A Ride With Pride Update
Remain Seated Please
Last anyone heard from me, I was deep in haunt season—chasing thrills, ranking mazes, and meticulously mapping out my HHN game plan. Halloween Horror Nights felt like my natural habitat: loud, theatrical, a little chaotic, and filled with people who also think emotional distress counts as entertainment.
And then… I got sick after the event.
Not in a cute, "Oh, I'll just stay in and binge something cozy" kind of way. No, this was the kind of sick that lingers. The kind that makes you replay your life choices while staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m.
Somewhere between the dirty Terrifier bathroom scene and that suspiciously heavy fog hanging in the air, I remember thinking: this feels… different. Not spooky-different. Damp-different. Like I was being lightly marinated.
Universal was clearly experimenting with a new kind of fog—less "theatrical haze," more "haunted greenhouse." Moisture-based, clingy, invasive. The dividing curtains were sopping wet!
Did that fog make me sick? I don't know. No one else seemed to say anything. There was no headline, no Reddit deep dive, no class action lawsuit forming in the shadows. So I did what any rational adult would do: I assigned blame with zero evidence and then quietly accepted that I'd never actually know.
A month later, my lungs and I reached a truce. I could breathe again. The cough faded. Life resumed. But the blog didn't. And that's the part I can't blame on fog.
Now it's spring. The kind of spring that begs you to go outside. The sun is showing off, the rides are running, and the parks are—technically—alive with energy. And yet, I've been sitting on the sidelines, watching it all from a distance like someone who forgot how to join the party.
Maybe it's because the magic feels… off.
Just the other day at Disneyland, a line stretched from the Fantasyland Theater to the hub just to see Bluey. Bluey. A literal cartoon dog commanding the kind of crowd usually reserved for a new ride or a limited-edition popcorn bucket. And I get it—I really do. She's adorable. She's wholesome. She's emotionally devastating in a way that sneaks up on you. But standing there, looking at that line, I couldn't help but think: Is this what we're doing now?
Then there's Universal Florida. Miss Thing confidently tore down a coaster just to build a clone of something we already have. Reinvention, but make it copy-paste.
And Six Flags Magic Mountain? Just… dirt. So much dirt. Promises of a new Looney Tunes area, but for now it's giving "construction site chic." Add in the day the entire Six Flags/Knott's system went down—no tickets, no purchases, no anything—and suddenly the parks felt less like an escape and more like a very expensive exercise in patience.
And don't even get me started on the food festivals. At some point, every park decided that what we really needed was smaller portions, higher prices, and the opportunity to stand in yet another line—but this time for a tiny plate of something described as "artisanal." I've never felt less whelmed.
So I stepped back.
Not dramatically. Not with a grand announcement or a tearful goodbye post. Just… quietly. Like leaving a party without saying anything because you're not sure anyone would notice anyway. And in that quiet, I started to wonder what this space—this blog—was supposed to be.
Because if I'm being honest, trying to keep up with every new offering, every seasonal overlay, every "limited-time experience" is exhausting. And maybe that's not why I started this in the first place. Maybe it was never about being first. Or even current.
Maybe it was about perspective.
Because here's the thing: as a gay, childless adult who willingly spends his free time in theme parks, I've always existed slightly outside the target demographic. I'm not here with kids. I'm not here to relive my childhood exactly as it was. I'm here because I love the artifice of it all—the storytelling, the design, the history hiding just beneath the surface of every land and facade.
I'm the one noticing the details while everyone else is rushing to the next ride. The one wondering what used to be here, what almost was, what got value-engineered out of existence before it ever had a chance.
And maybe that's the direction forward.
Less "here's what I did this weekend," and more "here's why this place exists at all." Less chasing the new, more uncovering the past. Because these parks—no matter how corporate or chaotic they feel in the moment—are layered with stories. And those stories deserve a little attention, too.
I still believe in sharing space in the parks. In the idea that they're for all of us, even if we don't always fit the mold. Even if we occasionally get side-eyed in Fantasyland or feel wildly out of place standing in line for a cartoon dog meet-and-greet.
Especially then.
So consider this less of a comeback and more of a recalibration. I'm still here. Still watching. Still thinking about why any of this matters in the first place.
And maybe that's a better place to start than wherever I left off.
Because if there's one thing theme parks have taught me, it's that sometimes the most interesting stories aren't the ones being advertised—they're the ones waiting quietly in the background, just beyond the (wet) fog.
Written by Daryl Marez | Hiya! Subscribe to my author newsletter to receive news & project updates—Check out my other links for more.