I was killing time waiting for Jeanette and LouLou at the corner of Hollywood and Sunset (two Los Angeles boulevards which will never intersect) in front of California Adventure’s Hyperion Theater. A bustling spot where every walk of life passes by in seconds flat. Female Japanese tourists posing for pictures, going-gaga-over costumed Daisy Duck, doesn’t necessarily faze me; it’s expected. Japanese ensembles appear as if catechism class were just before or immediately following Tinkerbell’s shuttle dropping or picking the girls up. Parents ignoring their little one’s irate meltdown is commonplace, for certain toddlers Disneyland isn’t “The Happiest Place on Earth.” Entire families rushed around me, bombarded from all directions really by those wearing Disney t-shirts identifying who’s who: Momma Mouse — Daddy Mouse — Aunt Mouse, yaddy, yaddy ya. If not a t-shirt, many guests feel the need to don furry Goofy top hats, Captain Jack Sparrow headdress, Chewbacca backpacks or any other form of Disney motif in 95° scorching heat. Visitors meander gnawing on whole turkey legs, others eat fifteen dollar popcorn sold in kitschy Disney personality containers. Every ticket sets back each full paying guest about a hundred bucks, approximately the price of one Disney share. The park last Saturday was one ginormous retail sardine can. Anaheim is muscled by Disneyland; Shanghai’s $5.5 billion Disney Resort opened in 2016; ol’ Walt’s dream became an unstoppable cash cow. Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas Haunted Mansion burned up two valuable hours standing in line. I lasted seventy minutes; Jeanette and LouLou, on the other hand, soldiered through an obnoxious drunk behind them, alongside repetitive eerie music blaring from overhead speakers, interspersed by Vincent Price’s ghoulish gab. I was taken aback by ZZ Top bearded biker guys, adorned with chains attached to their back pocket bulky black leather wallets, gothic font inked upon clenched hands holding metal dividing rails; a stark contrast to their lanyards festooned with Disney pin memorabilia. A stand-out hardcore outsider stood near me at the Hyperion Theater waiting for Frozen’s 3pm live performance. He epitomized an MSNBC Lockup Mexican Mafia figure who’d been hitting San Quentin’s iron pile — early-forties, shaved head, Pancho Villa moustache, white wife beater under a XXL white pressed t-shirt, grey Dickies shorts four sizes too big (new of course) white knee-high tube socks, spotless white Nike low tops, wrap-around mirrored shades (worn backwards) and jailhouse serpents tattooed on each arm. Sprinkled with pixie dust, only within Disneyland’s magical kingdom — “Love is an open door.”



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