I come to bury the myths of Disneyland, not praise them. (and thus ends the Shakespeare references)
I have experienced something infinitely more powerful than finding that secret Club 33 thing which pervades the air like a teenage campfire urban legend.
I have cut to the front of the line through the use of the almighty wheelchair.
Oh sure, at first I was all:
What? You mean the whole family can escort this disabled person to the front of the line, bypassing all the suckers standing there bored out of their minds, paying hundreds of dollars to spend 95% of their day waiting in line, 3% eating crappy food, and 2% enjoying whatever they just spent a hour waiting in line for (although, they’re probably pouting because they didn’t get the seat they preferred)?
But then I was all:
Awesome.
My friends, I haven’t been back since that heavenly day so many years ago. I can’t go back. I’ve tasted the sweet nectar of the No-Waiting Experience. And I’ve been spoiled forever.
I saw the secret inner workings of hallways and doors I never knew existed. The Space Mountain people made us wait in line (since a wheelchair could navigate through the first part) until we reached a particular door. Then they escorted us through the door, down some long white, 2001:A-Space-Odyssey hallway, around a corner, up an elevator, and suddenly, we were standing (one of us was sitting, of course) on the exit side of the Space Mountain ride. I was giddy with privilege.
The next set of cars pulled up, people got out, and then we picked our seat, getting in from the wrong side, averting our eyes from those who had been waiting their turn and had to wait a little longer now because of us. It felt dirty. It felt wrong.
It felt incredible. We were VIPs, man. It made up for every time I ever had to wait in line for anything my entire life up to that point.
It’s like when you’re on the freeway and you switch to the slow moving right-hand lane that has to exit to another freeway (like the 405 North to the 101 South), and you crawl, and you crawl, for like, two miles and just before you reach the off ramp, some jerk comes along who has been flying along in one of the left lanes and swoops into your lane in front of you. You want to shoot him, right?
But being that guy, that day, was unbelievable. We took our time eating the crappy food at lunch. We walked around the park at a leisurely pace. I think I even saw love in the air.
I was on some crazy Hidden Mickey and other Disneyland trivia hunt, so we searched for mouse ears and discovered the Evil Queen who periodically peeks out of some window. We relaxed and enjoyed Disneyland instead of fighting the throngs and mobs.
And that’s just it, I don’t like throngs and mobs and I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to Disneyland because of that. If you can guarantee short lines, then I’ll think about it. Like, maybe you’ll say that Superbowl Sunday is the best day to go, or New Years Day (because everybody is either hungover, at the Rose Bowl Parade, or watching the game at home). I remember going to Marriott’s Great America on a very uncrowded Mother’s Day. (I don’t know what it’s called now – AT&T Rides and Such? TimeWarner’s Rollercoaster Park? Viagra Mountain?)
Why was Mother’s Day so sparse in the park? Maybe no one would want to be seen at a theme park on Mother’s Day. Like it’s a sin or something. Like people should be ashamed of themselves, goofing off playing on the rides all day – you should be home spending time with your mother, you selfish wanker!
Of course, Disneyland has gotten wise to those who travel in large packs to Disneyland and “claim” one of them is unable to walk. After all, you merely ask for a wheelchair; they don’t ask you to prove that you need one.
The happiest day of my life was at the Happiest Place on Earth. But that was several years ago. And each subsequent new attraction they build has more wheelchair access in their lines, so that disabled people have to wait with the rest of the commoners.
So maybe the Era of the Wheelchair is over at Disneyland. That blessed wheelchair access (or, WAC) ruined the chances of my returning because, you know, once you go WAC, you never go back.
Unless someone can get me into the mysterious, secret and maybe even made-up Club 33. I think I could make an exception then. Yeah, I’d be strolling along New Orleans Square, sneaking past all the suckers – I mean, Guests. Or, maybe I’d slip through some secret door behind Sleeping Beauty’s castle, or climb down a rocky underground passageway beneath Tom Sawyer’s Island, provide my name to the Cast Member Guy at the Door with the List, and I’d be in! And I’d be doing whatever it is that the make-believe people do at Club 33 and even though it was totally “legit”, I’d feel dirty and wrong.
At least I hope I would.
I would like to thank Roxanne over at It Really Is All About Me who gave me the Lemonade Award.
Thanks Roxanne!
