long ago and oh so far away

I recently read that there is not a single "Opening Day" attraction still operating at Disney Hollywood Studios in Florida. I find that fascinating, considering the theme park opened its doors to guests in 1989 — just 35 years ago. (Granted, I have been a Disney enthusiast for years and you may not find this little tidbit of trivia the least bit fascinating or even interesting... but I do and it's my blog.) Even though I have not been to a Disney theme park in almost a decade, I still like to read about and keep up with changes, developments and memories... especially memories.

Disney Hollywood Studios was originally conceived as a working movie studio ala Universal's popular operation in California. Disney had vast plans to shoot films and television shows and produce their signature animated movies in its planned Florida theme park, with guests peeking over the shoulders of the action as it actually unfolded. Believe it or not, it was already determined to be a so-called "half day" park before the first brick was laid or the first drop of cement was poured. Disney signed a licensing agreement with MGM Studios to use various aspects of their branding at the proposed them park. However, Disney was irked when MGM opened a mini theme park in Las Vegas. Specific stipulations were laid out as to which MGM properties (and how much of them) were featured in Disney's "Great Movie Ride." On Opening Day, there were two major attractions at the park — The Great Movie Ride and That Backstage Studio Tour. It was indeed a "half day" visit. In the years to follow, more and more attractions were opened and Disney's Hollywood Studios (then called "Disney-MGM Studios") became a destination and proved just as popular as the other two theme parks on Disney's Florida property. 

My first visit to Disney Studios was with my family in the 90s. By this time, the park had undergone some major changes since its opening just a few years earlier. A large extension had emerged as an offshoot of the main entranceway. Keeping with the "Golden Age of Hollywood" theme that overarched most of the park, the new Sunset Boulevard section boasted two big thrill rides — The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror and the Rock 'n Roller Coaster (the first inverted loop roller coaster on Disney property). However, the Disney Studios was still trying to figure things out. There were smaller "show" attractions focusing more on audience participation rather than the tried-and-true "sit in a vehicle and watch stuff around you." Trying to evoke the "you're in a real live studio" atmosphere, guests were often selected to participate in the action. A few folks were selected, hastily costumed and thrust onstage at the "Indiana Jones Epic Stunt Spectacular." Their participation wasn't close to dangerous. They'd just "ooh" and "aah" and point from the safe sidelines while Disney professionals avoided fireballs and out-of-control jeeps.

One of the more interesting "audience participation" attractions at the Disney Studios was Superstar Television. Hosted in the 1000-seat Superstar Television Theater (later renamed "Hyperion Theater" and current location of the "Frozen Sing-Along"), this purposely-campy performance attempted to recreate a typical broadcast day at at typical television studio. Before each session, a number of guests were recruited from the massive queue line that formed outside the theater doors. On the day of our visit, my family and I joined the already large group just as Disney cast members were beginning to scan the crowd for volunteers. My wife and my then-eight-year old son enthusiastically "whooped" and yelled and pointed to hapless Josh Pincus until a smiling cast member grabbed my hand to lead me backstage. As I was "dragged" away, I caught a parting glimpse of my family in incontrollable hysterics.

I assumed the rest of the audience was admitted to the theater, my family included. I was taken (along with my fellow volunteers, whether willing or not) to an area backstage. The place was exactly what I had seen on TV, strewn with cables and fake backdrops and rolling racks of colorful and mismatched costumes. A young lady was outfitted in a pink dress and hairnet, similar to the one worn by Lucille Ball in the classic "candy conveyor belt" episode of the I Love Lucy show. A little boy was given a New York Mets jersey as he prepared to be interviewed in a pseudo-post-game sports segment. My t-shirt was covered with a false tuxedo front that Velcro-ed in the back. A rubber, but realistic-looking cream pie was attached to my hand with a hidden elastic strap. The Disney cast member informed me that I would be playing a butler in a Three Stooges short. I even had a couple of lines as well as a yet-to-be explained "action" sequence. At a particular cue, heard via in-studio playback, I was to announce "Dinner is served" in a gentlemanly tone. As I watched the action in an off-stage monitor, my next line was to be "Gentlemen! Please!," offered as a reaction to the beginning of a notorious pie-throwing spectacle. Finally, I was instructed to raise the prop pie as though I was about to launch it across the room, while snidely growling "Why you....!" At this point, the cast member said, I would be smacked in the face by a real pie.

What?

The cast member repeated the instruction, my line and the creamy consequence I was to expect. She also suggested that I remove my glasses to avoid possible damage. Her smile never waned. She had obviously explained this entire scenario to dozens and dozens of Dads whose family had volunteered them for the same fate. I folded my glasses into a case in my pocket. I adjusted the rubber pie to a more comfortable fit and squinted my eyes in hopes of putting the giant blur before me into better focus. I listened to the other "volunteers" as they performed their parts and watched the awkwardness from a nearby monitor. The audience expressed their collective approval with each new segment — the I Love Lucy bit, a take-off on the Gilligan's Island opening. Through the "magic of television, costumed Disney guests, plucked from the crowd, were inserted into clips of General Hospital, Cheers and The Golden Girls. The audience was delighted. Finally, it was my turn.

I was guided to my mark (as they say in show biz) and I said my first line. With my chin up and nose at an appropriately "snooty" position, I announced "Dinner is served," as I had heard the late great Bud Jamison say so many times. (It was his role I was subbing for.) At the designated cue, I lamented "Gentlemen! Please!," trying to convey real concern for the Stooges turning a dignified dinner party into a pie-hurling free-for-all. Then, after delivering my "Why you!" at my menacing best, the Disney cast member — the one who had been so nice and sweet and helpful — slammed a hefty cream pie square in my kisser. I heard the audience roar with laughter. I, however, couldn't see a goddamned thing, as my already myopic eyes were thick with whipped cream. A minute later, I was led out to the stage with my fellow "performers" for a group bow and one last moment of the patented theme park humiliation that Disney prides itself on.

Backstage, the cast member thanked me for my participation and handed me a bottle of shampoo and a towel she pointed to a sink similar to those found in a beauty salon. She explained that the pie that was now dripping from my face and hair was a real, dairy pie. I was further advised to thoroughly wash my hair, because the combination of unrefrigerated dairy ingredients and the 90+ degrees of the afternoon Central Florida sun would produce a result that can only be described as "funky." She also handed me a coupon for a free dessert at a Disney Studios restaurant, an ironic reward. I asked if I would be hit in the face with that one too. She laughed and replied, "No." I suspect she had heard that before.

The cast member left the room. I looked at the shampoo and the towel and the sink. I audibly emitted an "Pfft!" to no one in particular. I thought to myself: "There is no way I'm going to wash my hair. I'll be fine." I folded the "free dessert" coupon and stashed it in my pocket. I found my way out of the backstage area and joined my family. My son and Mrs. P laughed and hugged me and patted my back. They told me "I'm a good sport!" and laughed some more. I unfolded my official park guide map and we began to discuss what we would do next.

As the afternoon progressed and the Central Florida sun rose high and large in a cloudless sky, the Disney cast member's words of warning echoed in my mind. Suddenly, I was surrounded by the unmistakable aroma of a power failure in the dairy case at the local supermarket. As we stood in various queue lines or wandered around gift shops, I could see frowns and displeased looks from other guests in my peripheral vision. My family, not worried about tactfully offending me, told me: "Jeez! Your hair stinks!" Panicked, I searched for a water fountain. I found one and splashed handful after handful of water over my scalp. After a considerable amount of time* (*a period of time that would have to suffice until we returned to our hotel room at the end of the day), I had washed out a good portion of old pie remnants as well as the accompanying scent of spoiled milk.

I never did redeem that coupon. I think I had enough dessert for one day.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dig a little deeper

When my son was little, I would read to him every night before bedtime. I was a big fan of introducing him to classic children's stories and even those that were geared toward those a bit beyond his age group. But, — and this is not a brag — he was way more "on the ball" than a lot of his peers. I read Roald Dahl's lesser known works, as well as the original, non-Disney-fied, versions of the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. I also read the original Tales of Uncle Remus that white author Joel Chandler Harris collected and compiled in 1881. These are the stories upon which Disney based its notorious 1946 animated/live action musical amalgam Song of the South. However, in the version we had, the stories were ultra-sanitized versions of the post-Civil War folk tales. For most of the stories I read to my son, I made up and "performed" a number of funny voices for each character in the books. He loved those books and we read them often throughout his early years. Were they problematic? In hindsight, I suppose they were. 

If you are a regular reader of this stupid blog (and why would you be?), you know that I am an avid Disney fan. I have written about various trips to Disney theme parks and other Disney related anecdotes. I went to Walt Disney World for the first time with my friends just after I graduated from high school. We had such a good time that we returned again the next summer. (Actually, we were so drunk during our first trip, we went back to see what we missed the first time.) My wife and I went on our honeymoon in 1984. We went back again in '85 and ventured back one more time at the end of 1986, when Mrs. Pincus was pregnant with our son. After he was born, we put our Disney trips "on hold" for a while. Once we could no longer convince my son that The Disney Store in a nearby mall was "Disney World," we had no choice but to plan a family vacation to the central Florida resort... which we did in the summer of 1995. My son was so familiar with all things Disney that he was more prepared to experience the magic of Disney than any other guest — child or adult. Of course, everything was new to him, but there were plenty of attractions that had popped up since my wife and I were there almost a decade before. One of those was the elaborate "E-Ticket" experience called "Splash Mountain."

Splash Mountain has an interesting genesis. It started life as part of a massive project that never made it past the planning stages. When Walt Disney World opened in 1971, Imagineers (the guys who conceive and design the rides) decided not to build an east-coast version of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, so popular in California's Disneyland. They didn't think a pirate-themed ride would interest Floridians, since so much "pirate lore" exists in and around Florida. Instead, they planned a sprawling experience that featured a cowboy-and-Indian themed boat ride (to pacify the "Pirates" fans) and a wild Western-themed roller coaster through a prairie town. The ride, christened "Thunder Mesa," was troublesome from the start. While still on the drawing board, its size and proposed technology was a logistic nightmare. It also promised to send its budget far beyond original limits. When guests started asking: "Hey! Where are the pirates?," Disney rethought their decision and scrapped the "Thunder Mesa" project. They turned to Imagineer Tony Baxter, who was brainstorming an attraction to fill out Disneyland's fairly sparse Critter Country. He came up with a variation of the standard "flume ride," so popular in other amusement parks. Tony's vision was to incorporate some of the Audio-Animatronic figures from the recently-shuttered America Sings and theme the whole thing to the film Song of the South. Although the Oscar-winning song from the film, "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah," was a Disney staple, Song of the South was a strange choice on which to base a ride in the 1980s. It was not particularly popular and had only been re-released four times to lukewarm reception since its initial run in 1946. By the time construction on Splash Mountain began, Song of the South had completed what would be its final theatrical release three years earlier, amid growing controversy over the depiction of racial stereotypes. Nevertheless, Splash Mountain opened in Disneyland in 1989 and its Florida counterpart followed in 1992. From the very beginning, the ride was one of the most popular in its respective park. The Florida version clocks in a nearly 12 minutes as it takes guests on a whirlwind — and often wet — journey through the world of the villainous Brer Fox in his pursuit of the happy-go-lucky, mischievous Brer Rabbit. Hulking hapless Brer Bear, along with a cheerful menagerie of anthropomorphic swamp critters, entertain riders with a selection of tunes woven around the main "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah" theme. At the ride's conclusion, riders often discuss their unfamiliarity with the songs and the characters, as the overwhelming majority of Disney guests have never seen Song of the South. Yet, for nearly thirty years, Splash Mountain boasts long lines and wait times upwards of an hour on any given day.

The first time I rode Splash Mountain, I loved it. It was both exciting and charming. I remember wishing that the ride moved a bit slower, because I think I missed a lot of the subtleties scattered throughout individual tableaus as the story unfolded. I even felt the same excitement the first time I conquered the smaller. leaner, slightly altered Disneyland version of the attraction. However, after riding both versions, I was uncomfortable in spending the rest of my day in damp clothes. Oh yes... you may get wet. Getting wet should only be the biggest issue with the ride. The hard truth is, just like the film that is its basis, Splash Mountain is fraught with derogatory imagery and mocking dialects that really have no business being glorified in a family-friendly theme park.

Just this week, in the wake of a long overdue awakening to racial injustice, racial inequality and old-fashioned prejudice, Disney has announced plans to re-theme Splash Mountain — ditching the racially-insensitive characters from Song of the South. The curently-unnamed attraction will feature characters and a story line from Disney's 49th animated full-length feature The Princess and the Frog, a 2009 release that was (mostly) praised for spotlighting Disney's first (and so far, only) African-American princess. Disney made the announcement on various social media and news outlets. Being the greatest marketers on the planet, Disney made no mention of reasons for the change and made no mention of the characters from the current Splash Mountain ride. The press release was purely forward-thinking, excitedly written and enthusiastic in its descriptive vision.

Disney has made numerous changes to their theme parks over the years. Some rides were changed or removed so quickly, you probably forgot they ever existed (The Tomorrowland Phantom Boats, a Disneyland "Opening Day" attraction, wasn't around to see its one year anniversary.) But die-hard Disney fans get very protective and very defensive when it comes to their most beloved rides at their theme park. And a ride being changed based on hurtful racial issues — acknowledged or not — does not sit well with a contingency of spoiled-rotten, uninformed, oblivious, insensitive, elitist, privileged white people that, unfortunately, make up a good chunk of Disney's fan base. 

I first saw the announcement on the official Disney Parks Blog, where the new, reimagined ride was lovingly described. It was accompanied by an artist's rendering, approximating a still-unrealized scene from the ride. The timeline for construction was vague, as Disney parks are currently closed due to the global COVID-19 pandemic, with tentative opening dates still "iffy" as new cases spring up every day. Disney's goal in making this announcement was two-fold. First, it needed to address the "elephant in the room," righting a wrong that should have been addressed years ago, but also to inject a bit of optimism into its current stagnating situation. The company hoped to evoke visions of bright, shiny new enticements on the sketchy horizon. The news was met with reaction, both favorable and disappointed. The favorable ones offered praise and excitement. The disappointed reactions were vicious, filled with selfish complaints, racist sentiment and indifference to the fact that more that just you visit Disney theme parks. Some cite their own love of the ride as a valid reason not to change it. Others dismiss any notion of offensiveness because it doesn't offend them. What these narrow-minded, self-appointed defenders of Disney forget is what Walt Disney, the man himself, said: "Disneyland will never be completed. It will continue to grow as long as there is imagination left in the world." He also said: "Times and conditions change so rapidly that we must keep our aim constantly focused on the future."

They also forget the current philosophy of the Disney Company — and that's the "cha-CHING!" of a cash register.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

fiddle about

My love of all things Disney is no secret. This story, however, is about my love of small things Disney.

After many trips to the Walt Disney World Resort just outside of Orlando, Florida, my family and I decided to check out Walt's original theme park on the west coast. Of course the Pincus family doesn't do anything in a normal way. We headed to Southern California by way of Las Vegas, spending three days in Sin City before driving four hours across the Mojave Desert to Anaheim.

Friends told us that we would be disappointed by Disneyland as compared to Walt Disney World. The California version is small and quaint, they warned. You'll be bored after a day. They were wrong. We fell in love just moments after stepping through the entrance gates. There is something homey and warm about Disneyland that doesn't exist in Walt Disney World. Sure, we love Disney World, but it seems so big and sprawling and corporate. (Yeah, I know. That sounds silly. Disney exudes "corporate!") Planning a vacation to Walt Disney World is little like planning to lead troops into battle. You must have a preconceived strategy, a game plan, a proposal for attack. There is no down time! Move, move, move! No time for relaxation! There's Dole Whip to eat and singing pirates to see! Disneyland didn't seem like that... at least to me... at least in 2004. The first thing I noticed, as we approached a familiar-looking Main Street USA, was The Main Street Cinema was actually showing movies. In Walt Disney World, The Main Street Cinema had long been transitioned into another gift shop selling the same Disney trinkets as every other shop on Main Street. Disneyland had open areas with benches and beautifully landscaped shrubbery. And not just in one little place near the forecourt of Sleeping Beauty Castle. There were little shady spots throughout the park. Secluded quiet places with a bench or two taking up precious real estate that, in Florida, would have someone hawking membership in the Disney Vacation Club upon it. Disneyland, on the other hand, is a place that folks who live in the surrounding area can just wake up in the morning and say "Hey! Let's go to Disneyland!" Just pure spontaneity with no planning whatsoever. After a day of observing the little touches of thoughtful detail, my family was in agreement that Disneyland seemed closer to Walt's original idea of a theme park.

Our last trip to Disneyland was in 2011. Things began to change a short time after, with a big push for big change over the past few years. It worked, too. Park attendance has increased.... by three million annually.

Your time is up.

As I write this, it is the eve of Disneyland opening one of its most ambitious expansions. After three years of secretive construction, Disneyland will unveil the much-anticipated "Galaxy's Edge," a 14-acre immersive land based on the beloved and lucrative "Star Wars" movie franchise (which Disney purchased the rights to in 2012). Much speculation, rumor and excitement has filled the Disney-loving community since groundbreaking on the project took place. As opening day drew closer, Disney began to issue reservations for admission. Due to anticipated popularity, guests will be limited to a four-hour visit during the first month of operation. Those who fail to comply with the time limitations will be escorted out of Galaxy's Edge by storm troopers straight out of the film series. (I kid you not!) Along with the enveloping experience, Disney is selling custom light sabers for two hundred dollars, custom "droids" for ninety-nine dollars and, if you get thirsty, Oga's Cantina will set you up with a rum-laced "Yub Nub" in a souvenir glass for forty-two bucks. Disney is poised to make gajillions.

But that's not what this story is about. This story is about the little touches at Disneyland. The things that Disney does so well and go relatively unnoticed by the theme-park going masses. Stuff that Disney doesn't have to do, but does anyway, because its part of the "magic" that Disney prides itself on providing. The kind of things that make Disney Disney and sets them apart from other theme parks. Sure, the big thrill rides are what draws the crowds and whips up excitement. But, the little one-on-one interactions are just as important and often much more memorable. So, as Disneyland excitedly gears up for the reveal of Black Spire Outpost on the planet Batuu, it waves a tearful goodbye to one of those little pieces of "magic" — Farley the Fiddler

Have fun.

Farley the Fiddler was one of those special added touches that brought a smile to guests' faces as they strolled the wooden-plank walkways of Frontierland. At near hourly intervals, Farley — a tall, lanky fellow decked out in full Western regalia — would stand outside of the Pioneer Mercantile, draw a rosined bow across his weather-patinaed fiddle and delight the small crowds that would gather. He would play some classic cowboys tunes, He would perform a few cool tricks with a lariat. He would even tell a few corny jokes in the trademark Disney vein. Of course, he'd pose for pictures, too. Sometimes, Farley would hand out stickers as a free souvenir. (Wow! Something free at Disneyland!) Farley did this on a daily basis  (with a few days off here and there) for nearly a quarter of a century. Just this past Monday — Memorial Day 2019 — Farley the Fiddler hoed his last down and hooted his last nanny. After seven shows a day for twenty-three years, Farley the Fiddler called it a career.

Farley the Fiddler

My family and I stumbled upon Farley the same way most guests do — by accident. We were shopping (browsing) in the Pioneer Mercantile, scanning the merchandise and marveling at the detail of the displays and fixtures (as we do in most Disneyland gift shops), when we heard sweet fiddle music just outside the far entrance. We walked outside and right into the middle of a Farley afternoon front-porch performance. He offered a wide, friendly smile and gave us a nod, tilting his Stetson in our direction, never once interrupting the bright, cheerful tune emanating from his fiddle. He chatted with us and other guests between songs and rope tricks, peppering his banter with some groan-worthy cowboy puns. ("I get a lot of fringe benefits," he said, gesturing to his decorated buckskin vest.) He'd politely excuse himself at the timed conclusion of his set and let everyone know when he'd return. Then, he'd nonchalantly disappear behind a cast member door, like all the other Disneyland cast members.

We made sure we stopped to see Farley on subsequent visits year after year. While searching the internet for more information, I found a blog post from 2015 written by a woman about the fun she and her children had with Farley the Fiddler. I even left a comment on the post to let her know she was not alone and to express my admiration of Farley.

Farley's retirement is bittersweet. I know that the next time I go to Disneyland, Farley won't be fiddling on the porch at the Pioneer Mercantile. I know, instead, that the queue to ride "Millennium Falcon: Smuggler's Run" will probably wind down to where Farley spun that rope and cracked a few silly one-liners. But, that's progress... I suppose.

I hope they still have a couple of benches.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

nothing compares to you

If you've been paying attention, you probably know how much I love Disney... especially the theme parks. I've been to Walt Disney World in Florida many times and I've been to Disneyland in California many times. When people find out about my affinity for Disney, they just assume that I like going to all theme parks. They assume incorrectly. To paraphrase Sinead O'Connor: "Nothing compares to Disney." I have been to Universal Studios once and that was one time too many. Actually, my experience there showed me why Disney is at the top of the heap and all others in the theme park game aspire to reach "Disney" levels... and, most likely, never will.

After trying (unsuccessfully) to convince my son that our local Disney Store was Walt Disney World, we broke down and made our first trip as a family to Walt Disney World in 1995. Because we are Pincuses with a penchant for the unconventional, we drove to Florida from our suburban Philadelphia home. We loaded up our minivan with luggage and food and activities for the road and headed south on I-95, stopping along the way to see the sights. As we drew closer to the Florida state line, we passed more and more billboards advertising "FREE THEME PARK TICKETS." We already had our Disney World admission, but my 8-year old son — also an avid Nickelodeon fan — was anxious to get an up-close look at the "Kids' Network" at Universal Studios theme park that had just opened its competitive doors a few years earlier. So, after a bit of cajoling, my wife swung the minivan into the gravel parking lot of a small building on a service road, just off the highway in South Carolina. A young lady behind a high counter greeted us with a smile. She explained that, in order to secure tickets to Universal, we would be required to attend a brief seminar at a soon-to-be-opened time-share complex minutes from the Disney compound in Orlando. My wife and I were young and naive, not fully aware of the hard-sell, pressure-heavy experience that awaited us. We excitedly made a reservation for mid-week to tour the complex, with effortless visions of free tickets to Universal Studios clouding our collective thoughts. We hopped back into our van and I tucked the reservations card away with our important papers.

Early one morning, our little family entered the Magic Kingdom, eager to share each other's joy and ride Pirates of the Caribbean a couple of dozen times. Disney, of course, did not disappoint. My son's first taste of a real, live Disney theme park was borderline mind-blowing. We basked in his excitement, as we re-watched familiar sights though a new set of eyes. We were also treated to that signature Disney service. Disney "cast members" filled our day with smiles and friendly words and honest-to-goodness happiness — from ride operators, to restaurant wait staff to the cheerful guy sweeping the walkways. Every Disney employee was willing to bend over backwards to make sure each and every guest had the greatest time.

A reasonable facsimile.

A few days later, we drove down a desolate stretch of Route 192 through Kissimmee until we arrived at the entrance to The Isle of Bali, a construction site with a single tower looming high above the giant piles of debris and dirt-caked bulldozers. The tower, a light brick structure inlaid with an aquatic pattern, was flanked by two in-progress edifices that had not made much progress at all. We found our way to a large conference room that was packed with folks milling about — obviously lured by the promise of free theme park tickets, because no one looked the least bit interested in buying into the sucker-pitch of a time-share. They were all like us — families on vacation. We were directed to a complementary continental breakfast, but no sooner had I begun to smear a lump of cream cheese across a pale, thin bagel than we were interrupted greeted by our day's tour guide. He was a cheerful young man who resembled Tim Meadows before we knew who Tim Meadows was. He shook my hand, tousled my son's hair and led us to a small table covered with a linen tablecloth. Before he began his presentation, he made several persistent attempts at sticking our son in a "kids area" where he would be "more comfortable." When he finally realized that we weren't letting him out our our sight, "Tim" proceeded with the most incoherent pitch I ever heard. We could barely follow what he was saying, as he jumped from tales of overseas vacations to domestic golf courses, to fishing lakes for fishing (I swear he said that!) to the constant mispronunciation of the name of complex itself. He repeatedly called the place "The Bile of Ali." I kid you not! At the end of a grueling two hours (yes! two hours!), we squirmed and declined every single "supervisor" who accosted us after "Tim" failed to lock us into a commitment. Finally, when we just asked for our free tickets to Universal, we were met with scowls and directed to a door. "In there." we were told. I suspected that a blazing furnace lay on the other side on the closed portal. But, no. Inside was a bare room with a bare Formica counter and bored woman in attendance. Without a word, she handed over an envelope with three passes to Universal and sent us through another door that dumped us in a remote area of the parking lot. Whatever.... we got what we came for.

Universal Studios was just okay. We went on some great rides (Back to The Future, ET, Jaws) and encountered typical "theme park" atmosphere (I seem to remember Elroy Jetson and Beetlejuice passing us on a walkway that was dotted with a recreation of San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf just a short distance from the fictional, shark-threatened town of Amity). But, to me and my Disney-loving family, there was something missing. Universal was closer to a regular, no-frills amusement park than the magical wonderment that echoed the dreams and imagination of a visionary artist from Marceline, Missouri. The employees (decidedly not "cast members") were not smiling and sort of trudged around like they had better things to do. The place, while certainly impressive, didn't sparkle with that otherworldly, pixie-dust sprinkled enchantment that we had come to expect from "theme parks" of this magnitude. Sure, it was nice, but it wasn't Disney. It was just a big place with rides.

While we waited in line for one of those rides, we suffered the blistering Florida heat along with our fellow day guests. As the crowd snaked its way through the roped maze of the queue line, a uniformed fellow skirted along the outside of the line carrying a vendor's tray stocked with $8.00 cans of beer. He paced slowly along the line, making sure everyone saw his pricey, thirst-quenching wares and he even had a couple of takers. My family took full stock of this scenario.

The next day, we were back in the welcoming arms of Walt Disney World. The Florida heat was not diminished in the least and we found ourselves in a similar situation, waiting in a fairly long queue for a Disney attraction. In an antithetical reflection of the events of the previous day, a cheerful, brightly-clad Disney cast member slowly walked along the outside of the ride line. She had a large water cooler (the kind you see at construction sites) ingeniously strapped to her back. She was filling up paper cones with ice water and distributing them to every single person in line. Every single person. While the majority of the recipients thanked her and were grateful for the free refreshment, the Pincuses took note. This was a perfect example of why Disney is successful at what they do. Sure they want your money, but they also know how to make their guests happy. And they think of everything.

It's been twenty-three years since the events of my little tale unfolded. I haven't been back to Universal Studios since that day in 1995, so I don't know if they stepped up their game. I do know, however, that Disney continues to prove themselves to be "The Happiest Place on Earth." Early this year, I came across this heart-warming photograph taken at Disney's Hollywood Studios in Florida. It rains nearly every day in central Florida. That's why nearly every merchandise store at every Disney theme park showcases a fully-stocked display of overpriced rain gear. I don't begrudge Disney for trying to make a buck. After all, that's really what they do best — make their stockholders happy. But, because they are marketing geniuses, they don't appear to be forcing the foul weather items in your face, rather they are merely offered for sale, if you so choose to make that purchase. But Disney also knows how to make their "guests" feel like actual "guests." As proof of that, I offer this photo of a "Green Army Man" street character silently lending some assistance to a wheelchair-bound guest, who was caught in an Orlando downpour.

This is Disney at its finest. A true depiction of the Disney brand. I hope someone at Universal is taking note.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dinner bell, dinner bell, ding, ding, ding

I love to eat in restaurants. I'm usually not picky about where I eat because my philosophy is: "This won't be my last meal." If I don't like a restaurant, I probably will never go back, but I am happy to give any place a try at least once. Sure, I have my favorites, although one of them is on the other side of the country and an incident with another made me change my entire way of eating. But those are isolated cases. I like several local diners and nearby locations of small chains, as well as several single location eateries.

Recently, my wife and I joined friends at a place with which I was unfamiliar. In the age of the internet, however, that is no longer an issue. A quick Google search will return everything you need to know about an unfamiliar restaurant — location, menu, price range, etc. We met our friends at a place called Harvest. Harvest, it turns out, is one of several restaurants under the auspices of the Pennsylvania-based Dave Magrogan Group (DMG), an up-and-coming hospitality conglomerate in the mold of the mighty, nationwide Darden Brands. DMG introduced an Irish-themed pub called Kildare's in 2003. According to their website, Kildare's is "wildly popular." You tell me....

Harvest (or Harvest Seasonal Grill and Wine Bar, its official name) is Magrogan's entry into the trendy "farm-to-table" style of restaurants. The dining room is dark, with stacked slate walls, dark wood accents, and dimly-lit single-bulb fixtures offering little to no illumination for each table. The menus are single-sheet tomes describing things like "farro and freekah" and other things that make one unsure of their inclusion on a menu. Our waiter, a serious fellow named Erik, asked if we had ever been to Harvest before. I explained that, while we had never been to Harvest, we had, indeed, been to restaurants and were quite familiar with how the procedure goes. With no regard for my comment, Erik launched into what amounted to a minute-long commercial for Harvest. His delivery was scripted and emotionless, as though he had recited these exact same words hundreds of times. Hundreds of times today. He pointed out and highlighted many entrees on the menu as though we were illiterate and then disappeared for a few moments, soon returning to hear our decisions.

Honestly, I don't remember what I ordered. I don't remember if it was good or bad. I don't remember if it needed seasoning, how it was plated, what vegetables, if any, were served alongside my main course... whatever it was. I do remember, however that it was overpriced. I am a vegetarian and something called a "steamed ancient grain bowl," devoid of meat, rang in at $18.00. No meat and more than the cost of the menu's cheapest hamburger. Was the meal bad? I don't think so. It just wasn't memorable.

Earlier this week, my wife's brother (her other brother) invited us to dinner at another restaurant I had never heard of. This one, Seasons 52, is one of the Darden roster of eateries, the fine folks who brought you such respected culinary institutions as Olive Garden and Longhorn Steakhouse. Seasons 52 is Darden's foray into the, obviously, lucrative realm of  "farm-to-table." I say "obviously," because Darden wouldn't waste their time if it wasn't profitable and didn't draw the masses. Based on the Italian authenticity of Olive Garden, I assume that no one associated with Seasons 52 ever set foot anywhere near a farm.

I arrived at the restaurant separately from Mrs. P and her brother's family. I found them at a dark table and took an empty seat. As I perused the menu, a feeling of déjà vu swept across my mind. I felt as though I had been here before. Then it occured to me. I had been! Except it was called Harvest. This place was identical to Harvest - the same stacked slate walls, the same dark wood, the same dim lights. I ordered from the menu and — I'll be damned! — I can't remember what I had there either. I don't remember if it was good or bad. I don't remember if it needed seasoning, how it was plated, what vegetables, if any, were served alongside my main course. It was creepy.

When we had all finished our main course, our waitress returned with a burly fellow balancing a knurled wood tray artfully arranged with a selection of shot glass-sized desserts, a new trend in pretentious after-dinner treats. He hovered a small flashlight beam over each one and recited descriptions that were straight off the Food Network. I suggested that if they just turned the lights up higher in the whole place, they wouldn't have to provide a personal spotlight for each dessert. He returned a smile that more closely resembled a sneer. When he turned the tray in my direction, I told him he could wave that light as much as he wished, I was taking a hard pass on dessert.

I am not a fan of corporate chains, although I have eaten at quite a few, mostly in other cities and only for familiarity sake. They come off as phony and geared to make folks who shop at Walmart and watch American Idol think they are dining like folks in high society. Sort of like a restaurant "experience," rather than an actual restaurant.

But, I love theme parks, so... what do I know.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

darkness falls upon the land

I've made no secret about my love for all — well, most — things Disney. Ever since my first trip to Walt Disney World, as a rambunctious, alcohol-sodden teenager in 1980, I was hooked. A few years later, my wife and I spent our honeymoon in the central Florida theme park. After my son was born, summers often included a family road trip, traversing I-95 down the eastern seaboard, with The Magic Kingdom et al as our destination. We took nearly a dozen trips to Walt Disney World before we would breach the next level.

A dozen or so years ago, my wife's brother got married in Las Vegas. My wife joined a few members of her family in Sin City for the ceremony. My son, E., who was still in the throes of high school, and I stayed in Philadelphia. But, thanks to the internet, we were able to watch the festivities via a webcam positioned in a corner of the chapel. It offered a panoramic view of the entire wedding and, via cellphone, my son and I spoke to the little, pixelated Mrs. Pincus on our computer screen. It was as though we were there. In a few days, when she returned to Philadelphia, Mrs. P gushed about Las Vegas. It was her first visit to the gambling mecca. She told us about the grandiose buildings, the gaudy casinos, the blazing sun (even though it was October), and her family's outrageous behavior — but that could happen anywhere. I had never been to Vegas. Actually, I had never been anywhere further west than West Philadelphia (born and raised). We toyed with the idea of a trip there ourselves, when E. had finished school for the year,

Our dreams became a reality. A reality with a bonus. We decided to fly to Las Vegas, spend a few days, then rent a car and drive to Disneyland. It would be everything we loved about vacations. Glittery casinos, spectacular shows, endless buffets, a lengthy road trip and a Disney theme park as the pièce de résistance. It was great. After three days in Vegas, we drove through the Mojave Desert until we arrived in Anaheim. As we crept down Harbor Boulevard, we could see Space Mountain just beyond the sidewalk and the Tower of Terror loomed large a short distance ahead. We felt our collective excitement build.

Our first day in Disneyland's Magic Kingdom was.... well.... magical. We honestly anticipated disappointment. Tiny Disneyland would pale in comparison to its massive Floridian counterpart. Or so we thought. Disneyland proved to be warm and welcoming and quaint and nostalgic. It came off as the embodiment of Walt Disney's original dream. Florida's Walt Disney World, while a wonderful place, is a big, sprawling, commercial destination with tourists in mind. Disneyland is a small, beautifully-themed retreat for the citizens of Southern California. A place where local residents can wake up on a Saturday morning with no plans and say, "Hey! Let's go to Disneyland today!" You would never try that in Walt Disney World. A visit to Walt Disney World requires weeks of planning and coordination. It's like plotting a military operative. There is a noticeable difference between the two parks and it's more than just being on opposite sides of the country.

Mrs. P and E. in their Bats Day finest.

Months before our trip, my son began corresponding with a group of "artisans" based in Long Beach, California. This group, "The Cult of the Eye," is the self-proclaimed "America's favorite secret society." They are a fun-loving club, expressing their affinity for kitsch through their preference of music, movies and other entertainment. Through his association with the "Culties," E. was made aware of an annual, yet unofficial, event called "Bats Day in the Fun Park." Bats Day began as a prearranged meet-up at Disneyland of patrons from two of Los Angeles' prominent goth clubs. They decided on the weekend before Labor Day, when blackout dates on their Disneyland Annual Passes had not yet gone into effect. Attendees showed up in full goth regalia — black leather jackets, corsets, fishnets, tophats, canes, fingerless gloves, pale makeup with coal-black accents. That first year the group was comprised of about 80 people. The next year, it doubled and the next year, it doubled again.

On our first day in Disneyland, my son coincidentally wore a commemorative Bats Day t-shirt that he had purchased through the event's website. A cashier in one of the many gift shops noticed E.'s shirt and asked if he would be coming to this year's Bats Day. "I don't know? When is it?," E. asked. "I think it's this weekend.," she replied. E.'s eyes lit up and he was shot with a bolt of excitement. What were the chances?

Sure enough, when Sunday rolled around, the entrance to Disneyland was a swarming knot of hundreds of black-clad goths of all ages. There were teens in tight black jeans and skull-adorned t-shirts. There were satin corseted Moms herding their child goths into some sort of semblance and tattoo-covered Dads pushing strollers with baby goths in Bauhaus onesies. They were everywhere, It was a spectacle. E. even met up with his Cult of the Eye pals and disappeared into the park until we met up with him hours later at the Haunted Mansion. At 8 PM, we would discover, was the Bats Day tradition where all event attendees would queue-up and ride the venerable Disney attraction  — an obvious favorite of the goth community — en masse. An arrangement was made (by Noah, the uncharacteristically-cheerful, diminutive mastermind with a wildly teased purple Mohawk sprouting from his semi-shorn scalp, who is the founder and organizer of Bats Day) to allow groups of 25 riders to pose on the Mansion's front steps for a quick photo-op before entering the infamous "stretching room" and all that follows. Mrs. P and I managed to place ourselves in the back row of one group, while E. joined his Cultie friends in his own photo. As the night wound to a close, we were already making plans to return the next year. And this time we would be prepared.

The following summer, we came equipped with our Bats Day outfits. We each chose appropriate attire that was more akin to Hallowe'en costumes, although the majority of Bats Day participants dress like that all year 'round. I selected all black clothing, while Mrs. P acquired a skirt embellished with spider webs and a black lacy shawl that resembled spider webs as well. Mrs. P also stocked up on Bats Day "accoutrements," like skull-shaped candies, eyeball lollipops and little plastic bat rings which we planned to pass out among the many goths we would encounter. When the big day arrived, my family and I, along with just over a thousand leather-and-velvet-clad men, women and children (as well as a few undefined affiliations) descended upon the "Happiest Place on Earth," for a day filled with good-hearted mayhem. We mixed and mingled among the surprisingly friendly and welcoming crowd. There was a true sense of community among these folks, despite the odd looks — and even some jeers — from uninformed guests who were just out for a day at Disneyland. Personally, I couldn't decide which scenario made this event more fun. Was it the fact that a bunch of goths had taken over the world-renowned, family-friendly Disneyland... or the reaction of the other guests seeing a bunch of goths had taken over the world-renowned, family-friendly Disneyland? It was a toss-up.

click to enlarge                             photo  © 2007 Bats Day in the Fun Park 

We have been back to a few subsequent Bats Day celebrations. However, in 2009, the event was moved to the first weekend in May. It seems that a large number of attendees were uncomfortable in the late August heat and preferred the more temperate clime of early spring. After all, leather and velvet (especially tightly bound corsets) are not very forgiving when the thermometer registers 80+ degrees.

Mrs. P and I have often kicked around the idea of a return visit to Bats Day. We have taken different sorts of vacations since our last trip to Southern California, mostly casino-related based on my wife's (former) fondness for gambling. But, the idea is not out of the question. There are a few restaurants I'd like to try in Los Angeles (including a vegan joint operated by former Bats Day staple "Doomie") and there are many west coast cemeteries that I have yet to explore.

So, another Bats Day?  Perhaps one day.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ten, twenty, thirty million dollars ready to be spent

In 1987, The Walt Disney Company began to, literally, print its own currency. For nearly twenty years, various designs and denominations of Disney Dollars have been available for patrons on an "even exchange" basis. In May 2016, Disney announced that they would cease production on Disney Dollars, although they would continue to accept them at their theme parks, hotels and select Disney Stores (meaning not the one you go to). With the convenience of gift cards, the idea of Disney Dollars had run its course. 

However, I maintain, that Disney has been printing their own money for years. Maybe not physically, but figuratively. Their combination of shrewd marketing, exploitation and branding coupled with the captive audience and tourist mentality, has made Disney a veritable money-generating machine.

They are the kings of selling you things you do not need. They excel in convincing you that the prices they place on merchandise and food is reasonable. Granted, most people on vacation (especially the people that Walt Disney World draws) pay very little attention to how much they are spending on a meal, so they will happily for fork over $12 for a hot dog topped with chili. (A chili dog at Sonic costs $1.99, just for comparison). One of my favorite restaurants in a Disney theme park is Redd Rocket's Pizza Port, tucked in a back corner of Tomorrowland in Disneyland. A slice of typical, no-frills, fast-food, no-toppings pizza costs $6.99. I can get an entire pie at a Little Caesar's five minutes from my house for five bucks. A whole pizza at Redd Rocket's is — brace yourself — thirty-three dollars. Go to any of these Disney eateries at dinner time, though. You'll see the lines are long and the place is packed.

Souvenirs is another area where Disney knows just how wide they can open a customer's guest's wallet. My first visit to Walt Disney World was in 1980. I was 19. I purchased a few mementos of my trip — a Mickey Mouse t-shirt, a few pinback buttons. Knowing my limited funds back then, I'm sure I was very careful not to overspend on souvenirs. Of course, in later years, when I was supporting the Disneyana monkey on my back (this one, I mean), I spent money in the gift shops like a drunken pirate on Caribbean shore leave. However, my selections were measured and I was very particular about what was added to my collection. But, Disney was counting on other tourists to spend blindly and without restraint. The fact that no one bats an eye at a $24.99 price tag on a giant faux-velvet Sorcerer Mickey hat shows the effectiveness of Disney's marketing power. After all, there's only one place and one place only you can wear a tall, blue, pointed hat adorned with two enormous mouse ears and not get strange looks. And you're never gonna wear it anywhere else. Ever. When you get home to your normal life and one day it's raining, you're not saying to yourself: "I better grab a hat." and then reach for the two-foot tall, fuzzy, star-spangled head covering to shield you from the downpour. And Disney knows it.

On a summer trip my wife made with her family to Walt Disney World, she bought two water-filled spray bottles, each topped with a small battery-powered fan and embellished with Disney characters, for her nieces, to keep them hydrated during the blistering Florida heat. Those things, available in a non-Disney version for a few dollars, cost $18.00 each. My brother-in-law, fully aware of their price tag (because he wouldn't spring for them for his kids), would not allow his daughters to bring the bottles into the park, for fear they would get lost or damaged. The bottles remained safely in a bag in their hotel room and never saw the light of day since the time of their purchase. As a matter of fact, they haven't been seen since 2012. But, Disney! Disney had a gain of thirty-six dollars for an item that, based on volume, probably cost mere pennies to manufacture.

Look, this is certainly not a knock against Disney. I am a huge fan of the media giant. I admire their creativity, their cleverness and especially their marketing prowess. I marvel at the people who whine and complain about how expensive it is to swing a vacation to Walt Disney World, and then, once they get there, hand over their hard-earned cash with nary a thought. Disney is doing their job and that's answering to their stockholders. It is possible to have fun on a Disney vacation and not come home ready for the poor house. You just have to put a little thought into your planning, stick to a budget, consider purchases with: "Do I really need this?" If you're still moaning about the high prices of admission, food, lodging, and souvenirs... nobody is forcing you to go. Not even Disney. You may think they are, but that's called "marketing."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com