It's Huuuuuuuge!

There's a small amusement park here in Orlando called Fun Spot. It's family owned and operated. This goateed gent is the Chief Operating Officer, John Arie, Jr. He's the son of the founder, John Arie, Sr. Junior appears in virtually all the ads for this place. On TV, he can be heard exclaiming the park's tagline, which I'm sure he invented, "It's HUUUUUGE!" Here are some more pictures of Junior for you.

Everything about Fun Spot says "family-owned." From the quality of the advertising to the smallness of the rides and attractions within the park, this is not why people come to Orlando. But they're here and Junior is going to grab them. What I like about Junior is his savvy. 

On long stretches of the toll roads leading from Orlando International Airport to Interstate 4, every other billboard is for Fun Spot. You'll see a couple for Disney, a few for Universal, but John has made his little park look like a major player. He knows people are maybe spending half a day at his place, and only if they happen to be staying on International Drive, where he is located. But the kids in the back seats are seeing his ads and saying, "That place looks fun, Dad!" And Dad says, "Maybe," which to a kid is as good as, "You bet! We'll be doing Fun Spot, kiddies!"

Fun Spot is not huge. It's relatively tiny. But Junior understands advertising. Say it over and over again and say it in as many places as you can afford to and you'll get business. Never mind that once they get there they'll realize it's a small step up from the type of traveling carnival you'd find in the parking lot of the K-Mart in Springfield, Missouri. It's still a fun spot.

One of my favorite Fun Spot billboards is up right now just outside of Universal. (Junior understands placement.) I'm almost positive the photo shoot was directed by Junior. It features two girls on Fun Spot's small, not-so-thrilling roller coaster. The girl on the left is being honest, "This is a fun little roller coaster. Weeeeeee!" The girl on the right is losing it, utterly terrified by the sheer velocity, harrowing turns and potential death that awaits. But not so terrified that she can't raise her arms in gleeful abandon.

That's advertrising.

Well played, Junior.  
   

At the Intersection of Entertainment and Politics

Or: "Damn! This is a Tough Job Market."

Walt Disney World just hired a new Senior Vice President of Public Affairs and Worldwide Government and Industry Relations.

That's quite a title. In practice, the function of the position will be to issue statements on behalf of the corporation that the person who claimed to have been molested by an employee dressed as Goofy has since changed his/her tune. Or to coordinate with local law enforcement and prosecutors to quickly sweep under the rug any other nastiness that might give our Mighty Mouse a bad image. Or to secure a renewal of Disney's "no-fly zone" policy long ago granted by the FAA. Disney owns this town, and any potential dirt the press can dig up is always very quickly silenced by the efficient workings of Disney's highly-connected machine. Disney is the mafia and everyone knows it. They have the money, they make the jobs, they buy the influence.

In my crazy day-to-day applications to all positions that I think I might even be remotely qualified to perform, I may have submitted a resume to Disney for this job. In hindsight that was silly, but as they say, "you never know." Well, I lost out to Brian Besanceney. Brian has a resume that trumps the hell out of mine and all others.

From the press release issued by Disney:

"Besanceney has been with The Walt Disney Co. since February 2009 as vice president of public affairs for business development, and will retain those duties. Prior to joining Disney, he served as deputy chief of staff to former Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and assistant secretary of public affairs for the U.S. Department of Homeland Security and deputy communications director at the White House."

That makes total sense, since Disney is the de facto fourth branch of power in this country.

The Tarts of New York

It is a common cry among New Yorkers, even those who haven't been there very long, "Our city has become an amusement park, a cultural wasteland, a squeaky clean tourist trap thanks to Giuliani, who got rid of our beloved hookers and gangs and addicts and cleaned our once unique streets that flowed deep with human urine. What does a guy have to do to get mugged in this town anymore? Where is the grit, the grime, the EDGE, the LIFE? The people dressed in plastic bags, directing traffic?"

Even if a guy like me is to avoid gaudy Times Square and opt for a pilgrimage to St. Mark's Place, I later read that even that is a "benign tourist stop." Guilty. I guess it's not the "real" New York, whatever that is anymore. Where is that fabled place where an Anthony Bourdain could get fake punk cred because he did cocaine with one of the Ramones?

To put the knife in the belly of the once glorious whore and finish her off, along comes Kellogg's, who will open Pop-Tarts World today in Times Square. Granted, Pop-Tarts are cool, but I don't think this is the kind of cool old-school New Yorkers long for.

I know, they gave up on Times Square years ago. It is the very symbol of what they lament. Glitz, kitsch and schmaltz with a bunch of putzes wandering about, looking at the sky and getting in the way of people who know how to walk in the city. New Yorkers long ago ceded Times Square to the merchants of overwrought specialty stores and the idiots from other places. "Disneyfication," they call it.  (People around here lay claim to that term and they're no different from longing-for-the-old-days New Yorkers. If you can find a "native" of Central Florida, they'll tell you how great this place was "Before the Mouse." They'll go on about the lost citrus groves and the blue skies free of planeloads of Midwestern tourists being ferried to The Kingdom. But I suspect they wouldn't want to turn the clock back too far, to the time before AC, when living in Florida was a severe adventure for only the rugged and daring, an uncomfortable place except a few months in winter. They dream of that short, Mad Men-era window between 1960 and 1970, post-AC and pre-Disney.) 

But beyond all that - let's look at this move on the part of Kellogg's. A store devoted entirely to Pop-Tarts? That is crazy. Crazy smart. I don't care who you are or where you come from, there is likely a 95% chance that you have a favorite type of Pop-Tart. I'm partial to strawberry. And I even prefer the ones without frosting. Heated in the toaster. With a monster glass of milk. But I've been known on a late night sleepwalk to tear into even the weirder ones like chocolate chip cookie dough or s'mores, the pantry be damned for not locking itself.

Pop-Tarts are so universally loved that this isn't even a gamble on the part of Kellogg's; it's a shrine to an icon, and the people will make pilgrimage. I'd be willing to bet you'll even find a few old-school New Yorkers wandering in the place, nostalgic for their childhood pastry as much as they are for the city they remember.

And A Mouse Shall Lead Them

No word yet on what the acquisition of Marvel by Disney will mean for a competitor in the theme park arena, but one of the most popular attractions at Universal Orlando is the Spider Man ride.

I never got into comic books. I was more a Mad Magazine reader. But this news is probably not welcome among the comic book crowd.

Only in Orlando

I wish I was making this up.

Judging by this mugshot, the offender didn't think his crime was that serious.

The victim said Moyer grabbed her chest, and she pushed him away.Moyer was sentenced to 180 days probation, and he must undergo psychological evaluation before he returns to Pennsylvania.

Is this a laughing matter? In these oh-so-sensitive times, I'd rather not even venture a guess.

Um...I mean, "No! Absolutely NOT!"

Every State Has a Springfield

Dominating the skyline like an Eastern European monument to thoughtless architecture, the Springfield, Illinois Hilton lends an eerie ugliness to a town whose chief qualities are eeriness and ugliness.

Scene of Obama's announcement to run for President (an impressive event) and the home of the Illinois State Capitol (an impressive structure) the town also hosts the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum. This is no ordinary museum, and despite its overwhelming fascination with death and ghosts and creepiness (a wax figure of Mary Todd Lincoln sits dressed in black, the window reflecting a gloomy rain as she mourns the death of her son with a bible on her lap; a replica of the rotunda is dark and ominous, where Lincoln's body lies in state) the museum rivals anything Disney could do. Put together by BRC Imagination Arts (WARNING: exceptionally cheese-filled homepage video on their website) the exhibits leave you asking, "How did they do that?" which is a pretty decent takeaway for any museum.

We had a good visit, randomly deciding to stop in (at the compulsion of some roadside signs) as we drove through the very flat and uninspiring middle of Illinois. Springfield has an Arby's. We ate there. I had the French Dip, an inspired sandwich, the au jus of which was "CAUTION: EXTREMELY HOT" so I cannot sue them for a burnt tongue as they warned me ahead of time.

I took a moment to travel back in time to try to talk John Wilkes Boothe out of what he kept referring to as his "destiny," but alas, I was too late. His mind was made up.

The Depression is ON!

Disney has historically reported large profits even when everyone around them is failing. So you know times are bad when Disney is offering buyouts to 600 of its executives.

"The parks and resorts division is in the process of implementing a number of initiatives to contain costs and maximize efficiency," Disney parks and resort spokeswoman Leslie Goodman said. "Given the continued uncertainty of the economic environment, we must manage our business even more productively."

That's Disneyspeak for "We aren't going to make as many billions this quarter as we thought we might."

So now I finally understand that mysterious Nostradamus quatrain:

Two days from the Big Hope
three-score hundred leaders shall leave forever the Kingdom
and move back to the Midwest
where their buyout packages will buy nicer homes

Why Your Presidents Get So Old So Fast

It’s going to be sad for many Americans to watch Barack Obama age right before our eyes over the next few years. But it happens to all Presidents. Here’s George Bush, the dashing young Republican star, when he took office in 2000, and as he appears today, a hearing-impaired, sad and withered man.


Many speculate that it is the pressure of the job that wears these men down. No, it’s not. How hard is to it have everything done for you and once in a while make a speech? Oh, sure, you occasionally have to make a “tough” decision. But that’s after you’ve been told what to decide by countless advisers. You’re simply the Decider in Chief. All the thinking is done for you.

What really wears these guys down are the secrets of the job. Few people know what a new President is privy to. I will tell you. I don’t want to shake your faith in America, but it’s better to be an informed citizen than an ignorant one.

Just as a new CEO of Disney is taken to the basement of Cinderella’s Castle to pay homage to the cryogenically frozen head of Walt Disney, a new President, immediately after being sworn-in, is whisked to the basement of the US Capitol to hear The Truth from the Secret Shadow Government. They let him in on the following facts:

• All decisions are subject to the approval of The Masons, who have a tunnel that leads directly to the Oval Office from their National Headquarters.
• Everything you've heard about Area 51 is true, but it is nothing compared to Area 52, where the Lizard Aliens control the weather and concoct the chemtrail mixtures.
• JFK ordered his own assassination.
  
• The Spice Girls were CIA counter-intelligence operatives. Well, all of them except Posh.
• Air Force One, the Presidential plane, is remote-controlled from the moon, where a large Air Force base was built in the 60s during the Apollo missions. Space Shuttle missions are nothing more than food and medicine deliveries.
• The Russians are our eternal friends and allies. We keep up the illusion of tension in order to keep other nations fearful and subjugated.
• The NFL is rigged. Referees are actually robots, pre-programmed to throw games as dictated by the Vegas gambling bosses.
• It's not just Elmer's Glue, but Cheetos, Doritos and most other snack foods are made from retired race horses.
  

There are so many more secrets, but it would take me days to write them all. And after they tell him these things, the Overlords place a permanent monitoring device in the new President's head that reads his thoughts. If he so much as thinks of spilling the American secrets he knows, even to his wife late at night in bed, the Overlords deliver an electric shock to his private parts.

Who wouldn't age quickly under those circumstances?

Good luck, Obama. We'll try to remember you as the innocent, young guy you are now.

What Disney Advertising Won't Tell You

The upside of the expected summer scattered showers of Florida is that it can be pouring down rain one street over and you might not get a drop.

It's a coin toss every day.

How Disney Spins a Miscalculation

The Masters of Illusion. The Cult of The Mouse. The Price-Gouging Bringer of All Manner of Eurotrash To My Town.

I can go on forever with derogatory terms for the company that built Orlando, but they know what they're doing at all times. When everyone else is reporting dismal quarterly earnings, Disney's earnings go up 22%.

Disneyworld's Pleasure Island, a collection of themed clubs and hangouts that draw not just tourists, but many locals, will soon see the shuttering of six of those clubs. Company officials acknowledge that customers want "more broad-based dining and retail options." Broad-based? Is that code for, "Not enough blacks were frequenting the BET Soundstage Club," one of the clubs on the doomed list? Maybe it's copy like this, from the Pleasure Island website, that failed to connect with BET fans:

BET Soundstage™ Club – Bust a move on over to this two-story soundstage environment and groove on down to the dance floor where the DJ spins phat tunes from the latest hip-hop to old-school R&B favorites.

Bust a move? Groove on down? Phat? Yeah, best to shut that club fast. Surprised they didn't say "Slap my hand, black soul man!"

Also doomed: 8 Trax, a club that sounds like a nightmare if you believe the web copy:

8 Trax – Boogie oogie oogie to this '70s and '80s club for all your retro dancing favorites. If you love to get down to the Bee Gees, Donna Summer and the Village People, make tracks over to 8 Trax!

And what will Disney do with the closed clubs? In typical Disney-speak, which is akin to political-speak, they will only say that they have "A Bold New Vision."

Translation: More Harley-Davidson and NASCAR-themed stuff.

Let Me 'Splain it This Way

Many friends and readers are sending me links to this video of the professional jet fighter pilot who jumped from an airplane over the Swiss Alps and cruised to earth in a nice little 18-minute flight with his jet-powered wing-thing. They title the emails, “HERE’S YOUR JETPACK!”

It’s a nice sight to behold and looks like a thrilling ride, but no, that’s not my jetpack.

The only way I will stop asking the question “Where’s My Jetpack?” is when jetpacks are affordable to common folks like you and me and will safely convey us to and from our places of employment or the grocery store. It would also be nice if they didn’t sound like F-18s at full throttle and could fly for longer than a couple minutes on a tank of fuel. Another real benefit would be if they were available at Wal-Mart. I want them easy enough to operate that my Mom could handle one.

But more than that, “Where’s My Jetpack?” is at its heart a joke, a lament and an encouragement. The jetpack is simply a symbol of all the other things that were supposed to be here by now, promised to us by the advertisers, by Disney, by the government and all the other dreamers. As it says over in the sidebar in the “What’s The Meaning of This?” section: “The future is now, and we’re still waiting.”

And we will wait forever. Maybe the jetpack will be here in a hundred years, but I really ask the question to keep people from getting too pessimistic, believe it or not. It’s not just about a lack of technology or futuristic fun that hasn’t arrived. It’s about that grand Utopian vision that we will never achieve. As the song goes:

Where’s the end of war and freedom from disease?
Where’s the milk and honey from sea to shining sea?
Where are the crime-free cities and rockets on our backs?
Where are the smooth moving sidewalks? Where’s my jetpack?

The biggest lie ever foisted upon our optimistic species is, “You shall be as gods.” Here are some things I know about the future:

• There will always be liars, cheaters and thieves, hiding behind asterisks followed by fine print.
  
• Barack Obama isn’t bringing world peace.
• John McCain is not a maverick. He's a typical phony politician.
• You will always encounter spiteful and hateful bastards and bitches wherever you go.
• People will likely always be starving somewhere in this world.
• Life is only easy once in a great while.

As long as you know that the promises made to us and the dreams held out in front of us by our leaders, the media (and their sponsors) are usually a bunch of crap, you can do what you need to do, rarely being disappointed. You won’t be expecting a handout. You may be offering a hand-up. You might take a moment to appreciate what you have right here, right now.

That’s a roundabout way to arrive at optimism, I know, and I'm still working on it. But I have always learned the hard way.

A hovercraft in every drive
Instant breakfast on the table at 6:45
Rocket to the moon and race right back
to my holograph room and my new jetpack

Remember, I was gonna watch your dreams
On a flush-mounted giant plasma flat-screen
Baby, we were gonna live forever
With a wish and a pill and the pull of a lever

Heaven on Earth in a God Free Zone
Where we all get along and no one’s alone
A paradise of plenty where nobody lacks
We're all flying around with our own jetpacks

Someone Better Alert the Disney Attorneys

North of the Gold and Ivory Coasts of Africa is The Gambia, (or simply: Gambia) a small country consisting mainly of The Gambia River.

Gambia also has an amusement park called Dream Park, where a couple of costumed hosts (a lanky Santa Claus and a very familiar mouse) welcome you to enjoy the thrilling rides and fun-filled activities.

Oh, YouTube, What did we do before you came along?

America's Backyard

Click for Bigness.
















Previously in Orlando/Disney Related:

Mickey Likes the Men
Orlando: Where the Unimaginative Set up Shop

Attention United Kingdom Visitors to Mickey Mouse

I was just up at the Orlando Sanford International Airport, where many UKers (who are easily identifiable by their footwear) seem a bit perplexed that they've flown into an airport that's still a good 50 miles and an hour away from the "wonderful attractions of the Central Florida region."

Naming this airport the Orlando Sanford International Airport is what they refer to in the travel and tourism industries as "a bald-faced lie designed to create traffic at a second-rate airport in a struggling suburb."

Use the other airport. Much easier. Then again, if crumbling rural sites, long rental car journeys and toll roads are part of your vacation plans, go wild.

Of Mouse and Men

Here in Orlando, it's time once again for the annual Gay Days at Disney World, a weeklong, oil-soaked festival of shirtless gay pride. (Although attendees are encouraged to wear red-shirts to identify themselves.)

Often loudly criticized (and boycotted) by conservative groups, Gay Days has been rounding up huge corporate endorsements, with the likes of Delta, Saturn and CNA paying for premiere sponsorships. Some companies, like Southern Comfort and esurance, even alter their logos for the celebration, making them predictably rainbow colored.

I wouldn't even be aware that the event was this week had we not been driving from Tampa yesterday on Interstate 4 , approaching the theme park area, where a huge billboard picturing guys in Speedos standing around a car announced it. Disney likes to keep this week under wraps, afraid of tarnishing their clean image. It's an "under the radar" thing you'll have a hard time finding on any official Disney websites.

It's a fine line to walk for Disney. They don't want to lose the dollars of either the gay community or the conservative community, and so they just act like it's not happening. That silence on Disney's part can sometimes catch heterosexual visitors and their families off guard, prompting Moms and Dads to spontaneously explain why "two men are kissing." In recent years, it's said to be getting a little out of hand. A gay man in Orlando writes an eloquent piece, deriding the invasion of "he-women and shaved down muscle boys."

"What once was a small group of well meaning gay men and lesbians has grown – and in my opinion, deformed – into what is now nothing more than a vile spectacle of self indulgence and indecency. I don’t like it when I hear pompous windbags telling me I’m going to burn in hell for being gay, and I’m sure most of the free world would appreciate a visit to Disney World that did not include the vision of grown men in go-go shorts, and ads for lubricant prominently displayed throughout the host hotel."

So, if you're not gay and you're planning on a Disney trip and the sight of "two queens frenching outside Cinderella castle," would give you pause, best to stay away this week. If you do make the trip, leave the red shirts at home.

Where's My Jetpack? The Book by Someone Else

Daniel Wilson and I share the same initials, and we share the same thoughts on the future we were promised; the one that never arrived. His book shares the name of this blog. That book just arrived in the mail. Its chapter titles could've been lifted from the lyrics of the song of the same name. It's printed on what seems to be 100 lb. glossy cardstock, with illustrations by Richard Horne of East London. I'll thumb through it and it shouldn't take long. Chapters are broken down into inventions that never really happened, starting with the jetpack. It is categorized under "humor," so I'm hoping for a couple of chuckles for my $14.95.

Mr. Wilson once contacted me, trying to get me to part with the domain Where's My Jetpack? Not happening. I suggested WhereISMyJetpack.com and he snapped it up. Mr. Wilson is a columnist for Popular Mechanics and earned a Ph.D. in robotics from Carnegie Mellon University. He authored another book that Mike Myers optioned the movie rights for, How to Survive a Robot Uprising. So, he's much smarter than me and he's been published. You might like his book.

This is the extent of my promotion of Mr. Wilson's book. He's presently on a book tour in the Pacific Northwest. I'm counting on him to make the phrase Where's My Jetpack? even more popular, preparing the way for me. Thanks, Daniel, and good luck. I hope you makes tons of money. Don't waste it on Rush albums, though.

For me, the phrase has always been about more than just inventions that didn't happen. The name of the blog is really tongue in cheek and does not speak to jetpacks alone. "Jetpack" is just a symbol for all the awesome goodness we were promised as children; a glorious future of peace and wealth and universal brotherhood, no death or sickness or strife. Heaven on Earth! (And sold to us by people like you and me - advertisers and marketers - with help from Disney, the government and Ray Bradbury.)

But that Utopian dream ain't happening anytime soon. Too many haters out there bent on destruction: Al Qaeda , Cho Seung-Hui, Alec Baldwin Kim Basinger and all the rest.

So, in that sense, it's hardcore cynicism, but I'll still be the first one in line when WalMart is selling cheap, reliable jetpacks.