IT'S NOT SUCH A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL

I have come to the conclusion that the world is basically divided into two camps: those who love Disney theme parks and those who hate them and everything they stand for. Ever since I was seven years old and my mother brought home the 45 rpm record of IT’S A SMALL WORLD, I dreamed of visiting this magical place called Disneyland.

I have yet to make it to Anaheim, but have been to Florida’s Disney World on three occasions. On one trip my brother and I stayed an entire week in a hotel within the park, completely immersing ourselves in the experience.


My first trip, however, was a different story. I had just played a New Year’s concert in Miami and had a few days free, so I decided to head north to Orlando. I recall the thrill I felt when I first saw the gates of the Magic Kingdom, and once inside I was determined to completely immerse myself in the glow of this wondrous place.


I felt a little conspicuous, a single man enjoying the Dumbo ride and the Country Bear Jamboree on my own, but I had been anticipating this visit since I was seven and was not going to miss the chance to fully enjoy the Disney experience. After several hours of glory I emerged from Cinderella’s Castle and heard, faintly in the distance, the siren’s song that had first ignited my burning desire to visit this place.


There it was; the “It’s A Small World” ride. Excitedly I joined the line of riders, noting that I was the oldest one there by a long shot, which I imagine was the reason the ride operator seated me by myself in the front row of the boat once we finally boarded.

For those who have never experienced this ride, let me paint a picture. A large boat with several rows, each seating numerous people, floats through various tableaux of what the 1950’s Disney designers assumed to represent the world’s many cultures. Creepy animatronic dolls, all of them frighteningly identical other than their skin colour, move around clumsily while the well-known Sherman Brothers’ song, “It’s A Small World After All” plays endlessly.

Of course this is magical to the average 7 year old, and I revelled in the memory of the hours I had spent playing that old 45. This ride might be old and outdated, but its very simplicity harkened back to a simpler time.

Then unexpectedly our journey came to a grinding halt. Something was clearly wrong with the mechanism that moved the boat, but I assumed it would soon be corrected. I then became acutely aware that I was the sole adult on the ride, sitting alone in the front row with dozens of small children behind me.

I turned around and found several kids already in tears, no doubt terrified that we would be stuck in this terrifying place forever. I attempted to talk to them but, as most kids today have rightly learned, one never talks to strangers - especially creepy guys sitting all by themselves on a children’s ride. I was beginning to feel like a Disney villain, kidnapping frightened children and spiriting them away to my evil island.

Miraculously the sound system had somehow managed to escape any breakdown, since the song continued to play. Incessantly. Relentlessly. The minutes ticked past. 10, 15, 20...all the while a chorus of hysterical children sobbed along with the mocking lyric, “It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears…”

How had I never realized how insipid this song was? The United Nations and the European Court of Human Rights have both banned the use of loud music in interrogations; the U.S. military even uses the term “music torture.” How had any evil-doer not yet discovered the power of this single recording?

Almost a full half hour into this ordeal, the boat finally jerked back into motion and headed toward the exit doors. As we emerged into the sunlight I dreaded what the mobs of panic-stricken parents were about to see. There I sat, front and centre, the evil Captain Hook with my crew of weeping children, waving feebly as we returned from Neverland.

Shortly thereafter Disney decided to revamp this ride. Perhaps they discovered that not everyone in the world looks the same, or that their song could far more easily be used for evil than good, or maybe they decided to no longer allow solitary adults to take a boatload of kids into a dark building for half an hour.

I’m not sure. All I do know is that, should I ever again visit It’s A Small World, I will be certain to take along two things. Another adult and earplugs.

Goofy and I share a tender moment.

www.randyvancourt.com

RETURN TO SENDER

“Philately: the study of stamps, postal history and other related items.”

I may be wrong, but I’m fairly certain most people have never given the subject of philately much thought. I have always been aware that it had something to do with stamp collecting but one summer day in 2007 I was destined to discover much, much more.

As a performer I spend quite a bit of time on the road. I’ve always enjoyed greeting audience members after my shows; I run around the building and appear at the exit to shake hands with people as they’re leaving. Of course saying hello to so many people every evening means that eventually many of their faces blur together.

This particular July had taken me, for two and a half weeks, to a beautiful town on the shores of Lake Huron. It was my first Sunday off, following a week of performances where we had shaken lots of hands and exchanged pleasantries with many people.

This afternoon I was walking along the beach by myself, just enjoying the peace and tranquility. I came to a small road that wound its way through a few rows of small cottages, so I decided to wander along and have a look at them.

Suddenly a jovial fellow appeared from the front door of one of the cottages, smiling and waving. He shouted to me, “How great to see you! What are you doing here?”

Based on his immediate familiarity I assumed he had been at my show the previous evening. In fact I was so sure of this that I convinced myself I recognized his face.

“Why don’t you come around back, “ he continued. “My wife and a few friends are there and you can say hello.” 

Secure in the belief that I’d also met his wife at my show, I gladly accepted. His backyard was set up with a BBQ, lots of folding chairs and a cooler of drinks. Clearly they were settling in for a relaxing afternoon. I was more than happy to be a part of the festivities, and immediately went to introduce myself to everyone. Fortunately my host got there ahead of me, and quickly shouted out to everyone there.

“This is Kevin Leblanc. We met at the philately convention in New Jersey about a year ago.”

I froze. I now realized that this fellow had not been at my show. My name is not Kevin Leblanc  and as I was fairly certain I had never been to a philately convention in New Jersey, the obvious fact was that we were two complete strangers. I knew I had a few brief seconds to make a very important decision. 

Should I tell him he’s mistaken and cause the poor fellow embarrassment, or should I simply play along? The answer became clear when he turned to me and said, “Kevin, can I get you a beer?”

It was hot and sunny, and if he wanted Kevin the Philatelist to have a beer and perhaps partake of a few snacks, then it seemed cruel to deny him that pleasure. After all, I’ve played lots of different characters on stage; how much harder could this be?

Within a few minutes “Kevin” was sitting on a lawn chair, happily enjoying a drink and pleasant conversation. The job of being a phony philatelist wasn’t that difficult after all. Until...

“Would you like to see my postcards?” my newfound friend asked.

“Why not?” I thought, feeling more than a little relieved. I had been a bit worried that we were going to spend the afternoon looking through hundreds of stamps. Thankfully his area of interest seemed to be stamps that arrive on interesting cards from exotic locations.

 It was at this point that I discovered what separates the true fan from the mere dilettante. My expectation of a handful of postcards was shattered when he instead produced a dozen scrapbooks, each one jam packed with hundreds of cards, all with their own captivating, extremely lengthy, story.

I wasn’t sure what surprised me the most; the fact that he maintained such a massive collection of postcards, or that he felt the need to bring them to his cottage. Still, as I hadn’t yet finished my drink I felt I owed him my feigned interest, so we proceeded to discuss, in great detail, the various histories of each postcard.

When I say “discuss” of course I mean that he chatted away excitedly while I, with absolutely no knowledge of the subject, soon discovered that a few head nods and the occasional, “Oh yes,” or “Fascinating!” convinced him that we shared the same burning passion.

After what felt like hours, although it was probably only 30 minutes, he asked, “So Kevin, will you be at the next convention in Kingston?” As I had clearly made a real commitment to this charade, of course I agreed.

“Great!” he enthused. I’ll email you tonight and we can arrange a time to meet up.” Not wanting Kevin to overstay his welcome I figured this was my exit cue, so I thanked him for the drink, promised to see him at the next convention, and left.

I laughed to myself about what was eventually going to happen when he contacted the real Kevin and mentioned that they’d shared a drink in his backyard. I really wanted to hear that exchange as Kevin denied being there, followed by utter confusion as both men tried to figure out exactly who the interloper had been.

As I walked back up the hill to the place I was staying, something started bothering me. Was this a pang of conscience at having misled an innocent group of people?

No. I suddenly realized I was still here for another week and a half. How was I going to leave the house each day without running the risk of bumping into a potentially irate philatelist?

www.randyvancourt.com