Down And Out In Orange County
San Franciscans are morally obligated to hate Los Angeles, but when they're hating on Los Angeles, what they don't realize is that they're really hating on Orange County - a series of strip malls held together with freeways. Orange County is suburbia gone wild, allowed to spread and grow, undifferentiated from horizon to horizon. Orange County is not a place, but a collection of brands (Walgreens, Starbucks, Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, Marie Calendar's, Bucca de Peppo) which surround the ur-Brand, Disney, in their comforting embrace.
Fear me, for I have been to Disneyland. I have emerged from the belly of the Mouse and this is my tale.
I'm trying too hard, aren't I? The truth is that as much as I hate suburbia, I am largely indifferent to Disney in all of its forms. Unlike certain science fiction authors I might name, Disney never infiltrated my childhood. Perhaps if there was a worldwide brand and theme park devoted to Fraggles or The Muppet Show or the collected works of Isaac Asimov, I might feel differently. I recall going to Disneyland - I must have been nine or ten years old - sitting through It's a Small World, and the spinning teacups, waiting in line for Star Tours and Captain Eo, The Haunted Mansion and the pirate ride, but there aren't any emotions attached to those memories. My parents, for whom American pop culture was largely theoretical, trudged from Main Street to Tomorrowland to Adventureland, propelled by a sense of duty which included showing their daughter The Happiest Place on Earth, but they didn't really understand what it was there for. My parents were always deeply suspicious of happiness.
Let it be known that while I did not experience the sort of Disney delirium that overtakes some of my peers, Disneyland is at least a Mildly Pleasant Place on Earth. I could have done without all of those Johnny Depps on the Pirates of Caribbean ride, but the Haunted Mansion was good fun, as was the Indiana Jones ride, which ended with a very neat ducking-under-the-boulder-which-is-coming-right-for-you trick, and the Tower of Terror - located in the ridiculously-named California Adventure park, was crumbling and Art Deco and genuinely scary. In the photo meant to commemorate my ride, I am either screaming or grinning like an idiot.
I'd go again, because it's sunny and my Bunker is dark and travel is broadening, but I think that next time, I would like less of Mickey's Magic and more roller coasters.
Fear me, for I have been to Disneyland. I have emerged from the belly of the Mouse and this is my tale.
I'm trying too hard, aren't I? The truth is that as much as I hate suburbia, I am largely indifferent to Disney in all of its forms. Unlike certain science fiction authors I might name, Disney never infiltrated my childhood. Perhaps if there was a worldwide brand and theme park devoted to Fraggles or The Muppet Show or the collected works of Isaac Asimov, I might feel differently. I recall going to Disneyland - I must have been nine or ten years old - sitting through It's a Small World, and the spinning teacups, waiting in line for Star Tours and Captain Eo, The Haunted Mansion and the pirate ride, but there aren't any emotions attached to those memories. My parents, for whom American pop culture was largely theoretical, trudged from Main Street to Tomorrowland to Adventureland, propelled by a sense of duty which included showing their daughter The Happiest Place on Earth, but they didn't really understand what it was there for. My parents were always deeply suspicious of happiness.
Let it be known that while I did not experience the sort of Disney delirium that overtakes some of my peers, Disneyland is at least a Mildly Pleasant Place on Earth. I could have done without all of those Johnny Depps on the Pirates of Caribbean ride, but the Haunted Mansion was good fun, as was the Indiana Jones ride, which ended with a very neat ducking-under-the-boulder-which-is-coming-right-for-you trick, and the Tower of Terror - located in the ridiculously-named California Adventure park, was crumbling and Art Deco and genuinely scary. In the photo meant to commemorate my ride, I am either screaming or grinning like an idiot.
I'd go again, because it's sunny and my Bunker is dark and travel is broadening, but I think that next time, I would like less of Mickey's Magic and more roller coasters.