NO PIECE OF CAKE

The less said the better about a day that requires bed hopping for a simple good morning cuddle. The Blue Light Special packed sullenly, refusing to wear long pants because he wanted to prolong the appearance of warmth up until the last minute of his vacation.

We got into a huge fight about where to find the cheap gas station which we had passed three nights running and then an even bigger one about how to get to the Florida Turnpike. When we finally located Race Trac, the cost of gas had increased by two cents, but even at $2.09 per gallon it was the cheapest price we filled up with during the entire vacation. The Blue Light Special complained that he hadn't been able to get matches. This signaled that he was determined to the smoke the joint that had been given to him by the party-loving friend of Thug Lover who also had left behind a half-full bottle of vodka.

I suggested instead that he hide it in the bottom of an Orbit gum pack. He did, expecting me to be the mule so we could smoke it together this summer in the Pines.

I don't want to carry it on the airplane he said.

Why should the risk be mine? I asked.

Even with a return trip to Cinnabon, the drive south on the Florida Turnpike left us with plenty of time for a quick midday tour of Palm Beach. The Blue Light Special grew more petulant, complaining about the scenery and getting into one of his interminable rants about a country and a political system that allows a place like Palm Beach to flourish.

You're just jealous you'll never be invited inside one of these beautiful homes I rebutted.

Almost as if to prove the decadence of the community, an old man with a bad case of Parkinson's pulled up beside us in a Jaguar with U.S. Marines Corps license plates.

In Germany they wouldn't allow this man to drive screeched the Blue Light Special.

I ignored him, pulling into the Breakers, driving along Worth Avenue and searching for Mar a Lago, the famed estate that Donald Trump once listed at $125 million, making it the most expensive residential property in the world. The Blue Light Special always brings up Donald Trump when he wants to vilify America so I thought he might be interested. He wasn't.

Would you consider a fast food meal? I asked when we were back on Interstate 25.

When he said he would I gave him three choices: McDonald's, Taco Bell or Arby's.

What's Arby's? I've never heard of it.

I liked their roast beef sandwiches as a kid I answered, interpreting his question as assent. Big mistake.

The Blue Light Special couldn't decide what he wanted when faced with the bewildering number of choices on a menu that had been greatly expanded since my last visit to the franchise in early 70s. He finally consented to try the smallest possible roast beef sandwich and then ate it with the same enthusiasm that a five-year-old might show for raw broccoli. Thoroughly fed up, I decided the vacation had ended.

Back in the car, I asked him to reach into the glove box and hand me my CD carrying case. When he refused, I launched into a diatribe about his ingratitude.

You didn't even thank me for lunch! I yelled.

He seized up this as the reason for my anger, deliberating ignoring the larger picture of his childish behavior throughout the day.

Do you want me to pay for the sandwich? he asked.

He certainly does know when to pick his moments I thought with a chuckle despite my anger. Then he had the nerve to suggest that I drop him off at his terminal instead of accompanying me to Alamo to turn in the rental car as we had planned.

You'll have more time in Florida he argued, as if I cared about an extra hour my later flight afforded me.

While gassing up, he gave me an ultimatum.

If you aren't going to take the joint then I'm going to throw it away he said as I prepared to discard a bag of trash.

Throw it away, then I said.

He dropped the Orbit pack into the bag. As soon as I was out of sight, I removed it and stuck in it my back pocket. Waste not, want not, but make him suffer a little bit, too, I figured.

Neither of us had much to say while turning in the car. When I learned that I couldn't apply the discount I had forgotten to use when renting the car, he gave the agent a hard time.

You just lost a customer he said, as we walked away.

We boarded a shuttle bus. When it arrived at his terminal the Blue Light Special retrieved his luggage and got off before tapping on the window and motioning for me to get off, too. I waved instead and that was how our nine days--the longest period we've ever spent together--ended.

The relationship, however, picked up right where it left off eight hours later when the phone rang.

How was your flight? Mine was delayed for 2 1/2 hours" he said blithely.

Would I take the Blue Light Special with me on vacation again? Of course. Even though we left each other on barely speaking terms, my anger typically subsides as it would with a bratty child whom you nonetheless love dearly. I’m sure more mature traveling companions could be found, but few derive as much pleasure from life as he does.

I’m no piece of cake, either.

EMPTY POCKETED CITIZENS OF TOMORROW

The Blue Light Special had set the alarm for 6:30 a.m. so that we could get an extra Magic Hour" at the Animal Kingdom which opened at 8 a.m., an hour early, for resort guests. Breakfast at the World Premiere Food Court cost me as much as at the Island House where we had gotten a lot more. On the plus side, the legions of fat guys kept their shirts on while we ate.



Nothing like standing in line behind a cute guy and speculating about his relationship to the 20something heterosexual couple he accompanied to provide some welcome distraction in breeder land. Or going backwards on a roller coaster for the first time. Hands up, Expedition Everest offered more thrills than any other attraction at Disneyworld.

Let's do that one again! I exulted.

We picked up a Fast Pass and went to DinoLand U.S.A., where on the Primeval Whirl, we had to share a car with a young mom and her son. Watching the kid's wide-eyed enjoyment of the fairly tame ride enhanced my own. I would have loved to see his reaction to Dinosaur! As we sped along a roller coaster track, an animatronic T. Rex lunged at us while his gentle cousins grazed placidly nearby.

After completing Expedition Everest a second time, I purchased a commemorative photo that shows our car in the clutches of a Yeti mostly because the camera had caught how much fun we BOTH were having. I ordered a 5" x 7" print for each of us. They were ready almost as soon as I used my Disney card to make my first and only impulse buy.

Chilly weather had forced the closure of the Kali River Rapids. Although this meant we wouldn't be able to check off everything on our list, I didn't mind because Fodor's had advised that it would require a change into dry clothes afterward.

We killed the hour before our Fast Pass would admit us to the Kiliminjaro Safaris by boarding Rafiki's Planet Watch without knowing exactly where it would take us. But the destination became moot when a good looking high school kid kept glancing in our direction, even though he was with his family.

Instead of the usual seating arrangement you would find on a train car, this one had a double row of bleachers facing in one direction so that everybody aboard would have a good view of the passing scenery. The Blue Light Special, who usually wants to sit in the front row, chose the back one so he could sit next to Jail Bait. With spiky hair, multiple rings in his pierced ears and a guitar button on his sweater, he looked a little like an aspiring punk musician.

Leave it to Disney to turn a lemon into lemonade. The ride offered little more than a look at the operations behind the safari attraction, including clearly marked cages for the various animals. Once you got to Planet Rafiki, a couple of monkeys, a petting zoo and an environmental center awaited you. Definitely a bide-your-time kind of experience.



The Blue Light Special began sulking as soon as we got separated from Jail Bait. The petting zoo cheered him up a bit. I love to watch his gentle interactions with animals. They really bring out his sweetness.



On our way out, the Blue Light Special asked me to photograph him against a crocodile mural. Because he so rarely has the opportunity to ask me to take a picture of him, I was a little surprised until I realized that Jail Bait was leaning against a display case directly opposite, alone.

Would you like me to take a picture of the two of you? Jail Bait asked as I composed the shot. With my back to him, I decided to let the Blue Light Special respond.

No, it's not necessary he said.

Jail Bait quickly walked away. I decided to wound the Blue Light Special for making it pretty clear he didn't want the kid to think we were a couple. His lack of empathy provided an easy weapon to use against him. As they say: don't get mad, get even.

You blew it I taunted. That was Jail Bait's attempt to engage us apart from his family. If you had said yes, instead of being embarrassed about our relationship, you could have found out a lot more about him.

You mean he might have given me his e-mail address? he asked, jabbing back.



The Blue Light Special pouted all the way back to the Kiliminjaro Safari where we boarded a large flatbed truck that had been outfitted with benches. Behind the wheel sat a young cast member who drove us along a rutted road into very impressively recreated African bush country, pretending that we were in hot pursuit of poachers. Every time we turned a corner, she announced a new animal species, each appearing to live in its natural habitat.

You're really lucky this morning she said, pointing out a pair of lions on a rock outcropping. The male lion was pacing and yawning. They're usually asleep for much of the day.

Wide moats separated the animals from the road but our interaction seemed much closer than it would have in a typical zoo. Nor did it seem quite so exploitive as swimming with the dolphins.

We made our way back to the gigantic Tree of Life, which like Cinderella's Castle in the Magic Kingdom, helps visitors find their way from one land--or in this case continents, mostly--to another. Before leaving Africa, we stopped to watch a group of gymnastic dancers in animal prints. They were among the very few African Americans that we saw during the two full days we spent at Disneyworld.

With the Blue Light Special still brooding over his tactical error, we got in line for It's Tough To Be A Bug!, a joint Disney/Pixar production. Outside a large theatre buried in the bowels of the Tree of Life we picked up a pair of bug-shaped 3D glasses. Because we were among the people closest to the entrance, we stood aside to let the rows of seats get a little fill so that we could position ourselves in the middle.



The huge colorful curtain patterned with butterfly wings lifted and we were introduced to several different kinds of bugs, more commonly known as pests to man. Bumblebees flew into our faces, inducing a child's sense of wonder so strong that we neither of us could resist trying to grab them. These visual delights, however, were only one part of an experience that stimulated all of our senses except taste. We smelled the stinkbug. We ducked the fly swatter. We felt the spray emitted by an enormous can of bug spray. We learned just how tough it IS to be a bug.

Most surprising of all the seats had been outfitted with technology that gently recreated the sensation of being bitten on your back by a spider and feeling a termite burrow under your seat. The latter felt so realistic that the woman behind us screamed as if she had just been goosed.

No doubt about it I proclaimed as we left, completely enchanted. Animal Kingdom is my favorite park so far.



Despite a couple of reality-based thrills, Epcot did nothing to change my assessment. We arrived at the height of the lunch hour with the stroller parking lot outside of The Land jammed. The 90-minute estimated wait time for Soarin' persuaded us to get a Fast Pass. That left us with nearly two hours before our return time.

First we toured The Seas with Nemo and Friends in a clam mobile that carried us along on the search for the title character from the hit Pixar film using visual effects and puppets that paled in comparison to It's Tough to Be a Bug, which had been inspired by "A Bug's Life." The ride did leave the Blue Light Special singing the Big Blue World, however.

From there we began a long walk around the World Showcase Lagoon. We passed from one ersatz country to another, including Canada, the United Kingdom and France, marked by a dumpy Eiffel Tower, before wandering into Morocco. It was about as interesting as Pier One.

This is what I dislike most about America I said. The idea that you can experience other cultures without ever having to leave your own.

Maybe coming here will encourage people to travel overseas the Blue Light Special responded.

No, the only things this place encourages are eating and shopping.



The Blue Light Special didn't disagree once we reached Germany. I offered to pay for the $26 prix fix lunch buffet even though I feared he would piss me off by complaining about the quality of food or its authenticity. Fortunately, he refused. After he made all the cuckoo clocks chime in the kitschy sales shop, I took his picture in a village square that was the architectural equivalent of a mash up: a little Bavaria here, a little Berlin there.



Unlike the other countries, Norway actually had an attraction. The Maelstrom was a Viking take on Pirates of the Caribbean. Once again, we were deposited into a store selling theme-merchandise, including a marked-down winter jacket that I might have bought if I weren't unemployed. Then, to my further delight, we found a cafe selling reasonably priced sandwiches and pastries. For a little more than $10 we shared a salmon and hardboiled egg sandwich, and a sweet pretzel with almonds. Hooray for Norway!



By now it was nearly time to soar but first I erupted at the Blue Light Special when he told me to follow him yet again after dragging me into the Mexico pavilion where a mariachi band played. I find kazoos more melodious.

Why do we always have to do only what you want to do, when you want to do it? Twice now since we've been here, you've refused to take a look at something I wanted to see. Who put you in charge?

I'm only suggesting a short cut he said without expression.

I let him walk far ahead of me. Thankfully Soarin' elevated my mood. We were seated in a ferris-wheel like car that revolved and swung back and forth while images of the California landscape were projected on the Imax screen in front of us. Only the feet dangling from the row of seats above spoiled the illusion of soaring above Death Valley, the Golden Gate Bridge, Palm Springs and other major West Coast landmarks and sightseeing attractions. The tour ended--where else?--at Disneyland during the fireworks display that had been branded into my childhood consciousness and boosted by Sunday night repetitions during The Wonderful World of Disney.

On our way out, I reminded the Blue Light Special that he had agreed to visit Living with the Land. The line, as he had predicted, was much shorter than it had been during the lunch swell, and we quickly boarded boats for an attraction that neither of us knew anything about. For nearly 20 minutes we floated through gardens of hydroponically grown produce and tanks of farmed fish. Although a few pumpkins grew, incredibly, in the shape of mouse ears, the explicit educational component--and somewhat dubious assertion that the food was used in Epcot restaurants--led me to suspect it was a remnant of Disney's original vision for Epcot.

Living with the Land began in the dark and the Blue Light Special put his arm around me. But when we floated into an illuminated area, he didn't remove it. I didn't say anything even though it made me uncomfortable. It also made we wonder what was up with these sudden displays of public affection in the mecca of family values. I might have been able to take them at face value if I hadn't remembered how he had reacted during our first movie date, when I put my arm around the back of his seat at a crowded movie theatre on the Upper West Side.

What are you doing? he said, recoiling.

Once burned, twice shy as they say. After Sideways, I never tried again. Perhaps his strategy has shifted now that he realizes that companionship and affection rather than sex are the things I value most in our relationship. If so, his gestures would mean a lot more in a gay environment where their cost to him--the perception of being "off the market"--would be much greater.

Joining the testosterone-heavy Mission Space Orange Team didn't permit any displays of affection but it did significantly reduce our wait to hear flight instructions from Gary Sinise, another fish-out-of-water celebrity. The line for the Green Team, for the faint of heart or at least people who were more susceptible to motion sickness, was twice as long.



The Blue Light Special seemed a bit shaken by the simulated blast off of a rocket ship, zero gravity, a hard landing on Mars and atmosphere re-entry. I was just relieved that I had managed to follow our fool-proof flight instructions during our seven-minute flight and press the flashing red button when, as engineer, I was told to do so by mission control.

What more appropriate place to use a Fast Pass than Test Track? Like most of the major attractions at Epcot, it had a corporate co-sponsor, General Motors in this case. Before actually climbing into our prototype convertible, a GM representative rather than a celebrity, explained each of the tests that the company routinely administers before introducing a new model. Test Drive climaxes in a speed test when the very low-to-the-ground vehicle reaches more than 65 mph on a banked track. It felt like we were going a hell of a lot faster than when we had been driving almost 90 mph on the Florida Turnpike.

Around 5 p.m. Ellen DeGeneres trapped us in the Universe of Energy, a labored attempt at education that lasted 37 minutes and included a lame dream sequence. We both were able to catnap as we sat on a floor stage that moved between dinosaur animatronics and a triptych of screens featuring two Jeopardy contestants besides Ellen: Jamie Lee Curtis, playing a high achieving classmate of Ellen's and an Albert Einstein lookalike who never pushed his buzzer once despite his reputed knowledge in each of the categories.

Slightly refreshed and more than a little relieved that our theme park marathon was finally drawing to a close, we headed to our final stop: Spaceship Earth, the huge globe attached to the now illuminated Epcot sign which looked lovely in the twilight. Stupid me--just as I hadn't realized there was anything inside Cinderella's Castle at the Magic Kingdom until the Blue Light Special insisted there must be, I wouldn't have known that Siemens had sponsored a communications exhibit in the guts of what looked more like a golf planet than our home planet.

We stepped into yet another moving car without having to wait even a minute and soon began a slow ascent. It took us from the caveman's first use of language to teens in the U.S. and Japan instant messaging each other from their bedrooms. I wondered what communications advances in the 90s had displaced from the original animatronic timeline.



Spaceship Earth also raised a question that had been bothering me all day: what does Epcot mean? None of the several cast members we asked could answer, though one did tell us that he had been instructed to say he didn't know because it would raise too many other questions. Finally a photographer told us that EPCOT is an acronym for Experimental Prototypical Community of Tomorrow.

It was supposed to be a completely self-contained community where people lived and worked and produced all their own food, but after Disney died the whole concept changed he explained. Yeah, I thought, capitalism transformed utopia into a branded money-sucking machine leaving all who entered Empty-Pocketed Citizens of Tomorrow.

We finally left the park at 7 p.m., two hours later than we had planned, too tired to begin our journey south as the Blue Light Special would have preferred. Instead we picked up our already loaded Beetle from the resort parking lot and drove straight to Joe's Crab Shack. Say what you want about restaurant chains, it was the tastiest meal of the trip and ended with a slice of key lime pie better than the one we had at the Blond Giraffe. The too-friendly waitress took a shine to the Blue Light Special when she discovered he was from Chicago.

We must look funny in our Milwaukee t-shirts, huh? he asked when she left the table. Maybe they think we're cheeseheads.

I prefer theme dressing to public displays of affection. He wore green and I wore blue.

The waitress had told us where we could find a decent motel for $75. We did even better at the Rodeway Inn, just across the street. For $49 we got a lot more than we had at Disneyworld albeit without mouse ear towels on the cheap, sateen bedspreads.

Which one do you want? asked the Blue Light Special.

Aren't we sleeping together?

Why should we when I can have my own bed? he answered.

So much for the cuddling that had been the only evidence of a something more than a subsidized friendship. He actually fell asleep before I did even though we had planned to check out the gay nightlife in Orlando.

SEARCHING FOR MY INNER CHILD

Unheated, the congealed Cinnabon rolls didn't taste nearly as good as I had remembered from the New Jersey Turnpike. Ever the improviser, the Blue Light Special heated his with a hair dryer. We'd also bought some milk and orange juice the night before which we left in a sink filled with ice, again his idea.



Eating breakfast like this saved time as well as money. Sticking out like sore thumbs, we joined the line of 50 other early birds, all of whom were young families with children and strollers, for the bus to Disney MGM Studios. Upon arriving at the park gates we were instructed to insert the Disneycards we had picked up the night before into the turnstiles and to press our index fingers into the scanners. The cards included our pre-paid admission and worked just like credit cards for the duration of our visit. Not having bags helped us get in more quickly than most of the families.

Although rain had been predicted, the weather was more chilly and cloudy than wet. We rushed to the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. It featured a lame Rod Serling tie-in and an out-of-control elevator that induced thrills when the car dropped several stories at a time while the front of the building opened to gray skies.

Because the lines for most of the attractions were relatively short, we didn't have as much time to study the interior details that keep the cattle from getting too restless during peak periods of attendance. In fact, I don't think we ever had to wait more than 20 minutes even when we didn't have a Fast Pass which allows guests to reserve their entry time for most popular attractions, one at a time.

At the Aerosmith Rock 'n Roller Coaster, I couldn't believe that Ileana Douglas, whom I've always associated with hip independent films, would appear in a Disneyworld attraction, but there she was, playing the band's manager in a video. Steven Tyler barely had time to tell her to arrange for transportation to a free concert before we were ushered onto the loading platform. The Blue Light Special asked if we could wait to be seated in the first row of the first car. The cast member, who didn't look entirely awake, politely but firmly refused.



While I never would ask for special treatment myself, I nearly bellowed "moo." Disney bills itself as a place where "your dreams come true," a claim that might have greater resonance if you've ever fantasized about being a cow. The well-oiled operation is designed to get the maximum number of people to spend as much money as possible on merchandise and food in between long waits for rides that rarely last longer than 2 minutes. But as P.T. Barnum once observed No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.

In spite of my cynicism, the Blue Light Special provoked some long dormant patriotism by announcing It's better in Germany as we exited, a phrase that I already had heard earlier that morning and one that I would hear over and over again until I finally blew up.

You Europeans are all the same I raged. How come you're so eager to become citizens of this country when everything always is so much better in yours?

His ingratitude and insensitivity really stuck in my craw. Access to all four parks in the complex via a two-day hopper pass had been the second half of my Christmas gift. I guess German parents don't teach you that you should keep your mouth shut if you don't have anything nice to say.

Perhaps my expectations regarding the Blue Light Special's maturity were a little high. After all, he couldn't wait to see the attraction based on The Chronicles of Narnia, one of his favorite movies. It turned out to be nothing more than an extended, stale promo accompanied by a live performance of the Ice Queen. Like every other cast member, she must get awfully tired of repeating exactly the same lines over and over again to different herds of people.

I began to despair of ever finding my inner child.

At least the Extreme Stunt Show gave us the opportunity to sit down for nearly an hour while we watching a car chase that included trucks, motorcycles, personal watercraft and a cameo by Herbie, the VW beetle, along with an explosion in a faux French village. And wouldn't you know, the announcer credited Disneyland Paris, for the idea?



As we left, I indulged in my own kind of annoying comparison When I first went to Disneyland in southern California in the 60s, the stunt show featured cowboys on horses. It required more skill and less technology.

Fodors had recommended The Magic of Disney, our next stop. The Blue Light Special insisted he already had seen the brief film about the creative process behind characters such as the dragon voiced by Eddie Murphy in Mulan. More enjoyable were interactive opportunities using touch screens to color or give voice to Disney characters.



I suggested that Beauty and the Beast had greater relevance for our relationship. After blaming me for flubbing our initial recording of a sing along, the Blue Light Special shocked and embarrassed me by changing the lyrics and accusing the Beast of being gay, very loudly.

This isn't the kind of place to make jokes like that I warned, moving away from him and the booth as quickly as possible.

Silently, we approached the Great Movie Ride. I don't know what I expected but the animatronnic recreation of classic movie scenes were pretty lame aside from the Wizard of Oz. Disney does much better with witches, lions, scarecrows and tin men than characters from a black and white movie, no matter how beloved. Who really needs to see a Humphrey Bogart puppet uttering Here's looking at you kid? Still, I had to give props to the cast member who narrated our tour with cringe-inducing brio. Even at Disney, some people do their boring jobs much better than others.

To avoid the grazing masses, we ate a late, lousy lunch at the ABC Commissary where the Blue Light Special added packet after free packet of mayonnaise and catsup to his gluey asian noodle dish.

Making sure to get my money's worth, huh? I said.

Outside, he insisted on taking my picture for the first time in front of a Desperate Housewives poster.

I am NOT the housewife in this relationship I insisted.

Yeah, but you are desperate he rejoined. Touche.

Walking from New York to San Francisco on the Streets of America is conceived to make you feel like you are on a movie back lot but somehow I don't associate themed eating and shopping opportunities with the art of cinema. On to the Magic Kingdom!

We returned to the main gate and boarded a bus to ticket central where we transferred to a monorail that whisked us to Main Street, U.S.A. After we inserted our Disney cards and the scanner read our index fingers, the Blue Light Special decided to ask a security guard when they started checking guest bags.

September 12 he responded. I guess Disney never does close.

Cinderella's Castle, framed by clearing skies, loomed ahead of us at the center of the park, as recognizable a landmark as any America has to offer.

It's so much smaller than Neuschwanstein in Bavaria observed the Blue Light Special.

Maybe so but there is something undeniably magic about this structure, especially during the fireworks display, even if it exists in my adult mind more to encourage consumption than dreams. It brought back vivid memories of watching The Wonderful World of Disney on our first color television set in El Paso. Kindly Uncle Walt reminded me every Sunday night at 6 p.m. that my parents hadn't taken me back to The Magic Kingdom since an early childhood visit in the late 50s. He practiced visionary synergy even before it had a name using our homes as his platform and children as his salesforce.

We had scheduled our arrival to coincide with the 3 p.m. Disney Dreams Come True, an event that I expected to hate. Instead, my inner child finally awakened as if Rip Van Winkle from his nap. With the Dreams Come True refrain playing repetitively over loudspeakers camouflaged as lamp posts, floats featuring impersonators of all the most famous Disney characters marched past waving cheerfully in all directions. The delighted smiles of the children and parents who surrounded us were almost as irresistible as the fresh faces of the attractive young male dancers and bicycle riders who pretended to be animators.





All the guys are gay whispered the Blue Light Special as we both tried to make definitive eye contact with all the cute princes and other guys who weren't required to wear masks. Apparently, cruising is forbidden on Main Street because neither of us could manage even a flicker of recognition.

Since the crowd at the Magic Kingdom was much larger than the one at the Disney/MGM Studio, we plotted our ride strategy with a map and picked up our first Fast Pass at Big Thunder Mountain Railroad before getting in line for Splash Mountain, a roller coaster ride.

I don't vant to get vet whined the Blue Light Special. He always mispronounces his "w"s when he's tired.

There's more than one way to skin a cat. I mentioned that the ride was inspired by Song of the South, the only Disney movie not available on video or DVD because of its reputation for racism. The Blue Light Special loves having ammunition to fire back at me whenever I bring up German anti-Semitism.
We got in line. Even with the magnification of political correctness, we didn't find any obvious evidence of racism (aside from blinding whiteness of the crowds in the park), though he did get wet.

More than five hours had passed since our last thrill ride, so we left Splash Mountain happy. As we exited, we noticed our images on a computer screen. Mine wasn't particularly flattering but I marveled at how the Blue Light Special manages to smile even for hidden, automated cameras.

We detoured to Adventureland for a no-wait ascent into the Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse, a lifestyle that still appeals to me as much as it had when I was a kid. Then back to Frontierland for our Fast Pass reservation on the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. Because we arrived between 4 and 5 p.m., we were able to cut the longest line we had yet seen without encountering any hostility from the other guests. Way to go, Disney!

Our third roller coaster ride of the day didn't feel much different from the others, but the camera did capture the whites of Blue Light Special 's eyes in a pantomime of fear that tempted me to fork over $20. I managed to resist the memory extortion.

Although the grounds of the Haunted Mansion allowed me to make some additions to my cemetery photograph collection, the interior proved hardly scary at all. The Blue Light Special, however, confessed that he loved these quaint old rides and put his arm around me once we climbed into our private "Doombuggy." Snuggling closer, I thought immediately of the Tunnel of Love sequence in Side Show and realized that my experience of this particular phenomenon--amusement park romance--previously had been limited to movies, television and Broadway.

Our romantic interlude came to an abrupt end when the Blue Light Special had a temper tantrum during Mickey's Philharmagic, a concert presentation that had been highly recommended by Fodor's. Although the auditorium was only half full, an usher asked us to move from our center seats all the way to the end of the aisle. I feared that the Blue Light Special would make a scene. Instead, after we put on our 3D glasses, he sulked almost until the end, when he couldn't resist singing along to A Whole New World from Aladdin as the magic carpet passed right in front of our eyes.

It would have been much better if we had stayed in the middle he said when I told him I had enjoyed the concert as much as anything we had done all day.

Tomorrowland beckoned. Even after getting a Fast Pass for Space Mountain, we had to wait nearly two hours before we could return. In tribute to the Blue Light Special's passion for public transportation--he's never more engaged than when trying to figure out how to get from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible paying the least expensive fare--we boarded the Tomorrowland Transit Authority which offered a lovely view of the park at twilight and a relaxing opportunity to bicker about what we would do next.

How old are you? I teased, a little wearily, when he demanded that we go on the Mad Tea Party in Fantasyland.

OK, but only if you'll do the AstroOrbiter.

I couldn't quite believe how much energy he put into what I had thought would be a completely girly ride. As he spun our teacup around, quite madly, a lot of the little kids enviously looked our way, perhaps wondering why their daddies weren't quite so energetic or muscular. We betrayed our gayness again at the Astro Orbiter: no two straight men other than luge athletes would stuff themselves into cylinders that were barely long enough for an adult and a small child. I don't think I imagined the discomfort of the people who averted their eyes when we rode down in the elevator afterward.

Space Mountain, where we were able to fly our rocket ships solo in the dark, diminished the level of my self consciousness considerably. Afterwards, I was more than ready to find a spot to watch the fireworks and then escape the middle American family oppressiveness but the Blue Light Special was determined to take advantage of the additional "Magic Hours" for registered resort guests. We picked up our pink wristbands that allowed us to stay in the park until midnight instead of leaving with the hoi polloi after the conclusion of the 8 p.m. fireworks.

Our long day had just gotten a whole lot longer. I dragged my feet to the Pirates of the Caribbean where the Blue Light Special once again refused to understand how a theme park attraction had been transformed into one of the top movie grossing franchises of all time.

How did they develop the script? he asked.

They didn't I snapped, amazed that he could be so clueless about American pop culture.

We got separated when a cast member urged us to use the empty entrance. I got out of the line and waited for him at the exit, unable even to sit down because it deposited you into what must be the most successful merchandising effort in the park given the number of hats and swords on sale.

Ready to make him walk the plank, I informed him we were heading back to the castle to get a better view of the fireworks. En route, I recalled a family anecdote that an uncle still loves to repeat as if it holds the key to my personality.

We took you to see a fireworks display at Rye Playland he begins. When you didn't seem to be paying much attention, I asked you why. You said 'I've been to Disneyland and the fireworks much better there'.

I stand by my childhood opinion. As far as I'm concerned, it takes a castle backdrop for fireworks to achieve their maximum effect.

Now, only J.M. Barrie stood between me and dinner. When we had asked Chatty Kathy how crowded the park would be she told us lines on Saturday had been long only for Peter Pan's Flight. This information made it a must-see for the Blue Light Special. Bereft of a Fast Pass, we joined the long snaking line that didn't seem to have diminished since we first passed it six hours earlier.

Perhaps nostalgia accounts for the enduring appeal of a ho-hum ride through Edwardian London, which is based on one of Disneyland's original attractions. Most of the adults looked young enough to be children of baby boomer parents and now that they had their own families maybe they were going back in time.

The Blue Light Special offered to ride Pirates of the Caribbean again. I thought what the hell, we might as well since there was no wait and it was on our way out of the park. Floating in a boat somehow made it more enjoyable than the other "dark rides" though I still have no desire to see the movies.

We probably should have stayed in the park to eat. Although the restaurant in Cinderella's Castle was tempting I wasn't taking any chances. No prices were posted on the fancy script menu and the food would no doubt be inferior to views we already had seen courtesy of the Astro Orbiter and the Tomorrowland Transit Authority. Nor did I have any desire to visit Downtown Disney. Instead we drove back to Kissimmee knowing that our options would be extremely limited at 10 p.m. on a Sunday night.

I'm convinced that Disney deliberately makes the signage and roads confusing so you'll stick close to their cash registers. What had been a five-minute ride the night before took nearly half an hour when we couldn't quite remember the unmarked route. We were forced to settle for salads at Chili's and the Blue Light Special, no fool, made good on his promise to "invite" me to dinner a second time. It would have meant a lot more if he had offered to pay at the Castle. I wouldn't have accepted but he still would have gotten major brownie points. No pleasing me, is there?

WEIGHING OPTIONS

You won't be able to take a poop here the Blue Light Special reported upon returning to our table at the International House of Pancakes. There's no lock on the door. If you really have to go, we can drive to the Aventura mall.

Even though I had been complaining about my lack of regularity It didn't take me long to figure out why he was being so solicitous of my bowels.

Why not just admit you have to go instead of pretending that we're doing something for my benefit? I demanded, shaking my head over his transparent attempts at manipulation. Is this what they call intimacy? And who do you think was able to "leave something behind" (as he euphemistically prefers to put it) at the Aventura Mall?

The intermittent morning sun belied the overcast weather report so we went back to Haulover Beach which was much more crowded. We took along the pretzels and remaining cranberry juice and found a spot in the midst of several other gay men, including a thong-wearing Latino who provided the trip's only real moment of sexual intrigue. Butt Flosser made eye contact with me more than once as he checked out the Blue Light Special who was removing his bright red bathing suit for a quick exhibitionistic dip in the ocean. As soon as another hot-to-trot guy lay down his towel nearby, Butt Flosser redirected his attention but when the clouds rolled in, announcing Mother Nature's last call, he got up to go when we did, leaving the other guy behind.

Butt Flosser reached the parking lot ahead of us and waited in his car for several minutes as we began changing into our dry clothes. Then he left, before driving past and re-parking directly across from us a few minutes later. For some reason, however, he avoided making eye contact, but as soon as we started the car he pulled out in front of us.

OK, let's play his game as long as it doesn't take us out of our way I suggested as we exited the parking lot.

We followed Butt Flosser north on US A1A while he chatted on his cell phone and signaled a left hand turn. I drew the line when he stopped at a gas station. Was one of us supposed to pull up alongside him and make small talk about the price at the pump?

If we want to get to Disneyworld by 8 p.m. we better end this right now I said though I could tell from the Blue Light Special's excitement that he wanted to keep pursuing it.

You never weigh your options I continued. Translation: why should we take the chance on finding ourselves in a situation that could produce serious tension and result in what I feared most, sexual rejection from a guy who didn't even particularly interest me?

The Blue Light Special acquiesced mildly enough and we began the longest leg of our journey, a 200 mile drive north. When I took the wheel and picked up the pace by rapidly changing lanes on I95, he began eating pretzels and telling me how to drive.

I thought you were going to take a nap I said, slipping Confessions on a Dance Floor into the CD player and turning the volume way up when it became clear he preferred to torture me instead. There's nothing like the bass on a car stereo to silence a back seat driver and the sound of his self-satisfied munching.

We missed the turn off for the Florida Turnpike at Jupiter (my fault of course), which required a detour at Ft. Pierce. Even with just two lanes, however, Florida Highway 60 west to Yeehaw Junction was a lot less congested. Lined with orange and lemon trees that appeared almost ready for harvest, it actually felt like we were in Florida for half an hour instead of a heavy machinery conveyor belt.

Everybody on the Turnpike drove at least 80 mph so, after a brief stop to pick up Cinnabon rolls for Sunday's breakfast, we reached Kissimmee by 7 p.m. Finding the All Star Movie Resort at Disneyworld gave us a lot more trouble, especially at night in the rain. It also required a security check. But the guard at the gate didn't even notice that the Blue Light Special flashed my driver's license instead of his own.

Chatty Kathy, a "cast member" at the reception desk (all Disney employees are known as cast members) checked us in and told us that she and her family adored New York City. Was this her way of letting us know she was cool with a male couple staying at the family resort?

If so, it worked because I was much more comfortable making small talk with this mother of two college age children who told me that she and her husband slept in separate bedrooms than I had been with the front desk employees at the gay guest houses. Nor did Chatty Kathy seem particularly surprised that we were staying in the least expensive child friendly accommodations even though the reservation agent had tried to persuade me to book a room at one of the nominally more expensive resorts that cater to adults. I had stubbornly refused, wanting to experience Disneyworld in much the same way that most Americans do.

After Chatty Kathy explained that she hadn't understood that she was hearing a severe weather warning on the radio while driving home the night before, I told her what had happened when I called to determine whether or not we should make the drive north.

Whoever picked up the phone ended our conversation with `have a magical day' even though we had just been discussing tornado damage to the area and the cool, rainy forecast! I said.

You needn't have worried. Disneyworld NEVER closes she said with a slightly subversive twinkle, handing us a map. You guys made my night.



A huge sorcerer's apprentice hat marked the Fantasia complex where we were staying. Ducks, dalmatians and dancing broomsticks were among the enormous "All-Star Movie" icons that identified the other two-story family warehouses. The theme continued inside with Mickey Mouse adorning the soap, shampoo and bedspread, and stars all over the black shower curtain. A mounted wall lamp looked like a bag of popcorn until you turned it on. Even the washcloths had been folded into the shape of mouse ears.

The room was comfortable enough but lacked either a microwave or a refrigerator. Nor did the windows open. The handicapped-accessible bathroom didn't have a tub, just a drain in the middle of the tiled floor which probably facilitated cleaning. I began to feel a little like livestock.

After unpacking and fighting over who would get to keep the Mickey Mouse shampoo bottle, we escaped to Kissimmee for dinner. We ate at Chili's--a chain favored by the Thug Lover--where the food was reasonably priced and much tastier than I thought it would be. By the time we finished sharing some kind of rich chocolate dessert neither of us were up to exploring Orlando's gay nightlife.

I dozed on the way back to the hotel, not knowing that the Blue Light Special had gotten lost and not much caring when I did find out. But then he awoke me from a sound sleep by getting up in the middle of the night and turning on the light to adjust the air conditioner. Despite my fury at being awakened, the room did get a lot more comfortable when he used his shoe to open the chained door a crack, allowing moist air to circulate in our stall.

SPIT ON THE BAIT

We had a 9 a.m. reservation to redeem half of my Christmas gift to the Blue Light Special, an opportunity to swim with the dolphins at the Dolphin Research Center in Grassy Key, 90 minutes north. This required an early check out and the return of two porno videos before we could get going.

Is your partner checking out, too? asked the officious desk clerk.

Yes, but he's always right behind me, I said.

I'll bet he is he smirked, inaccurately. No doubt he noticed the student discount as he deleted the $40 porno deposit from my bill. I wondered if I should tell him that someone had been drinking from the nearly empty bottle of vodka that we had left behind in our room.

With no other gay guesthouses on our itinerary, we bid farewell to the Island House and my fears of sexual jealousy spoiling our trip. We gassed up at Circle K, where I picked up a blueberry muffin and cup of coffee.

Don't forget to spit on the bait the cashier said to the man in front of me, who had told her he was going fishing.

I repeated the line and the context to the Blue Light Special who was waiting in the car.

Maybe you should have spit on ME back at the Island House he observed.

Very funny I replied, realizing, a little uneasily, that my leverage over him was also scheduled to end at 1 p.m. that afternoon once he and Flipper had completed their pas de deux.



Although we had given ourselves the allotted time for the drive to Grassy Key, the presence of a Florida Highway state trooper on our tail for a good third of the ride slowed us down and increased the stress level as we listened to Cat Stevens's Greatest Hits--the Blue Light Special is crazy for Yusuf's "An Other Cup"--and marveled at the rising sun's reflection on the vast expanse of water that surrounded us.

For a few tense moments we thought we might have passed the Dolphin Research Center, but when we did spot it, a few minutes before 9 a.m., the place hadn't even opened for business. By the time it did, a small crowd of children and adults had gathered in front, most of whom, like me, were accompanying registered swimmers who first had to complete a 45-minute training session.

The leader, one of those gosh golly smiley types, congratulated us for choosing the safe way to swim with the dolphins and provided us with a brief history of the facility that had been established by Flipper's first trainer, who apparently thought his star was a porpoise. She also apologized for the lack of certain amenities, including changing rooms and shower stalls, blaming the previous season's hurricanes.

I know some of you have been told that dolphins are very sensitive to sun tan oil but you don't have to worry about that here the leader said cheerily. There's lots worse in the Gulf waters where you'll be swimming.

I got the sense that DRC spent very little on upkeep and provided only enough education to qualify as a non-profit organization. Had I made a mistake in discouraging the Blue Light Special from choosing a commercial operation when we were planning the trip? Nor did I entirely believe the rap about how excited the dolphins were to be interacting with people as I observed the Blue Light Special from an area that was too far away to take good photos. After each trick or interaction, the trainers fed the dolphins fresh fish. If not cruel, it seemed mildly exploitive. And although the leader had insisted that spontaneous encounters in the wild were dangerous for both the dolphins and people, it sounded more like a party line.



The leader divided the swimmers into two groups of six. The Blue Light Special's group included a pair of German women in their early 40s. We struck up a brief friendship the Frankfurt Frauleins when I offered to serve as their photographer. It proved to be the most enjoyable part of the day for me even though it entailed an awkward explanation of why I wouldn't be joining them on the swimming platform. How do you tell three very enthusiastic people that you don't entirely approve of what they're doing?

At least the experience pretty much lived up to the Blue Light Special's expectations. He complained only the first group of swimmers, which was being videotaped and exhibited as part of a public show, got to be towed by two dolphins instead of just one, Kibby.

Of course I was peeved that the staff photographer, who to stood on the dock near the swimmer's platform, got the money shot: the Blue Light Special, submerged from the waist down, holding Kibby's long nose, the hardest part of her body, against his cheek in a faux kiss. Ka-ching. There goes another $10.

In addition to petting, kissing and towing, the swim also included making movements that the dolphins could imitate. I had hoped the Blue Light Special would try the cute Egyptian dance I find so amusing but he settled instead for something the trainer suggested and swayed back and forth. Kibby emulated him perfectly. I wondered how long it had been since she had eaten last and if she would have been so cooperative with a full belly.



My cynicism, fueled by ignorance, increased when we decided to stay for lunch. A woman eating what appeared to be a reasonably priced chicken salad directed us to a trailer that served food within sight of the dolphin holding pens. A menu posted on a chalk board advertised a "mahi mahi" sandwich.

You not only get to swim with the dolphins here, you get to eat them too I joked to the Frankfurt Frauleins who had joined us and ordered veggie burgers.

We learned they had begun their trip a week earlier in Orlando where they had rented a dirty recreational vehicle and endured days of chilly rain and traffic jams. I assumed they were lesbians but neither made any admission when I referred to myself as a gay man living in New York at one point. Instead, they asked how 9/11 had changed the city. This led to a long discussion of the differences between New York City and the rest of the United States. I encouraged them to visit and find out for themselves.

Don't worry, people up north take better care of their teeth and use public transportation I assured them.

By the time we hit the road, the temperature had risen to the mid 80s, the highest it had been during the entire trip. We kept the top down for a detour over a toll bridge through a completely undeveloped landscape that made me want to spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the Everglades. The Blue Light Special wanted to stick to our original plan, however, and when we reached the Florida Turnpike at Homestead we headed to the gay beach in North Miami.



The $5 admission fee at Haulover Beach didn't seem so bad in comparison to the $300 rate we had been quoted for a room at an EconoLodge in Pembroke Pines. The pleasant black woman who took our money pointed toward the parking lot closest to the nude beach.

How did you know that was where we wanted to go? I teased.

After changing into our swimwear at the car, we took an underpass below US A1A and emerged onto a beach flanked on either side by enormous construction projects. Men and women alike looked as if they were attired in butterscotch leather from head to toe. Some strolled about. Others played volleyball. Venders tried to make a buck renting umbrellas and chaise lounges but by this hour more people were leaving than arriving.

Some slim guy with a dick that literally hung halfway down to his knees walked toward us almost as soon as we had chosen a spot near the aquamarine water to put down our foam rubber mat.

I guess I can't go in right away said the Blue Light Special, nodding toward his spontaneous erection.

Yeah, maybe it's time to spit on the bait I replied when Tube Sock passed without paying either of us the slightest bit of attention.

The subject of the Blue Light Special's immigration status came up as we sat there, chatting. When I predicted he would have to go back to Germany eventually unless he found someone to marry, he lashed out at me.

You're probably too old for Tube Sock he said.

Things went downhill from there. We argued about what to do next. He wanted to go to South Beach or spend the night at the baths in Ft. Lauderdale. I vetoed both suggestions on the grounds that I thought they were impractical but did agree to stop at Leather Werks, the company that had sold us his codpiece during the International International Mr. Leather contest last summer in Chicago.

A good looking guy helped him pick out a studded leather armband that matched his codpiece when the other accessories he was considering were beyond his price range. I was in no financial position or mood to offer a subsidy. It surprised me when he handed over his $40, depleting what I thought was the last of his cash even though he had said he would "invite" me to dinner again.

Another customer desperately tried to make small talk with us but my tolerance for casual jokes about brightly colored butt plugs and dildos the size of anacondas is limited. I made the mistake of asking the manager to recommend a cheap motel. The two of them spent the next 10 minutes calling overpriced guesthouses that catered to the leather crowd. Fortunately, there were no vacancies.

We decided to eat at Hamburger Mary's in Wilton Manors, which had been recommended by a friend and was advertised in the Ft. Lauderdale Fun Map. It turned out to be the same address as Rosie's where we had eaten during the first night of the trip. A guy in the parking lot, after confirming that the name had changed recently, encouraged us to eat at the Italian place across the street.

It's just as gay and the food is good he said.

Meanwhile, the Blue Light Special called Thug Lover back in Chicago to get the phone numbers of some nearby Motel 6's, where I hoped we might be able to find cheaper accommodations.

Why would anybody want to go to Orlando? asked the Thug Lover in a deft act of sabotage.

We were dimly aware that the area had been struck by a freak tornado but the weather at tomorrow's destination had not yet been a factor in my tortured decision making process about where to spend the night. When I called Disneyworld to ask if it had been damaged, the operator told me that the only thing we had to worry about was the wet and windy forecast.

When the Blue Light Special couldn't decide what topping he wanted on the pizza we ordered, I snapped.

It isn't a life or death decision I hissed. Just make a selection.

The waitress asked the Blue Light Special if I was OK when I left the table to use the restroom. My misery over his eagerness to hit the bars or the baths on a Saturday night might have been embarrassingly obvious, but it also helped me decide on our next move. Instead of driving north, we would stay put in the first local motel that had a vacancy for $100 or less. This way, we could pop the top on our convertible at least one more morning.

Checking into the Budget Motel on US 1 just south of downtown Ft. Lauderdale lifted by spirits instantly. It was run by an Indian family who, when we pulled in, were socializing on top of the former swimming pool, now filled with concrete. Although it lacked the amenities we had found at the Cabanas and the Island House, the large clean room had everything we needed and reminded me of childhood auto trips with my parents.

The Blue Light Special must have thought I was crazy when I suggested that we go back to Wilton Manors for a drink.

I have just two conditions I said. You're buying and we're back here by 12:30.

He couldn't wait to show off his new armband even after I made fun of him for wearing it with red sneakers. The drinks that had cost me $3 (including tip) at Georgie's Alibi on Sunday cost him $9, giving me a certain childish satisfaction.

Credit Petula Clark, however, for really salvaging the night. The VJ played an unfamiliar and extended mix of Downtown, the first single I ever purchased. It propelled us into Boom, a much livelier dance club just a few doors away in the mini-mall. In no time at all, we were dancing along to Jennifer Hudson's "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going," no easy feat. As soon as I pointed out a shirtless circuit boy, the Blue Light Special took his off, too. No doubt about it: the older guy in the green Milwaukee t-shirt was with the hottest guy in the place.

Too bad he had to insist he knew a better way back to the Budget Inn. The night ended with another fight, albeit the kind that seems more characteristic of a married couple. And although the Blue Light Special once again fell asleep with the TV on, I didn't mind so much because it wasn't thrusting cocks on the screen that awakened me.

UP, UP & AWAY




The weather looked a little iffy when we awoke. The Blue Light Special went to the gym and I dashed off to the cemetery for a hasty second visit. I got to photograph everything I wanted to, including a cherub bust and a monument to nearly 300 men who died on the U.S.S. Maine when it sunk in a Havana harbor after a powder explosion, an event that helped precipitate the Spanish American War.





Hard Sell had forecast the weather accurately, however, for our Power Adventure. The size of our group had increased to 14. It included a couple from the Netherlands and three guys and a girl from Paris. The captain; Snorkel Coach, an adorable surfer boy with blond dreadlocks and a grin as bright as Christopher Atkins in The Blue Lagoon; and Party Gal, a slightly tubby and maternal 20 something comprised our crew. I could have been the father of anybody aboard the sailboat except the Blue Light Special who probably was ten years older than the others.

The delivery of fresh scrambled eggs delayed our departure a bit. A couple from New Jersey began talking to me as we dug into the cinnamon rolls. He worked in construction and wanted to tell us ahead of time exactly what we would be doing. She wore a Madonna t-shirt but didn't recognize the name of her latest release. Fortunately, the captain demanded our attention before I could get stuck in the morass of their pleasant but unstimulating conversation.

Almost as soon as we left the harbor, the Blue Light Special began obsessing about the cheap black sunglasses he had purchased just for the trip along with a floating lanyard the night before. The film on the lenses kept flaking off when he tried to wipe away the salt spray even when I provided him with the soft cloth I use to clean my Ray Bans.

You're just making it worse I admonished, resisting the temptation to add You get what you pay for.

It took us nearly an hour to reach our first destination in the open ocean. Snorkel Coach provided some perfunctory lessons as well as the admission that the choppy seas might make it difficult for the Blue Light Special and me, the only two first-timers aboard. Nevertheless, we gamely donned our masks and flippers and descended into water as warm as it ever gets off Fire Island. I was so thankful I had chosen the sunset sail over the free wetsuit option offered by Hard Sell the day before.

I couldn't quite get the hang of breathing until Snorkel Coach hollered Pull the mask strap farther up on your head, behind the crown. Suddenly I began sucking air not seawater through the snorkel tube. This, along with earlier advice to apply lip balm and suntan lotion to my mustache to make a better seal for the mask, ensured the generosity of the tip that inevitably would be requested at the end of the day.

The know-it-all construction worker had told me that the reef was mostly dead so my expectations already were low, not a bad state of mind an inexperienced beginner. Though the reef lacked the vibrant color and gently waving tentacles I had seen through the bottom of a glass bottom boat in the Great Barrier Reef, there were plenty of angel and parrot fish. The 45 minutes passed as quickly as the crew had predicted and the silence of the activity came as a welcome respite from the Blue Light Special's whining about his sunglasses.

As we headed to a more protected area near the harbor, Party Girl and Snorkel Coach served a big lunch that lived up to Hard Sell's hype with cold cuts, several varieties of bread and salads, and unlimited shrimp. It would have cost the two of us $40 at a restaurant, leaving me very happy if a little self-conscious in the new Nike swimming briefs I was wearing. Everyone else, even the Blue Light Special and his fellow Europeans, wore knee length trunks. I wondered how we must appear to the crew and other passengers.

Fortunately, the Power Adventure didn't give us a lot of time for self-conscious reflection. Shortly after swallowing our last shrimp, we arrived at a floating dock manned by the Shouter. The crew divided us into two groups. The Shouter instructed us how to operate a pair of Waverunners, each of which could carry two passengers, until the parasailing boat arrived to take away the first group.

Driving the Waverunners was clearly the riskiest activity from Sebago's perspective given their lack of control over the vehicles once we boarded them. It also explained the absence of beer, which flows like water in Key West, during lunch.

Make sure you check the baffle underneath the engine for seaweed before you turn on the ignition, commanded the Shouter. Don't get within 100 yards of any other vehicle, including the other Waverunner that will be in use. And if you have a drink, we'll cut off your pink wristband which means you can't ride.

The Blue Light Special and I swam to the water trampoline, a kind of holding station for anybody not engaged in another activity, where we waited less than 15 minutes for our first turn. I told him he could drive the first time mostly because I had more confidence in his ability to follow technical instructions. Boarding the Waverunner gave me the only trouble of the day as I had to pull myself up over the steep rear seat using only my arms.

I held on to the back of the seat like I had learned to do on a motorcycle while we zipped around, circling the dock as instructed and staying out no longer than our allotted ten minutes. The Blue Light Special's innate caution always surprises me. I realized we would have to wait until it was my turn to drive before we hit full throttle.

The parasailing boat returned to the dock a few minutes after we turned the Waverunner over to another couple making me realize how short our ride in the sky actually would be. No matter-- once the two-man crew had untangled a parachute and conducted a hushed conversation about how to handle the problem of an obese couple, six of us jumped into the boat for the literal high point of the day. We all agreed to be photographed at $15 a pop.

After the Dutch couple had ascended, the guy driving the boat pointed to the obese couple and said You two will have to go up separately. Initially, the woman protested that she was scared to do it alone, but when it became clear that the boat couldn't handle two tons of fun, she tearfully insisted that her husband be given twice as much time aloft. The crew wasn't happy, but acceded to her request when nobody squawked. I love you, honey he said in farewell.



Our turn came last. We put our legs through a pair of nylon harnesses that would function as seats once we were airborne and moved to the small deck at the back of the boat. The driver accelerated, the rainbow parachute filled with air and lifted us gradually 100 feet above the water. We marveled at the view.

It's a little like being at the top of a ferris wheel observed the Blue Light Special.

The driver slowed the boat down and dipped us into the water before accelerating again while his mate, who also had served as photographer, reeled us in for a completely dry landing. Both of us were giddy with excitement.

Yet another boat pulled up alongside the dock, towing a heavy duty inflated raft called a banana boat. We boarded with the Dutch couple. I sat behind the Blue Light Special with the Dutch guy beside me, our feet behind us, while we gripped a pair of protruding plastic handles. It didn't appear to require any skill. Wrong! When the driver hit the gas hard and turned sharply as he pulled away from the dock, all of us fell into the water, laughing along with everybody watching from the dock.

Now that we knew to hang on for dear life and lean into the turns as if we were water skiing, the driver tried to throw us a second time. He succeeded only with the Dutch couple. Hard Sell had promised us the banana boat would be the most fun of the day and it was.

Athough Party Girl and Snorkel Coach already had opened the tap when we returned to the dock, the faster of the two Waverunners was available. Give me speed over beer anyday. I took my turn in the driver's seat while the Blue Light Special wrapped his arms tightly around my waist.

That's not how you're supposed to hold on I said.

He ignored me. I was thrilled. When I opened the throttle as far as it would go, he screamed for me to slow down. I ignored him. We were thrilled.

Once again we stayed within our allotted time. Now both Waverunners were available and everybody but the New Jersey couple had lost their pink wristbands. A smart move on their part, and one obviously based on prior experience. They each got at least a 20-minute ride on their own Waverunner. The Shouter finally had to give them the signal to return.

The beer flowed freely during the leisurely ride back to the Sebago berth in the Key West Bight. Party Girl gave the Blue Light Special the remaining shrimp.

Throw the shells over the side she said, an instruction that appalled me until I saw how quickly the garbage attracted ravenous schools of fish who cleaned the water instantly. I don't know who was happier chowing down on the shrimp, the Blue Light Special or the fish. All the sun and activity had mellowed us out completely. It was easy to understand why Party Girl had moved to Key West after graduating from college in New Hampshire.

My job is talking to people she said, refilling our plastic cups a third time, and telling me to avoid South Beach at all costs over Super Bowl weekend because of traffic jams.

It would have been a perfect day except for the nagging worry about how much I would be expected to tip. I decided $25 would take care of Snorkel Coach, Party Girl and the Shouter. The Blue Light Special begged me to let him be the one to drop the bills in the tip jar when we walked off the boat. Instead, I gave him $5 to tip the guy who had taken our parasailing photo.

Back at the Island House, the Blue Light Special hit the gym a second time. I lounged by the pool, eyeing the only attractive patron who emerged from his room in a light blue polo shirt that flattered his well-defined chest, chatting on a cell phone. Insecure about being alone, I thought, while listening to dance music on my i-Pod.

When the guy returned a few minutes later, still talking on his phone as he took a seat on one of the chaise lounges, I cut him less slack. Probably an attorney, I thought, overhearing what only could have been a business-related conversation conducted at a volume loud enough to be heard across the pool. The kind of guy who could spoil the day or even the trip if he and the Blue Light Special hooked up. So when the Blue Light Special came upstairs to swim a couple lengths in the pool, I watched the two of them like a hawk.

Just remember you haven't swum with the dolphins yet, I said, playfully, when he emerged from the water, but relieved that it was time to leave for the Mallory Square sunset celebration, the final item on our "must do" list.



A flow of like-minded tourists literally swept us into Mallory Square where everyone in Key West, including the passengers from the two enormous cruise ships that were docked in the harbor, was gathering. Performers and venders set up shop daily to take advantage of the crowds.

The rapid click and flashbulbs of cameras at sunset must rival what was heard outside the Orlando courtroom during the arraignment of the diaper-wearing astronaut. Or during the press conference that the coroner's office in Ft. Lauderdale called after Anna Nicole Smith was found dead in Ft. Lauderdale. What is it about the Sunshine State, anyway?



I had hoped my own clicks would capture a flash of green, an unusual and rare phenomenon that requires very specific atmospheric conditions according to the self appointed master of ceremonies and a movie of the same name I once had seen. It wasn't to be. The cliched picture I did get, with gulls and sails adding a little garnish to sky and water, wasn't particularly evocative. Perhaps watching twenty years of remarkably similar sunsets over the Great South Bay in the Pines have jaded me although I can't say that my equally long enjoyment of the hunk parade there diminished my enjoyment of a stunningly gorgeous young gymnast. If I hadn't been all tipped out, his flexibility and exuberance might have tempted me to throw $5 into his hat.

I wonder if Thug Lover did this when he was here in '96? asked the Blue Light Special.

Thug Lover was here in '96? I demanded.

Yes, why? he asked.

Because, you asshole, it explains what I thought I heard at the restaurant last night when you were talking to him in German.

The Blue Light Special smiled. I didn't.



Neither of us were hungry enough for a real dinner so we shared a slice of Key lime pie with meringue topping at the Blond Giraffe. We also spotted the Shouter working his night job in front of local bar where he lured passersby with a performing parrot. As soon as he recognized us, however, I jerked the Blue Light Special away, whispering I would rather go back and tip the gymnast than this guy again.

We embarked on what I thought would be a quixotic search for fresh fruit and vegetables along Duval Street. Soon enough, however, the Blue Light Special, determined to have a healthy snack later, found a storefront displaying a limited selection of produce. Like everyone else in the free-spirit destination, the vender who handed him an overpriced tomato and red pepper to take to the cash register also expected to be tipped.

The Blue Light Special spent the next hour looking for the cheapest possible t-shirt to commemorate his Key West visit. My irritation grew as we entered store after store until he finally decided to have one custom-made.

We repeated our routine of the night before at the Island House, briefly, but both of us were too tired to hunt seriously for a threesome among the very slim pickings. We settled instead for trying to figure out why the video camera wasn't working. Hooking it up to direct current proved that the battery had died. Neither of us could resist the opportunity to interview one another about the trip but my earlier irritation returned and escalated when the Blue Light Special insisted on watching two more porno videos while I tried to sleep.