I've Never Received a Fucking Fruitcake

What gives? There are these revenant cliches which have become anti-cliches in their pronouncement of their existences as cliche. Case in point: People give each other fruitcakes for Christmas. It becomes a cliche, and everyone makes jokes about it and people become embarrassed to give out fruitcakes, it being such an overdone and openly-mocked tradition. However, this is not a two-way, mutually exclusive self-destroying prophecy, as the destruction of the action does nothing to faciliatte the destruction of the cliche, as it should. Instead, the cliche persists, and the action it was based on is annihilated, and long forgotten while the cliche thrives. There are still cartoons today, people, who bring up the fucking fruitcake phenomenon. I think I've only had fruitcake once. In my lifetime. I'm fittin' to destroy these things, once and for all, and end this tyranny they've long held over language, a concept which I hold most dear, which makes the next tidbit that much more painful.

Moving further into the murky and depressing swamps of the "Blogger Spellcheck Chronicles," this motherfuckler suggested that my spelling of "fruitcake" was me trying to spell the word "britches."

... Words fail me. In more ways than one.

...

The Mrs. and I took a trip to Disneyland the other day for the second time in a year... which through the purchase of a low-end year-round and some heavily denial-influenced mathematics on my part save us money, in the end.

I really like Disneyland. People can ache and suffer on about commercialization and the assimilation of Anaheim and how they haven't come out with any really good animated films since Hercules (to which I say, "Emporer's New Groove.") but the fact of the matter is that though its fueled by greed and over-rampant materialistic capitalism, Disneyland's a magical place to be. And that's the shit of it, is that for a jaded, disenfranchised, bitter old sod like me to accurately describe Disneyland, I have to use the word magical. I have to mean it, too.


We got to ride the newly re-opened Space Mountain (the shit) after its seemingly decade-long hiatus, took a revolution or two on the big ol' swingy ferris wheel in California Adventure (which, while also the shit, terrifies me), and got to see the Nightmare Before Christmas-decorated Haunted Mansion (such the shit I can barely stand it) among other things.


Disney really hit upon something with the whole Nightmare franchising and merchandising. Again, I don't want to throw a wrench into the fantasy, but if you want to be hip, slightly edgy, and immediately relatable to any and all late-twenty-somethings without having any creativity or interesting personality traits, you just load up on Nightmare Before Christmas memorabilia and you're set up for a long night of singing "This is Halloween," probably culminating with a sloppy, fumbling encounter between you and the chick with too-long poorly-dyed red hair, the nondescriptly lacey ankle-length skirt and the lip piercing in the back of her Jetta (or, for you ladies, the really skinny guy with the scraggly black mop on his head, the ironic-phrase t-shirt which most likely references Jesus in some way, and the belt with more holes than Camp Green Lake: superfluous and riveted, much like himself).


While on the Haunted Mansion/Nightmare Before Christmas ride, the Mrs. took some probably-illegal pictures of the many revisions made to the old attraction, some of which I've included here. The one that stands out the most to me was seeing Zero flying down the hall instead of that floating candelabra. There's no picture, because the effect requires a mirror whcih simply doesn't lend itself to photography, but the other touches were really nice and at times absolutely inspired. Well done, Imagineers!



The Christmas Fantasy Parade was really fantastic. Mickey and Minnie have never looked mre elegant, and it was great to see Goofy and Max together (even though I'll always think the boy's voice sounds strange after they re-cast it following A Goofy Movie). I really love the damn Christmas Parade, really I do. It's hard for a guy to admit it, but sometimes you just have to let go and enjoy these things, and watching those little trussed-up snowmen in their own little village threw a warmth into my soul. I teared up, the same way I tear up when I watch myself on film. Embarrassing.

I wonder what the career prospects are for people in Disneyland Parades. I understand the concepts behind "cast member" status at Disneyland, and I've actually been through the audition process to be in the parades, surprisingly enough, and that's the conundrum. The people in these parades are clearly going for some kind of performance-oriented career, as I'm sure there aren't many out there who do Christmas Parades at night and law school during the day. They dance, which takes talent and training, so they have to some more than just time and the need for a job invested in the idea of performance art.

So what's the next step, kids? You can't do parades forever. Do you work for Disneyland exclusively, or do you cover your bases, hedge your bets with the Doo-Da parade, half-time shows and kid's parties, etc. Are you trying out for musical theater and, if so, where?! This is Orange County, it's not even L.A.! I know you're not making the commute to be a sweetheart elf for an hour or two a day in Anaheim just to go back to your tenement to look through the mail and check your messages for callbacks while your heroine-addicted roommate tries to light a canister of sterno to boil water for Ramen. "It's not going to work, Dennis! You're going to burn the building down, and Mr. Svenson already said no more open flames after last time! I can't lose my lease! I can't move back to Montana with my close-minded parents who fear my big-city, showbiz life! Now help me change the rat traps. The roaches got in them."

And that's just if you're a chick. If you're a man in one of these things, as magical and wonderful as I find them, Oh man, you are the reason I have tears in my eyes. I am so fitfully embarrassed for you. I remember being a kid and trying out for a parade, and while we were doing some pre-choreographed dance steps to test us, I looked over and saw this one joy boy prancing, positively prancing about, high-kicking and smiling bright enough to fucking blind the rest of us. This kid was getting it, we all knew, and it did two things to me.

One: I no longer felt the need to try, as I knew I didn't have much of a chance after Toothy McElvenface had gotten the job, and Two: it made me realize how truly fucking awful it would have been had I gotten the job. I did not want to be like this person, skipping and dancing about, kicking into the air for no reason other than that it's what people want to see: some boy-child smiling like he's not being whipped with a coat hanger by his stage mom every night for forgetting to Vaseline his teeth and throwing his spindly pre-pubescent legs out in front of his with such abandon as to beat the devil back into mommy's womb.

And, I guess, Three: embarrassed the hell out of me for having to be one of the people trying to be that guy for that moment and for failing at it. Althought, in a lifetime of failures, that's probably the one I'm most ready to forgive myself for. It's okay, no one blames you for not being gay enough.

Yeah, I said it.


But Jesus I love Disneyland. It costs your very soul to be there for a day, but if anything's worth it, then it's this. Being able to hold my girlfriend, see fireworks that rivaled the 4th of July celebration over the East River in Manhattan, and kiss her in the snowfall afterward, in California...

Well, to me, that's worth more than anything they could ask me to pay.

Say what you will, Mr. Sir is a fantastic name for a character, and, for my money, is Jon Voigt's best role to date.