippery road leads us to a track that circles the entire building. It's steeply banked so that we aren't flung halfway to the Magic Kingdom, which is good as the track is two stories above the ground. A countdown ensues, and then we are rapidly accelerated to a peak speed of 63 miles per hour in about three seconds. This is indeed thrilling, but only if you've never been in a car before.

I mean, really. I'm from Boston. I grant that my car (a 1992 Plymouth Expletive Deleted) can't reach 63 in four seconds. I'm not even sure it can reach 63 at all. But I've merged onto a highway at just about that speed while trying to cut in front of a semi into three lanes of traffic on a road designed for only two lanes, during rush hour, while trying to light a cigarette and avoid the car in the left lane that is attempting to pass directly through three other vehicles in order to make the exit ramp that's coming up in twenty five feet. During a snowstorm. Comparatively speaking, Test Track doesn't even come close. If they wanted to approximate THAT, they'd have three or four of these nine seater cars accelerating simultaneously to get into the same spot at the end of the track. We could even give each other the finger for authenticity sake.

4:45 P.M.

It didn't take us nearly as long as Deb thought it would to make it through Test Track, so we now have nothing to do . We agreed to meet at 6:30 P.M. at the International Gateway in order to do MGM one last time, but that's a long ways away. Tim and I wander over to The Land because I think there's an outside possibility that we'll find Deb, Becky, Bobo, and B.J.'s head there, but there's no sign of them. We consider eating there, since we're fairly hungry, but Tim wants a burger and out of the five different fast food eating establishments available, not one has burgers. Weird.

6:00 P.M.

After taking a boat across the World Showcase lagoon and splitting a chicken sandwich at the American Experience, we park ourselves on a bench beside the American Gardens Theater. This is where The Best of Michael Flatley's Lord of the Dance show is taking place. We are here because I know that this was the eventual destination of the head of B.J. Honeycutt and Bobo, who are apparently massive Michael Flatley fans.

I don't know very much about this particular phenomenon. I've seen the raindance shows, in brief, and it all looks rather exhausting. I do know that among those who care there are two camps: the pro-Flatley and the anti-Flatley. Bobo is vehemently pro-Flatley, while my mother is an outspoken anti-Flatleyite. This was clearly a dodged bullet given that they spent the entire week together and not once did Michael Flatley come up. I know it's very hard to believe that a single day could pass without him being mentioned at least once. Famous men who bounce up and down on their toes a lot is a pretty common subject in any social situation.

Of course, Mr. Flatley himself isn't here. So it's really more like The Best of People Who Aren't Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance, Who Knows Better Than to Do Something This Ridiculously Exhausting in Florida Heat. I suppose that title was too long.

We can't see much of the show, having arrived just five minutes before it was over, and consequently some time after all the seats had been taken. About all I can see is the heads of the dancers bobbing up and down in unison. It's not entirely dissimilar to watching popcorn kernels. I keep expecting one of them to explode.

6:05 P.M.

The show lets out, and we spot the head of B.J. and Bobo. We flag them down and join them. Unfortunately, Deb and Becky aren't with them. Deb and Becky decided to skip Michael Flatley, Lord of the Ankle Sprain in favor of shopping along the World Showcase until 6:30. Since we have nothing else to do in the time allotted, we head straight for the International Gateway to wait for them to arrive.

6:35 P.M.

Considering neither of them have a watch, this is pretty good timing. Becky and Deb apparently had a wonderful afternoon, having gone on the Spaceship Earth Insomnia Relief ride, then to The Land for some food (I was right, I just timed it wrong,) and then to Mexico to handle breakable objects for an hour or so.

7:15 P.M.

The boat gets us to MGM fairly quickly. In an ideal world we would now be making our way to a dining establishment, where we would eat a full meal and then get escorted to the new Fantasmic! show where we would have reserved seats up front. But, since Fantasmic! is the most sought-after show currently in any park, and since only two of the restaurants at MGM offer the Fantasmic! dinner seating plan, and since we didn't try to make arrangements for said dinner plan until 10:00 A.M. this morning, we don't actually have any dinner arrangements. We'll have to save Fantasmic! for another year. Hopefully by then they will have dropped that annoying exclamation mark.

Instead, we split up. The head of B.J. Honeycutt has never been to MGM, and Bobo wants to show him around, while me, Deb and the kids only want to hit Tower of Terror and Rock 'N Roller Coaster again. We're fairly single-minded about these things.

8:30 P.M.

Nothing much new happens on these two rides. (I'm guessing in another year or so my entire vacation account is going to read "nothing new happened; see last year's report." ) We did entertain ourselves in line for the Roller Coaster by describing the upcoming ride to a family in front of us who had a boy Timmy's age with a penchant for bolting at the last second. He'd already begged out of Tower of Terror just before getting on the elevator. By the time we're done describing what happens on the Rock 'N Roller Coaster, the father of the family looks as if he might not make it either, never mind the son.

Now we're making our way back to the exit again. We still haven't done two things we really should have at least started by now: eating and final shopping.

9:00 P.M.

We make it back to the room and meet up with Papop. He's been sitting around the hotel ever since he dropped off Mamom at the train station. For six days he's been saying he'd just as soon sit in a chair by the pool for the entire vacation, but now that we've given him a chance to do just that he seems mildly annoyed that we never called him or anything. Sheesh. It's only been eight hours.

Nonetheless, we apologize, because we need him to drive us to Downtown Disney.

Just before leaving, we catch Bobo and the head of B.J. just returning from MGM. They'd spent the last hour or so on the Animation Tour. How they spent this much time doing just a tour is beyond me, but then I don't ask as many questions of tour guides as Bobo does.

9:30 P.M.

I would like to go on record as saying that paying the children was not my idea. About three months ago Deb decided to extend a salary offer to the kids for services rendered. In other words, they'd get paid by the hour for cleaning. This is not as generous as it might sound, I'll grant (we only pay for the time they actually clean, not the time they stand around and complain about cleaning, and their hourly rate is pretty low,) but it doesn't work quite as well as I would like it to. For instance, I think we should deduct an equivalent amount of pay based on the rapid degredation of their rooms to their prior messy state. Worse, I get to come home some nights to hear my daughter look at me crossly and say "you STILL haven't paid us for last month."

I bring this up because we had not, in fact, paid them for last month, or the month before either. I'm the pay-master, and since I think it's a silly idea, I tend to forget to bring cash home. I'm ready to deduct living expenses, food costs, airline costs, hotel costs, clothing costs, and miscellaneous expenses from their pay and give them what's left, but that's about as far as I'm willing to go with this concept. So we told them we would pay them at Disney World, at which time they would be given a spending limit and told they could buy whatever they wanted within that limit. Our trip to Downtown Disney this evening is when they get to enact this generous offer.

This leads us back to the Lego store for Tim, the Lego junkie. (We have not told them we've already been here and made purchases for both of them. I'm ready to deduct the cost of our prior purchases as well, but Deb isn't game.) Since Becky is not quite so interested in Lego, I take her across to the Gigantic Disney Store instead. She buys a yellow dress patterned after Jane's dress in Tarzan. Tim buys random Lego kits. They both seem happy. I feel poor.

10:30 P.M.

We're still not done shopping, naturally. Deb has to buy some things for people back home, so she spends some time in the Gigantic Disney Store while me and Dad sit with the kids next to the Huge Lego Dragon sitting in the lagoon. Once Deb emerges, laden with even more packages, we head over to Cap'n Jack's, snag a table, and eat. Despite the fact that it's late at night and they stayed up extraordinarily late the previous evening, Becky and Tim are perfectly wide awake, which is frightening to behold considering I'm ready to doze off any second.

11:00 P.M.

It's time to go back to the hotel. There's just one thing... I still want to go to Pleasure Island. So Deb and I make a pact: she'll take the kids back to the hotel with Papop, I'll go to Pleasure Island, and I promise not to go home with any strange women.

11:15 P.M.

Okay, they are VERY concerned here about underage drinking. In order to get to Pleasure Island one has to cross a bridge, and one has to pay in order to make it all the way across. (My park pass gets me in.) At the ticket counter they ask if I have an ID, which of course I don't, since I've been wallet-free all week in the one-card-does-it-all capital of the world. So, when affixing the colored wristband to me-- this apparently identifies me as "he who is allowed to drink"-- the woman in the ticket booth lectures me sternly. "I'll let you in, but if someone asks for your ID and you can't show it to them, they'll take away your wristband." Frankly, I would be so flattered to be considered under 21, I wouldn't need a drink at that point.

11:20 P.M.

Pleasure Island manages to be completely Disney and completely anti-Disney at the same time. It's quite the surreal experience. There are a half dozen clubs featuring a half dozen completely different types of music. There is alcohol everywhere, from beer and wine stands to women in skimpy outfits offering jello shots for three bucks a shot. (The difference between this and, say, the Combat Zone in Boston is here, the offer of three bucks a shot from a scantily clad woman is in reference to a drink.) It would be very easy to get very drunk very quickly here. I do my best.

There's something fundamentally artificial about it all. I've been to Boston clubs, and I've been to Bourbon Street in New Orleans, and while Pleasure Island is just as loud, as open to abject drunkenness, and as musically varied, it's also oddly soulless. I think it's because there's no dirt, and no danger. I mean, it's Disney. Everything is perfectly clean. I suddenly miss dirt. And there's no muggers. When I stayed in New Orleans, the hotel people warned us what streets in the Vieux Carre to avoid, because that was where the muggers were. I personally think that it's awfully polite of the muggers to stick just to those streets, but the very fact that they exist-- somewhere-- automatically makes New Orleans more interesting. In Boston, in order to get into a club you have to hang out with Will Korman, because he's a lawyer who knows whose name to drop at the right time-- plus fifty bucks-- to get us in. At Pleasure Island, I don't need Will Korman, because everyone can get into every club. (Which is good, since Will's hourly rate is scary.)

And here's another thing that's weird. Now, I'm going to say this, and no matter HOW I say it, I'm going to get into trouble, so I may as well just get it over with, because I believe one must suffer for one's craft, even if suffering involves one's wife and a pair of pinking shears. Sometimes-- and I can only stress that this is exceedingly rare-- SOMEtimes, I watch women. Going to clubs is fun for the music, but it's also fun to people watch, and frankly, I'm not watching the guys.

The very concept of watching women in a Disney World- sanctioned locale just kills all the fun. Really. Because at any given moment, I'm pretty sure I'm looking at someone who came here with their mother, husband, or sister. Probably all three. And at any given moment their mother, husband or sister will probably walk over and sit, stand, or dance with them. Now I don't for a moment think (as my wife goes and fetches shears) that I'm going to be doing ANYthing with ANY of these women one way or another. But it's kind of like watching porn where the female lead breast feeds in between hot sex scenes. It just kills the whole thing.

12:00 A.M.

I've had enough of Pleasure Island. I will say that this is a great place for people who like club scenes to go if these people happen to find themselves at Disney World instead of where people who like club scenes should be going (Vegas, Bourbon Street, et. al.) And the drinks are pretty strong.

I hail a cab to get me back to the room, and strike up a conversation with the cabbie. I still haven't quite pegged Pleasure Island to my satisfaction. For one thing, I DID see some people actively trying to pick up other people there, (it's hard to miss seeing this if you know what to look for,) and I found this odd, for the reasons listed above. Evidently, according to my driver, Pleasure Island is a common hangout for local non-vacationing Floridians. As he puts it: "the man hits on the woman, and for most of the night he's there he's alone, on vacation, no family to go back to in the hotel. It isn't until they've spent the whole night here that the story starts to change, and suddenly he has a wife waiting for him, and kids, and he's sorry but he really has to go. It's very sad."

I agree.

12:05 P.M.

I return to my room fairly tipsy, and find both the kids still awake and my wife preparing for the morning, which is going to involve a high degree of fast-paced packing, given that we're leaving tomorrow afternoon. I offer to help, but then the blankets of the bed reach completely across the room and drag me in. It's entirely beyond my control. Rather than fight it and risk spraining something, I just go to sleep instead.

© 2000, Gene Doucette