"12 is the perfect age."
My friend, John, leaned across the lunch table to make his point, in his best professorial mode.
"You are old enough to have a vague idea how life works, but you don't have any of the adult responsibilities. You know how to fix and maintain a bicycle. How to eke out the most fun in an afternoon with friends. How to avoid adults and their silly obsessions. Practically perfect."
I should point out that it was a well-appointed lunch table in an upscale restaurant he was leaning across. Neither of us could carry off the 12-ishness with much aplomb. Like old men muttering in their country club about socialism.
But, he is correct. 12 was the perfect age. And I have heard that same sentiment from several of my friends recently.
That may be how I ended up in Disneyland for almost a full week -- to be Magic King-demned.
Depending on which version of family history you choose to believe (more of that in a later post), I have not been to Disneyland since 1955 or 1956.
My belated homecoming was originally unplanned. When I decided to take the Mexico cruise, I thought I would immediately jump on an airplane after I disembarked from the ship.
Not so fast, sport. There is only one flight to Mexico on my chosen airline -- and it leaves LA on Saturday. Only on Saturday. My ship came in on Sunday. Sunday is not Saturday.
What to do in Los Angeles for six days?
Well, some friends had the perfect suggestion: join them in looking at the technical side of Disneyland. So I did.
Now, spending a week trying to figure out how Disney works its magic does not mean that you cannot enjoy the fun that Disney offers. And I did.
I have always enjoyed amusement rides. Anything that goes fast, throws you around, and promises even the hint of severe injury will win me over for repeated rides. That means variations on roller coasters operating in the dark or the light. Fake elevators plummeting to the ground. Faux flight simulators. (Hold it. I think just turned Soarin' into an actual flying machine. In Spanish, there would be no problema.)
What pulled it all together, though. was the music. Anne Lamott once wrote about the power of music: "We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow let's us meet in places we couldn't get to in any other way."
I thought about that quotation as I walked around the amusement park. Disney has installed high-quality speakers throughout the park, and they play uncompressed music that convinces you there must be an orchestra on the other side of the building. Music that is not intellectually challenging, but that is appropriate for families enjoying time together.
I suspect this is what Marx had in mind -- if workers could net $200,000 annually.
Would I go back? Sure.
But the next time I am stuck in Los Angeles, I will probably want to log some more roller coaster time.
I need the address for Six Flags.
And another swig of that "Now-You-Are-12" potion.
My friend, John, leaned across the lunch table to make his point, in his best professorial mode.
"You are old enough to have a vague idea how life works, but you don't have any of the adult responsibilities. You know how to fix and maintain a bicycle. How to eke out the most fun in an afternoon with friends. How to avoid adults and their silly obsessions. Practically perfect."
I should point out that it was a well-appointed lunch table in an upscale restaurant he was leaning across. Neither of us could carry off the 12-ishness with much aplomb. Like old men muttering in their country club about socialism.
But, he is correct. 12 was the perfect age. And I have heard that same sentiment from several of my friends recently.
That may be how I ended up in Disneyland for almost a full week -- to be Magic King-demned.
Depending on which version of family history you choose to believe (more of that in a later post), I have not been to Disneyland since 1955 or 1956.
My belated homecoming was originally unplanned. When I decided to take the Mexico cruise, I thought I would immediately jump on an airplane after I disembarked from the ship.
Not so fast, sport. There is only one flight to Mexico on my chosen airline -- and it leaves LA on Saturday. Only on Saturday. My ship came in on Sunday. Sunday is not Saturday.
What to do in Los Angeles for six days?
Well, some friends had the perfect suggestion: join them in looking at the technical side of Disneyland. So I did.
Now, spending a week trying to figure out how Disney works its magic does not mean that you cannot enjoy the fun that Disney offers. And I did.
I have always enjoyed amusement rides. Anything that goes fast, throws you around, and promises even the hint of severe injury will win me over for repeated rides. That means variations on roller coasters operating in the dark or the light. Fake elevators plummeting to the ground. Faux flight simulators. (Hold it. I think just turned Soarin' into an actual flying machine. In Spanish, there would be no problema.)
What pulled it all together, though. was the music. Anne Lamott once wrote about the power of music: "We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow let's us meet in places we couldn't get to in any other way."
I thought about that quotation as I walked around the amusement park. Disney has installed high-quality speakers throughout the park, and they play uncompressed music that convinces you there must be an orchestra on the other side of the building. Music that is not intellectually challenging, but that is appropriate for families enjoying time together.
I suspect this is what Marx had in mind -- if workers could net $200,000 annually.
Would I go back? Sure.
But the next time I am stuck in Los Angeles, I will probably want to log some more roller coaster time.
I need the address for Six Flags.
And another swig of that "Now-You-Are-12" potion.
