So, I dunno if you know this about me, but I have a fantastic fiance named Tom. (I know it's a bit late for this now, but I wonder if I should't have changed his name to protect him from a slew of admirers. Hands off, kiddos. He's mine.) Well, we went down to City Hall in NYC just last week and got a marriage license. (Yes, yes. That means I'm off the market, too. Try not to get too upset. We're open to being just friends with you.) We've been together for a bit over a year now. (He bought me a D23 membership for our one year anniversary. How awesome is that?!?!) I know that I have already told you about our Disney-related meet cute story, so I'm sure that you've been chomping at the bit to hear the engagement story, since, wouldn't you know it, it's Disney-centered as well. Since our wedding is in one week, on September 23rd, I thought that today would be the perfect day to do it.
From our first meeting, Tom and I got very close very quickly. You know that whole soulmate thing? The one we've all made fun of while sitting on our couches watching season five of Sex and the City and cursing our love lives? I found that in him, despite fifteen years of kvetching about how it would never happen. Pretty soon after we got together we started circling the idea of taking things to the next level and putting a ring on it. We talked about it in somewhat general terms and knew an engagement was on the horizon without nailing down when or how the question would actually be popped.
About six months after we met, we planned a trip down to Florida where Tom would meet the fam and we would make a lengthy detour down to Orlando and spend one day in each other four parks in Walt Disney World. Tom had not been down there for about a decade and I hadn't for almost a year myself, which is about 11 months too long, in my lil' ole opinion, so opportunity was ripe and our trip to Disneyland together two months after we met had gone so well that I knew that we would have a blast.
Sigh. So romantic.
Little did he know, bless his heart, that I had a bit of a surprise up my sneaky sleeve. Mama and I had been communicated on the DL about finding rings so I could propose to him while we were in WDW. After many clandestine phone calls and internet links passed back and forth, we decided on a lovely, simple silver band. It was one of those you-know-it-when-you-see-it moments when Mama showed it to me. Seven months prior, I thought I would end up being alone forever, and yet, here I was, seeking out ring advice from my Mama.
The next step was deciding where in the parks I wanted to do the deed. The answer was pretty obvious. Both me and Tom's favorite attraction is The Haunted Mansion. Tom, who's a fantastic musician, loves to play the music from it on the piano and knows the narration by heart (as well as the unused Vincent Price narration from Phantom Manor in Disneyland Paris). I know, I know. It's a bit macabre and weird to propose there unironically considering that we are both pretty much the opposite of goth. But we're also both odd ducks and so in the end it all makes sense.
Once that decision was made, then it was time to decide where exactly on the ride to do it. I thought of doing it in the Seance Room with Madame Leota overseeing the proceedings, but quickly decided against it. The scenarios I came up with for giving him a ring during the ride itself were not pretty. What if he gets excited or nervous and drops the ring into the abyss below the track? What if he can't hear or see what I'm trying to do? What if he gets annoyed that I'm interrupting the ride? I quickly ruled that out. Doing it in the queue seemed a little silly, too. Almost like an after thought. "My, this line is long. How to pass the time? Well, I guess I can ask you to marry me."
Then it dawned on me. The Stretching Room. Of course. It's Tom's favorite part of the ride. We even have one of the portraits hanging up in our room. More importantly, though, if he drops the ring we can just pick it up and move on through. The decision was made. The rings were ordered. The trip was planned. Tom suspected nothing save one night where he turned to me and asked, "Are you going to propose to me in front of Cinderella's Castle?" I told him of course not because that would be corny. It was a close call, but I didn't even have to lie to distract him from my ghoulish plan.
We headed down to Florida, where Tom met my awesome mama, my rad sister, and my crazy dad. He made a wonderful impression and a few days later, after I collected the rings and buried them in my luggage, we made our way from Tallahassee down to Orlando. (By the way, every time I say the name of the city, in my mind I sing it like the song from Book of Mormon.) Our first day was in Epcot and so it was easy for me not to get too nervous. I was busy listening to the dulcet tones of Judi Dench explain the history of human communication.
Can you spot the boxes? Tom didn't :)
The next day was the Magic Kingdom. The Magic Kingdom means Liberty Square. Liberty Square means the Haunted Mansion. And the Haunted Mansion means the moment was nigh. The morning was rainy and chilly. I was extra careful to slide the rings and their tell-tale boxes into my hoodie pockets when Tom's back was turned. They were still bulky and so I kept my hands in my pockets the whole morning as we drove to the TTC, took the Monorail over and waited in the rain for the gates to open. Luckily, since it's our fave, we headed straight in that direction first thing. I'm sure Tom noticed something was off with my energy, but probably thought that it was just because the rain rain rain was coming down down down.
I was nervous as the dickens while we made a beeline over and walked right up to the door. It was us and a small British family. They had an adorable little girl with them who kept on asking if there were really ghost in there with her cute little accent. She would jet out from behind her mom, knock on the door real quick-like, and then hide behind the mother's legs again asking if we were all going to turn into ghosts if we went inside. Finally, the door opened and we all went inside and then into the Stretching Room.
I know they smell a bit musty, but they need
a ride to the bachelor party. Please. Anyone?
I had decided that I wanted to wait until after the spiel was over so that a) we wouldn't intrude on other people's vacation with our big proposal production number and 2) so Tom would be able to enjoy the whole thing. After the room had stretched and the door that wasn't there slid open, Tom started to walk away. My heart leapt into my throat, I grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back, and he looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. I got down on one knee, pulled the ring out of my left pocket (that was the one with his size 7 in it), and asked him to marry me.
The rings right after the proposal.
He had a scant moment to process it, but luckily that's all he needed. He said yes, I got up and gave him a kiss and said "Hurry, let's go before they close the door on us!" As we waited to board out Doom Buggy, Tom took the other ring and sealed the deal. I love the Haunted Mansion every time I ride it, but I must say, that was one special trip through. After we got off, we walked outside and the sun had broken through the clouds. The rain had stopped and the weather was absolutely lovely for the rest of the day. I could not have asked for things to have gone any differently. It was a series of perfect moments that I will remember forever.
Don't get any ideas, Tom Tom.
I was so surprised to find someone who fit so well with me, and the fact that he was as big a Disney geek as I was really sealed the deal. With a week until the wedding, and our immediate families soon descending on City Hall in NYC for a small ceremony, I can't help but thank whichever star I wished on that finally decided to listen to me when I said that I had room for one more in my life. That star sent me a mortal who was as foolish as I was. That day I took my loved one by the hand and we watched our step as we boarded the ride. I expect our lives together to be one heckuva swinging wake.
Still life with Disney books, Orange Birds,
Mary Blair, Oswald, Big Al, singamajigs,
headscratcher and Whatnot Muppets.
Tom and I have been watching a lot of Hoarders lately. We can’t help it. A marathon aired before the new season got started and we spent one of our precious days off together on the couch, consuming episode after episode ravenously. I think there is a unique combination of factors that has lead to our (and America’s) love of this show. We feel grateful that we are not like the people being documented, and yet we see tiny bits of ourselves reflected in them. We feel a sense of schadenfreude and at the same time are uplifted when progress is made. We cheer them on and judge them simultaneously. This show and others like it (Intervention, Heavy) fascinate me to absolutely no end.
This last marathon, however, has mostly served as a motivator to get me to take a look at my own clutter. As Tom and I are preparing for our big move out of the NYC, I am taking a more critical look at my own (in)famous hoarding tendencies and trying to purge our apartment of detritus here and there so that we aren’t overwhelmed in a few months. The last thing we need is to be forced to move a pile of unnecessary junk across the country.
Duane Reade shopping bags have been filled with books that I am slowly admitting to myself that I will never get around to reading and so will soon stick the shelves of the Strand. (So long, Anna Karenina.) Trash bags full of clothes have been lugged to the local charity store. (Bye-bye vintage shirts from my high school Goodwill scavenging days.) Progress is being made, slowly but surely. It has been surprisingly easy to let go of stuff, which is nothing short of a miracle and a testament to my excitement surrounding the imminent move.
I have a predilection for park vinyl.
I see a lot of negotiation in the next couple of months as I try to whittle almost ten years of acquirements down to a manageable haul. Mostly, it will be the media that will be a bit of a challenge. I have hundreds of CDs, DVDs and books that I need to devise a plan for. In this digital age, the CDs should be a snap, right? Just rip them onto my computer, store them in the cloud and rid myself of the bulky discs. Unfortunately, I am an old fogey who, after losing my hard drive many times over the years, is leery of abandoning the piece of plastic where the information is tangibly stored. I am also a dork who enjoys having such things as artwork and liner notes.
The DVDs and books, however, can’t all be stored on a machine. I am a bit crushed under the weight of the fact that I will quite possibly not get around to reading every word and watching every frame, but I am a man who needs options. One day I might turn around and realize that I want nothing more than to watch that American Gladiators DVD or read that important gay novel from the seventies. I don’t know if I can deal with the regret knowing that I had them and got rid of them, especially when I got most of them used and dirt cheap while braving the labyrinthine jungles of used book and/or DVD and/or CD stores. Bargain shopping for this stuff is the closest I’ll ever get to participation in a sport and I could be a major league player.
Florence and Adele watch over
my Disney CDs.
Possibly above all else, I like the aesthetic value of spines lined up on a shelf. When you are invited to someone’s place for the first time, what is one of the first things you inevitably do? You take a glance at someone’s collections to glean information. It allows you to bond over your shared love of obscure cast albums, connect over your hilariously curated coffee table books, and strike up a conversation about your extensive selection of amazing TV shows on disc. And it gives me great joy to be able to say, “Yes! Of course you can borrow my copy of Hey Dude! I’m so glad that you love it too! Did you know season two is finally coming out soon?” It’s a way to instantly suss out what you have in common with someone else.
The problem in New York City has, of course, become a matter of space. I don’t have space for enough shelves to make everything I have easily accessible. My CDs used to have some semblance of alphabetization going on, but once their dedicated spaced was filled, they started to stack on the floor in an out-of-the-way corner. DVD genres are somewhat separated, with children’s movies and anything made before 1980 in an Ikea cabinet near the bathroom door and Christmas movies and music in the couch (which has storage space under the seats). The catch 22 is that though we will have more space wherever we move, getting all of this stuff there will be a trial. So downsizing is inevitable, with one very notable exception. Can you guess what is non-negotiable? That’s right. My Disney stuff.
Top two shelves are Disney.
Yeah. They're three deep.
As I have mentioned before, I am a little bit late to the Disney enthusiast game. Most of my accumulated Disneyana has been hunted and gathered over the course of the last two to three years. I have shelves dedicated to my Disney books, a few to my Disney DVDs and Blu-rays (with the fifty animated classics separated and in chronological order waiting patiently for my DATE Nights with them), and a space reserved for my Disney CDs. My small collection of Disney vinyl decorates a wall while other souvenirs, such as lanyards stocked with pins, selected plush and very, very selected Vinylmation dot the apartment here and there. I have been a very busy beaver.
It’s been both an exercise in frustration and exhilarating beyond belief to build my Disney collection. There are elusive items that have become hard to find at anywhere near a reasonable price, like the Dr. Syn Walt Disney Treasures DVD or Disneyland: The Nickel Tour. As much as I want to get my mitts on them, I cannot justify plunking down hundreds of dollars for the bragging rights of calling them mine. It’s all balanced, however, by the amazing feeling I get when I finally find a coveted piece, make that winning bid or click buy, see it beckoning to me from my doorstep after delivery. It’s an undeniable high when I rip through the packaging, revealing the Polly soundtrack or The Colors of Mary Blair Japanese exhibition book.
Animated classics on top, Walt Disney Treasures on
the bottom, Bullwhip Griffin on the telly.
Blu-rays out of frame.
Even the less momentous buys are always fun. Few things give me as much pleasure as flipping through a Disney Park souvenir book that I found for a dollar plus shipping on Amazon, laughing at the out-of-date clothing on display, dreaming about my next trip, and discovering the changes, both subtle and substantial, that are a part of the DNA of the ever-changing parks. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I won it for a buck on eBay, I would have never been privy to the soothing twang of Rex Allen’s Yellowstone Cubs narration. And I certainly would have never invested in music from Selena Gomez or Miley Cyrus has it not been relegated to dollar bin at my favorite NYC used media joint (Book Off in midtown).
Our lanyards and pins.
As we take stock of what is making the journey from the Northeast with us, it is not even up for discussion whether my Disney stuff is coming along. Tom has contributed a few items to it himself, like our Art of Mulan book and what may be my favorite piece- a stretching portrait from the Haunted Mansion, an attraction that holds a very special place in our hearts. When he moved east from California, he left everything he couldn’t fit into a couple of suitcases behind. After giving away the majority of his possessions, I think he’s kind of excited to get some of them back through me. Not only does he know it wouldn’t be wise to try to get me to let go of the Disney, he wants to keep it within his own reach as well.
So why, you ask, will we be taking our own personal Disney mountain along with us? First and foremost, Disney makes us both blissfully happy. I found Tom soon after my interest in Disney took off. From our first date, one of the things we most connected over was our mutual love of all things created in the House of Mouse. He has seen me through the creation of this blog, which has become an important outlet for me. From our trips to the parks, to watching the films, to our times bantering in Kathryn Beaumont or Hayley Mills voices, Disney has been one of the constant threads in the tapestry of our shared life. It doesn’t define us, to be sure, but it’s a slice of our experience together that is precious to us.
The stretching room portrait
above Tom's keyboard.
This move is going to be huge for me. It will be the first time I have moved in almost nine years, when I moved to New York City from Tallahassee. Over that near decade I have (arguably) grown into an adult. Along with adulthood has come a bevy of things that have been heaped onto the two suitcases I arrived here with. For a long time these objects gave me a sense of consistency. They made me feel like I had laid claim to a space of my own where I belonged. Now that I’m married to the most amazing man in the world, anywhere that I go I know that I will feel loved unconditionally. As Barbra might say, “Any place I hang my hat is home.” As long as Tom is there, that is. I don’t need a plethora of possessions when what is essential will always be by my side. So as we look forward to a new beginning, we shed what weighs us down, keep close the things that bring us joy, and start our own mutual collection- of memories, experiences and things alike. No doubt, more than a few will involve Disney in some way or other. Let the memories begin.
Picture it. Sicily. Er...uh...sorry. New York City. 2003. A young man fresh out of theatre school comes to the city to "make it". He had been performing since he was 5 years old. (Suck it, all you other kindergarteners who wanted the only speaking role in Peter Rabbit! You should have learned how to read sooner!) He had stars in his eyes and bells on his toes, ready to conquer the glittering grey slab of a city he landed in that fateful summer. Fast forward eight years and he's living a low-rent version of The Devil Wears Prada with a language barrier (since he doesn't speak simian) and scant prospects for getting ahead. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing since he would rather chew tin foil than parlay his current job into a career. What happened? How did he get from there to here? What comes next? And what in the world does it all have to do with Disney? Keep your wits about you, kiddos. We'll try to get it all straightened out.
This doesn't look unlike
me at 10. But i was fatter.
So, that young man was me. Anthony. No kidding! I just felt like I had to clarify on the off chance that it was still hazy for anyone. Allegedly, I was an actor once. Looking back now, I see a few Disney connections throughout my illustrious educational and community theatre career. I was off to an auspicious start, getting the lead in Chicken Little in first grade (we're talking the late eighties here, so far before Disney's feature, but long after the short) and every other show up until fourth grade, when I lost the title role in Johnny Appleseed to one of my best friends, Jason. Why?!? Was I no longer talented? Was it the pudge that was magically beginning to appear where none before had been? Was it because Jason was a blonde? I was perplexed. Ultimately, it drove an immovable wedge between us. Our friendship was never quite the same, but that's showbiz, kids.
Me on the right. Impressive costume, no?
Around the same time I also failed to land any of the prime rolls in a production of Through the Looking Glass, an adaptation of the Lewis Carroll book that CAST (Center for the Arts- School of Theater), my home away from home / the youth theater I belonged to, was mounting. When the cast list was posted, I scanned the page, looking for my name and found it following "Daisy #2....." I was crushed. No amount of TLC from Mama could placate me. I cried like I had just been told that I'd lost the lead in a show on the Broadway. Finally, Mama called Peggy, the woman who ran the theater and one of my heroes, and asked her if she could talk me down from my abnormally-dramatic-for-a-pre-pubescent ledge. After five minutes, Peggy made me believe that Daisy #2 was the most important character in the story and I was the most committed Daisy #2 ever. I learned the old, and valuable, "no small parts, only small actors" adage during that production. It has served me well. Thanks, Peggy!
Sing yo face off in that dramatic lighting, gurl!
I continued performing all through lower and middle school. The arts are where I found my solace. If I didn't have drama and music, I don't know what would have become of me. (Side note: The arts in schools are important, y'all. They save lives.) I performed "Candle on the Water" with two friends for a competition where we were required to conjure a scenario to introduce the song. We figured that dragons and lighthouses and the rest of Passamaquoddy would be a bit too much for the straight-laced music judges and so we decided to portray three orphans- two of whom were being adopted, leaving the third behind. Cue the emotive ballad. Even at twelve, I was working on perfecting my Helen Reddy.
High school came and I decided that I wanted to pursue acting as a career, much to Mama's chagrin. She wanted me to be an optometrist. Whoops. The closest that I came to Disney during my high school years was playing Seymour in Little Shop of Horrors the summer before my senior year. It's the show that Alan Menken and Howard Ashman wrote before they caught Disney's attention and it's one of my faves. Seymour was one of my bucket list roles. I also fell head over heels in love with the girl playing Audrey, which made me re-question my sexuality two years after I cracked the closet door. Awkward, huh? (Update: I'm still gay.)
When college hit, all things Disney were moved to the back burner as I became a "serious" actor who did "serious" work by Kushner and Sondheim and Euripides, etc. Though there was a lot of child-like joy surrounding those years in my life, it was sadly devoid of the mouse. After graduation, I moved to New York City and soon thereafter landed my first professional gig in a children's theatre tour. I played Peter, the oldest brother, and an evil gnome in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. It was me (the gay boy), two straight guys, a lesbian and a thirty-year old virgin Mennonite (who was the most well-adjusted of us all) traveling with our stage manager, luggage, set and costumes in a van built to seat five.
Yup. That's me on the left.
We performed our show across the eastern half of the country from Florida to Flint, Michigan, with a stint in Amish country. I will never forget the chubby Amish boy in traditional garb and a bowl cut hiding under his teacher's arm because the witch terrified him so much. I guess that's what happens when you don't have a TV. But they are allowed the fanciest, pink, maribou-feather-topped, scented pens, apparently, because that's what the little girls handed us to sign autographs with after the show. The whole tour was fascinating, but three months packed like sardines in a maroon van is enough to drive anyone batty.
And that, my dear folks, is my last professional gig in NYC. It got me my Equity card and since then it has been a popcorn garland of rejection. That was over five years ago and since then I've done one small concert and traveled back home to play one of my other bucket list roles (Leo Frank in Parade) at one of my hometown theaters. At this point I've realized that I'm not cut out for the business part of show business. I love theatre for the sense of joy, discovery and community that comes when you put a group of creative people in a room together, give them words to bring to life, and let them discover. Increasingly the scene here feels like I'm back in middle school lunch room and not being allowed to sit at the cool kid's table when that feeling is exactly what I got into the theatre to avoid.
In my last role as Leo Frank in Parade. I love this shot.
I also did some writing here and there. I wrote a play that I'm very proud of, but can't quite wrap my brain about getting it produced. I don't know the right people. I didn't go to the right school. So I watch an abundance of mediocre theatre happen around me and it makes me feel hopeless. I miss the spark that used to happen when I was surrounded by people who weren't being strangled by their need for success. As y'all know by now, Tom and I are planning our exit from New York soon. There is nothing that excites me more than becoming a part of a smaller, more close knit theatrical community again.
All of this came up the other day because I remembered a monologue that I had written a few years back when I took a playwriting course. On the first day, after we walked in and sat down, the instructor asked us to write a monologue. I launched into one about a young man who had a love of Disney but was scared to take his boyfriend with him to the Magic Kingdom. I decided to share it with y'all. Please feel free to use it for your next big audition or Acting I class.
*****
We all know deep down that it's rather deceptive, really. The whole concept of "The Happiest Place on Earth". The bright colors and parades. The smiles and laughter. The music flowing out of everywhere from the roofs and lampposts to the bushes piping in The Music Man on a loop. The complete lack of trash anywhere. I mean, how does that even happen? Is there a trash fairy brigade with latex gloves and work boots under their tutus flitting around collecting discarded Mickey wrappers and Mickey cups and Mickey bags? An endless volume of Mickey waste.
Yet, we adore it. I know at least I do. Every square inch of manufactured joy. It makes me feel completely happy. That same wonderful, safe sense of happy that I used to feel when I was a pudgy ten-year-old sitting too close to the TV immersed in a worn-out VHS tape of The Parent Trap or Beauty and the Beast. Or Freaky Friday. The first one without crack-headed Lindsay Lohan. Or The Little Mermaid. God! I wanted long, red hair and fishtail so bad! Or at least the doll, which mom and dad were loathe to buy me but did anyway. After my endless pleading.
So I can understand why you would think coming with me to Disney would be fantastic. It's completely logical. But I'm telling you- Disney park plus boyfriend plus me equals inevitable doom. And that makes me sad. I'll never have the Disney wedding of my dreams. Or Disney commitment ceremony of my dreams. Whichever. Because my relationships are vulnerable to a curse. Each one I've had that included a blissful, carefree Disney excursion has ended tragically. Tragically. We're talking about what it takes weeks of nothing but Dunkin' Donuts and Gilmore Girls marathons to recover from.
I can't do that with you. Firstly, I've been feeling chunky as of late and can't afford the binge. And secondly, because I think I might love you and I want you to stick around for a while. So, just give me a week in Florida and then I'll come home and we'll watch Aladdin together. I'll even bring you back one of those collectible pins. Just be here when I get back, OK? Let's try to give this one a happily ever after.
*****
It is completely autobiographical. I had horrible luck with taking men to Disney. We would have an amazing time and then soon after our return, the whole thing would go to pot. Luckily, that streak of luck was broken with my husband, Tom. We share a love of Disney and have been to Disneyland twice and Walt Disney World once. We even got engaged in the Haunted Mansion. Strangely enough, we are also both actors who have learned to appreciate an actor's life outside of the pressures of making it our living. Either central Florida or southern California is about to get two more performer/writers who got fed up with this cold city of concrete and ambition and are ready to make some art!
My next role? Here's hopin'!
Of course, one day I would love to marry these two passions. I would love to write or perform for Disney some day. Nothing would make me happier than being a writer in the Imagineering department or playing Marlin in Finding Nemo the Musical at Animal Kingdom (which happens to be one of the best musicals playing anywhere these days, including Broadway, where one of the other best musicals, Book of Mormon, was also written by Nemo's Robert Lopez). Who knows? Maybe one of these dreams can still come true someday. One never knows, does one? For now, I will be happy just taking a step closer to the things that bring a sense of joy and fulfillment to my life because those are the things that are important to keep close.
We fudged the date just a bit, but it made us
so happy to get all the congrats in the parks!
The last weekend in June was the Gay Pride celebration in NYC. I admit that I haven't been to the parade in a few years. It was amazing in 2003 when I first arrived in the city to see the thousands of gays and lesbians gathered every year, but now, almost ten years later, things feel different. I look less to a culture or community to form my identity and more to my family- the one I was born into and the one I have chosen. I don't drink or go out as much as I used to. I get panicky when I'm in large crowds. I am becoming an old fuddy duddy who likes to spend quiet nights at home and now I am also engaged to another semi-recluse who would rather spend quality time on the couch than in up in da club.
Thank you, Governor Cuomo.
This year's Pride celebration was different. There was something to be proud of. Usually the parade feels like a daisy chain of advertisements barely broken up by things that matter. It all seemed little more than an excuse to get drunk, take your shirt off, and flirt with strangers. But two days before the Sunday parade, on Friday, June 24th, 2011, the great state of New York passed marriage equality, meaning the proposal I made to my fiance in the stretching room of the Haunted Mansion no longer has to be in legal quotation marks.
That fact made all the difference. There was a sense of joy and relief. All of the signs that used to say "Together for __ years. Let us get married!" changed to "Together for __ years and finally engaged!" It was a pretty spectacular sight and it made me proud to be an American, a New Yorker, and a gay man. It felt good to be part of a hopeful community on that day. After a nice afternoon at the parade with a friend and a lovely evening at an outdoor restaurant with three margaritas and Tom, I went home and watched True Blood while Tom played L.A. Noire. I went to bed thinking about how lucky I am.
Dream wedding, please and thank you...
Now, here I am three months later and the big day has arrived. Tom and I are getting married today! If you were to ask me what my dream wedding would be, I would have a few major musts. No bridezilla would I be. The biggest of them all is that that it would be on Disney property. Tom and I have some of our most special memories in the parks. We are both huge Disney freaks and nothing would make me happier than to proclaim my love for him in front of friends and family in that setting. (Another must would be that the ceremony involve a gospel choir singing the title song from the musical version of The Color Purple, but that's not terribly relevant to this blog.)
...and dream reception thank you and please.
This may be my favorite room in the parks.
I also must say that I feel like my time in NYC is winding down. It's been over eight years and I am tired of being trapped in a tin can every morning, forced to be butt-up against people who smell strongly of pot and/or feet and/or body excretions and then repeating that scenario eight hours later. I'm tired of treading water, working in a job that not only brings me no joy, but sucks half of the joy from the rest of my life outside work. I'm tired of the persistently aspirational pulse of the city that either drives you to greater things or drives you insane. I'm sure you can guess which of those categories I fall into. I'm tired of the freezing cold winters and the stiflingly hot summers. Overall, I'm just tired. This city will run you ragged and I'm ready to move on. Of course, this means that Tom and I will be moving either to southern California, where he has friends and family, or to Florida, where I do. It is no small coincidence that both are close to Disney parks. I envision a lovely little life for myself working for the Mouse, or at least having a annual pass, and enjoying time with my husband and the family that we will no doubt start.
That's far too much white for my liking.
Here's where we get into a bit of a sticky wicket. Tom and I will be legally married in the state of New York. When we move, we will be legally married, but that marriage will not be recognized in Florida (and only heaven knows when that will happen with the backwards state government there) and, after a long googling session, I am still rather unclear as to whether it will be recognized in California after all that shameful Prop 8 nonsense. As far as the Federal Government, we will not be legally married in the eyes of the US as a whole. You get all that? Make sense to you? Because if you ask me, it's a big ole' clusterbump. Not to get all political with you folks, but all I want to do is be given the same rights as practically any straight couple is afforded, and all too often takes for granted, in any state, automatically.
Disneyland Paris may have my favorite
castle. Stunning. Just stunning.
In the grand scheme of things, not too much will change in our lives as we wait for full marriage equality wherever we move to. Sure, the taxes will be a headache and we'll get screwed out of the breaks that we should be getting. Sure, we will have to grapple with scary issues such as hospital visitation and wills. Sure, adoption will have an additional hurdle to jump over if that's the route to parenthood we choose. Sure, we will have to forgo a dream wedding and honeymoon and have a quickie ceremony at City Hall in NYC, followed by a re-commitment ceremony at one of the parks and a honeymoon (cruise on the Disney Fantasy or a trip to Disneyland Paris, pretty pretty please!) sometime in the future.
Overall, our relationship will be just as strong, our love will be just as powerful, our nights will be just as couch-and-television filled, and our days will be just as normal as they always have been. We are a typical, slightly dorky (maybe more than slightly), happy, loving couple. It burns my hide that we have to jump through all of these hoops and play a waiting game because of who we love, but I am patient. I waited thirty years to find the man of my dreams. I can wait a few more for our love to be justly recognized by the government that I pay taxes to, that is supposed to protect me, and that I trust will do what's right by its citizens in the end.
Underappreciated Disney wedding.
Simple but elegant.
I couldn't help but wonder (thank you Carrie Bradshaw), how deeply has Disney shaped my idea of happily ever after on the most basic level? There has long been a complaint about relationships in Disney movies setting an impossibly high bar for those in real life. We all know that very seldom does Prince Charming really swoop in to save the maiden fair. Things are rarely that simple. In real life, the unexpected happens. There are complications. We are humans, not cartoons. I have always understood that. My relationships have never easily fit into the boy/girl template that was reflected onscreen, so my loins were girded for the existence of variation. As a gay person, you learn to project your own reality onto the story in celluloid. It's necessary for survival since the two often do not align.
This is always the pin at the center
bottom of my lanyard.
I have come to terms with the fact that my life will not necessarily fit into the Disney fairy tale mold. Part of the fun of this blog, and my Disney geekdom in general, has been really digging for the coded ways that Disney speaks to a gay audience. By finding them, and finding others who have found them, you become part of a subsection of a subsection. You, hopefully, find a community. (Do we have a name yet? If not can we call ourselves the Mousekequeers?) Disney films give me something that I can attempt to attain and subvert concurrently. They remind me of the innocence of childhood. They are over the top, colorful, steeped in mythology and history, emotionally rich, and a hundred other things that speak to my cultural experience. Some gays have Madonna. I have Tiana. Some gays have club-hopping. I have park-hopping. Some gays have Tom Ford. I have Tom Morrow. (You know you're a severe Disney nerd if you get that last one.) I love everything that Disney has encouraged me to explore about my own life lately and I hope that the discoveries are just beginning.
You know that the Girls would
totally support marriage equality!
My story won't end with a lovely ceremony in the shadow of a beautiful castle. (Yet.) But I'm not a character in a Disney animated classic. (Yet.) For now, my happily ever after will begin in downtown New York City, in City Hall, marrying my own Prince Charming while surrounded by a few of the people that I love most. As for after that, who knows? There are so many places that this new journey might take me, and at this point in my life I am excited about any and/or all of them. Plus, I am glad to have a new crop of folks to share it with. Thank you for being a friend. Travelled down the road and...sorry. Just had a sudden Golden Girls moment.
Please ignore the Hannah Montana pin.
I have no good explanation.
Above everything else, I want to take a second to give a huge thank you to Tom, who has really championed this blog. I couldn't have done it without his support and love through the self-imposed deadlines, the constant soul-searching, the hours of Disney-watching and -going, and the rollercoaster ride of emotions that I can be. Today you will make me the happiest guy in the (Magic) Kingdom. I love you.
I'll be walking along in NYC and this
cuts through the concrete like sunlight
through the clouds. I love it.
I cannot tell you how glad I am that I didn't blog about The Help last Friday like I had originally intended to. What a difference a week can make. I finished re-reading the book at the end of last week (still amazeballs), went back to see the movie again on Saturday, did a lot of thinking and a lot of discussing and my blog entry now has taken a huge shift from what it would have been. I was completely prepared to spend this entry focusing on the controversy that has surrounded the release. I realize now that that would just be counterproductive. And I am not fan of hollering into a bottomless well, fighting to convince someone of something when they don't want to be convinced, and so I won't.
What I will say after revisiting both the book and the film is that they are both works of fiction and should be taken as such. When you start demanding that authors and filmmakers bend their stories so that they are completely historically accurate, you will have a twisted knot of soulless historical fiction tied by committee. And no one wants to read that. Art is born of the artist's imagination. It is sometimes influenced by history in order to confront and explore the past, not so that it can revise the past. That kind of revision was never anybody's intention.
I have to equate the knee-jerk reaction to my own experience with Brokeback Mountain. As a gay man, I had a choice. I could cock my eyebrow at people's intentions, wag my finger about how the last thing we need are more tragic gay characters, even if they are brilliantly portrayed and question how accurate it is to the story of real gay men in that time and place, whose stories have been mostly unexplored, never recorded and/or lost. Or I could choose to appreciate the fact that a stellar team of artists, all of whom, from actors to director to screenwriters and author, were (as far as I know) straight, had come together to passionately tell a story that they felt was important about human experience that both transcended and honored what makes us different.
I can nitpick about the movie, but by and large I thought it was wonderful and I'm grateful that it got people talking and maybe looking at their own lives and the lives of others in a different light. I know what it's like to be starved for representation in the media. It's so important to see a face like yours on TV, in movies, music or literature. You are overcome with joy when they get it right and devastated when they get it wrong because heaven only knows when the next opportunity will come along.
The British book cover. More
evocative than three birds, huh?
If The Help is not the story you want told, then create your own story, tell it wonderfully and make it heard! I want to hear and see and read it! This is an opportunity to engage and I hope that people take advantage of that. If there are people who refuse to see the movie or read the book, that is their choice and I respect that, but they have no right to judge. I never fail to vote because I feel like if I don't, I have no right to celebrate or lambast the outcome. If there are people who have seen or read it, and, rather than engaging in a dialogue about it, dismiss it, they are simply getting in their own way.
A lot of the things that I feel about the controversy are very succinctly stated in an article by Owen Gleiberman from Entertainment Weekly. It gives counterpoint to a lot of the issues that have been brought up regarding the movie and book. Take a moment to read it for a very well thought out and level-headed piece that is far less mired down in the reactionary emotions than the monologue that I would have unleashed upon your poor ears. I'm grateful to him for articulating a lot of what I feel so articulately. Kudos, Owen.
So, after my my first experience with The Help, I was underwhelmed. Immediately after, Tom and I talked at length about its imperfections and how it could have been improved. I now know that this was brought on by a combination of months and months of anticipation, high expectations for an adaptation of one of my favorite books, the fact that I was watching a two-and-a-half hour long movie at midnight after a long day, and a bad experience in a theater where someone was snoring as loud as humanly possible through the majority of the film.
They got the poster right this time!
I'm not going to lie and say that the movie is perfect. It's not. I will say that we were way harsh, Tai, at 3am after that first viewing and it wasn't really the movie's fault, especially in light of the fact that when I revisited it, I adored it. To be honest, the things that we complained about are not even worth mentioning even if they are valid. I lamented things that were inevitably cut from the story. We discussed how it took a bit of time for the film to find its footing at the beginning. And stuff like that there.
When it comes right down to it, what matters is that the movie is emotional, probing, uplifting, funny, and beautifully crafted. Ultimately, it does justice to the book it's based on and the lives that inspired it. I was not a huge fan of director/screenwriter Tate Taylor's first movie, Pretty Ugly People, but had faith that he was at the helm for a reason. He grew up best friends with the author of the book, Kathryn Stockett, in Jackson, Mississippi, which gave him a solid understanding both of her storytelling voice and the time and place.
Taylor made the film look and feel authentically Southern, managed to admirably adapt the book to the screen without destroying it, and actually added things (powerful scenes between Skeeter and her mother, a strong final moment for Hilly and Aibileen) that strengthened it as a film. He was able to successfully guide us through a powerful emotional experience. It's nothing less than a miracle that he made it all work. Both times I saw the movie, during the final shot, which is purely brilliant, and Mary J. Blige's fantastic song "The Living Proof," I was crying so hard that I couldn't catch my breath. That's effective filmmaking.
Above everything else, he cast the hell out of this movie. There is not a weak link in the performances. Viola Davis had better have an Oscar on her mantle this year for her damn near perfect acting as Aibileen. Octavia Spencer, whose personality actually inspired the character of Minnie in the book, breaks out in a big way. Emma Stone, who strangely enough has still not responded to my marriage proposal, gives an unexpected performance as Skeeter that anchors the film deeply and is wonderfully different from any of her other work. Jessica Chastain, playing Celia, was luminescent and was the real discovery for me since I had never seen her in anything before. Work by Allison Janney, Bryce Dallas Howard, Cicely Tyson and Sissy Spacek and the rest of the mostly female ensemble is also fantastic.
I get misty just thinking about this scene.
For me, The Help is a continuation of the series of great, emotionally powerful, female driven, Southern films that includes Steel Magnolias and Friend Green Tomatoes. (By the way, Thomas Newman wrote the scores to both Fried Green Tomatoes and The Help. Steel Magnolias is by Georges Delerue. All three are knockouts.) Young Southern gay boys are going to be as passionate about this film, quoting it line for line, as I was about those two in my younger days. It connects Southern gays to our home, it connects us to our past, and it celebrates the powerful women who make us proud of our heritage.
I think the biggest testament to the power of the film is that I immediately wanted to talk to Mama about it. She was a child living in Tallahassee, Florida in 1963 when the movie is set. (Yes, kids. North Florida is the South.) The night that she saw it, Tom and I got home and immediately facetimed her. We talked for an hour about how the movie reflected her experiences growing up. I learned so much that I had never thought to ask about her past and what it was like to live in the South during the sixties. I realized that the movie had already done something important by encouraging me to explore the stories of those that are close to me and how they have shaped my values. It got me to confront what was ugly and learn from it. It got me to look at what wasn't ugly and celebrate it. My hope is that's what is happening to everyone who sees it.
We would have the cutest babies, right? I said, right?!?
That night, for the first time in forever, I talked to Mama about Icee May, who my family used to visit when I was a kid during our trips back to Dad's hometown of Eufala, Alabama in the eighties and nineties. Dad came from a poor Southern family, and doesn't have a racist bone in his body. He is very typically Southern in many, many ways, from the accent to the predilection for meat that comes in a can, but he never judges anyone based on the color of their skin. I think that this is why the character of Celia Foote intrigues me so much. I know that rampant racism and classism often made for unlikely Southern harmonies. Dad and our family's friendship with Icee May was a testament to that.
Icee May was an older black woman who lived across the tracks from where Grandma Muffin lived. In many Southern towns, though they are desegregated, races are often still somewhat separated. Mama told me that the first time Dad took her home to meet the family, they drove out to Icee May's. Dad introduced Mama, saying "Icee May, this is the girl I'm gonna marry." Icee May took a brief look at her, threw her arms wide and wrapped Mama in a tight hug, laughing and lovingly saying "Look at you! You're so fat!" Mama said that's the moment she knew she loved Icee May.
Her eyes alone should get an Academy Award for acting.
Going to Eufala as a child was always a bit strange. I always felt a bit out of place there, as any gay boy in the deep South is bound to, but visiting Icee May was always a highlight of our trips. She was always so excited to see us, squealing and hugging us close to her. What's sad is that, since I have a memory like a sieve, many details are gone for me. When I think of Icee May, I think of warmth and happiness. I can vaguely hear her voice and feel the cadence of her humor. But beyond that, I don't have a strong recollection of the specifics of our visits.
Mama told me that Icee May's experience was different because she had owned a store. My mind exploded. I wanted to know her story. There was so much that I didn't know. As a child, you don't think to ask about these stories. You just live in the moment of being in someone's presence. When you grow up, things like questioning your past often become buried under other priorities. That is what moved Kathryn Stockett to write The Help in the first place. A desire for understanding and connection. I hope that these feelings that the book and movie have stirred in me keep making themselves known, pushing me on to work towards the same.
Remember the moment when they first walk into the church?
So good! This all makes me wanna go see it a third time!
I cannot wait to talk to Dad and flesh out this piece of my past. And I want to keep talking and find out more. With both Mama and Dad. Their lives are literally a part of me. Their blood is my blood. Their history is mine. And the importance of excavating the stories of the past should never be underestimated. We should all dig around in our history more often and see what new journeys it can take us on. I encourage you to see The Help. Be ready to laugh 'til your sides hurt, cry 'til your shirt's soaked, and think about why you've been moved so much. Above all, be prepared to talk. What we all need is more exploration. More conversation. Not less.
Officially one of my top 5 books ever.
Just before Icee May died, Mama paid her a call. Icee May gave her two batches of quilt tops, one for me and one for my sister. Until I talked to Mama last week, I had no recollection she had made those for us and so when I was told, I could feel a lump in my throat and my eyes get teary. Now, I know what you're thinking. Do the world really need another quilt metaphor? And I say tough nuggets. That's what happens when you read a blog written by a Southern gay guy. There will inevitably be a quilt that takes on an elevated meaning. Sorry bout it.
Here I was, years after she made them, rediscovering these quilt tops because of a movie. I cannot wait to have them in my hands. Each one of those patches will come with an unknown history all their own. I will never have the opportunity to ask Icee May what their stories are, but I can do right by her and have them put together, as they were intended to be, to create a whole. And when I run my fingers over those soft patches, I know that my mind will drift to her, glad that she left them to me, to complete on my own, to remember her by, imagining what each one would say if it could talk to me. What stories would it share? And I am thankful to The Help for reminding me to look into my own life, gather up the patches of my history and get them sewn together.
I'm about to lay some heavy poetry on you. It's very deep. Take a deep breath and dive in when you feel like your mind and heart are open. Here we go...
it's a world of laughter, a world of tears
it’s a world of hopes, and a world of fears
there’s so much that we share
that it’s time we're aware
it’s a small world after all
it’s a small world after all
it’s a small world after all
it’s a small world after all
it’s a small, small world
there is just one moon and one golden sun
and a smile means friendship to everyone
though the mountains divide
and the oceans are wide
it's a small, small world
I hope you don't think I was joking. I'm completely serious. If, when you realized that it was the lyrics to "it's a small world", you skimmed through them and skipped to here, then I want you to stop, go back, and actually read the words with care as if you had never read them before. Go ahead. I'll wait.
Note to self and Tom: Baby's room will
be done in Mary Blair style.
What did you think? Didn't expect that, huh? The simplicity of those words makes it very easy to overlook how profound they actually are.
I, for one, am pretty much tired of how much ridicule this ride gets. I know, I know. I get it. The song is repetitive and gets stuck in your head. It's unwaveringly cheerful. It's uncomplicated. It aims low by being simple enough for children to grasp easily and bright enough to keep their attention. It uses what some consider to be stereotypes to convey cultural differences quickly in a visual way.
I've spent a good chunk of time hearing horror stories of being trapped on the ride and tortured by the music, seeing it parodied, sometimes in clever ways, such as in Shrek and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and sometimes in very mean-spirited ways, and reading a lot of pretentious academics who think that the ride is racist, insensitive and outrageous. And I'm over it. I want to make a case for this much maligned attraction and share why it is one of my absolute favorites.
First and foremost we need to discuss the look of the ride. It's style can be attributed to Mary Blair, who is my favorite Disney artist. I could devote an entire blog to my all-consuming love for her art. She worked on several Disney films- the major three being Peter Pan, Cinderella, and Alice in Wonderland- making art designed to give inspiration to the animators who would do the actual designs. She brought a sense of adventure with her touches of expressionism, whimsy with her use of color and joy with her artistry. Here are a few of my favorite Mary Blair inspirational art pieces.
Mary Blair's art is what my wildest imagination could look like on it's awesomest day. There is an exhibit in the Disney Gallery in Disneyland this summer devoted to Mary's work. Tom and I will be visiting in September before it closes. I'm already piddling in my shorts just thinking about the prospect of being surrounded by rooms full of her art.
After she amicably left the Disney studio, Mary did a lot of children's book illustrating and ad work. When Walt was given the opportunity to create "it's a small world" for UNICEF at the World's Fair in New York in 1964, he thought of Mary and her artistic style. She had come to be known for her very distinct style of depicting children.
Walt felt that Mary would be the perfect artist to give a visual style to the project and he was right. Along with Imagineers including Rolly Crump, Marc Davis and Alice Davis, she created one of the most memorable theme park attractions in the world.
As an example of its impact, just think of that end scene, where everything is in white. It is pure magic. We've been so saturated with color over the course of our trip that the sudden shift in the color palette is stunning. By keeping everything in the same shades of white, etc., the scene reinforces the unity of all the children just through the use of color, which I mentioned Mary was fantastic with. Though they are each different, they literally wear their similarities on their sleeves as a visual representation of a deeper truth. And white is the perfect choice. It is the color of promise yet to be fulfilled. Mary took the final scene and made the children of the world a blank canvas waiting to be painted on. That is the work of a brilliant artist.
She came back to do concept work and designs for the attraction and continued to lend her talents to Disney parks, including the amazing murals in the Contemporary in WDW with the famous five-legged goat.
Next time you're on the ride, a fun thing to do is to look for Mary Blair herself on the ride. In both Disneyland and Walt Disney World, a doll that looks like her was added to commemorate her singular contributions to "it's a small world". Try to spot her next time you ride. She looks like this:
Of course the attraction is simple. Of course it is bright and colorful. Of course it boils everything down to the essence. This ride is intended as a gift to the children of the world. As a child, all my mind thought about was how cool all of these other places must be and how much I wanted to learn more. To me, that is accomplishing the noble task that Walt set out to do.
Let us not forget that we are not exploring the world's socio-political interactions for a doctoral thesis. We are introducing young ones to a representation of other young ones all over the world so that they can see themselves in them. What kid doesn't have a ball pointing out different countries and cultures while in that boat and feeling so proud when they can identify them? At the same time, children are not pandered to. There is enough going on, enough details and surprises, that even now I find new things to charm me. I still have codfish mouth every time.
If the visual design engages you with other cultures, the much-maligned song unifies everything. Originally each country was going to sing its national anthem. When they realized how cacophonous that would end up, Walt brought the Sherman Brothers, who were working on Mary Poppins, in to write a song that could be used throughout. It gives all of the children one single voice, even when they are speaking a different language.
The song was originally written as a slower, wistful, even sad song. Look at those lyrics again. It's not as peppy as you assume from the cheerful arrangement. Along with the laughter, there are tears. Along with hope, there are fears. It's a plea for unity as much as it is a celebration of it. Through the simplest gesture, like a smile, we can reach across borders, real and imagined, and create a world like the one we are sailing through on the ride. A world of joyousness and togetherness.
I'm no fool. I am, however, an optimist. Right now, I live in a country where red states and blue states spar constantly through the representatives they have chosen. Where you can be considered a second class citizen because of who you love, the color of your skin, or the God that guides you. Where there doesn't seem to always be the hope and promise of a brighter tomorrow for the next generation. To me, "it's a small world" is kind of like the golden rule. Things really can be that simple. The golden rule teaches us to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Likewise, "it's a small world" teaches us that no matter how different someone may seem, they are human just like you, and they are deserving of kindness. That to me isn't trite. It's truth. A truth that we need to hear now more than ever. You can make the world that we live in a better place by keep wisdom like that in your back pocket.
It is time for the backlash to the backlash to begin and for it to be cool to love this ride again. I have no qualms about shouting from the rooftop how much I adore it. When I went to Disneyland for the first time with Tom last year and we got to the area of "it's a small world", I actually wept. It was so beautiful and moving. Mary Blair's influence is all over the whole corner of the park, making it into a mini Mary Blair land. The ride's gorgeous facade and topiaries stood there, inviting me in for five of the loveliest minutes I've ever spent in my life. I sat in that boat, which has been sailing for 45 years, and watched the real children's faces light up as we travelled through a blissful world free of hate and cruelty. I held the hand of the man that I love, got swept up in the magic and gave the dream of a better world for my children permission to stay afloat.
