Franz Liszt and Other Reasons to be Scared Shitless

I've been trying (and failing) to write an essay about my relationship with my father. The problem I'm finding is, I don't remember much about living with the man. So, for the last couple days, I've done nothing but think about a way into this essay. How does one deal with a relationship that one does not remember? The conclusion I'm starting to come to is, find examples of the parts of my childhood that I do remember that were directly or indirectly influenced by the parts that I don't. It came to me while watching a program about the "thrill rides" at Disney World. When I see anything about Disney World, I automatically think of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. When I think of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, I automatically think about what a huge pussy I am. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride scares the shit out of me. I don't even remember the whole post traumatic stress inducing experience. I only remember a shadowy room with weird looking sculptures and being terrified to the point of tears, praying that it would all end soon. I've had similar experiences with other child-friendly amusement park rides, which brings me back to my father.

I grew up in Dayton, OH. Forty miles south of my hometown there lives an amusement park called, King's Island. Once a year, my family would enjoy a Saturday of fun at the park. Things at King's Island have changed a lot over the last fifteen years or so, but when I was a wee thing, there was a section of King's Island designed especially for kids. This section was called, Hanna -Barbera Land. Hanna-Barbera Land was fucking sweet. All the rides were based on cartoons produced by, who else, Hanna-Barbera. For the under forty crowd, these cartoons include, Yogi Bear, The Jetsons, Huckleberry Hound, the Fintstones, Scooby-doo, and the Smurfs, just to name a few.

It didn't matter what time of day you showed up. The longest line in Hanna-Barbera Land was always for the Smurfs ride. The Smurfs ride was like an acid trip for the 2-12 set. Folks would stand in line for what felt like hours so that they could eventually climb into a taffy colored boat and wind their way through the Smurf's Village. The color's were bright. The anamatronic Smurf's were life-size. The cheery little theme song echoed at a deafening volume off of every lacquered surface. Most importantly, the air conditioning was cranked to the max. For one reason and one reason alone, I wanted nothing to do with it. GARGAMEL.

For the first half of the Smurf's ride, everything is sunshine and daisies. Who doesn't love little blue midgets living in mushroom houses? Well about halfway through the ride, the first movement of Liszt's "Piano Concerto 1 in E flat" starts to mix in with the "laa laa la la la laaas" and this sinking feeling that shit is about to go down starts creeping into your consciousness. As you round a corner, you see him. Twelve feet tall and cackling in a dark room next to a giant boiling cauldron, Gargamel stands with his branchlike arms lifted over his head, fingers spread as if he's either going to reach down and snatch you or break into the world's bitchinest air piano solo. My money was always on the former. Petrified. I was petrified. As in too scared to move. Too scared to breathe.

Every couple years I would convince one of my parents to take me on the Smurf ride again. I would explain how I knew what was going to happen and that I was older and surely not as much of a wuss. The result was always the same no matter how old I was, and until a few years ago, I couldn't understand why. Is it weird that I think Gargamel looks just like my dad? The giant hooked shnaz. The dark hair. The bald spot. The satanic, I-am-fucking-crazy-and-there's-nothing-you-can-do-about-it, look in his eyes. It all makes sense. I know at the end of every episode, the Smurfs got the best of Gargamel, but they didn't have to live with him, and there were dozens of them and only one of me and I wish that ride was still around so I could give it one last shot.