Last weekend I flew down to southern California to spend some time with Señor Grant. On Saturday, he took me to Disneyland, after prohibiting me from participating in any planning. Always content to submit to the agenda of others, I happily surrendered. This guy knows his way around Disneyland like I know my way around a pint of Häagen Dazs Dulce de Leche. We spent about 12 hours running from attraction to attraction, with hardly a moment of rest, except for the brief corn dog respite.
Now, my experience with corn dogs has pretty much been limited to Trader Joe’s Meatless Corn Dogs, which are more like a medium for the delivery of ketchup. The Disney ones were like the Trader Joe’s ones plus about 1500 calories, a lot of grease, and seemingly real meat products. I wolfed down two and then was rushed off to the next ride.
I think that my favorite ride was Soaring over California. You sit in a ski lift-like buggy in front of a massive screen which effectively fills your entire field of vision. On the screen a film is projected from the point of view of Superman, or some gravity-defying Disney character, flying over the Golden Gate Bridge, through Yosemite, and various other parts of California, except I think Sacramento, our capital, which didn’t seem to make the cut. They raise the seats and blow air at you, and even pine scent as you pass over the timber line, so that the effect is like you’re really soaring over the state. It was simultaneously completely convincing and completely artificial, like being tossed into a giant movie.
I also loved the Hollywood Tower of Terror. You get in an elevator in this old hotel and suddenly you’re dropped 14 stories. And then the elevator goes up again and you’re dropped again. And again. I screamed and screamed. Aaaaaaaah! I nearly lost my corn dogs.
We dined in Ariel’s Grotto, outside by the water, romantic, in the only table with no heat overhead. So I shivered through my meal, warmed visually by Señor Grant’s fiery countenance. After dinner we made our way through several heated indoor attractions and then, suitably warmed, hopped over to the other side of the lake to see the World of Color show, “the WOOON-derful world of COOOOOO-loooooooor!” in which scenes from recent Disney films are projected on eruptions and sprays of water. Despite the signs everywhere warning that the area we were in was a “wet” zone, Señor Grant insisted that it was “only a mist.” When our neighbors expressed concern about getting wet, he calmed them with “it’s only a light mist.” The show was dazzling, the colored jets of water zigging and zagging, the fountains growing higher and higher… and then came the deluge. Which didn’t stop. Everyone around started screaming, I ducked behind Señor Grant but to no avail. We were soaked. I tried to avoid the angry stares of my wet neighbors, glaring at Señor Grant.
Actually I loved all the rides—the roller coasters, the singing animatronic critters, the Haunted Mansion—except for the Finding Nemo submarine ride, which was pretty lame. But to be fair to the Disney designers, by the time we got there, it was close to midnight, the corn dogs were wreaking havoc with my GI tract, we were wet, tired, kids were crying, everybody stank. It was time to go home.