A week in Utopia

Now my head is just crammed with Disneyland and it's all just busting out at the seams. I even had dreams of it last night. I dreamt that we won a full tour of Disneyland from Walt himself. He said, "Yeah, I know I'm dead but this is my park and this is your dream."



I marveled at the control that the park exercises on its guests. Waiting on Tom Sawyer Island for a ferry, the crowds got restless because one of the ferries broke down and there were a lot of people waiting under the glare of the sun for the return ferry. To help mollify the crowds, they sent Captain Jack Sparrow down to the dock and everybody walked away smiling. Ya gotta love it. I would feel a lot more cynical about it if it didn't actually work. But it really works. That's the magic of that park. It feels completely safe because it is completely safe. There aren't armed security guards on every corner to spoil the show. If they are needed, of course, they'll appear in force. But they aren't ever needed. Kim was marveling at how secure the strollers are outside attractions. One can just park it there and one's possessions are relatively safe. Again, just because the security measures aren't totally apparent, doesn't mean they aren't there.

There is nothing of the present at Disneyland. At the California Adventure park I saw someone reading a newspaper. Amy pointed out to me that maybe they were just annual pass holders waiting while their kids stood in a particularly long line but I said to Amy "If I had my way, reading a newspaper would be grounds for immediate expulsion from the park." When I lived in that area as a teenager, I saw such a thing unfold one night while my family was visiting the park. In this case I would not have been so lenient, but I took a lot of comfort in what happened. Around that time the Goth kids were a fixture of high-school life; black-wearing, perennially depressed strongsads starving for attention (who took their introspection to such an extreme that even I found them off-putting). It became ironic and cool for them to hang out at the Happiest Place on Earth. This particular group simply stood in clustered together at the statue of Walt and Mickey at the end of Main Street USA just looking sad, and even a little threatening. My family was near by when they over-heard a security guard come out of the woodwork and approach them, letting them know that if they didn't ride any rides they would be asked to leave. They were not going to be permitted to disturb the other guests, passively or otherwise. I'm willing to bet they wound up discussing existentialism at an all-night diner somewhere, bad-mouthing the corporate machine of Disneyland. They're probably all CPAs now.

As Amy mentioned, we took my Dad along on a special tour of the park. Along the way, we learned some things about Disneyland you may not have heard. Disneyland is the home of a private dining club called Club 33 (named for it's address in New Orleans Square) where Walt used to entertain visiting VIPs away from the tourists. The formal club still exists and still boasts VIPs, including Johnny Dep. We had the privilege of seeing the foyer of the club that features a replica of an incredible antique elevator that really works. The Haunted Mansion didn't always used to have a ride in it. Walt had it built along with New Orleans Square. It had originally been intended to go on Main Street, but Walt, and company realized it would be out of place there. It stood for years with no apparent purpose while guests speculated. Was it actually haunted, or maybe even cursed? Had somebody died there? The stories abounded. Walt took that and ran with it, claiming that they were preparing the mansion for ghostly guests from all over the world. Nine hundred and ninety-nine actually showed up. But there's always room for one more. Any volunteers? MWAHAHAHAHAHA!! We also spotted a special caboose car exclusively for Club 33 members and their friends called the Lillybell (for Walt's wife Lillian). One last thing: there's a lamp in the window of the firehouse on Main Street that is always on. The Firehouse contained Walt's personal apartment at the park. Every time he came to visit, he would come in and turn that light on. The light became a code for the staff to be on their best behavior because the boss was on the premises. It's been lit ever since Walt died; a symbol of Walt's continued presence in the park.






Anyway, the appeal of Disneyland for me is simple; Disneyland is a reminder of Zion; that shining city on a hill the pilgrims came for and failed to build. The reason this Zion works is because the only man who ever lived there, Walt Disney, is now dead. The point is not to live there, but to visit; to see what's possible. That's why I came, and that's what I found. I felt such a ubiquitous and reliable sense of control that, like so many visitors, it was very difficult to leave. As we walked towards the exit of the park, I turned and blew a final kiss to Main Street USA. After we had walked through the turnstile, Amy said there was a woman behind us who was in tears. Contemplating the unpredictable, fickle, and threatening nature of the world we were about to re-enter, I think I know why she was crying. We've already started planning our next pilgrimage



--Tom