Team Rodent - Carl Hiaasen [17]
I and several others politely declined the discount and asked to pay the same rates as regular tourists. After a lengthy negotiation, an exasperated desk clerk agreed to bill me the standard $190 a night for the hotel room. Later it was revealed that other journalists had allayed their professional consciences by paying as little as $35 for the same accommodations; one shitweasel actually took the room for $1. (If I had the name, I’d happily print it. To avoid embarrassing the offender, Disney declined to reveal his or her identity.)
The weekend was a wallow in temptation; everywhere we went, somebody was giving something away—and somebody in the press was glad to take it. The scene got so shameful that it turned funny. When Disney tour guides handed out free cowboy hats, a guy from a radio station snatched seven. When they offered free umbrellas, a woman writer scooted away with eleven. The Disney folks didn’t seem annoyed or even surprised; they knew what kind of primitives they were dealing with. On the night of a big barbecue, Disney didn’t even bother to put out cash registers. When three of us asked for a bill, our server laughed. We stacked $30 in cash on the table, but she wouldn’t go near it. It was still there when we left.
Another afternoon, upon returning to my hotel room, I encountered a maid and a tall fellow in a blue blazer. They were delivering a Disney shopping bag loaded with munchies and gifts, including a “Shamu” doll. Shamu is the name of a trained killer whale at Sea World, a nearby tourist park not owned by Disney but included in the press-junket itinerary. I thanked my visitors but explained that I wasn’t allowed to accept a free Shamu or a Mickey Mouse or anything else. They nodded pleasantly but made no move to take away the ditty bag. When I tried to hand it back, they stood Stepford-like, arms limp at their sides. “Please,” I said firmly. The maid and the man in the blazer exchanged edgy glances. Finally they snatched up Shamu and departed.
To outsiders it must sound ridiculous, fussing over a few cheap souvenirs, but for journalists the principle is important. Disney’s publicists don’t invite people like us to the Magic Kingdom for the pleasure of our company. They’re angling for positive press coverage, and that’s usually what they get. For every snarky jab in the Los Angeles Times or the Washington Post, Disney enjoys miles of glowingly favorable column-inches in smaller hometown newspapers, which in the aggregate are read by far more Americans. It’s true that most reporters can’t be corrupted by a platter of spareribs, but the cumulative effect of Disney’s indefatigable hospitality is a subtle seduction, an assiduously nurtured fondness. Arlene G, Peck, a newspaper columnist from Atlanta, insisted her reporting wouldn’t go soft because of junket booty. Then she added: “What could you say bad about Disney anyway?”
That’s another reason Team Rodent is able to devour the universe: The press is part of the team. And if you think we’re easy in this country, you should see the packs of foreign journalists pigging out at the Disney trough. The rules are different overseas—in many places, no stigma whatsoever is attached to media junkets. The only limit to what gifts a reporter may accept is the capacity of his or her luggage.
My Disney press weekend—and the frayed dignity of the profession—was salvaged by one shining, spontaneous moment. We had been herded, all fifty-two hundred of us, into an auditorium, where we were told to expect a surprise guest. I believe Michael Eisner spoke first, followed by Justice Burger, who talked briefly about the Constitution. (Afterward Burger would say there was nothing inappropriate about combining a