I OWE, I OWE, TO DISNEYLAND WE GO!

I wrote this column in 1994, after a family trip to Disneyland. My daughter was nine and my son was five. 17 years later, we're returning to the Magic Kingdom, or as I like to call it: The Land of the Greedy Cartoon Mouse. Wish me luck.
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© 1994 Mark W. Mayfield

Back in the "Good Old Days," most American parents could pay for a trip to Disneyland without draining their bank accounts. (According to historians, the "Good Old Days" officially ended in 1976, when my generation graduated from high school and realized that we would soon have to get jobs and actually EARN our own money if we wanted to buy more bell-bottoms, Earth Shoes, 8-track tapes and incense.) But during the last several years, the world's premier theme park has gradually raised its prices to offset the skyrocketing cost of capturing and hiring the few clean-cut, well-mannered employees who still exist in North America. Consequently, a family trip to Disneyland now requires careful financial planning:

Financial adviser: So, Mr. Jones, tell me about your financial goals.

Client: My primary goal is to design a comprehensive savings strategy that will eventually yield the monetary assets I need to send my children to prestigious universities. I also wanna buy a really cool SUV, a shiny red speed boat and a humongous big-screen TV.

Financial adviser: With proper financial planning, those goals are easily attainable. Is there anything else?

Client: Well, there is one other thing. I've always wanted to take my family to Disneyland.

Financial adviser: DISNEYLAND!? You gotta be kidding! (Angrily closing his genuine eelskin briefcase) Listen, you moron, I'm a financial adviser, not a miracle worker!

So what's a fun-seeking, cost-conscious parent supposed to do? Do what my wife and I did: Simply convince your children that plenty of lucrative, fulfilling careers are available for people without college educations and head for Southern California, sometimes called "The Land of the Greedy Cartoon Mouse."

Immediately after arriving at the Happiest Place on Earth, we unhappily discovered that long lines and large crowds would prevent us from enjoying more than one or two attractions during our visit. We also discovered the importance of protecting our vulnerable body parts while approaching popular attractions, which were surrounded by other predatory packs of fun-seeking, cost-conscious tourists who used any means, including violence, to get a good spot in line.

Our first stop was Toontown, a strange and wonderful place full of colorful, wavy, surrealistic buildings that look like they were designed by Salvador Dali and Timothy Leary. It's an attraction that appeals to children, who enjoy its wacky silliness, and parents, who vaguely recall experiencing similar shapes and colors during a Grateful Dead concert in the mid 1970s.

By the time we fought our way through Toontown, nervously protecting our exposed body parts, we had only enough time for one more attraction. We chose the legendary Matterhorn. This classic roller coaster was designed by Hubert Horn, an eccentric genius who constantly worried that park visitors would scoff at his idea of a snow-covered alp in the middle of sunny, warm Southern California. His impatient assistant, who was sick of Hubert's constant whining and fretting, finally grabbed his boss by the neck and screamed, "Who cares what people think about your stupid ride?! It really doesn't MATTER, HORN!" The rest is history.

Although the Matterhorn is quite old, it's extremely safe. Unlike most traveling-carnival rides that are sloppily assembled by tattooed, substance-abusing ex-cons, the Matterhorn was carefully constructed by well-behaved, God-fearing ride builders of the 1950's. They were big, strong, sweaty, red-blooded American men with bulging biceps and short, neatly combed hair. They were honorable men who would go home after a hard day's work and proudly tell their families about another day on "The Horn." (Note for wimpy fathers: If roller-coasters scare you, avoid this attraction. After all, nothing is more pathetic than a grown man who’s screaming, crying and holding tightly to his wife before the ride even begins.)

Of course, there are many other wonderful attractions to experience in The Magic Kingdom, but we'll have to wait until our next visit, after we hock my great grandmother’s wedding ring.

Mark Mayfield (mark.mayfield@comcast.net) was extremely disappointed when he learned that the snow on the Matterhorn is fake.

COOL DAD JUST WANTS A FAIR SHAKE

In 2003, I wrote this column about the frustration of trying to participate in complicated handshakes with my teenage son and his friends. It was published in several California newspapers, including the Fresno Bee. (Thankfully, my son is a few years older now, so his handshakes are slightly less complex.)
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© 2003 Mark W. Mayfield

According to a recent survey, I am now one of “America’s Top Ten Cool Dads.” The survey, which polled two average American teenagers who happen to live in my house, included these questions:

1. Do most of your teenage friends believe that you have the coolest dad in America?
2. Do most of your teenage friends love and admire your dad because he’s able to interact with them on a juvenile level?
3. Are most of your teenage friends astounded by your dad’s semi-youthful appearance and adolescent sense of humor?
4. When most of your friends rave about your “incredibly cool dad,” do you agree with them?
5. In your opinion, does your father belong on the prestigious list of America’s Top Ten Cool Dads?

(Before participating in the survey, the teenagers received these instructions: “Please respond to each question truthfully, but remember that answering ‘no’ will mean that you’ll never again be allowed to borrow the car, that you’ll never again be allowed to stay out after 7:30 on Saturday nights, and that you’ll never again be allowed to use my telephone, eat my food, watch my TV, celebrate holidays with me, etc.”)

But despite my remarkable rapport with young people, I still don’t know how to correctly shake hands with my teenage son and his friends. It’s not as easy as it sounds. These days, shaking hands with a teenage boy is a whole different ball game. It’s a complicated, multi-part endeavor that takes approximately 25 minutes to complete–even longer if you make a mistake and have to start over.

When I was my son’s age, I knew only one handshake. It’s the one my father taught me, the good ol’ basic American handshake that greets friends, celebrates victories, seals deals and ends arguments. It’s a quick, simple gesture that involves nothing more than a firm grip, two or three vertical forearm pumps, and a smooth release. It varies only slightly when a man shakes hands with a woman, at which time he adjusts his grip pressure to approximately 40 percent of it’s maximum and reduces his up-and-down forearm travel to roughly half the distance required for an all-male handshake. (And while I’m on the subject of same-sex handshakes, let me make one thing perfectly clear: I believe that any man who enjoys watching a woman shake hands with another woman is a disgusting sicko who need professional counseling. Furthermore, I strongly support harsh punishment for those smut peddlers who operate seedy adult web sites that display provocative photos of women engaging in girl-to-girl handshaking. That’s all I’m going to say about the subject.)

Modern teenage boys aren’t satisfied with the primitive handshake of their fathers’ generation. They constantly invent new, creative, complex handshakes that twist, turn, spin, slide, bump, flip, slap and snap. Although these newfangled handshakes are entertaining to watch, they’re bad news for cool dads like me who attempt to perform them. To illustrate my point, I’ll now recount a recent embarrassing meeting with one of my son’s teenage friends.

Me: (Extending my right hand and flawlessly performing the first six parts of the official teenage-boy handshake) Wussup, dude? (Translation: What have you been doing lately, my pimply-faced teenage friend?)

Teenage boy: (Obviously surprised and impressed by my amazing ability to participate in the official teenage-boy handshake) Nothin’. (Translation: “I’m a lazy teenage boy who stuffs his face with junk food and plays video games all day.”)

Me: (Becoming extremely nervous because I suddenly forgot how to perform the next nine parts of the official teenage-boy handshake) That’s cool. (Translation: “That’s cool.”)

Teenage boy: (Laughing loudly because I mistakenly performed the fist-bump part of the handshake BEFORE the palm-slide part and AFTER the finger-snap part) See ya’ later, Mr. Mayfield. (Translation: What a doofus! You don’t deserve a spot on the prestigious list of America’s Top-Ten Cool Dads!)

Me: HEY, DUDE! PLEASE COME BACK AND LET ME TRY THE HANDSHAKE AGAIN! I’LL GET IT RIGHT THIS TIME!

In conclusion, here’s my sage advice for anybody who’s thinking about shaking hands with a teenage boy: Forget about it.

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