You can imagine the sheer, sugar-crazed joy that I felt when I got the news that I'd be going to Disneyland.
No, not DisneyWORLD, my family is not that cool. We're much classier.
And by classier, I mean they didn't want to expose me to the human antique show that is the population of Florida.
No, we went to California for whatever reason (turns out the people I'm named after live out there and it was just a cheap excuse to get me out of the house and stop doing four-year old stuff indoors) and my parents told me that we were going to meet Mickey Mouse.
I probably fainted or something, but I really can't remember because I was four years old and hadn't gained the ability to access this funny thing called "memory."
Still having issues with that one.
Because Mom just told me for like the twentieth time that...wait...
I forgot.
Great.
Ah well. I'll just keep blogging.
It's actually a good thing that I mention that this was back in ye olden years of 1998, back before crappy female pop stars wearing meat-suits and/or glitter and when crappy boy bands who wore clothes that fit people a thousand times their size.
Just ignore the fact that the first CD I ever got was The Backstreet Boys' "Millenium."
Also, it'd be really great if you ignored the fact that I still blast "Backstreet's Back" liberally.
Thanks.
THE POINT I AM TRYING TO MAKE, however, is that this is one of the earliest stories I remember with some degree of distinction, and while there are still gaps in my memory, I'm pretty sure that I've patched them up with reasonable plot developments so you'll probably never even tell the difference.
There were dinosaurs still around in '98, right?
But back to my magical Disney experience. The flight from Nebraska (I used to live there, so please have some pity for me) was either uneventful or I puked on the attendants twenty times or so.
My parents might call my bluff on that one.
Either way, I'm pretty sure that I didn't get sucked into the toilet or anything and managed to make it to California without dying, although I might have died, I was Danny Phantom for Halloween.
I was going to post a picture, but then my life would be in danger from evil people.
But then I remembered that I was a ghost with super powers.
But then I remembered that there was another person in the only photo with me in it on Facebook.
But then I remembered that I have MS Paint, so she's safe, too.
I'm smooth.
Like silk.
But back to Disneyland. So my family got to Disneyland and we stayed in this sweet hotel that was like twenty minutes from Disneyland. I could smell the child stars from my hotel bed.
If I remember correctly (which I don't), they smelled like their parents' disappointment in their abilities.
I think I spent that night thoroughly depressed with the universe.
Or I slept like a baby due to jet-lag. One or the other.
So, for the next two days, we went to this magical place full of fat tourists and poor people in mascot costumes who would probably be fired if they even said so much as "Ew, this kid just spit up on my costume which I JUST had drycleaned. Where is my life going from here? I swear, when I have kids, I'm gonna treat them to the Disney treatment so they get famous and are loved by everyone at Disney but no one in the rest of the universe THAT WILL SHOW THEM."
Actually, I'd probably fire that guy, too.
My point is that in all retrospect, I shouldn't have thought it was magical whatsoever, but I was four years old, so...
That wasn't what my Mickey Mouse shirt actually looked like, but I think this one sums up my feelings toward that little rodent pretty well.
When it actually came to meeting Mickey himself (well, the old dude in the felt suit), I don't really remember much. I remember waiting in this crazy long line for probably about twenty months (in reality, maybe half an hour) that weaved through this really ornate and cartoonish version of his house (I swear, that mouse would get so pitifully lost just trying to get to the bathroom for his morning bowel movement), and I remember getting so bored that by the time I could actually see him, I decided to be a total diva about it and I just wanted out of the room. I remember it smelling like sweat, nothing like a celebrity mouse should smell like.
I finally got to Mickey and he signed my little autograph book (Yeah, us Sprouls-folk are super dedicated) and I walked away. I remember being vaguely disappointed that he didn't talk (I had pretended to talk like him so much, his voice has permanently been burned into my brain to the point that it could haunt me in my dreams if I ever have a traumatic experience involving talking mice). But the worst part wasn't even the disappointment of a mute mouse (+10 points for alliteration.)
The worst part of the whole situation was that my sister taunted me all the way out of the house/maze by saying that she hugged him and I didn't. In truth, the fact that Mickey was a whole hell of a lot bigger and uglier up close, so I just awkwardly stood there as he signed my autograph book and walked away, confused that my hero wasn't all he was cracked up to be.
I thought of how despicable of a number one fan I must be. I was kicking myself for being so hard on him. After all, he was just a mouse. Famous or not, he had a lot of problems to face that I hadn't. Mouse traps, for one.
And Goofy. I don't think I'd be able to handle Goofy.
My mom must have noticed my disappointment.
I drooled a lot as a kid. I'm really glad I managed to gain control of that reflex.
Anyway, my mom must have noticed my defeated stare, so she thought of the only thing she could.
She pulled out the autograph book (I would have lost it a long time ago if it wasn't for her; bless her) and flipped through the pages.
Now I was like a super genius when I was four when it came to reading (One of my favorite things to do is read; my imaginary friends say it helps the mind wander) so I could read every word that mouse wrote:
"To My Pal,
Mickey Mouse"
I was his pal! HIS PAL!
I don't know about you, but as far as I was concerned at that time, I was the most popular kid in the universe.
Granted, that feeling would end by about fifth grade, but whatever. I was the coolest kid in the park.
Did the mouse imposter sign that on every kid's book? Probably. But you have to remember that when I say I was a genius, it only implied to American reading standards, which seem to be getting lower and lower every year (You're complaining about this seventh grade book project about a 300 page book? I did a voluntary book report on the fourth Harry Potter book in second grade).
I also remember having my pants thoroughly scared off when my parents took me on Space Mountain. I remember feeling more hatred towards my parents during that two minute ride than I have my entire four years of being a teenager.
...even though I was holding on to them like my life depended on it as I bawled my eyes out.
However, as the years progressed, I looked back upon that meeting with Mickey, and I found less and less things magical about our meeting and just how crushingly disappointing it was that he was nothing like my crazy, four-year old brain had imagined.
I'm really surprised how the crushing disappointment came in waves like three years later.
Mom always said I was special.
So as I got older, I went through a long list of potential heroes. Ash Ketchum, Firemen, Randy Moss (that ended up in a really embarrassing haircut where I got an 84 shaved into my head), and even Bob and Larry from Veggie Tales.
Unfortunately, none of these potential heroes had any staying power.
Not even the Crimson Chin.
That is, until about four months ago, when I started playing Kingdom Hearts.
I am so sorry I doubted you, dude.
Your pal,
Dorsey
PS- I may or may not have that drooling thing down yet.
Me, like 20 minutes ago ^
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