Guest blogger ROBERT SYKES shares our recent visit to Southern California’s favorite tourist spot…

The shopping mall concrete corridor snakes to the mouth of the DizneyZone. Stumbling along with the herd, we are steered away from the monorail by crowd control, as we have no ticket. My sister and I stand in the entrance line for an hour wondering if the ticket booths are staffed with geriatric Alzheimer patients. Sunday evening with Anaheim twilight falling on the best grinning heads of Inglewood, Hawthorne, Pacoima, Long Beach, and Compton: they all can afford a magical 69 dollars to go into the magical beast during the worst recession in 80 years. I haven’t walked down Main Street USA since 1983 and everything seems lower, smaller, and stranger as we move with other victims toward the DizneyCastle’s gateway to all the deluded zones ahead. 

Riding into the Crackheads of the Caribbean, sliding past a phony bayou restaurant where more androids stuff their faces in an artificial twilight, the ride down the sewage canal is like driving drunk through downtown LA’s Box on cheap scotch and ludes; a robot assault of derelict winos and methheads shooting, screaming, and singing in one gutter scenario after the other. The sedated ‘21 Jump Street’ narc Johnny Depp is the local junkie queen-totally out of place with these idiots, and a good place for the kids to realize getting totally fucked-up with guns is a good-time for everyone. Outside, I stand by the extinct Tom Sawyer’s Island where 25 years ago, my girlfriend was told to put out her cigarette by a DizneyGoon. She screamed to get her out of this hell, now. Total DizneyClaustrophobia. She was right, but my senses have always been remote and I enjoy the artificial lights-everything a dim, stupid hallucination, and the total opposite of a night eating mescaline under fluorescent lights. A wheelchair is pushed by me with a strange old woman whose mouth is a gaping, toothless black hole. Her melon head is covered with liver spots, wrapped with a large white bandage-like scarf, and she is insanely ecstatic, her leg kicking to a private epileptic tune.

We head into the Burnout Mansion. With no line, the place has lost its Mojo, but there are two teenage girls blocking our way, badly in need of Ritalin, wired together with an IPod, and dancing in double-vision. Past the dyslexic stretch elevator, we crowd into mobile seats salvaged from the 60’s Aneurysm of Inner Space ride where you are shrunk into a creepy chemopticon overseen by the Monsanto Seed Police. As we get into the moving pods, a wheel-chaired man is pushed by security down some side corridor and watches grimly as the pod people glide past the end of his trail. The ghosts are still homeless, freeloading vagrants singing some wino’s version of a musical. This neighborhood crashed way before the yuppie gentrification meltdown: back when rent was cheap and there was plenty of time for unemployment and constant hallucinations. Outside, peripheral vision is filled with figures and slowly pulsating lights. The Plastic Mountain has no Hitler Youth climbing it anymore, and the three-hour line feeds into the bobsleds, riding fast with the sound of screams absorbed by the hidden walls of Dizney’s private ‘33’ Masonic bar, where the phony sacrificial vibe arouses Valley Masons downing secret Rat Martini’s.

Dust Mountain is a strange simulation of what it’s like to be tranquilized on massive doses of mind-stopping torbitrol, ketamine/valium cocktails, PCP head-spins and drive-heave seizures. A terrible and bad trip for minors and senior citizens, simulating the disembodying effects of how K-Hole and Dust trips can lead to harder experiences; like Section 8, homelessness, and speaking in tongues. Past the ‘Crazy Train Ride through Whiskey Fit Land’, where some dude lost his head when he decided to stand up, we arrive at the ‘It’s a Small Detention Camp After All.’  Here, more preemie robots ‘love-bomb’ boatloads of stunned detainees, floating through a multi-lingual wonderland wearing down the mind with programmed phrases: “The Children are tortured until they tell their first Lie” (the line actually is from Last Tango in Paris, but this should be the true programmed phrase of this Catacomb of Mongoloids). I hear the mind-numbing key words repeated; “And a World of Fears . . . It’s a really Small world after All . . . And a World of Fears,” until I wonder what the problem is. FAREWELL to the Planet of the Thalidomide Children. Back on the streets, we are cordoned and pushed through roped off crowds with strange rows of security waving us on down the runway with flashlights. We are driven along like cattle and I yell at one of the matrons, “Are we getting 86ed?” She nods mechanically as we are pushed faster toward the front gate landscaped with the Michael Jackson Memorial flower-beds. Massive cardiac arrest fireworks start pounding the sky and I feel for anyone who has had a Dizney-induced heart attack to the sound of cartoon propaganda blasting all around. I look for a bar to pound down some DizneyBooze but we are pushed out, down the endless mall where shadowy mutants wear more cocked Mickey Rat hats than is reasonable. We pile in the car and head straight to Hollywood Boulevard and into the warped security of Jumbo’s Clown Room. Warped Hollywood Girls trying to make a living-suddenly the world makes sense again. FAREWELL!!!

Robert Sykes