Disney Summer Movies 2011: Help Yourself

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.

Character Creepings

I need to start off this entry with a bit of an apology. I know that I have already told you guys that my two big summer movies are Winnie the Pooh and The Help. Just as I did With Winnie the Pooh, I had intended to blog my thoughts on The Help, which is co-produced by Disney owned Touchstone Pictures, today, right after its release date, which was Wednesday. A few factors are going to push that blog entry back to next Friday.

AMC mini marquee poster fail. We're actually here
to see The Help and not A Little Help, but nice try.

I did in fact go see The Help at 12.01am on August 10th- the day that it came out. I had been waiting for what seemed like years for this day to arrive and, after a bit of eyelash batting, Tom agreed to go with me at midnight rather than fight whatever opening crowds may emerge the next night. (Suck on that, getting eight hours of sleep! Who needs you?) The screening ended up not being the most conducive environment for fully engaging with the movie owing to a possibly homeless dude with a mullet and a tank top who plopped down in the front and center of the theater and proceeded to snore like a hibernating bear from five minutes into the movie until the end credits had almost finished. 

This guy was making noise like a thunderstorm. I half expected lightning bolts to shoot out of his seat. A lot of people in the audience were, understandably, cracking up, and everyone else was distracted. Only twice was there was a brief respite. Once when Tom got fed up and finally went down to the front, found the guy's seat and slammed his hand on the back of it to wake him up and again when I left the theater to find an employee to help. After wandering for five minutes in the middle of the movie and finding only one lady on the floor, who incidentally didn't speak a lick of English and just smiled and nodded at me, I finally tracked down two NYPD paid detail. They came in, shined their flashlight on the guy and woke him up. Both times Snoreface McGee was up to his old tricks within minutes. I was upset, but stuck around to get passes so that we can go back and see the film (hopefully) uninterrupted.

The second factor is that I am almost done reading the book a second time. I started a little while back hoping to finish before I saw the movie. That didn't quite work out, but I'm almost there and would like to have the re-read under my belt before I give a critique, because I loved the book so much that the comparison will inevitably figure heavily into my opinion.

I have grown to really adore this poster.
It's like a burst of sunshine.

The third and final reason for my delay is the controversy surrounding the film, which was there on a smaller scale surrounding the book's release, dealing with the depiction of the African-American characters. It came onto my radar because one of my favorite political pundits, Melissa Harris-Perry, who shows up often on my beloved Rachel Maddow Show, went on an all out Twitter tirade against The Help. She then appeared on The Lawrence O'Donnell Show to discuss her thoughts further. I started feeling ultra-protective of the book, the movie, and my right to appreciate them without feeling like a racist.

I know that the subject matter is extremely sensitive, but feeling like I am standing at the opposite end of the spectrum from someone I've always really respected ideologically got my brain churning something fierce. Even as I type, it is taking me everything that I've got not to just let go and spew all of my thoughts, but, with your kind permission, I would like to take a week to let things marinate, finish the book and see the movie one more time.

Without hesitation, I encourage you to go see the film and/or read the book for yourself. The movie is not perfect by any stretch but the performances are stellar across the board and well worth the price of a movie ticket. And yes, I know how expensive they are these days. After you see it, most importantly, keep the discussion flowing. Do not shut people down who feel differently about what is being portrayed or the artistic integrity of the whole endeavor. I think part of the real value of these works is their power to make you consider people and events in ways that you maybe hadn't done before. It did that for me and that is what powerful art can and should do. The Help has the power to create a dialogue. For heaven's sake, please take advantage of that opportunity. As you can imagine, I will have a lot to say next Friday.

Until then, I figured I would shine a light on a very odd New York City phenomenon. I like to call it character creeping, which is like a character greeting except it is completely removed from the context of the parks, wholly janky, and, well, totally creepy. It may very well happen elsewhere but I've never heard anyone talk about it. When I did a Google image search for "Disney costume character NYC" I came up completely empty-handed. I have been in NYC for eight years now, but it only been for about the past two or three that I've seen this practice proliferate. And it freaks me the heck out.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love a good character meet and greet in the park. I think it is a unique part of the Disney experience to meet your favorite characters from the screen in person and share a moment with them. It is a sad trip for me indeed if I have not at least found Stitch to throw a hang ten sign, do my Stitch voice (which is pretty impeccable, if I do say so myself), and snap a quick pic.

Me and my man. Oh, and Tom's there too. Love you, hon!

I do, however, feel like the whole character greeting affair has gotten a bit out of hand. I can't think of any character worth waiting hours in line just to meet, yet more often than not nowadays that is the status quo. Now they even have queues gussied up to make them feel like they are an attraction unto themselves. (Cough- Pixie Hollow- cough) Though it is kind of them to give you something to look at while you wait, it's still nothing but a fancy pants queue leading up to a brief photo op and maybe autograph, if that's what butters your toast. It's just my personal preference, but there are a booty load of things that I would rather spend my time doing. It's a lot of effort for a very little payoff, unless, of course, you have a little one in tow, which changes the game entirely. Ask me in a few more years, when I've got a nugget with me, and I'll probably feel a bit different.

Best Mary Poppins. Ever.

That being said, some of the most charming experiences I've had in the parks revolve around these greetings, but it's usually not when I've had to line up and wait for an hour and a half. It's hearing Tiana belting her face off with a jazz band while we're eating at the French Market. It's seeing an awesome Mary Poppins who is so in character walking across the hub that I can't approach her for fear of interrupting her business. Another Mary Poppins was in Epcot when Tom and I found her. She was completely in character, very funny, and lovely. When she walked away from the meet and greet she was discussing Bert with her parrot umbrella. We loved her.

I was with my mama and sister in the Magic Kingdom when we queued up to meet several of the princess. When it was my turn to pose with them, I crooked my arm out in a princely fashion, as boys are supposed to, while Kelly girlied it up. When it got to Aurora, Kelly posed and I came forward and Mama said "Pose like her!" Aurora gave Mama a knowing look and then gave me a lesson on how to properly bevel. It was priceless. The cast members work hard to make these moments special, no doubt, but I prefer to stumble over them rather than seek them out. It feels more special when it's an organic part of your day.

As much as I wish I did, I do not live in a Disney park. Lately, Mickey, Minnie and friends are showing up on my home turf. It's quite jarring. Toe-up fakey fakes have been popping up in the streets of New York. Often it's Disney characters, but Elmo is also a fixture. They are shoddily made, sloppy, and run down looking. Now, in this economy I don't begrudge anybody out there trying to make a buck, but these guys kind of irk me. They are completely unauthorized, dilute and sully the Disney brand, and, worst of all, they usually come with small sacks which they shove in your grill for tips if you so much as look at them sideways. They usually congregate near Radio City Music Hall and Times Square, around the way from the huge Toys'R'Us and Disney Store.

Taking a picture of them is a terrifying task on its own. If you don't do it stealthily and they catch you, they will full on come after you, waving their satchels to demand money. I also have caught so many of them walking down the subway stairs in the midst of removing their heads. Sometimes they congregate, headless and sweaty, to count their money in full view of the public. That, in a nutshell (beyond the skeeziness of them expecting money for the privilege of standing next to their sweaty, smelly, matted selves) is what really drives me nuts. Unlike Disney cast members, they have absolutely no respect for the magic.

When I was still running events for a major book chain, I organized an event for a book on Sesame Street. Sonya Manzano, who plays Maria, told a story about a kid who was on the set. They took a lot of care not to let the kids see Muppets laying around, looking lifeless. Once, a little child came us to Sonia, tugged on her pant leg and said, "Miss Maria..." He pointed across the studio at Big Bird, who was taking a brief break, thinking he was unseen, and only wearing the bottom half of the costume and continued, "Does Big Bird know that he has a man in him?" It's a cute story, but when you step back and think about it, how odd it must have been for that kid to unexpectedly find a crack like that in his reality. Sesame Workshop understands that children pay attention and tries to avoid these moments. Kids really notice these things and it affects them.

So I finally got brave and snapped some pictures of these Character Creepings for you. You're welcome.

Notice the human neck. Classy.

Did he steal Sue Sylvester's track pants?

Me hungry... want eat brains...

Minnie is not exempt from creeping.

To be fair, Disney had it's own fair share of vaguely creepy costumed characters. The costumes below seem to be from the opening day festivities which were borrowed from the Ice Capades to say hello to the first crowds through the gates. They obviously hadn't quite gotten a handle on the whole concept yet. 

As scary as Mickey and Minnie may be, it's the bunny
that makes me want my mommy there to protect me.

So what do you think of the character creeping phenomenon? Should someone step in and put the kibosh on them? Should they be allowed to soldier on and make it rain any way they can? Do they tarnish the Disney shine or help to bring the characters to the world?

My plan is to put on my big boy underoos and start snapping pictures of these character creepings when I run across them from here on out and tweet them out to my followers, so now you have even more reason to follow me on Twitter @movedbythemouse. If you are in NYC and are able to catch one in action, please tweet and tag me. Or if you run across one of these anywhere else, let us know where they are spreading out to! Maybe they are stealthily trying to take over the world somehow. I am fascinated!

Remember Tuesday is DATE Night and we'll be taking a trip to Pleasure Island with Pinocchio. Until then I leave you with a picture of me at the most magical meet and greet ever!

Sigh. If only, right? However, now that I think of it, if they had a character greeting with the four Golden Girls out on the lanai, that would be the one meet and greet queue I would probably wait a few hours in. Are you listening Hollywood Studios? You took the the Golden Girls house off of the Backlot Tour, so you owe us at least that much!

Papa Bear

Love this poster art. Those Marc Davis
characters are just so full of life!

The Country Bear Jamboree is rather controversial among Disney parkgoers. There are who hold it close to their hearts and will defend it to the death and there are those who emit a resounding "Meh..." and avoid it at all costs. Which camp, y'all ask, do I fall into? I fall squarely into the former. 

For me, no trip to the Magic Kingdom is ever complete unless I have made my pilgrimage to Grizzly Hall. I enter the waiting room, which is wonderfully detailed, down to the bear claw marks of audiences past covering the floor. I remember noticing that they were there when I was a kid, fully convinced that bears made them, and now it stands as one of my favorite bits of architectural storytelling in the park.

The wood interior warms my soul, transporting me to a rustic time and place where woodland creatures sing songs for me, even when they only exist from the neck up. The theater is equally simple and cozy. And the show that plays there is like a salve for what pains you. You just have to sit back, relax, and wallow in the pure joy of knee-slapping silliness.

At a certain point, you flat out give up
on replacing the floorboards.

On my last trip to Walt Disney World my big pin trading goal was to collect all six of the Country Bear Jamboree hidden Mickey pins that were circulating around. Tom and I kept our eyes peeled for patches of brown on cast members' lanyards. By the end of our second day, we had found them all and I displayed them proudly on my puffed out chest. Tom and I literally jumped up and down and cheered when we finally found the last of the set.

I finally got a vinyl copy of the attraction soundtrack on eBay, which now graces my wall. I even own the much maligned movie on DVD. I haven't watched it in years. I remember being severely disappointed when I saw it the first time, so I am curious to revisit it and see if that opinion has changed at all. Do you need any more convincing about what Country Bear JamborFan I am? I thought not.

I would venture to say that most people who don't like the show either haven't seen the show recently, refuse to do so because they don't like country music, or are scared away by other bear bashers. Disney itself is guilty of mocking these poor ursine performers, lampooning the attraction unabashedly (and quite cleverly, I must admit) in A Goofy Movie with the Lester's Possum Park scene.

Don't get me wrong. I will admit that the show can use a bit of sprucing up. The fur has gotten a little matted. They bears sometimes do that weird, one-eyed blink that only animatronics who need a tune-up do. The cracks show around the edges and the thing can tend to look a bit threadbare and janky. But that's not the show. That's upkeep. And that's a shame.

I would love to see our friends be treated with a bit more care- especially since this is the very first attraction to originate in Walt Disney World before moving elsewhere. As a Florida boy, it's a matter of home state pride to me. Now that the Disneyland version is gone, WDW alone holds the Country Bear torch. Apparently the three heads- Buff, Max and Melvin- still live in the Winnie the Pooh ride that has taken over their old home in Critter Country. I tried unsuccessfully to find them on my last trip and will try even harder when I go back next month.

Big Al and Al Bertino. Striking resemblance, eh?

Underneath the layers of dust, the attraction that is there still shines and I would argue that dismissing the Country Bear Jamboree so quickly is doing yourself a disservice. I think that it is one of the most subversive, funny, weird, and original attractions in the park. Imagineers like Marc Davis (one of my personal faves) and Al Bertino (Big Al, who memorably sings "Blood on the Saddle" in the attraction is based on him) infused the show with a wicked sense of humor and a big, beating heart.

Every one of the songs in the show, whether original or not, really gives you an insight into who these characters are. You come out having a very firm sense of all of the characters' personalities after a very short time with each. It manages to be appropriate and engaging for kids, who are taken by the fun songs and the big Audio-animatronic bears. They also have my favorite character, little Oscar clutching his teddy bear, as an absolutely adorable stand-in for them to relate to. He acts as an observant child who just soaks up all the craziness oozing out of the adults that surround him.

At the same time, it winks slyly at the adults in the audience. If you're a gay man, a show filled with bears takes on a whole new meaning. It's a no-brainer. Moonshine flows and the bears imbibe, both to forget their man troubles or just because that's what hillbilly bears would do. Any parent who's had a long day in the park with a pain in the rump child will appreciate the sentiment of not whupping little Buford, but shooting him instead. It's also very easy to relate to the Sun Bonnets when they lament that "all the guys that turn me on, turn me down." Liver Lips McGrowl shares his acceptance that his woman ain't pretty, cuz he ain't, too. And married Earnest admits that when he flirted with a lady bear, she told him "If ya can't bite, don't growl." Sage advice, indeed.

Yup. This lives on my wall now. Jealous?

These bears aren't singing cute little bear songs about cute little bear things. These are bears that act like real people. Ladies are bein' sexy. One even looks like Mae West beckoning us to come on up and see her and is a swinger, for heaven's sake! Guys are noticing and hollering their approval. Everybody jammin' to music they love. They are performing mostly old school folk, country and blues songs, with originals perfectly blended in, including "The Bear Band Seranade" by George Bruns and X. Atencio, who co-wrote "Yo Ho, A Pirate's Life For Me".

These songs are tongue in cheek, raw, and full of black humor. They are singing songs that stem from the everyday experiences of real people, mostly revolving around their relationships. This is not the most politically correct attraction in the park, and has is pretty much unchanged over the years, thank heavens, save the occasional vacation hoedown show and the holiday incarnation which are only in Japan now. This is as close to sex, drugs and rock'n'roll and you will ever get in the Magic Kingdom. And it's purty darn close, at that.

This is the music of the common folk of America, which is, of course, why it fits comfortably in Walt's vision of the park. Instead of the more well-to do yesterday on Main Street, here in Frontierland it is more down and dirty. The struggles of working class people that broke their backs to lay the foundation of this country and what they did to leave forget their hardships for a spell. I hope that just as pirates have come back to the forefront lately, that Davy Crockett and his ilk will have a resurgence soon, but that's a whole other blog entry.

Having said all of that, I have a confession to make. Don't tell anyone, but I used to be a full on Country Bear hater. I wandered far away before I finally came back into the fold. There were years that I would turn my nose up at the thought of sitting down to a twenty minute show of country singin', weird winkin', twangy talkin' robotic bears. And it had as much to do with my own journey in life as it had to do with anything else. I can admit that now. Before I would have said that it was boring and dumb just so I wouldn't have to confront the fact that if my Dad was an attraction at Walt Disney World, he would be the Country Bear Jamboree. No question.

Almost any Southern gay boy will tell you that their relationship with their dad is fraught, to say the least, and mine was no exception. My dad is a good ole boy who comes from a large family in Eufala, Alabama. I'm sure that the idea of having a gay family member had never even crossed his mind, much less having a gay son. Things were tough for a lot of years and that resulted in me turning my back on anything that made me think of my dad.

The Five Bear Rugs (plus Oscar- toot toot!)

For all those years I rejected anything country. Music, culture, and even the accent. I worked very hard to hammer out any bit of that giveaway lilt from my voice to make sure that my heritage couldn't be pegged down.

To be fair, it wasn't just Dad. I lived in a town where the majority of cars proudly display Jesus fish or Confederate flags and the people in them proudly display the homophobia that oftentimes accompanies those bumper stickers. It was a hard place to grow up, but in the end I have no doubt I am stronger for it.

A few years ago, as I was approaching my thirties, I started to gain a lot of respect for Dad. It was the kind of respect that only life experience allows you to glean. Part of it was from my own contemplation of being a father. As I imagine what it is like to raise a child, I tip my hat to those brave souls who step into the wilderness of parenthood, knowing that it will be hard, amazing, exasperating, exhilarating, trying, and ultimately gratifying. I know it was hard for Dad to look at his son and not understand the person that he was becoming. It was equally hard for me knowing that he didn't and wondering if he ever could.

It's like a little patch of heaven.

It was soon after that I started to feel a real connection to the South. I was drawn to the music, the lore, the kindness that was everywhere if you looked for it. My love for roots-influenced music by folks like the Indigo Girls, Brandi Carlile, Patty Griffin and Alison Krauss caught fire. Now country and folk leaning artists are among my favorites. I started getting into southern books, like The Help, and southern TV shows like True Blood. I also started missing Tallahassee, Florida, where some people were closed minded, but many more were accepting of anyone as long as they're good people. I missed the feeling of community, the importance of family, and the smell of honeysuckle when you drive down the canopy road on your way home to sit on the back porch with the family and sip sweet ice tea while the crickets make music and the fireflies dance.

I know, I know. Her eyes are wonky.
I don't have the heart to tell her.

My dad is pure country, with a bigger than life laugh, belly and sense of humor. Everything about him is over the top and silly. He also has a deep love for roots music- blues, country, folk, jazz. He goes out every chance that he can to play his huge bass and sang songs. It don't pay him much, but he does it because he loves it. The house is always full of music- sometimes annoyingly loud. Harmonicas at nine in the morning. Bass at three in the afternoon. Singing all night on the back porch. I think that the two great loves of his life are his family and his music.

As I began to make peace with Dad, I began to appreciate the simple joys that are within the doors of Grizzly Hall. He is the Country Bear Jamboree personified. He even kind of looks like a Country Bear, to tell the truth. And "liver lips" is a term of endearment / annoyment that has been so imbedded into my psyche from Dad saying it that it's hard to tell whether I heard it from him, he heard it from the show or it came out of a collected Southern consciousness that's bigger than any of us. He takes joys in the simple things, enjoys what he does without shame or apologies, jams hard and loves even harder.

There is a stuffed Oscar and
I don't own it. Unacceptable.

With the same fervor I used to walk right past the attraction because it reminded me of Dad, I walk directly for The Country Bear Jamboree now. It makes me think of him and the moments I spend listening to him tell hokey jokes or play the harmonica with more heart than skill. Dad and I will never be exactly on the same page about everything. Just ask me about his addiction to Fox News. But we now have a mutual respect that the teenage me would never have expected. I genuinely and without hesitation love my dad like crazy.

Disney has done something pretty spectacular by taking a piece of Americana out of the trunk and putting it on display for thousands of people every day. For me, it is more than just that. It's a piece of my history that I get to spend time with. It doesn't matter how loudly the gears grind while Henry and the gang entertain, beneath the clack of an animatronic eyelid, if you let yourself listen, you hear the story of a culture. And as I make my way back to that pine-filled auditorium, I am making my way back to my dad, one corny joke and mouth harp solo at a time.

And sometimes, usually when I talk to my family, a southern drawl sneaks back into my voice and it makes me smile when I catch it there. I am proud of my family, especially my dad, my heritage and that twang. Dang proud, thank you ma'am.

Odd Disney World: President Jonathan T. President?

It must have been crowded in that room
when this portrait was done, huh?

As Katy Perry might say if she cared to discuss her connection to audio animatronic Presidential figures, I've had a very hot and cold relationship with the Hall of Presidents attraction in the Magic Kingdom.

First, a smidge of history on the attraction. Walt had originally planned to have the show, then known as "One Nation Under God", at Disneyland on the unbuilt Liberty Street in the unbuilt Edison Square section of the park that was to be adjacent to Main Street U.S.A. They realized that the scope of what he wanted to do was beyond what they could do with the new audio animatronic technology and instead created the successful Great Moments With Mr. Lincoln attraction.

When Walt Disney World was built, a new land was created for the Magic Kingdom in Florida called Liberty Square. Imagineers figured that locals wouldn't be interested in visiting New Orleans Square when the real thing was a few highways west. The new land was the perfect place to finally realize Walt's vision, housing audio animatronic figures of all of the Presidents within a show.

I figure it's pretty much a given that before you hit about eighteen years old, the last thing in the world you want to do while at a Disney park is to sit in a dark theater for a robotic history lesson. You avoid that mess like the plague. Dude, come on! Splash Mountain is mere feet away! The Haunted Mansion is right across Liberty Square! You have to wait forever to get in if the visit isn't well timed and the show feels deadly long to a youngun. That's certainly how it felt to me.

Um. Mr. Lincoln? Can you put your clothes
back on? I'm terrified. Please and thanks.

As I grew, I took issue with the attraction for a much different reason. From 2001-2008, George W. Bush had taken up residence in the Hall. Now, this is no fault of Disney's. And they did a fine job of representing him without making an overly political statement in either direction. But my skin crawled. It was very hard to watch a man who I did not have a terribly high opinion of most things I stand for talk about liberty and justice when I was a second class citizen in my own country. Plus, Maya Angelou was no longer the narrator. Apparently, the caged bird sings because she's trying to tell you she wants to get the heck away from GWB. Not that I can blame her.

Towards the end of W.'s run I saw the show one last time. The lobby was packed with Confederate flag wearing good ole boys and we all know that those are not my favorite people in the world. I wasn't always as zen about dealing them then as I have subsequently become. During the show, before I knew what had hit me, I just started crying. Hearing the eloquent and heartening words of Abraham Lincoln juxtaposed against the deeds of the man who stood beside him was a bit too much to take. Mama was sitting one one side of me with Dad, my sister Kelly on the other and I remember thinking that even if my government didn't love and accept me, my family did and I should count myself as lucky.

Ah. Much better. Thank you, sir.

The first time that I saw the new incarnation with Barack Obama, I felt a lot of relief. The GWB years were a dark cloud that shrouded most of my twenties in a feeling of hopelessness. I had become much more politically aware as a result of the 2008 election. Since this isn't a political blog, suffice it to say that  there are things I love about Obama and other things not so much. I think he's done an admirable job under less than optimal circumstances.

As far as the Hall is concerned, I can now relax and enjoy the experience (now narrated by Morgan Freeman, which is fully rad) without wanting to scratch my skin off, though I'm sure Michele Bachmann would disagree. Such is the state of our union and the fact that we can sit in the same room, watch the same presentation and be guaranteed our right to feel and express two completely different sentiments is a huge part of what makes it great. I warn you, however, that if I ever find myself in the same Hall of Presidents show as Michele Bachmann, I'm not sure that I could stop myself from pouncing on her like a panther and screaming "Marriage pledge, my rump! You evil hag!" So please hold me back. I don't want to get thrown out of the park.

The show building was designed to resemble
Philadelphia's Independence Hall.

In a way, it feels odd to have something so highly political in the center of what is the ultimate escape from the real world. No matter how even-handed Disney is in their treatment of the subject of politics, it is going to stir up deep and personal stuff for someone on some side of the fence about something. We're talking everything from the current red state/blue state divide, to slavery, to religion, to war. We're talking capital I Issues.

I walk into the Magic Kingdom to leave those kinds of things behind, and yet I think I am drawn to the Hall of Presidents because it is, at the core, showing America at its best. What our country is capable of when you get past the pettiness and the puffery. It reminds me that we are the country that created an incredible man like Abraham Lincoln, whose still powerful words in the show never fail to get me all misty-eyed. It reminds me to stay hopeful because we have a capacity for greatness yet to be fulfilled.

We just got real deep there, huh? Well, I actually brought up the Hall of Presidents because I have stumbled on one of the greatest pieces of absurdist Disney humor I have ever seen. It's a slow burner. Be patient. Listen carefully. I started off confused, started to get it, started to chuckle and, by the end, I was laughing till I snorted. When I watched it a second time, I laughed even harder. Boys and girls, I present to you The Hall of Inaccurate Presidents! Do not use it to study for Friday's social studies test, please.

I died! President Jimmy Goose! President Unknown! President Sweeney Patch! This video is absolutely priceless. It tickled me so much, I knew I had to share it with you.

While we're out it, I came across this video, which looks like it was taped off of America's Funniest Home Videos, showing what happens when the audio animatronics don't get the break that they are guaranteed by their union.

Sorry, y'all. He was done. They work those poor robots like dogs and Abe just couldn't take it any more. And scene. I've also heard tell from Imagineers that there have been times when the fingers were not working correctly on Lincoln and resulted in a rather rude Abey Baby.

What is your take on the Hall of Presidents? Does it bore you or make you proud? Or is it just a good excuse to spend an extended period of time out of the Florida heat and in a darkened, air-conditioned theater? And, most importantly, did you vote for President Roy Wizard?

Here We Go!

In March of 2010, I was visiting Walt Disney World with my family. Dad has been over the idea of walking around till his feet are blistered for a while at that point, so he stayed home in Tallahassee. Probably on the back porch, playing his harmonica, with a glass of sweet tea in close proximity. So it was me, my mama, my sister and some friends of the family spending three days in what has become one of my favorite places on Earth.

I had spent the previous months working on what I called The Disney Project. I watched every animated classic starting with Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and getting all the way through The Great Mouse Detective. It exploded my universe. I had collected most of the Disney movies here and there over several years (I am a bit of a media hoarder), but had mostly watched the special features or put them on in the background. I was not prepared for what watching the actual films all the way through in chronological order as an adult would do to me. It gave me an appreciation for the artistry of the films. I was moved emotionally. I shared the experience with friends, who would drop by to join me for a film or two and share in the discussion. It became a significant part of my life.

As my Saturn had just returned, I was immersing myself in the films of my childhood. Now, over a year later, I am moved to start this blog to explore what exactly it is about Disney that has ingrained itself into the second third of my life with such a vengeance. My friends kept telling me that I should blog the Disney Project. So here I am. Doing that and expanding the scope a bit. I will share thoughts from the Disney Project, along with my opinions on Disney news, music, parks, attractions, and anything else Disney related that strikes my fancy. I have no affiliation with Disney officially. Just a lot of love and curiosity. And opinions. A lot of opinions.

Where was I? Oh! Now this all started with a story about a fateful trip to the Magic Kingdom in 2010. This lil' nugget will give you a sense of what you may be in for with this blog. Gird your loins, folks. It's a doozy. One of the things I wanted to do most on this trip was get off of the Monorail at the Contemporary and take a look at the Mary Blair murals. I had become enamored of this woman's incredible artwork- the colors, the innocence, the playfulness- and I wanted to take some time to soak in this major piece of her artwork. The day in the park was lovely and the plan had been to hop out on the way back to the parking lot and take a looksee.

As the day wound down, I was starting to feel a little bit wonky. Not sick, but not quite myself. I had done everything in the park except for Space Mountain, so, after a moment of contemplation bracing myself in a Main Street doorframe, my sister and I headed over to take in one last attraction. I can be a bit of a completist when it comes to taking it all in at the parks. Bad move. As soon as the ride was over, I knew something was up. We made our way our of the park.

When we got to the monorail platform, I was woozy. Some evil beast of groty was taking over my body and I wasn't quite sure what to do about it. I told everyone that I wasn't feeling well, to which my sister (who is really a lovebug once you get to know her) promptly replied, "Stop complaining." There was, blessedly, an empty bench halfway up the crowded ramp, so I sat down to wait for the next train. The train came and we started moving toward it. I was almost a step closer to the hotel room, where I could feel like doo doo in private. I was bracing myself on my mama's shoulders. She was blissfully unaware, assuming I was either being lazy or loving. Though I can often be both of those things, this time it was different.

This is where things get hazy for me, but from piecing together fragments of memory and hearsay, I can provide this much narrative for what happened. I told mama that I couldn't see anything, which she thought was odd, so she turned around only to have me black out and collapse on the platform as we were about to enter a car on the middle of the train. When I came to, my stomach was churning. I repeated "Bag, bag, bag" like I was in a production of Noises Off. My brave sister quickly consolidated all of our souvenir treasures into one bag, freeing up the other for me. I promptly filled it with my puke. After it seemed that I had emptied my stomach out completely, my sister took the bag and tried to get it to the trash can as quickly as possible. Crisis averted. Almost. The bag slipped. The bag dropped to the ground. Protein spill on the Monorail platform. Mortified 29-year-old male is the culprit.

By this time, I was at least somewhat lucid. Half of the platform had to be shut down as cleanup commenced. Two paramedics came to check me out. As a single (at the time) gay man, this was not the state that I wanted to come into contact with two handsome, cheerful men in the medical profession. I grinned, wiped away tears, told them I was embarrassed but otherwise fine and just wanted to go home. They took some vitals, had me sign a piece of paper probably saying I wasn't going to sue, and vanished as quickly as they had appeared, gurney in tow. I hopped on the next train. The mess was cleaned up as if it had never happened. Anyone who had seen the incident was now back in the parking lot, wearily laughing about what happened and looking ahead towards another day of magic.

Meanwhile, my family and I got our own monorail car all the way back to the parking lot. We drove back to the hotel. I was sick several more times spanning the ride home and the entire night. The next day was Epcot and I had planned to join in my first Drink Around the World experience. Needless to say, that didn't happen. I got out of bed very late, went to the park and slowly waddled about with my amazing, patient mama. We went on Spaceship Earth and Soarin'. We walked. Slowly. And met up with my tipsy sister and her friend in Mexico, where they were enjoying a drink at the tequila bar.

Though it may not have been the ideal Disney visit, do I even need to justify the fact that I was happier being sick at Disney than I am most days in NYC, sitting at my desk, living out a sad eight hour span of time in a parody of The Devil Wears Prada mixed with Groundhog Day and just a sprinkle of Zoolander? That's why Disney is the happiest place on Earth. I can be sick out both ends and still be happy just to be alive, though inconvenienced. I'm just sad I didn't get to drink around the world.

By the way, I didn't get to see the mural that night. I flirted with the idea, but just felt too puny. My sister, bless her soul, tried to snap some pictures, but they came out blurry. But as a happy footnote, I visited again a few months ago and after a full day of amazingness at the Magic Kingdom, I stopped at the Contemporary with my fiance, who had accepted my proposal earlier that day in the stretching room of the Haunted Mansion. We got out and explored the mural, awestruck. It really is an incredible and epic piece of art. Mary Blair snuck a bit of a joke into it, giving one of the goats five legs because she believed that art should not be perfect. And now that little five legged goat holds a special place in my heart, reminding me that imperfection is not only something to accept and embrace, but can sometimes be by design.

That's all for now. I would love for you to join in the conversation at any point in this journey I'm taking. Share thoughts, memories, opinions. I would love to find a community of people who have been moved by the mouse!