Universal Studios Discrimination and the Brisbane Chronicles

The other day, I wrote of my one Florida trip’s dampening experience at the Cracker Barrel that put my smiles out of service momentarily. I did not mention the other occasion when my frown was right side down as I faced a crotchety women who should have been eating lima beans in the geriatric ward instead of working on the ET Ride in Universal studios.

On the third day of our trip, me and 12 member gang of girlfriend family members headed down to Universal Studios. This was a place I had always wanted to visit as a child thanks to Nickelodeon's barrage of ads for the wonder land. Last summer, I finally made to Universal only to find the Back to the Future ride had closed, Beetlejuice wasn't scary in person, and the Jaws shark looked faker than the one in the movie. Still, the place is nifty. So two weeks ago, I was able to give it another go around.

As the day dragged on we decided to hit up the ET ride. This was another one I wanted to try as a kid. I was convinced you could actually defy the laws of physics on it and soar a bicycle through the air. I figured Universal Studios was like Six Flags, but with magic powers. In fact, the ride is nothing like that. And there's no magic involved. Just grumpy old women working the counter and a few fog machines somewhere behind the props.

After waiting outside the ET Ride, three blue doors open ordering you to step inside an air conditioned room that smells like plastic and sweet tourist sweat. Then, overhead screens pop into action revealing non other than everyone's favorite household director, Steven Spielberg himself. Mr. Spielberg informs us we are on a mission to return ET back to the Green Planet and we need an intergalactic passport or something. Don't be scared readers and non-riders. It's just a pretend mission.

Then, three more sets of doors open and you step into a bigger room. You now begin to wonder if the ride is nothing more than an automatic door expo that ushers you into larger and larger rooms. In this room sits three attendants behind computers. They ask you your name, type it into a computer, scan it onto your passport (a piece of cardboard with a barcode), and tell it to give it to your future ride attendant (this card allows ET to bid you farewell, BY NAME, at the end of the ride). Last summer, I gave my real name.

This year, however, I decided to go with the most obscure Little Rascals character of them all, Brisbane. How cool, I thought, would it be to hear ET rasp "Farewellll, Brrrissbannne," as our bicycle ride pulled back into reality. Very cool, indeed. On the original Little Rascals, Breezy Brisbane was a mischievous little hoodlum with a doting mother who told him he should be president while all Brisbane wanted to become was a street car conductor. I just wanted to give a little shout out to the forgotten Rascal, who unfortunately committed suicide in 1981.

I stepped up to the old lady behind the computer. She seemed gentle, motherly, supple. "Name?" she said. "Brisbane" I said. Immediately, the woman looked like I had harpooned her heart from her rib cavity. Her hands fell from the computer board. Her head dropped to her chest. She began shaking it slowly back and forth, an all too solemn look on her face. I was bewildered. I though maybe she couldn't spell it. "B-R-I-S-" I started. Her eyes darted up at me, blazing with equal parts hate and shame. I stopped spelling. Again, she lowered her head and began slowly shaking it back and forth, back and forth. "What? That's my name," I tried again. I couldn't believe it. She was having no part of it. What if my dated parents, for some awkward reason actually named me Brisbane? It wasn't like I told the lady my name was Peckerwood Johnson or Skidmark Blownipples. She just kept shakin' the old head. "Alllllllrrrrrrrrighttt," I said as I sidestepped away from her computer station and got in the real line, WITHOUT MY PASSPORT that Steven Spielberg told me I would need. Now, ET would say nothing to me at all when we passed his thankful, glowing fingered wave on the ride.

I tried to think what the fuck could have gone wrong. Doing my own research in the present, I've found that Brisbane is the third largest city in Alaska. Maybe her husband froze to death in Brisbane, Alaska? Although it's pronounced Brisbin, so that's probably not it. Also, I found out Brisbane is the official name of a lunar crater on the southeastern region of the moon. Maybe she once proposed to Buzz Aldrin through a letter and never heard back from him? Painful memories, I'm sure, brought full circle by thoughts of moon craters. Or maybe she just loved the character of Breezy Brisbane and was still reeling from his untimely suicide.

Anyway, we rode the ride, the rest of my girlfriend's family successfully handing over their passports to the attendant. We rode the motorized bicycle cars to the end of the ride. I saw the animatronic ET waving. Then he said "Farewell, Connor, Thomas, Charlie, and Nathan." No one in our car had one of those names. The passports must have been switched so the Brisbane experiment would have failed anyway. It was a silent victory for me over Old Lady Grumpy.

What we learned today:
-A word of warning to the wise. If you're name really is Brisbane, make sure you bring photo ID with you and perhaps three points of additional identification (i.e. birth certificate, social security card, bank statement, etc.)

-If you say your name is Brisbane to an old lady, they might be offended.

-If your first ride attendant does not issue you a passport because she doesn't believe your name really is Brisbane, you can still ride the ride anyway. Spielberg is a liar.

-Brisbane is a Scottish last name, occasional first name, that seems to be long extinct on this, and ET's native planet.