Aw, he can crawl up through my toilet any day.

December 16, 2013 8 Comments read Attractions, Florida, South, Travel, USA

After all of the stress of planning a wedding and dealing with all of the bullshit that goes along with actually HAVING a wedding (expecting someone to check the goddamned schedule we painstakingly made with addresses and directions or even to have a little common sense is like expecting someone to lick used gum: unfathomable.) the last thing we wanted was to deal with international travel, even though there are so many things we want to see and do out in the great wide world. Instead, we decided to pick the most foreign of locations possible within the United States. Someplace where the absurd seems utterly normal. Someplace with a reputation for bizarre behavior. America’s weirdest state.

I’m talking, of course, about Orlando, Florida. Home to both high and low-quality theme parks, the choice seemed obvious. On our first day, we went to Gatorland. Gatorland bills itself not only as the alligator capitol of the world, but also as Orlando’s best half day attraction: not ready to compete with the big guys who offer an ENTIRE day’s worth of entertainment, Gatorland will sell you four hours of entertainment and the ability to zipline over hungry alligators like so much delicious bait. I had hoped that the operators would equip you with a blowdart to shoot at the most delicious-looking gator, which you could then have cooked to your specifications at the restaurant at the end of the series of ziplines, but apparently they don’t have anyone working there with my idea power.

Ultimately, we decided to omit ziplining and make the most of the time we had available. Upon entering the park, there are several pits filled with young alligators, the obligatory pressed penny machine, and a number of snack bars, one of which serves fried gator nuggets. They say they don’t use their own gators, but I’m not entirely certain I believe that. Why go to the store to buy milk when you have entire pits of it at home? Since we arrived midday, we didn’t have much time to spend looking around if we wanted to make the last gator wrestling show of the day, so we headed there first. The gator wrestling show was billed as being done in “Florida cracker style” and to this day, I cannot tell you what exactly that might be. An internet search tells me that it might have something to do with turn of the century homes. You tell me!

After the show, we were given the opportunity to sit on the back of an already-humiliated alligator, and there’s very little I enjoy more than photo opportunities AND teasing apex predators, so this was a dream come true. Someday, I will be savaged by a wild animal, and I will completely and utterly deserve it.

After the gator wrestling show, we had some free time to wander the park before the gator jumparoo show. In addition to american alligators, they also have crocodiles from around the world and a variety of other reptiles, including turtles and snakes, and the occasional non-reptile, like blonde raccoons and owls.

^{Sorry Mr. Cottonmouth, you are not quite as skilled as Waldo.}

^{You know, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I couldn’t help but notice that these crocodiles are famed for being able to jump six feet, and yet their enclosure is less than six feet high. Plus, when they look at you, it’s like they’re calculating your body fat percentage to determine how tasty you might be. I didn’t linger by this pen, is what I’m saying.}

Another special interactive feature of Gatorland is the ability to feed these majestic creatures one of their natural staple foods: turkey hot dogs. The woman who sold us our packets told us we could feed any gator in the park that wasn’t behind glass. When I expressed my desire to feed the dog-eating gator, she repeated slowly and loudly, “ANY GATOR THAT IS NOT BEHIND GLASS” and drily added “Besides, all of them would eat dogs if they got half a chance. My neighbor found one in her pool eating her poodle.” I made a mental note to check the hotel pool before leaping in, and claimed my packet of hot dogs. If there’s anything better than throwing a tube of encased meat at a cluster of hungry reptiles and having them swarm to get at it, please tell me about it immediately.

These flocks of jerkass birds hang around, and will not only steal food from your hands, but will also snatch it away from a chomping gator, which is a sort of boldness I don’t understand. Are the gators too lazy to teach these bastards a lesson? Are the birds not tasty? Or would they fight harder over all beef kosher dogs, or perhaps the clearly enticing but also taboo dog dog? To close our half-day at Gatorland, we attended the Gator Jumparoo Show, which isn’t as impressive as a jumping show at say, Seaworld, but is vastly more dangerous, so it does have that going for it. The grand finale is set to Van Halen’s “Jump,” and I’m not certain whether it’s to inspire the gators to do their best or to whip them into a frothing rage as they can’t handle listening to that synth intro even once more. There’s definitely a monstrously large gator at 12:34 who has decided he’s had enough of being teased with chicken.

All in all, it was indeed a solid half day of entertainment: we fed gators, teased them, sat astride them, held one, tickled its tummy, threatened birds, pressed a penny, and wore a number of amusing gift shop hats. And the trip was just beginning!

“And my heart will go on and on for a period of time which closely approximates the length of this song which is forever!”

December 10, 2012 6 Comments read Attractions, Pacific, Travel, USA, Washington

Last year, Seattle tore down the so-called “Fun Forest”–the ramshackle collection of worn, broken, sad-looking rides at Seattle Center that should have been torn down years ago if not for people’s collective nostalgia of a time when it wasn’t tagged with graffiti and falling apart. However, it’s 2012, the World’s Fair was 50 years ago, and rigs put up and torn down by carnies in a week’s time look more reliable, so good riddance, though I suppose it is a little sad to lose a genuine thrill of fear when you’re riding a rollercoaster that may fall apart at any given moment. In its place, the city has leased the land to Chihuly Garden & Glass, the world’s largest permanent exhibit of Dale Chihuly’s work. Outside, in a similarly permanent fashion, are multiple groups of musicians attempting to lure tourists into purchasing CDs of pan-flute renditions of popular music. We entered the building to the strains of Vanessa PanFlute Williams’ “Colors of the Wind”. While we waited for Emily and Evan to arrive, we perused the gift shop, where I learned that you can slap “local” on any $2 craft and charge upwards of $100 for it. I’m looking at you, chalkboard vases–don’t think that I didn’t see the how-to on Pinterest and can’t make my own for pennies on the dollar! I forced myself to leave before giving into the urge to pick something off a shelf and shatter it on the ground for dramatic effect. The exhibits are very much “Hey, look at this cool artwork” without much info on any of the pieces or on Chihuly himself. I don’t know that it would have enhanced my appreciation of the work to know more about the process, but with an entire museum dedicated to one man and his work, you’d think there would be more to it than “Look at this! Now look at this! Ooooooooh!”

^{I’m pretty sure I saw this exact thing in Prometheus.}

^{Birds ain’t got no respect. No respect at all.}

At this point, we exited the building into the glass gardens outside, and were immediately serenaded with Celine PanFlute Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”, which I helpfully pointed out to Emily so as not to suffer alone. When she didn’t seem to be suffering enough, I took it upon myself to sing it, loudly, changing the lyrics as I saw fit. Emily, of course, was mortified, but I like to think I added something special to the overall ambiance for the other exhibit visitors. And she keeps going out in public with me so she’s basically asking for it, because I show people I love them through large, loud, public gestures.

Where she did draw the line, however, was at my threatening to lick an ornament. I’m surprised we weren’t hustled out of there in a hot minute, but instead allowed to leave out our leisure, exiting through the aforementioned giftshop, where I once again resisted shattering an arts and crafts tourist rip-off. Poor impulse control, my ass.

“I don’t care what you say, I can taste the newspaper.”

December 7, 2012 7 Comments read Attractions, Everything is Terrible, Midwest, Travel, USA, Wisconsin

While in Wisconsin, Jason and I paid a visit to the Jelly Belly factory, which isn’t so much a factory (as nothing is made there) but a warehouse distribution center with a tour and tastings. As a person who enjoys both tours and tastings, I felt it was a worthwhile stop. Jason and I arrived just as a tour was starting, and so we rushed to the back to hop on the tiny train that drove us around the warehouse (already a thrilling adventure, to be certain). We were also handed ridiculous paper hats and told to wear them. The people in the car in front of us were too cool to do such a thing, and just before we were to drive off on the wee train, the conductor said that if they didn’t wear their hats, we couldn’t go anywhere. Given that all of the candy in this warehouse is already packaged AND hats like this are useless in terms of food safety, I can only assume that the train is fueled by public humiliation and reduced sex appeal. Can you ever truly desire someone again after seeing them wear a paper hat? Also, we were not allowed to take photographs on the tour itself, as photography apparently causes mini trains to burst into flames.

^{Pre-tour, no tiny trains were put at risk by the snapping of this photograph.}

The tour consisted of riding in the train around the perimeter of the warehouse and watching three videos about Jelly Belly brand beans: their rise to popularity (beloved of Ronald Reagan! First jellybean in space!), the production process (which is astoundingly long for something you can eat in a second, 7-21 days!), and other products made by the parent company (candy corn! taffy!). After the tour, we were given a bag of complimentary beans, a poster, and sent out into the place where I’m a Viking: the gift shop and tasting bar. We visited in the middle of the day on a weekday, so aside from the other family on the train, there was no one else there, we were the only people at the tasting bar, and the employee there was eager to give us whatever we wanted. After trying their new candy corn bean, I was on the lookout for other flavors I hadn’t tried, and I spied with my little eye a sausage flavor bean. “Sausage? It doesn’t really taste like sausage, does it?” Lickety-split, the employee handed over a bean, which I dutifully popped in my mouth. “Oh my god, it does taste like sausage! I assumed they’d just called it sausage to make it fit in with the Bertie Botts’ Every Flavor Bean theme but that it would actually taste like a more normal bean flavor.” Rambling on, I made a terrible error: “Well, if the sausage tastes like sausage…what does the centipede flavor taste like?” Quick as a flash, a centipede flavor bean was in my hand before I could protest. And once it was cradled in my palm, it was like a bean-based gauntlet had been thrown. I couldn’t throw it away: that would be wasteful. No. The bean bar woman had dared me and thus I must put it in my mouth. As I chewed, Jason asked “So how does one decide what a centipede tastes like, anyway?” “Our chemists start with the smell and work backward.” I can believe they started with a smell…the smell of Hell. When I say to you that this was the most foul thing I’ve ever had in my mouth, I would hate for you to think I was exaggerating. My dog has emitted farts so pungent that I could actually taste the air and this was worse. Much worse. If pressed to describe the flavor, the best description I can conceive is “dirty curdled blood”–it was an strong earthy base with a sharp metallic tang and an awful creamy something tying it all together. The only way they could have made it worse is if there was a thick liquid core and it popped like a zit in your mouth…and that would only be barely worse. Still, I tried to swallow. I chewed and chewed and chewed, but my pharynx said “NO, MA’AM”. That wretched bean lady smiled and offered me a napkin in which to spit the horrid thing out. What did she give me as a chaser? A mouthwash flavor jelly bean. Oh HA HA, bean lady. After the bean incident, we walked out onto the front lawn to take Jason’s picture in front of the Jelly Belly sign, but all the while, I thought of the flavor of centipede. Even through the mouthwash, I could still taste it, crawling over my tastebuds with its awful rancid legs. My stomach roiled, and I thrust my camera and bag at Jason while desperately trying to will myself to remain calm. Calm isn’t my thing, and this is the story of how I ended up vomiting in front of the Jelly Belly warehouse in plain sight of a highway. Even though he had my camera, Jason didn’t document me chundering into a bush because he doesn’t understand anything about posterity. He is, however, a man who has seen me in a paper hat AND throwing up a mixture of jellybeans and chinese food in the same day and somehow still wants to marry me, so I’ll cut him some slack. I probably wouldn’t have posted a picture of me vomiting online, anyway: it probably wouldn’t have been a very flattering shot of my butt.