This is C.’s dog Buddy. Buddy isn’t all that smart and C. is the first person who’ll point that out. You see, Buddy likes to chase porcupines. This is the sixth time that Buddy has had a quill facial. You would think that he’d learn after the fourth or fifth time that porcupines = excruciating pain, but not our Buddy. You can’t see it in the photo, but he had quills running all down his chest and legs and some in his back, as well. He had to be anesthetized in order to have them removed and is sleeping it off behind the sofa at C.’s house as I type this. C.’s bank account is $400 lighter for the trouble. Oh, Buddy. Stop chasing porcupines. Leave them alone.

I was commenting to the stewardess that our plane full of children had all the charm of a daycare center. She said that working the flights to and from Disneyworld is an excellent method of birth control. Amen. Before I had my wings clipped by having kids, I use to travel around quite a bit. I was lucky. Coming home always left me feeling a bit melancholy, but not this time. I couldn’t wait to walk in my front door. I miss my bed, my books, my city and even, in an abusive-relationship kind of way, my long train ride.

I spent the trip vacillating between feeling a bit put-off by the whole scene and being emotionally overwhelmed when I watched my children. I had to push down tears more than once, much to my annoyance. If I spend three weeks there instead of just five days, will I turn into a monumental pussy and start listening to Dan Fogelberg albums and cry at sunsets? This damages the whole reluctant-father thing that I wear around my neck like a chain. Thank God I got the hell out of there.

I have an idiot tan. It looks like I drew a circle around the base of my neck. North of that meridian, I am a bronzed Adonis. South of that demarcation line, I am as white as a fish’s belly. The kids loved everything about the trip but, personally, it’s not how I get my kicks. Give me a beach and a book, a casino or a walk down The Strand any day over the squeaky clean, homogenous fun we just had. I saw adults there without children walking through the Magic Kingdom. Apparently, you can voluntarily go to Disneyworld even if you don’t have to. Can you imagine? Actually, I get that. It’s a slice of Americana and I can understand why someone would want to see it, but I can’t relate at all.

I see faces and traces of home back in New York City
So you think I’m a tough kid? Is that what you heard?

A note to the patrons of Disneyworld: I don’t care how young you are or how thin you are or if your body is hot and cut and smells good. It doesn’t matter if you have a $200 haircut and are dressed head to toe in designer clothes and have the latest, coolest tat on your arm. I don’t care how useful they are. If you wear a fanny pack, you will look like a douche bag.

All the employees of Disney—excuse me, cast members—wear nametags that also include their city and state of origin. Our lunchtime waiter at the home cookin’ buffet was from China. It didn’t give the province or region. It just said, “China.” Close enough. He was middle aged and I was wondering what the arc of this guy’s story was. He came from China and is now delivering food to overfed Americans.

I was watching him from across the restaurant while I was musing about all this stuff. He had just bussed a table and was walking towards the kitchen with a tray full of dirty dishes. He stopped right before the kitchen, looked down, saw a balled-up napkin on the floor, flipped it up in the air with his toe, snatched it with his right hand and returned his hand to the tray without upsetting the dishes! For real! It happened so fast that nobody saw him do it! It was a Zen moment that passed by unnoticed in the chaos that was swirling around him. Then my imagination really started racing. I thought he might be an ex-member of the Peking Acrobats or that he was a ninja crime fighting master and this was merely an alias. Now, THAT was some Disney magic!

I have seen the end of the civilization. It doesn’t end with a mushroom cloud. It ends with a pair of mouse ears. The bible was right. The meek have inherited the earth.

We watched the big Disney parade down Main Street this afternoon. All the most popular Disney characters appeared on floats with dancers, musicians, a marching band, etc., etc., Throughout the entire parade, I saw exactly two African Americans; one was one of Captain Hook’s pirates and the other was a chimney sweep from Mary Poppins. Even Aladdin was lily white and looked like an actuary accountant. I thought it was awful. What if you’re black and you’re here with your kids and this is the only way you’re represented? A chimney sweep! My cynicism and anger about this place had reached a fevered pitch and I just wanted to get the hell out of here. Then I looked down at Daughter. She was mesmerized. I saw a look of rapture and raw joy on her face that I had never seen before. I got choked up and started to cry. I had sunglasses on so nobody saw me, thank God. This place is fucking with my head.

Tomorrow morning I’ll wake up in New Jersey but at night, when I lay my weary head on a pillow, I will be in the Magic Kingdom. No, not Manhattan. The other Magic Kingdom. The initial horror I felt about vacationing in Disneyworld has dissipated and has been replace with something that I vaguely recognize as enthusiasm. Nobody is more surprised about this change of heart than I am. It’ll be sunny and warm and I’ll get to wear shorts for the next five days. My marvelous chalk-white Northeast legs will be exposed for all of Orlando to enjoy.

We’re staying at a nice resort/spa with some very adult amenities. A masseuse! Cocktails! Cable porn! (Ha, just kidding about that third one. It is Disney, after all.) Best of all, I won’t see the inside of Benevolent Dictators, Inc. until Monday morning. How bad can it be? We’re spending just the right amount of time there—out on Wednesday, back on Sunday. I keep reminding myself that there’s always the distant chance I’ll find a crap table somewhere in the vicinity. On the flight down I’ll teach 2-Year Old Daughter how to shout, “A dime on the pass, press my hard eight!” To 6-Year Old Daughter, I will explain the rejuvenating benefits of sipping a chilled dirty martini at sunset.

* * *

I just received another welcome sign that summer has finally returned to the city. Each summer, every day at noon, weather permitting, the City of New York pays a pianist to sit at a straight-backed piano on the patio of Bryant Park and play American popular standards for one hour. Someone To Watch Over Me. It Had To Be You. Stardust. The usual fare. Today was the first day for that particular pleasure. I had forgotten all about it and was pleasantly surprised when I walked into the park for lunch and heard these beautiful songs rolling off the patio and onto the lawn. It was like seeing an old friend again. If you’re sitting under a blue sky listening to someone play a lazy version of I’ll Take Manhattan on a piano, and you look up and see the sun gleam off the spire of the Chrysler Building, what right would you have to complain about anything? You would be a fool.