THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 25, 1994 TAG: 9409230217
SECTION: CHESAPEAKE CLIPPER PAGE: 02 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Random Rambles
SOURCE: Tony Stein
LENGTH: Medium: 83 lines
A friend of my son spent the summer as a costumed character in a Las Vegas hotel show, and that reminded me that I have been a dragon.
Smart-alecks among you may want to suggest that I have been a-draggin'. That is not what I said. I have been a dragon, a costumed character at Busch Gardens in Williamsburg. For half an hour one May day, I was Gordon the Dragon.
I did it because I thought it would make a good story. Reporters often do unusual things to inspire their artistic souls (fill space on a slow day). I had a colleague who ate a chocolate-covered cricket because the lady who owned an exotic foods shop insisted. No cricket, no story. Another colleague had to ride a Brahma bull before a rodeo performer would grant an interview.
I, myself, have a friend who used to say that the only way I could write a good story about sky diving was to try it myself. No thank you, ma'am. I get nervous enough just sitting in airplanes. I wouldn't voluntarily jump out of one even if coaxed by the Wright Brothers, Charles Lindbergh and the archangel Gabriel.
Actually, being a dragon sounded like a piece of cake. I showed up at the dragon dressing room and was met by a nice collegiate-type kid who said I would be taking his shift in his outfit.
First reality jolt: the dragon costume weighed 75 pounds. Half an hour inside was like a stroll in a sauna.
When I muttered about the weight of the costume, my dragon coach gave me a ``don't complain'' look and said the 75-pound rig had just replaced one that weighed 90 pounds. So I put on this green gear that had floppy feet and a tail that jutted behind and a dragon head that made me feel like I was being locked in for the duration.
Second reality jolt: the eyes in the dragon head were purely decorative. What little you could see was through a wire screen in the snout. If you wanted to look at a foot-square patch of pavement, you were fine. Otherwise, it was like being blindfolded. At least there was no firing squad.
And I did have a guide. Whenever Gordon went dragoning, he was accompanied by a squire who led him around. The squire had other duties. One was to answer questions because dragons, even plastic ones, don't talk. Another, I quickly learned, was to protect Gordon from bratty little boys. A third I will get to later and will warn you that it is rated PG-13.
The little boys swarmed like flies on a watermelon. They pulled my tail to see if it would come off. It didn't. They grabbed my snout to see if it would come off. It didn't. They would look inside and yell to one another, ``Hey, there's a man inside!''
There was indeed a man inside. A hot, sweaty, irritated man who was beginning to wish he could work up one small dragon spit of flame. Not to hurt anybody. Just to make them keep their distance.
The PG-13 bit came right at the end of my half-hour as Gordon. I must have posed for umpteen-hundred pictures with tourists. My squire would group them nicely around me, and the cameras would click. Finally, two ladies from Iowa came up. They asked if Gordon would put his ``arms'' around them while their friend took the picture. Remember, as Gordon, I had no side vision whatever. I started to put my ``arms'' where I judged the ladies' shoulders would be.
The panicky whisper of my squire burst in my ear. ``Hold it! You're about to put your paws where they absolutely should not be!''
He saved my skin. Virginia may be for lovers, but not when you're wearing a dragon suit in Busch Gardens.
If I made a barely passable dragon, I made a great tourist attraction at Colonial Williamsburg once. Let me explain. Colonial Williamsburg came up with a package that included a ride in one of those gilded carriages usually reserved for visiting presidents, kings, queens, prime ministers and assorted high-level folks-in-charge. I got to take a carriage ride for a story.
There I was, clopping down Duke of Gloucester Street in a carriage with a driver and a couple of footmen, plus an escort from the Colonial Williamsburg Press Bureau. I was obviously somebody and tourists were shooting film like they all had stock in Kodak. I could see them buzzing among themselves. King Who of Where? Prince Whatever of Which? The President of Outlandia?
It happened when we stopped so I could get a libation. Remember that this was 1979, and it was OK to bill the young lady who served the drink as ``a comely wench from the Raleigh Tavern.'' Now, of course, she would be known as an efficient waitperson. As I sipped, one bystander just had to ask.
He walked up to the Press Bureau guy, pointed at me and wanted to know, ``Who is he?''
``Shhh,'' said the Press Bureau guy. ``He's traveling incognito.'' by CNB