To understand Disneyland, and the whole process that brought atavism to Anaheim, you have to talk to John Hench
You're waiting in line for Pirates of the Caribbean, inching along and feeling not too great — a result of injudiciously going to find out what had gotten into the Matterhorn so soon after the Casa de Fritos — and you are fingering the "E" ticket in your breast pocket every thirty seconds or so even though its going to be fifteen minutes easy before you reach the turnstile, and in those fifteen minutes you think about, oh, all kinds of things: sex, the Sox, the drive here, the drive home. Your thoughts are your own business, even at Disneyland.
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