Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Take Your Roller Coaster to Work Day



The object of "Roller Coaster Tycoon" was to build roller coasters on your computer that made people barf, but only a little bit, and not so much that they passed out and died.

One day I made the mistake of showing my elaborate pixelated theme park to an ex-friend who painted one roller coaster pink, called it "Steven's Gay Coaster" and made all the trains crash together.



At school, I was comforted by drawing the same roller coasters over and over again on my notebooks. While my fellow male classmates were busy drawing pictures of boobs, I was trying to figure out how best to draw a corkscrew go over a lake behind a mountain.



When I was twelve years old, I joined a fan site for a roller coasters called "Roller Coaster Enthusiasts of America." They sent me a ludicrously shiny laminated card I still have hiding somewhere in my desk.

The folks at "Roller Coaster Enthusiasts" were against government restrictions on roller coaster heights and they believed roller coasters were safe and shouldn't be regulated like liquors and cars. "Safer than riding your car to work," I'd read in forums, and I agreed with them. Like a religious nut, I was completely prepared to argue with anyone who believed otherwise.



You could split the roller coaster enthusiasts into two camps; those who liked roller coasters for the "extreme experience" and those who liked rides that were "themed" like a Rogers and Hammerstein musical. I happened to fall into the latter camp. My ultimate dream was to become a Disney Imagineer and live in the set of the Pirates of the Carribean ride and watch all the boats go by. I could have made friends with an animatronic goat and eaten food from the Bayou.



The largest theme park, the theme park of my dreams, lay in a fairly innocuous stretch of land in Sandusky, Ohio. When I was twelve I would have chopped off my arm to go to Cedar Point. The place had roller coasters everywhere. One took you to the bathroom while the other brushed your teeth. There were sprightly young launch coasters and rickety old geezers and everything in between.



Instead, all I had to stare at was the Seattle Center Fun Forest Coaster; a pitiful mess of blue steel that dove into itself a dozen times before swirling around like a flushing toilet.




All the action was in L.A. I imagined Los Angelinos laughing and drinking cocktails on the beach before strapping themselves into a nice, shiny roller coaster for relaxation after a hard day at work.



For Hannukah one year, I received a Knex roller coaster kit. I assembled it all in one glorious weekend in our upstairs. Our cat, whom I'd named Snowy but everyone had been lazily referring to as "kitty," stood guard over the loop-de-loop, swiping at the descending coaster like it was a mouse on wheels.

I was alternately upset that she might ruin the tracks and pleased that she added to the "theming" of the ride. Perhaps I could call it "The Cat" and pretend she was an animatronic cat.

Months later, our non-animatronic cat tired of chewing our rug and began chewing and then throwing up parts of the Knex roller coaster. My parents would come home and find a mound of kitty barf on the rug with little pieces of yellow track in it.



My obsession with roller coasters was replaced with a musical theater obsession and then an obsession with boys and college. But I never really forgot those wild roller coaster days

About six months ago, I drove from Seattle to San Fran to visit a friend. As I was leaving the city, I saw a sign for Six Flags Marine World and, impulsively, I took the exit, paid for parking, and waited in line at the entrance.

I giddily skipped through the turnstiles, feeling that same sense of wonder. In line for a floorless roller coaster, I watched insurance ads on a flat screen TV.

The roller coaster was fun, but it hurt my head, and I stumbled out dazedly, wondering if I'd had an aneurysm.



The kids around me looked drunk on life. Before anyone offers you a cigarette and before you've had your first rum and coke, the real sign of adulthood is getting to ride on the big kid rides. It's really the only legal high at that age.

Now I'm a big kid and, as you can probably guess, it just doesn't feel the same.

1 comment:

Unknown said...

Before the Windstorm, the Fun Forrest housed the infamous Mighty Mouse. It was orange and rickety and made out of coat hangers. You rode mining carts through right angle turns that displaced your spine and dislodged fillings.

I was always amazed when I survived the ride.