Dizz Knee Land—June 4 and 5

Every fiber of my being is on alert. I sense danger everywhere. I am constantly ready to bolt. It is not magical. It is not happy. It is antiseptic corporate-approved fun. It is such stuff as nightmares are made on, and our little kingdom is rounded with a benzodiazepine. My exterior is calm, but inside I am waiting for panic to set in. But it never does. Instead, I become numb. I realize that this is the trick. Automatons are running the place and automatons are enjoying it. In order to survive with my sanity somewhat intact, my defense mechanism is to shut down. After only a few hours, I have developed the thousand yard stare.

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The Lie
Here's an idea: Buy an orange grove, on the cheap, and chop down nearly all of the trees, pave it over and pretty up the place with steel and concrete, fake vegetation and fake rocks, and charge 53 dollars for a person to get inside. Once inside, continue to charge inordinate prices for crappy food and souvenirs. Don't forget to market it to the masses. The Magic Kingdom. The Happiest Place On Earth (an anagram of: hint he cheats people apart, which may not be pregnant with meaning, but neither is the happiest place on earth).

The Ambience
Music—or what passes for music—is heard all the time, everywhere: A marching band accompanies characters from Alice In Wonderland as they perform an odd dance routine; instrumental versions of songs from Oklahoma and The Music Man emanate from speakers all along Main Street; treacly, and often catchy, melodies accompany nearly every single ride. Costumed employees are ubiquitous, always high energy, bustling with activity and a sense of feigned purpose. Odd, suspicious odors waft about. There is a general air of desperate fun mingled with quiet desperation.

The Rides
Many—if not all—amusement park rides come with a certain amount of humiliation. You get wet, you get scared, you get dizzy, you taste your breakfast all over again, etc. But Disneyland adds a peculiar dimension to the humiliation. There is no such thing as a ride without a story or a theme. For instance, you can't just go on a log ride for a fun way to cool off. Oh no, before the steep drop-off that splashes water all over you, you have to enter a fake cave and be accosted by creepy animatronic creatures singing Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah and then a little further on witness Brer Rabbit murmuring unintelligibly, yet seemingly contentedly, while posed in a disturbing situation.

The Employees
White people are working out front, visible to visitors. They all have a creepy friendly attitude, reminiscent of the archetypal serial killer who kept to himself but seemed nice and harmless. People with skin pigmentation darker than Snow White's are making the food and doing other behind-the-scene jobs. It's a small world after all.

The Fantasy
I know the place is supposed to be fantasy--but whose fantasy? Who fantasizes about animatronic stereotypes of Chinese children singing an inane lie? Who fantasizes about a giant silent Goofy waving and signing autographs? Who fantasizes about thousands of overweight people stuffing themselves with overpriced foodstuffs? The Dream is lost on me.

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I get through it. I even enjoy some of the rides. I make my way through large crowds of people, from one pseudo-land to another, going on themed rides, watching a parade, a show, a light/water/live action extravaganza, fireworks. The following day brings more rides, more crowds. It is difficult to discern the difference between the two days, since the same things happen in the same locations at the same times. Seconds, minutes, hours fritter away. My brain is operating on its most basic level, allowing all critical body functions to continue, but blocking out the capacity for thought, emotion, or imagination. Finally, it is time to leave Walt's Dream and return to waking life and freedom. My mind gradually returns to me and I return home.