A Cynic’s Guide to the Happiest Place on Earth

The traffic at the exit for the Happiest Place on Earth made me deeply unhappy. Cars were backed up half a mile on the Santa Ana Freeway and it was barely 9 a.m. Not a good sign. I hate throngs of people. Arrange my life to avoid them. I’ve even walked out of funerals that were too crowded.

I should have turned around, but that would have caused a family rift. My sister and her kids were waiting at the Carnation bandstand.

So I inched along, ticked off that so many others suffered the same delusion as I: that Disneyland might be tolerable on a chilly day in the off-season.

At least there was a distraction ahead. Some guys on the corner with megaphones. Maybe they were directing traffic. I rolled down my window.

“He died for your sins-a,” bellowed one. “Yes, you can be saved-a. He is the son of God-a.”

Eternal life? Not today, thanks. I could use a little something in a neutron bomb, though.

I finally made it into the parking lot and sprinted half a mile to the ticket booth. I paid my admission and ran down Main Street toward Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Near the bandstand, a large crowd had gathered around the castle moat. All eyes were on a woman who stood on the banks with a long-handled net. She was skimming dead fish from the murky water.

Death comes to Disneyland. An omen.

Soon, my patience would be sleeping with the fishes.

You’ve heard, perhaps, about that widely advertised $20 special for Southern California residents? So had the rest of the Southland, who showed up to have fun, dammit , no matter how crowded it was. Clearly, the discount, which ended Sunday, has been a boon for Disneyland. And a bust for the those of us with low patience and impaired impulse-control.

We began our exercise in frustration by racing to the Matterhorn bobsleds, where we stood in line for 60 minutes before enjoying approximately 30 seconds of whooshing through tunnels and around slopes covered in faux snow.

The children, who don’t know enough to be bitter and cynical, loved it.

Most lines, except the one to see the dead fish, were more than an hour long. I found comfort where I usually do: by lashing out at those around me. I yelled at a pair of obnoxious 15-year-old boys for acting 15. I yelled at my nieces for acting 8 and 10. I yelled at my sister for acting 38.

And all the while, I felt guilty. Hating Disneyland is as un-American as hating the early Elvis. The place itself is bad enough--those dead fish were the most real thing I’ve ever seen there. But the people absolutely ruin it. As soon as they cross the threshold, they become horrible pseudo-versions of people--sort of like the later Elvis. Parents who’d look perfectly attractive buying tires at Sears look ugly here. Kids look ugly. Even babies look ugly.

Misanthropy--even with the mitigating guilt--is hard work.

By 11, I was starving. Once we determined that the ice cream line was shorter than the cheeseburger line, we enjoyed a nutritious root-beer-float breakfast. (Should you ever find yourself feeling sorry for Russians in bread lines, please, think America First! The guests at Disneyland are the ones who need your sympathy.)

After belching loudly and drawing angry stares from the ugly but well-mannered people around us, we moseyed over to Frontierland, bumping into many scantily clad teen-agers, exasperated parents and squalling babies. Somewhere near the petting zoo, we passed the cages of some beautiful, exotic birds.

“Now children,” I said, “take a good look. These are the cleanest cages you will ever see in a barnyard. Why, here at Disneyland, even the animals are toilet trained.”

“Thank you!” chirped the animal keeper, her voice irony-free. “We sure do appreciate that!”

We tried the line at the Haunted Mansion. Too long. We tried the line at Space Mountain. Too long. We got into “Captain EO” right away, but being so close to the surgically altered Michael Jackson--thanks to 3-D glasses--was truly terrifying.

We were calmed somewhat by a nutritious cheeseburgers-and-fries lunch, for which we waited in line about 30 minutes. By now in the habit, we decided what the heck! Let’s stand in line for the Pirates of the Caribbean!

Through the haze of memory, I’ve always thought of it as my favorite Disneyland attraction. Of course, this was my first visit since Grad Nite in 1973. The haze of memory had obscured the 40-minute wait.

Pirates was a major disappointment. Remember when Disneyland used to refuse entrance to long-haired boys? What hypocrisy. If you want to see real degenerates, check this out. It’s a rummy celebration of rape, pillage and alcoholism, set to music. Yo ho, yo ho. They even make fun of fat women. Really, Walt, you disappoint me.

(“Well, what were you expecting, dear?” my husband asked later. “They’re pirates .”)

After that, I was done for. I ditched my nieces and headed for the parking lot.

There was a line at the exit.

It was well worth the wait.