insurgent49
  updated weekly
 home - contribute - donate -  message board - events - links - contact us - archive
October 21, 2005
Editor’s Desk
by Aaron Selbig, insurgent49

[Editor's note: Aaron is taking a week off from 'Editor's Desk'. It seems that Aaron has developed some sort of mysterious psychiatric malady, as he has begun to refer to himself in the third person. Seriously though, I'm exhausted. It's 4:00 in the morning, the i49 FUNdraiser is tomorrow, and it's been a hell of a week. I promise 'Editor's Desk' will be back next week. In the meantime, please enjoy a 'classic' column from the past, dated July 15, 2005.]

     It’s been the happiest week on Earth here at Insurgent Headquarters.

     For American children, there exists a pilgrimage which must be made to become a true citizen; a Mecca for every girl and boy that stands majestically at the far Western end of our country as a beacon of hope, promise, and glorious sensory overload. To get there, one must endure a lengthy car trip with one’s family, braving the endless American interstate highway system, fighting off relentless attacks from one’s little sister in the back seat, and riding the perilous edge of Dad’s threats to pull the car over and beat some sense into you. If you manage to pass through these trials, you will find yourself at journey’s end: Anaheim, California, home of the singular place every kid in America dreams about, the “happiest place on Earth”:

     Disneyland.

     As we pulled into the parking lot last Monday at dawn, the anxious tension radiating from my nine year-old son, my niece (also nine), and my five year-old nephew, was palpable. The adults (myself, my sister, and Grandma & Grandpa – all seasoned veterans of Disneyland) were like battle-tested Marines, stoic and ready for anything. We boarded the tram for the 39-mile ride from the parking lot to the gates of Mecca.

     I couldn’t help but reflect on some of the negative things about Disneyland, and the Disney Empire in general, that some friends had warned me about before the trip: Disney unabashedly uses Chinese sweatshop labor to make the crap they sell at a huge markup at Disneyland, Disney portrays itself as a family-friendly company while raking in obscene profits off the backs of working class folks, Disney movies are often historically inaccurate (Pocahontas) and racist (Briar Rabbit), and Disney famously exercised its political muscle last year by disallowing its subsidiary Miramax to release ‘Fahrenheit 9/11’. These subversive thoughts rattled around in my head as we boarded ‘It’s A Small World’ with the kids. “No! … mustn’t … detract from … fun”, I admonished myself, “must be … HAPPY!”

     For those of you who’ve never had the privilege of taking the ‘It’s A Small World’ boat odyssey, here’s a useful primer:

     It starts out innocently enough: you’re plopped into a giant plastic skiff and propelled into a dark tunnel (dark tunnels are a common theme on almost all Disneyland rides). Things brighten, however, as you pass into a colorful cavern filled with animatronic delights, and your ears are met with the first strains of that oh-so-familiar Disney song:

“It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears,
It’s a world of hopes, and a world of fears;
There’s so much that we share, blah blah blah blah blah blah …”

     “Okay”, I thought to myself, “the kids seem to be enjoying themselves and I can dig the message of diversity … this is corny but it isn’t so bad”. Then, suddenly, I began to notice that something was a little off. As we passed from brightly lit cavern to brightly lit cavern, each filled with robotic children and animals from about the globe, a subtle chord of disharmony was struck. The notes began to sour, the motions of the robots became stiff and slightly sinister, the endless cave began to darken …

“It’s a small world after all,
It’s a small world after all …”

     Then … the racial stereotypes started to assert themselves. The Chinese children sang,

“Ching chong ching chang,
Chong, chong, chong …”

     The slant in their eyes was grossly exaggerated and I though I saw one of them in a darkened corner sewing a Mickey Mouse logo on a pair of boxer-briefs. It wasn’t just the Asian children, either, I began to notice. The African children had big, red lips and the Eskimos, clad in their parkas, were singing not in Yup’ik or Inupiat, but in broken English.

“It’s a small world after all,
It’s a small world after all,
It’s a small world after all …”

     Dear God, I was beginning to panic. “I’ve got to get out of here!” I whispered frantically to my sister. And then … I finally realized, after what seemed like an hour and a half of cruising through the treacherous waters of this endless, demonic, acid trip of an amusement park ride, what the point of it all was: It was brainwashing, CIA-style brainwashing, pure and simple. The Disney Corporation knew that anyone who voluntarily subjected themselves to this ride would have that horrifyingly catchy song stuck in their head not for an hour or for an afternoon, but for life.

     Afterwards, the rest of the family rushed to get in line for the Matterhorn. I excused myself to gather my senses. I was sweating profusely and breathing hard … I needed a cigarette. As soon as I lit one, however, I was approached by one of the Disney employees. Disneyland has several battalions of employees, each armed with a bright, cheery smile and an eagle’s eye for unpleasantness. They roam the park like trained jackals, enforcing the rules, herding lost sheep, and pouncing on anyone who is not happy. Cigarettes, apparently, are not happy.

     “Sir, would you please extinguish that cigarette?” she implored in a lilting voice, her gratuitous smile barely concealing the bloodthirsty disdain she obviously held for smokers, “there’s a smoking area in nearby Frontierland”

     “I’m not going to fucking Frontierland”, I thought but dared not say, “It’s a half-mile away and its eighty degrees out here and I’m from Alaska and DON’T YOU PEOPLE HAVE ANY GODDAMNED DECENCY TO LET A PERSON SIN JUST A LITTLE! I’M HAPPY, FOR CHRIST’S SAKES! I SWEAR IT!”   

     I stubbed out my cigarette and trudged away, feeling her eyes burning into the back of my skull.

     When the time came for the Main Street parade, I had mostly recovered and found myself actually looking forward to the lights, floats, and familiar stream of Disney characters. Our family huddled together in the midst of a swelling, eager crowd. We found a place in an alcove next to a gift shop (one of thousands), put the kids on our shoulders, and waited for the parade to begin.

     Suddenly, another Disney stormtrooper appeared out of nowhere, this one sporting a headset and the now-familiar Disney urethane smile. She informed us that we were in an unauthorized area and would have to move. Oh no. I thought I might snap, and we were so close to the end. But it was my sister who had had enough. Perhaps she was feeling the same swelling resistance to so much authoritarian happiness that I was. She smiled brightly and politely informed the woman that we had tired kids on our hands, there was no room to move anywhere else, the parade was about to start, and, in short, we weren’t going anywhere. The Disney soldier did something then that I would not have thought possible. She frowned.

     “I guess I’ll have to call my boss, then”, she threatened, making a move for her headset. My sister, God bless her, leaned in close and, in her best Dirty Harry tone, said, “Go ahead”.

     She had beaten Disney at its own game. The startled Dis-nazi backed away. The tables had been turned and there was no recourse because to actually call her boss and have us removed would be … well … unhappy. Afterwards, my five year-old nephew turned to his mother and, with a newfound independent spirit beaming from his little face, said,”She’s not the boss of us. Right, Mommy?”

     That’s right, little man. She’s not the boss of us.

     Following our glorious victory on Main Street (and the obligatory purchase of a few sweatshop items for the children), we headed for the exits.

     The pilgrimage had been made. My son was now an American citizen. The golden California sun slipped gently over the western horizon, and the mood of veiled hostility gave way to one of peace.

 “It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears,
It’s a world of …

AAAIIGHHH!!!


Regards,
Aaron Selbig
Editor, Insurgent Media AK
- Columnists -

Editor's Desk
by Aaron Selbig

Red Alert
by Soren Wuerth

Alaskan In Exile
by Neil Zawicki

The
Bramble Bush
by Kevin Morford





- also by this writer -

Stop Requested

Drunk Until Proven Sober
Copyright 2005 Insurgent Media. All rights reserved.
in-sur-gent (in sur'jent), n. 1. a member of a group which  revolts against the policies of its leadership.