Disney: The Land of Teacups and Sympathy

I grew up with Disneyland right next door.

The park went up in 1955, so by the time I got here from Los Angeles four years later, there it was, hunkered right there by Interstate 5, waiting for me.

Not that I wasn’t fully Disneyized before the park was built. I remember getting a Mickey Mouse hat and a red plastic Mickey Mouse guitar when I was 4. I was immensely proud of the ensemble, playing along with the Mouseketeers on television until I left the guitar in the back of the Studebaker and it melted, along with a plastic, .50-caliber, water-cooled machine gun-- with tripod! I have pictures of myself in that get-up, in some family photo album buried in my study.

It was swell having Disneyland that close. I clearly remember Mom and Dad taking us three kids there when I was about 7; it was an event we looked forward to with almost insane anticipation. I wore a pair of white somethings--calf-length pants that were neither shorts nor trousers--one-of-a-kind, perhaps, because I’ve never seen anything like them since. We got more Mickey Mouse hats. I have photos of that excursion too, fading yet representative images of suburban Orange County life, circa 1960.

Later, in junior high school, my friends and I made annual trips to the park. The outings were always on parent-teacher conference days. So while our parents were sitting in classrooms learning how dreadful their children were, we were running amok in Disneyland: shooting people with squirt guns on the Monsanto ride, sneaking into the Teacups without standing in line, ambushing happy tourists with spit wads fired through plastic straws.

Disneyland was in our blood.

As I grew older, things didn’t change much. Though I stopped going to the park for a while after junior high, it was still with me--part memory and part smog-choked actuality, sitting there off I-5 like it always did.

Moreover, as I got older I became aware that a great many non-Orange Countians identified me by Disneyland more than anything else. When I traveled in Europe after college, people who could barely pronounce the word “Republican” would easily say, “Ah, Disneyland, “ when I told them I was from Orange County. And of course there was the eternal condescension of Angelenos, who held Disneyland, Orange County and me personally (I was convinced) in smug contempt.

In high school, some of my more presentable friends got jobs there. Cindy sold rock candy on Main Street. Mike swept up. Rick operated the Autopia cars until he got run over by one and threw out his back. Many of my teachers moonlighted there during summer and school holidays--my history teacher, Mr. Delaney, was rumored to be the fastest Monorail pilot in the whole park.

Disney stayed with me as an adult. My wife was the lead singer in a band that performed on the Tomorrowland Terrace stage. My brother-in-law led the band. They got paychecks with a little Mickey Mouse on them. When my wife got real sick, Disney came through with monstrous payments for her treatment. When she died, they sent me even more.

Maybe it should come as no surprise, then, that recently I became a Disney employee myself. Unable to reach an agreement with my original book publisher, I was approached by Hyperion--the newish trade publishing company started up by the Walt Disney Company three years ago.

Of course, I was a little worried that a Disney-owned publisher might demand the kind of “family entertainment” that I am no doubt fully unequipped to deliver. I wondered if wholesomeness might become contractually mandated.

“They’re a good company,” advised Tom, my brother-in-law (still employed by Disney). “Just don’t let them talk you into putting any mice into your story.”

I voiced concern to my would-be editor at Hyperion. He chuckled. He assured me that the publisher would expect adult fiction from me, and not to worry. He gave me an advance copy of one of Hyperion’s fall books--James Lee Burke’s “Dixie City Jam”--which was violent and bizarre enough to assuage any worries I had about being forced into excessive goodness.

So I signed up.

Since then, I’ve truly enjoyed being part of the Disney entertainment mega-conglomerate. We call it the family. I become personally excited when I read about the rental grosses for “Pretty Woman.” I was pleased that Disney bought a bunch of home sites up on Newport Coast and wondered when they’d offer me one with an interest-free loan--just a little contract sweetener for their new writer. I was concerned about Mike’s surgery and surprised by Jeffrey’s abrupt exit--why didn’t he call so we could mull it over?

I actually went to see an animated Disney movie, “The Lion King,” and it’s one of the best movies I’ve seen all year, trouncing “Speed,” “Natural Born Killers,” and “Forrest Gump.”

I’ve taken such a liking to Timon, the Meerkat character in “The Lion King,” that I spent all of last Sunday driving the county, looking for the tie-in stuffed Timon doll. It was a gut-wrenching experience to march into the Disney store in South Coast Plaza, cast a warm smile at Tina (my fellow employee) and tell her I was there to purchase not one, but two, Timon dolls--one for myself and one for the 3-year-old who was kind enough to take me to the movie in the first place.

“We’re sold out,” said Tina, obviously shaken. “But there’s a new shipment in back, and we’ll be putting out new merchandise Monday. Really, we can’t keep Timon on the shelves. He’s that cute.”

“I agree,” I said, crestfallen. I fingered a little plastic Timon, but it wasn’t the same. I’ll wait, maybe see the movie again to memorize some of his lines.

Until then I’m working on the new novel, which deals with love, friendship, betrayal and vengeance in Orange County. I’m thinking of it as an instant classic. In fact, I’m packaging the film version in my head already: Julia and some Baldwin in the leads, Neil Jordan to direct, Oscar-winning script by Robert Towne and T. Jefferson Parker.

Gotta call Mike to see if Timon is available. He’s introduced in chapter three.