Hey gang, I'm here in Orlando, Florida, this week, and I couldn't have picked a worse time to come. The traffic is always ridiculous here, but this week, with Halloween on the calendar, I'm sitting in the type of traffic that inches me closer and closer to a nervous breakdown a la Michael Douglas in Falling Down. You're stuck in traffic and all you see are the billboards: E.T., Mickey Mouse, a T-Rex, Winnie Da Pooh (He's G'd up now ... I heard he was considering Da Pooh Diddy next), Star Wars and The Hulk. Then there're those signs all over I-4 and the turnpike: "Disney World Resorts" this way, "Islands of Adventure" that way, "1/4 mile to Celebration" etc.

Universal Studios and The Mouse House are like competing gods (Zeus or Jesus? Which ya got?), and they have great publicists. You have guides and brochures in the hotel lobbies, a Disney World or Universal Studios Attraction channel in your hotel room, "Hulk Size" burgers and drinks, shirts, hats, sandals, and lest we forget, all those graffitied tour buses. People leave their hotel, hop on a Universal or Disney tour bus, and they disappear ... forever for all I know, shipped into the dark abyss of theme park hell. That's right, hell. I don't know about you, but there is nothing scarier than a life-size Tweedledum or Tweedledee. I have nightmares where I'm being chased by the Seven Dwarfs (not these guys) and the entire town of Whoville. I even get narration by Boris Karloff:

He tried to run away, he turned every corner. Yet behind him still was Sneezy, sharpening his cleaver. "Oh no!" he screamed, he thought he was through ... he was right, shotgunned in the back by Cindy Lou Who.

Maybe I really am a Grinch. I love the movies, I like the rides, but keep those oversized mittens away from me.

Dre Rivas
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Dre writes 5 times a week for Film.com, covering Movies and DVD with his Floridian flare.

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