One day their preschool teacher asks the students what they want to be when they grow up. Harper says, “A princess.” Gideon says, “A doughnut.”
Awesome.
* * *
To take your kids on a fun trip to Disney World, go HERE.
For a happy ending, go HERE. A real happy ending. Not a metaphorical “happy ending,” sicko.
Although if you want that, that’s back HERE.
You are, like, crazy loved.
On March 30, 2013, you receive an unmarked package containing a shovel, a flashlight, a key, Tums, Advil, and a bag of jelly beans, along with a note that reads, “Be ready to leave at 7:15 p.m.” An hour later you arrive at your friends Dilson and Walter’s house for what turns out to be a surprise party. The crowd sings “Happy Birthday.” It’s a surprise indeed, since your fortieth birthday isn’t for another two months. Still, it’s a very thoughtful and nice thing for David to have organized.
Over the course of the party you get drunk. You also receive forty mysterious white envelopes from random partygoers, bartenders, and even the DJ. At 2:30 a.m., you open them on your kitchen floor. Each envelope contains a jigsaw-puzzle piece. When put together they make a picture that says, “Life is a garden. Dig it.” Evidently you are supposed to use the shovel and flashlight and dig up something in your garden. But where are you supposed to … wait a second, why is there a circular sign reading SCAN ME in your garden? Are you supposed to dig there? Yes, you are. What is it? It’s a lockbox. Where’s the key? Right, you got it before. Let’s see what’s in the box … an iPad mini! Thank you, David, what a great gift! Wait, if you point the mini at the SCAN ME sign, what happens? Holy crap, there’s a video! It’s David in a black-and-white parody of the opening of the old TV series This Is Your Life:
This is David Burtka, bidding you welcome to This Is Your Life. Neil Patrick Harris, this is your life. Get ready to travel through time into your distant past, and into the darkest recesses of your soul … tomorrow, we begin our return to the past. And it’s a long way from here. Good luck.
Your mind-hole is blown.
The next morning another video awaits on your iPad. It’s from your luminous friend Kate Jennings Grant, telling you to report to Whole Foods, where a vehicle waits for you. What kind of vehicle? She sings “Ride Sally Ride” as a clue. And where are you supposed to drive it? To the cabana where you got drunk on rosé with her last year … in Las Vegas.
What the?
You go to Whole Foods. There’s a Mustang (Sally) waiting with part of a United States map inside. Four hours later you and David are in Vegas. You pull up to the spectacular Cosmopolitan resort and wander toward the pool. In the cabana you find wine, the key to a suite, and a certificate for a ninety-minute massage. The masseur hands you another card to scan. Now Kelly Ripa is telling you to go to the place where you skipped out on a tab four years earlier. It’s Robuchon at the MGM Grand, one of the best restaurants in the world. You and David proceed to share a 581-course meal. At dessert the waiter hands you (surprise!) another card to scan. It’s your hilarious buddy Lex Medlin telling you to report tomorrow morning to the place where he once dared you to eat something for $100. He’s referring to Krispy Kreme at Circus Circus.
Thus ends day 2 of what will be an eight-day cross-country adventure organized and recorded for posterity by the wonderful David Burtka. For an entire week you travel around by bus, car, and private plane, receiving scannable cards from random people, watching old friends tell you where to go next, solving ingenious clues and having the best fortieth birthday it is conceivable to have. You train with Cirque du Soleil performers in Vegas. You visit your family in New Mexico. You go to San Antonio for a thrilling afternoon at the Ropes Course Canopy Challenge. You jet to Disney World and spend the night in the private suite at the top of the Cinderella Castle. (By the way, there’s a private suite at the top of the Cinderella Castle.) All the while, waiters are dropping off clues in lieu of bills (how cool is that?), and you’re decoding letter-shifted cryptograms to find driving destinations (how cool is that?), getting “pulled over” by fake cops who instead of a ticket give you a clue sending you to a free meal at your favorite Albuquerque restaurant, Frontier (how cool is that?!?), and taking an emotional journey through forty years of memories and friendship, without the counterpoint of which the physical journey would be merely a fun vacation and not the incredible act of love and devotion it is.
At Frontier, a stranger asks for your autograph. Then he gives you a note: “John Wayne, draw!” What could that possibl— Oh, of course, that painting on the wall of John Wayne pointing a gun. Only what’s that someone put on the gun? Another circular scanning card.
In your hotel in San Antonio you receive four glasses along with instructions on how much water to place in each one. When you strike them in the order provided in the clue, you hear the opening notes of “It’s a Small World.” Guess you’re going to Disney World.
From there you fly a private plane to New York. At the Mondrian Hotel you find a piece of paper with Japanese writing taped to the mirror. The Japanese-speaking concierge reads it and tells you that you have an 8:30 reservation at Masa, which is one of the greatest sushi restaurants in the world. Fish line up to die at Masa. That’s how good it is.
On the eighth and final day of your adventure of (at least the first half of) a lifetime, you are sent to three different New York City venues where you have performed. In front of each one is an envelope with a key. When you have all three, you’re told to go to your favorite pre-theater bar. You order a tequila and are given a triple lockbox. Inside are the final pieces of the U.S. map you’ve been gathering throughout your trip. You assemble them all and see nothing. Then you turn them upside down. The back forms the mask logo from your favorite current off-Broadway show, Sleep No More. It says, “Be there at 7 p.m.” That’s in half an hour. You race there just in time to attend a performance … only tonight the show has been entirely reconceived to be about you, Neil Patrick Harris, right down to a re-creation of your childhood bedroom. An actress playing your mother tucks childhood “you” into bed and tells you a story.
There was once a little boy. He was my little prince. Everything was exciting and mysterious to him. Everything was possible. He loved playing with soldiers and cowboys. He took piano lessons too. I remember once he had a piano recital. I would nag him to practice over and over but he never listened. I never heard him play the whole piece. And then, the night of the recital, he walked right up to the piano and played it perfectly. Something about having an audience there made him come alive. You look just like him. Like the man I hoped he’d become.
Your mind is melting. Your “mom” opens the door to send you on your way, and standing on the other side is a ten-year-old blond boy—a younger you—beckoning you to follow him as he takes off running down a hallway. So you are now Adult Neil chasing Childhood Neil away from the past, and through the shadowy corridors of the future. You eventually wind up in a darkened room. The lights kick on. And there your journey ends … with another fantastic surprise party filled with all your friends from New York.
And by your side, as he has been the whole time, is David Michael Burtka. The man who planned, produced, and organized the whole thing with the insight of someone who genuinely knows you better than you know yourself, and the wholehearted commitment of someone who quite possibly loves you better than you love yourself.
But also quite possibly, not as much as you love him.
THE END
You’re on the Peter Pan’s Flight ride at Disney World. You are forty years old going on five. Wheeeeeeeeeeee!
This is not your first time flying through the air with Hook, Smee, and Princess Tiger Lily. Oh no. When you were a child, your parents took you and your brother out of school for a week every year and drove you a thousand miles cross-country Griswold-style to vacation at Disneyland. You stayed at Howard Johnson’s. (Having not yet at that point stayed at Elton John’s, you considered
it paradise.) And you fell utterly, spiritually, in love with the park. There is no bit of Disney magic that doesn’t enchant you. The precision and brilliance of their parks reflect a true and deep understanding of the nature of entertainment. It’s the same reason why later in your life you will fall in love with Las Vegas; it’s little more than a giant theme park whose theme is theme parks. From the first day of your first trip, you consider yourself a citizen of the Magic Kingdom, despite your inherent distrust of their monarchical form of government.
As you grow up, your love for Disney and theme parks in general will not go unrequited. During the Doogie days, the Disney-MGM Studios flies you out with your friends and family and gives you free meals, VIP tours, and the works in exchange for appearing in a parade and doing a couple of interviews. It’s called the Star Today program, and it’s epic. You’re still a kid, and you find being at the Disney-MGM Studios far more thrilling than being at actual studios.
But it is Disney with whom you end up forging a happy (though not dopey or grumpy) relationship. You work with them in numerous capacities over the decades—everything from promotional appearances to hosting the star-studded launch of their latest cruise ship. And now, as in your childhood, you are once again a regular yearly visitor to the Magic Kingdom—only this time, they invite you. Every December you and your family travel to Orlando to participate in the annual Candlelight Processional. Thrice nightly for three nights, you recount the story of the first Christmas to a large audience at the American Pavilion in Epcot’s World Showcase, accompanied by a full orchestra, two full-sized children’s choirs, the entire Walt Disney World choir, and the Voices of Liberty, a professional, hyper-enunciated, ethereally-ten-part-harmonized a cappella group. You solemnly walk out to the lectern, intone “Let’s begin,” then serve as narrator and emcee for a fifty-minute ceremony of songs and Bible readings. (Spoiler alert: Christ the Savior is born.)
It’s a thrill. First of all you’re hosting, so it’s physically impossible for you not to be enjoying yourself. But it feels particularly satisfying to read this biblical story to an audience that for the most part is well aware of your status as an openly gay man. You stand before thousands of people from all over the country and the world, some of whom no doubt have presupposed opinions about your “lifestyle,” but who all nevertheless respectfully listen to your telling of the story of the birth of Jesus. You’ve never gotten any backlash, and neither has Disney, and neither, as far as you know, has Jesus.
Plus the gig comes with perks. During the day, you and your family have the time of your lives. You have your own guide; you don’t wait in line for anything; your wish is Disney’s command. Wanna see a fireworks show? We’ll put you on a barge. Wanna see this parade? Here’s a double-decker bus. Wanna go underneath the American Adventure ride and see how the pneumatics work? Be our guest. Turkey legs? Here are photos of the turkeys—choose your favorite! It’s a very nice deal, especially for your kids. Gideon and Harper get to experience all of the good stuff and none of the bad.
And now for your hundredth time and their very first, you are boarding Peter Pan’s Flight in Fantasyland. It’s one of the few original Disney attractions still in operation, and of course you—savvy, sophisticated you—know all its secrets. You’re familiar with how Omnimovers work, you’ve seen how Audio-Animatronic figures are programmed, you’ve studied the circuitry, you know where the speakers are. And knowing all this makes you greater appreciate the artistry, and you find yourself admiring the thousand little details that go into the ride. But some of the wonder, you admit to yourself, is gone.
Until you gaze at your two-year-old son sitting on your lap, and his twin sister, sitting on the lap of the man you love so much, and this five-minute climate-controlled adventure that you’ve grown a little jaded about is once more a spellbinding enchantment, because you’re seeing it anew through their eyes. Gideon gapes at Captain Hook. Harper gasps at Peter soaring through the sky. They both squeal with delight as the crocodile does his dirty work. You experience them experiencing pure magic, unadulterated by cynicism or irony or self-consciousness. And as the ride makes its full circle, so do you, until Peter Pan has done it again, and you are once more a child, taking it all in, amazed, overwhelmed, enchanted.
Then it’s over, and Gideon and Harper, these two little organic walking talking miracles that are somehow yours, are cheering at the end for the ride they called “Boat.” “More, more!” they shout.
And so you cry your eyes out.
And you ride it again.
* * *
Go HERE.
[You speak the first two lines in rhythm.]
You started out your story as a child in Ruidoso.
You hoped for fame and glory, though your odds, at best, were so-so.
[You start singing. Light music begins.]
Down life’s long path you went, your
Route unplanned, your travels stressful.
You chose your own adventure …
And your choices were successful!
[Big brassy show music kicks in. A DOZEN HOT DANCERS join you and dance with you all over the page.]
YOU MADE IT!
You made the trip from the past
All the way to the present!
YOU MADE IT!
Your journey’s over at last,
And it wasn’t unpleasant!
You turned a lot of pages.
You acted many ages.
You went through, and performed upon,
One hundred different stages!
[You jump through the fiery hoop below.]
[You hold for applause, then resume singing.]
YOU MADE IT!
You made your story a book,
And then sat down and read it!
YOU MADE IT!
You made the proofreader look
For one final eddit! “edit.”
The only thing left pending
Is this, the happy ending—
Which everyone appearing in
The book will be attending!
[EVERYBODY mentioned in the book comes out and bows. Then they sing to you.]
You played Doogie Howser and met someone’s mother!
You hosted four Tonys and hoisted another!
You acted with Smurfs and got high with two stoners!
You came to discover that men gave you boners!
[DAVID joins you onstage and kisses you.]
And now there you are, with the family you’ve started!
[GIDEON and HARPER join you. The four of you form a gorgeous tableau.]
You’ll share new adventures for now still uncharted!
You’ve spun out a tale, and the tale is still spinning!
Your real happy ending is only beginning!
[Big key change. You and the CHORUS sing together as you take your final bow. Fireworks explode on the page.]
YOU MADE IT!
You reached the ending to start
Yet another transition!
YOU MADE IT!
But every moment’s a part,
And you have to audition.
So go ahead and play some more pretend!
’Cause you made it!
You made it!
You made it to …
[You feel a tap on your shoulder. It’s your twelve-year-old self as the narrator in How the West Was Really Won at Ruidoso Middle School. He hands you his corncob pipe.]
YOUNG YOU: Have fun, Neil.
NOW YOU: I already have.
[You blow into the pipe. Baby powder emerges, filling the page with sweet-smelling smoke. After a second it disappears … and so have both of you.]
… THE END!!!
* * *
To live your life again, go HERE.
Thanks to:
Zoë Chapin—the trustiest sidekick around
David “DJ” Javerbaum—a collaborator so good he should be a collabo-greater
Jim Steinmeyer—the master of magical methods
 
; Suzanne O’Neill—the editor-at-large-and-in-charge
Laura Nolan—the classy catalyst for this creation
Shea Martin—pal and practically perfect person
Sheila Harris—the encyclopedic memory of facts and dates
With a little help from your friends …
Steven Bochco—the man who gave me my medical license
Nathan Fillion—a really good bad good guy
Adam Frager—cocktail alchemist and mixologist extraordinaire
Whoopi Goldberg—Clara’s heart and Neil’s mentor
Antony Hare—The illest-rator around
Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg—writers of the Harold and Kumar chapter (and movies); channelers of my very bad self
Perez Hilton—nemesis turned fremesis
Penn Jillette—the man who made me gay