Tag Archives: embarrassment

Disney: Transportation

Travel

img_0446I can confidently say the only way I have not arrived at a Disney theme park is by jet pack. Every other imaginable way has been done.

On foot? Walk it out! Bus? Yup. Rental car? Yup. Train? Woo woo! Monorail from the future? Por favor mantengase alejado de las puertas! On the back of a white tiger?

Don’t let’s be silly, now.

This is my second time renting a car for the week at Disney and I thought this time we could save some money by just using the bus system but I was quickly reminded that the car offers a freedom from bus-exhaustion, or, if you will, not having embarrassing pictures of yourself put up to Flickr of you asleep rubber necked, slack jawed and drooling. Plus it was a perk since the resort price included free parking at all Disney properties, meaning we could hop from park to park for free.

While driving isn’t as enviromentally sound as Uncle Walt would like, it beats having to experience “the Crush” – the scrum that happens every night when each park closes. Even though the busses run every two minutes, two minutes with a grumpy sleepy child, arm loads of souvenirs and an empty stomach stretches out to eternity. Still, it’s fun to see a child’s face after a day of experiencing a park: worn out, over stimulated and content.

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I’ve always loved the Monorail system at WDW and this time we tried every ride to sit in the front. All the drivers were gracious, chatty and friendly but one stood out. Missed his name but he had such a memorable southern drawl that we couldn’t hear 99% of what he said:

Me: “Did it take long for you to train to be a Monorail pilot?”

Pilot: “Habamemnrm… wermmsh ahslib. Ha! Ha hahaha! Mummminy mouse!”

All of us: Blank Stares.

He let us sit in the command chair  for photos before leaving the cockpit as long as “we didnmrnt touchmna stick, k?” Sharkboy is NOT touchmna stick, k? But his face says otherwise.

img_0916Like this picture? It’s basically what Luke saw when he climbed up the underside of an AT-AT walker. We were asked if there were any “rides” at Disney Hollywood Studio, but that’s going to be a SharkBoy post. Keep your eyes peeled.

The largest ride at Magic Kingdom in terms of showy-ness and “fake” transportation would have to be the paddle boat. I say “fake” because it only goes forward, constrained to a submerged track in the “lake”. Discovering this after riding it for the first time was a bit disappointing because I always fantasized about the River Boat Captain going mental after a day of looping the Lands and ramming the boat into Tom Sawyer’s Island for kicks.

Ironically for this post, the WDW Tomorrowland Transit Authority People Mover was closed during our stay. It’s one of my favorite decompression rides:  it doesn’t offer any thrill other than a calming view, much like Carosel of Progress is my favorite “nap ride”.

The Lesson: First for Everything

Personal Bits

Two upper middle class, housework-shunning, career women sit down to lunch, order martinis and the topic of their children come up. A common complaint is discovered and a plan is hatched.

When I was 13 (ish), my mother announced I would be going out on a date. Imagine the internal spit take that generated. My mother… the matchmaker! I was appalled for a moment at the thought of her talking about my inability to socialize with strangers. And my social ineptitude… Wait… What? With a girl?

Holyshitwaitaminnit… A date with a girl??! Would I have to kiss her?

At this time I had already had sex with a man. I knew it was right, my hard wired brain was just doing what it was genetically told to do. But somewhere in my chest, a voice said “Oh fuck it! Give it a whirl!” So when you hear earfucks saying “Gay is learned!” or “Gay can be behaviorally eradicated from your system!” punch those fuckers in the nuts for me. It makes me physically ill to think that people can “cure” you by rote (or disfiguring electroshock). I digress. I decided to give it a whirl, despite the huge fear that was in my goolies.

She was my age and slightly gangly and while she was not the most popular girl in school, she was smart. Near genius smart for her age. I was more intimidated by that, than her sex. My mom stood just outside of earshot (which, by the way is physically impossible) while I made the call:

“Hello Dorcas…?”

Let’s stop right there. I am sure the reason Dorcas was so intelligent and wise beyond her years was purely based on the need to constantly explain to people her name was not a vehicle for child-like slurs. Get it out of your system now, I’m sure she had heard them all well before she was 5 years old in numerous playground and recess gatherings. Dork Ass; Door Knob; Dork Face; Dumb Ass etc. Years after our date, I had seen her verbally rip the skin off of some drunk fucker who called her out about her name, during a illegal teen drinking party. While her words were venomous, her eyes were dead set and almost blasé. She had her name defense response honed to an art.

Of course, her name was the first thing we talked about on our date. I thought I asked politely but my question still riled her. “It’s from the bible,” she told me, “Not that I’m religious or read it at all.” We then tore into how embarrassing our mothers were: from naming conventions to matchmaking. We were friends then.

But throughout the evening there was a voice in my head. “You gonna kiss her when this is over?”

I admit that the night was a blur. I do know we went to Star Wars. I do remember her telling me that hand holding was not required. I do remember at the end of the evening, after walking her home, standing at her door, (thankfully without any parent in view – we lived in an age when 13 year olds could walk the streets unattended) we did kiss. I think I kissed her teeth.

We became friends after that. Like “holy Christ we will never, EVER talk of this again” kind of friends. When Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back came out, we went on another “date” much to the amazement of our parents. I remember my Mom reeling like being hit by a slap when I mentioned Dorcas and I were going out on another date, three years after the last. We laughed hysterically at the end of the evening when I kissed her hand.

Two upper middle class, housework-shunning, career women sit down to lunch, order martinis and awkwardly avoid talk of their children.

Philosophizing Over That Stone

Celebs and Media

stone_destinyAn interesting synchronicity is occurring between art and real life: The movie The Stone of Destiny is soon to be released and the reenactment of the Plains of Abraham isn’t soon to be happening any time soon, well at least not on the actual ground it took place on.

Hear me out: Both instances are about a chunk of earth, both recall emotions of loss and embarrassment, both political in nature.

In the case of the movie, I can see how our Scottish heroes would want to return that symbol of power, no matter how faded, to it’s former residence – everyone loves an underdog and lets face it, Scottish accents are still bloody hot since Trainspotting. This is of course polar opposite to the feelings of Quebec Federalists who are kiboshed by a strong Separatist movement, blocking the reenactment. Every story needs a villain and in both cases, the victorious English wind up looking like Caesar-like thugs who keep their subservient masses on short tame leashes.

Then I think, “What if Canada was invaded and had some symbol removed from it, would I care enough to dare steal back?”

I’m still thinking about that.

Not being a sport fan I can recognize that many would say Mr Stanley’s Cup or some such figure. But I doubt that, since sports fans were so quick to roll over when the Hockey Night In Canada song was sold off for a song.

The CN Tower? Way too involved.

Rick Mercer? Hmmm, no. He’d annoy his way out of his captor’s grasp and make his way back to us.

The plucky Bonhomme? Close. At least he’s as Canadian as Mickey Mouse is to the US. See English Canada doesn’t really have a symbol, we’ve got most of ours from Quebec or Eastern Canada, so I can’t really think of anything.

Regardless, I would defend her if I had to. But only like Red Dawn, only if the attacking army actually interrupted my iPhone usage.

Milk Curdling?

Celebs and Media

Love it or hate it, here comes the Harvey Milk movie.

The debate rages. Is it right to have a straight actor portray the most political gay icon in American history? It was eventually widely accepted that two straight actors “bravely” portrayed fictional cowboys and removed us from their stereotypes in Brokeback Mountain, but will it be correct for a heterosexual to portray this gay icon, this historical figure and not know the nuances of being gay? Not having struggled with their sexuality in their lifetime, how can Sean Penn correctly portray Milk? Is Penn on the verge of taking the role of effete Milk over the top like he did in “I Am Sam” (a borderline offensive portrayal of a mentally deficient man)?

Guardedly, I am going to say “no”. The trailer seems to keep Sean in check with his mannerisms, nothing too outrageous, but time will tell. I am quite excited that Gus Van Sant is directing this and might wipe the embarrassment of that Psycho remake from ’98 off his books and put him back on credible film making again.

Early rumours say this movie is going to be important, which is a shame. It’s timing sucks. I get the feeling it really should have been released 10 days ago, before the vote for Prop 8 was so contentiously decided upon (and is still being felt like a stinging slap on a lot of Californian Democrat faces). However, I doubt a lot of Republicans or right-winged religious types would base themselves to see it. Still, positive press of a touching, intelligent biopic might have swayed at least one to go see it. And who knows? Would that have helped?

Family, Secrets. In Repose and Response

Personal Bits, Queer stuff

Weekend Pictures Here

What can you learn of someone within 3 minutes? 30 minutes? 3 hours? 3 days?

This long weekend, we ventured up into the Gatineau area to visit SharkBoy’s “Summer Place” – Notre Dame Du Pontmain to be exact.

It’s a tiny village nearly smack dab in the middle of a massive amount of small lakes about an hour and a bit north of Ottawa, in the Gatineaus. NDdP makes it’s living on the one hotel, the one depanneur and one boat launch and a lot of video rentals. I’ve never been before and I hope I go back. A lot. Mountains rise up out of so many lakes it’s like visiting BC but without the weed. Every morning and evening the sun puts on a display of colours you become drunk with the spectacle. Deer peer at you with those creepy eyes from the sides of the road. Bears have been seen. It truly is one of Quebec’s hidden treasures from the English.

We left late on Friday night to a wall of traffic that spanned downtown Pickering to Brockville, where after 6 hours in the car at 2am, we desperately tried to look for a hotel. All the details of the travel can be found on Sharkboy’s blog. One thing I did enjoy was playing “Senator and the Hooker” in the divey-est hotel on the outskirts of Ottawa that had stucco swipes as wall decoration and other 70s Swiss Chalet motifs (“Spank your bottom? That will be $5 extra, Senator!”).

On the drive we talked a lot about family. The one we started ourselves (cat included) and the ones I was going to meet. As usual, but not so much this time, I felt the apprehension of meeting up with the in-laws and not being able to communicate as much as I’d like. But that always disappears within moments of getting past the front door because SharkBoy’s mom is always so welcoming and friendly (inbetween the “tabanac” and “câlisse”) and we generally communicate in elaborate hand gestures, drinks and the odd translation assistance from SharkBoy’s sister, Syl.

We did eventually meet up and make our way over to SharkBoy’s uncle’s extremely secluded compound after a long drive up, down, through, along swamps and riverbanks. Oddly enough we could see the house we were staying at from his dock, which would have taken 1/100th the time it took to get there if we had walked directly from door to door. Unfortunately the two places are separated by a large river, so unless you’re Jesus, that’s not possible. Visible but secluded. For a reason. He owned the entire mountain behind his house.

Leasing the road to the top of the mountain for a cell phone tower, he’s sitting on a developer’s wet dream of prime cottage land that overlooked the lake. But he wants to keep it to himself for now. That kind of power you don’t come by easy. As we were to learn when the pictures came out. Images of SharkBoy’s dad and his two uncles were presented in all their black and white glory and I got to learn how Romuald became the person who gave me SharkBoy. We also learned of some other stuff that I will respect a certain person’s embarrassment due to certain childhood behaviour, but let’s just say that it involved a chicken and a horse.

Later, SharkBoy’s cousin and her girlfriend piled us into their lesbian truck (who knew it was rampant in his father’s side?) and took us 1/3rd the way up the mountain on the maintenance road to the cell tower. Then we walked the rest of the way. Nearly straight up. For a solid hour. That’s right, this fat, office cube chubbo walked up the side of a mountain to get utterly drenched in sweat (thank god they’re all family now). I also got to spend my first really private moments with Syl and we discussed ex-boyfriends and how sometimes a family’s responsibility is not to mention that we’re dating a jerk. Nothing new or shocking but she managed to make me feel like a brother in those few moments. I also snapped a few shots:

After bombing around on ATVs, we went tubing. First time for me behind a boat where I didn’t fall down within the first couple of seconds of it taking off (I suck at waterskiing).

That night, after saying our bon soirs, we discovered that seclusion has a price: the road back to the highway was washed out in a freak flash flood that came down from the side of the mountain after a short rainfall. Who knew that a mountain could “retain water”? This is where SharkBoy’s family shone: they all came out to the site on their ATVs and trucks to see the damage and within an hour, we had “rebuilt” the road, moved a down tree and scouted ahead the 3 miles to the highway on the ATV to make sure that the road was clear. It was an adventure, to be sure (we could have been at that part of the road during the flood), and his uncle and cousins were actually apologetic for the delay.

The next day the “kids” (without Sharkboy’s mom and aunt) set out to discover the waterfalls at Windigo, a swanky time-share like resort that I’d love to spend a week at some summer time (hint hint). There I saw a frog. Hold your Quebecois jokes. But before leaving, I was struck with the biggest stomach pain right between breakfast and the time we got into the car, which I kept mostly to myself until it started to subside. I wasn’t too chatty that morning. But it passed and I don’t blame anyone’s food…

At this time it was becoming quite evident that one of the guests was not feeling the same emotions for being away for the weekend and would not put down their cell phone for all the texting that was going on. I kept on remembering that when I was their age, I was yearning for not being at family outings either, and would sulk annoyingly over in some corner with a comic or tv show. Kids today (ugh. shoot me. I just wrote “kids today”) have better ways of sulking the fun from the moment by tapping messages to their friends on a small keyboard. I wanted to take them aside and tell them that family time is extremely precious, especially at 40something, and that they should savour the time they have. But of course, I kept my nose out of it. But I did felt old remembering how I behaved exactly the same (sans electroniques). This led to the weekend being cut short by hours (thankfully not by a day) and we managed to get back to Toronto at an extremely decent hour, so thanks teen angst!

In all, a good weekend. I’d love to go back again!

The Walk of Shame

Distractions

I viewed a lot of people doing The Walk of Shame throughout this sporadic long weekend. You know the look: dazed, 100 metre stare with much regret behind their eyes; wrinkled clothes that just don’t look right in the full light of day (leather pants? In 25C heat?); and the shuffling that comes with the combination of too much alcohol and bruise-making sex.

It got me to thinking: What’s the best way to get back home and avoid street level embarrassment?

Here’s my hints and tips!

Leave early. Know that the traffic starts to pick up after 7am. Get out that door and giving yourself enough time to walk home while wearing those obvious clothes (unless you’ve worn ass-less chaps the night before, take a cab. No commuter who may spy your journey home, no matter what their sexual orientation, will take you seriously).

Consider your route home. If you have to walk by a school or playground or catty outdoor cafe full of hip young things, be prepared to feel the icy sting of comments and stares landing squarely on your back.

Don’t sleep there when the deed is done. Save yourself the trouble and pain. No mater how drunk, get your ass out of there.

Don’t spend all your money the night before. Taxis, while recently have increased their fares, are still great for avoiding the long walk home. If your one night stand lives in Scarborough and you live downtown, stop drinking appropriately.

Find a bush and finish up there. This way, nobody gets robbed. Nobody has to sneak glances at letters in the hallway to remember a name. Nobody gets breakfast. Downside: dog poop on your butt.

Steal. When your host is in the loo, steal a clean t-shirt. Unless you’re a chubby chasing, rail thin guy, you may want to steal a washcloth.

I hope I’ve helped you in some small way today.