Zurg's Dead, baby. Zurg's Dead.

Pablo Honey wanted the title of this blog to be "My Boyfriend's Better than Me." And as you can see, stereotypes once again prove true, as his shooting score surpassed mine on the uber-fun Buzz Lightyear ride. I feel fine about it; my supple breasts prevented me from aiming the gun properly.

We just got back from a day in the Magic Kingdom. I was expecting the day to be full of cynicism, edginess, and superiority complexes, but it was really just delightful. The minute I laid eyes on Main Street, every memory of Disneyland that lives inside of me swelled and leapt to the surface, bringing an acute feeling of joy that was like pop rocks leaping all over my body.

I immediately likened it to Americans' pull towards McDonald's after a trip out of the country. We might not ever eat there during the daily grind, but once we're away, it's the first thing we want to stuff in our face upon returning home. So The Haunted Mansion is similar to a Quarter Pounder with cheese.

I went on my first rollercoaster ride in five years. The best part of it was not the weightless feeling in my tummy as we descended 108 feet, but rather the insane giggling of my cohort, Mister Pablo Honey. I experienced the same chortle while on a short-but-presh rollercoaster in Toontown AND Thunder Moutain Railroad. I decided that it adds a mentally-unstable element to the whole thing that I really enjoy. Because what's better than riding a rollercoaster? Riding a rollercoaster with a crazy man that you get to see naked, that's what.

We got to see Pirates of the Caribbean before they rip it out and make it more like the film. Alas, we did not stand up on the boats or sing Nirvana songs too loud (as some of my friends have), because I was too wrapped up in the magic. I felt like I was five again, except this time around I happened to realize that the pirates had attacked some Spanish port and were trying to drown and rape Spanish-speaking people. That really made the whole thing more...vivid. But I purchased a commemorative wrist band souvenir that has both a skull and crossbones as well as "Dead men tell no Tales" embroidered on it.

Fantasyland bugs me, since all you do is sit in tiny little unprotected carts and run into walls. The whale in Pinocchio, the descent into Hell on Mister Toad's, and the Evil Queen in Snow White all scarred me as a wee HellCat. As I cruised through these horrible rides two decades later, I felt my anxiety level skyrocket. Thankfully, Pablo Honey was nothing but supportive, even though my iron grip on his leg skewed his circulation for a solid thirty minutes.

Towards the end of the day, as our feet were getting tired and the omnipresent children became less adorable, the Disneyland-sanctioned group of Annoying Men Banging on Garbage Cans seemed to follow us everywhere we went in Tomorrowland. These men, although blessed with amazing rhythm, were doing things that homeless people in my homebase of Hollywood do all the time. I came to Disneyland to escape all this, for chrissakes. With every strike of their red and white sticks, the balls of my feet seemed to hurt worse. If it weren't for a surprise cameo and finger-gun-shooty motion from Buzz Lightyear, I might have totally lost my mind.

And just to note, I think fashion-conscious Asian women manage to look even cuter at Disneyland. I didn't think it was possible, but it truly is. If you find yourself succumbing to yellow fever, you MUST drive to Anaheim immediately!

The day was truly one of the happiest I have had in a long time. Although I was beyond exhausted, I still had a huge smile on my face when I drifted off to sleep. And the best part? We got a free 2-day pass, and get to do it again sometime real soon. Life is beautiful.

hi-ho. g