Acid in Anaheim
I had one friend who said that there’s something perverse about taking acid at Disneyland. For the two or so college years where I did hard drugs, I refused to see acid as a corruption of the holy temple of our childhoods. On the contrary, I saw Disneyland as the unique purpose of acid, the thing that the game of bridge is to a 52-card deck. Here you have a tiny tablet that heightens your senses for eight hours. All you want is a set activity, something besides your drab life, ideally a series of safe but unusual stimulations of light and color. Enter the Mouse House, with all its wild-eyed children, stressed-out families, and hand-crafted structures.

Acid doesn’t give off an aroma, darken your veins, or make powder fall out of your nose. With minimal decorum, there’s no way anyone can tell you’re on hard drugs, if you keep wearing your sunglasses. And there’s something about the house that Walt built that’s utterly psychedelic. If you’re going to do acid at all, it almost seems like a crime not to do it at Disneyland.

I have a long history with Disneyland. Mom took me there every Easter break during almost every year of my childhood. Mom would also pay for me to bring a friend, perhaps to obviate the loneliness of my only-child-ness. I associate Disneyland with some of the best times I ever had with my peers.

I’m one of these Disneyland-heads. I know the whole history of the park, including a lot of silliness that wasn’t readily available to the public until this. (I also know too much about Walt Disney World and the Magic Kingdom, but I’ve never been there.) I well remember the Skyway, the 360-degree movie, Mission to Mars (which sucked), and Adventure Thru Inner Space (which ruled). I have a book from the 80s called “The Unofficial Guide to Disneyland,” which teaches you how to avoid lines. The two main rules are one, avoid slow-loading rides (e.g. Dumbo, which has to go through an entire ride cycle before anyone new can board it), and two, go to the park during the least popular times of the year. A chart in the book shows that late October, November, and early December are the periods with the smallest crowds. I think Michael Eisner might have gotten his hands on this book, because now they have “The Nightmare Before Christmas” and a whole lot of It’s a Small World-related Christmas nonsense. The only non-congested days left are rainy days.

It’s March 1991, my junior year of college. I have a few friends with whom I take drugs all the time. We already spend an inordinate amount of time on beaches, in forests, at graveyards. When we expand our brains, we don’t think small. What is the next possible frontier of these doors of perception? Our thoughts keep coming back to Disneyland. Finally we do it. The expressions on the faces of the friends saying goodbye to us make us feel like soldiers going off to war.

We drive down to SoCal in Lorelei’s relatively new Mercury Tracer. Lorelei is a diminutive, beautiful, game-for-everything Filipina who will later be my girlfriend. Christina is our Mediterranean-toned friend who perhaps resembles Kate Winslet. Adam is our skinny bespectacled long-blond-haired spiritual leader, an everyday stoner of impeccable taste in clothes and music. We tend to accede to that taste, actually, which means that as 1991 begins, we hear a lot of Misfits, Cramps, Jane’s Addiction, and Pixies. Lorelei and I sometimes impose Beatles and They Might Be Giants. The white-hot friendship I shared with Adam and Lorelei really deserves its own novel. We did everything with and for each other, even while Adam maintained a girlfriend on the side. I always blame myself for ruining our 3-way dynamic, for insisting on hooking up with Lorelei. The eventual aftershocks alienated me from her and all of our mutual friends. But as I say, that’s a story that’s worth 300 of its own pages. Disneyland was during the pure times, when, as Langston Hughes put it, the world was mud-luscious.

We go to Westwood to see some stupid comedy movie the night before the big day. It’s the Friday after the release of the videotape of LAPD officers beating Rodney King. As we’re walking back to Lorelei’s car, we see an unruly crowd developing in front of the theatre premiering “New Jack City.” We get to my uncle’s house in Irvine, and find out that we barely avoided an injurious near-riot. My uncle Jim, God bless him, is always ready to facilitate my friends’ and my excursions to the Mouse House. Naturally, he doesn’t know about the acid angle.

The next day, we awaken bright and early, and get on Highway 5. We’re all mellow, or to use an Adam adjective, “chill.” Even at this 11th hour, it’s not like anyone will be forced to drop acid. That’s what makes it a special moment when we all eat LSD in the car, before any Disney cameras might catch us. We arrive in the parking lot before 10am. This is the good old days, when you could: park in “Goofy,” walk forward, stroll under the monorail rail, remark upon the many out-of-state (and some out-of-country) license plates, and saunter right up to the entrance – without needing a shuttle. We buy our day pass. This is before Fastpass, but after the E-ticket hierarchy, so yeah, it’s just a normal amusement park entrance fee. We walk into the park. The acid doses don’t kick in yet. We look at the flowers in front of the Main Street train station that make up Mickey Mouse’s face. Or, uh, do they?

We hit Pirates of the Caribbean, a first move as classic and well worn as pawn-to-king-4. We keep trying to say, “Are you feeling anything?” but Adam wisely squelches such open discussion. We have to remain on the D.L. for the sake of the normals. Instead we try to ask each other things with our eyes, e.g. “Hmm?” “Mm.” “Mm-mm?” “Mm-mm.” When we disembark at the Blue Bayou, I start to notice more than a fake starry ceiling. We get in the Haunted Mansion line. Okay, now things are happening. Vibrate your hand in front of your face, you’ll see trails. But one quick motion later, Adam is like, let’s not be four grungy college students waving our hands in front of our faces. He’s probably right that cameras can lurk behind every tombstone. Ooh, tombstones. They look cool…

By the time we get in the elevator, and the Orson Welles-wannabe says “This chamber has no doors and no windows. It’s up to you to find – a way out!” there’s no remaining room for doubt. We’re tripping. The disconnect between pure perception and acid perception has begun. To the uninitiated, I can say that it’s not like you see dragons where there are crickets. It’s more like – you know how filmmakers use backlight? Look at the way Tim Robbins is backlit in my icon. If you look around your room, you’ll see the way a lot of things are backlit, or even forelit. Acid just exaggerates those borders, makes them shimmy and shake. People always think of movies: maybe it’s like you’re only seeing every other “frame” as your head inevitably moves, maybe it’s reality as slightly blurred photos, maybe it’s a live 3-D movie. LSD probably brings up a lot of issues about how we actually perceive color and light – whether your blue is the same as my blue, whether there’s some “true blue” out there.

Some people ask about the differences between psychedelic drugs. In many ways they’re all the same. Mushrooms feel more organic, more tactile, more let’s-roll-in-the-grass and live in the trees. Mushrooms only last a few hours. Mescaline is like Super Acid, a peyote substitute that basically puts you in Homer Simpson’s head after he sucks down that chili pepper. Acid just feels more urbane, more citified, more neon-y, than mushrooms, but either will permit a unique appreciation of over-saturated products of stimulation, like lava lamps, Pink Floyd music, streams of varying colors, and paisley anything. And Disneyland.

We hit the still-new Splash Mountain, which is of course fabulous. Now we’re really tripping. Everything is sheer insanity. It’s like we’re Lily Tomlin in “9 to 5” and the sprightly eyelashed Disney characters are coming to life on our shoulders. Just the queues are nutty as fruitcakes. Disney has been kind enough to pay strong attention to detail, and we are kind enough to respond by paying strong attention to the exquisite little engravings and fixtures. Observing the artisanal craftsmanship helps balance out the whole evil-Disney-corrupter-of-children’s-minds trip. Acid tripping tends to be constructed of building blocks of circuitous thoughts about something seemingly profound, like the meaning-of-life trip, the history trip, the youth trip. At their best, these beautiful speculations obscure the more banal needs like hunger and thirst and sex. At their worst, they can lead to a spiraling circle of recriminations that can lead to a crippling paranoia. Yes, paranoia even without pot.

So it is with us. Amid the noise of the log ride, we confide that this is pretty goddamn strong acid. Our hands are getting clammy. It’s becoming a little too stimulating to look at these animatronic eagles and alligators that Disney hauled over from America Sings. We need something quieter. Walking through Bear (now Critter) Country, we make our way over to the rafts, which bear us to Tom Sawyer’s Island. Acid isn’t like entering another dimension – no matter how hard we try, we can’t look at Tom’s Bottomless Pit and pretend that it really is bottomless. On the other hand, the little nuances of the cumulus-cloud-shaped cave rocks are curiously inspirational. We’re dying for a “secret” place, some place inside the park that doesn’t seem over-monitored by draconian Disney powers. We want to hide behind the fort and just shout “GOD! WE’RE TRIPPING!”

We do almost exactly that. We decide that we’re safe in some dusty wooden nook, and we all compare notes of the last hour of uncommon perceivings. It looks like we might be smoking dope, but we aren’t – the whole genius of the plan is based on not carrying drugs into the park. Like a master scout, Christina spies authority. Two “Frontierland” cops, dressed like Civil War officers, are on a raft coming to the island. We instantly and automatically assume that this is based on us. We break up our little Indian party and blend into the crowd. No, Adam says. Let’s go. We dart right to the raft that has just pulled into the station. A be-sabered Disney sentry marches purposefully past us, walking in the exact direction of the safety nook we just left. Adam spins around and looks at me, as if to say, “See?” Despite our sunglasses, we don’t allow ourselves to look back as the Huck Finn-dressalike gondolier pushes us away from the island. Don’t even let them think we’re gloating. Just escape.

Back in New Orleans Square, we have to decide if we’ve escaped enough. The operative theory is that the omniscient Disney powers told these two swordsmen that there were four druggies behind the fort on Tom Sawyer’s Island. Would they stop looking for us now that we were no longer there? Adam doesn’t think so. Suddenly everyone looks like a cop, from the janitors in Disney grey to the peanut bag vendors in pink-and-white striped polyester. They’re all out to get us! We start walking toward Main Street, to leave the park. We’re chill, and any one of us is allowed to ask to end the trip at any time. But still…

“Adam,” I say. “If we leave, that’s the same thing as if they catch us anyway.”

Lorelei says, “No it isn’t. We can get held in the underground Disney jail. Or charged with something ridiculous.”

Christina says, “That doesn’t sound like a good trip.”

Adam says, “Let’s at least take a break. If we stay out of the park for a while, they’ll forget about us.”

As we leave, we get our hands stamped. We note that to the side, Disney authorities are searching the lunchboxes of a couple of Goth chicks. Wow, we’re not the only burners in the borough. Maybe it’s like driving around with one headlight – suddenly you notice all the other one-headlight cars.

We sit in the car and eat the over-heated sandwiches we brought. Food always tastes sort of boring on acid; it pales in comparison to what your eyes are experiencing. We talk about just driving away, trying to find a nature park in Orange County somewhere. But none of us will be in any condition to drive for at least five hours. We decide, screw it. The sight of those Goth girls is cheering to Adam. Let’s just do this damn park, but not act so conspicuous. Onward, acid warriors! Trip out!

Fantasyland is a cornucopia of craziness. Little kids are joyous wonders, but we focus on the Disney design details. We marvel at the teeth of the whale, the turrets of Cinderella castle, the Snow White fountain, the witch in the window, the sword in the stone, the growl of the abominable snowman, the swirl of the tea cups, the preciousness of the Casey Jr. railroad, etc. etc. We figure that Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride will be perfect for us, and it’s not bad, but we probably built up our expectations too much. Peter Pan is decent. We ride Snow White and then Pinocchio, and suddenly we’re all shaking. Bad Trip. Those rides are fucking nightmarish; they bring up painful issues of betrayal and mortality. We’re all feeling rotten to the point of wanting to vomit, and we cue up for Alice in Wonderland. Alice turns out to be the great tonic. Alice gets it. The Cheshire Cat’s face bounces all over the place. The caterpillar sucks from a hooka. Wow! Adam revels in a little noise that occurs right at the end. The car slides toward a vision of the Cat’s head surrounded by circles of smoke, and just as you turn away, you can faintly hear the cat cough. See! Alice knows. Alice is drug-embracing love.

Our minds properly re-calibrated, we head over to Tomorrowland to enjoy Michael Jackson in Captain E-O. It is close, but not accurate, to say that we do not need the 3-D glasses. It is closer to say that the 3-D glasses seem to be wearing us. We make a lot of “Puhf” noises, as though to say, Well now this really is ridiculously trippy isn’t it? The best is when the whole crowd oohs and ahhs at something, because no one then notices as we whisper our perspicacious insights. We also ride the Rocket Jets, back when they were three stories high at their base, and Lorelei turns out to be the most reckless pilot since Amelia Earhart.

The problem with acid is that every series of thoughts feels like the most profound wisdom uttered since Plato and Aristotle founded the Academy. I have one such mindtrip as we board Space Mountain. It’s hard to put it into words, but it’s something along the lines of everything is going to work out, and even if it doesn’t, it’ll work out anyway. I decide that the best we can do for each other is reassure each other’s humanity, with a phrase that seems to say, “yes, that all makes sense, and indeed everything does come down to that.” It’s like saying entendido in Spanish, voila in French, and QED in math, all rolled into one. I see the red light just before one enters the big room of Space Mountain, and decide that it’s the perfect symbol for the expression I mean. A red light is enigmatic yet real and illuminative enough. It’s the color between black and white, it’s HAL 9000, and in traffic it tells you to play well with others.

We’ve all been sharing our random, oh-so-fascinating epiphanies, but I’m not able to share this one. When we get off the ride, Lorelei is crying, and not in a good way. I don’t know what’s going on. Adam rushes to comfort her, and they kinda go off together. That gives me and Christina time for Q.T. This is Christina’s first (and last) time on acid, and she’s charging through like a veteran. She knew the drill from mushrooms, but her low-maintenance-osity remains a wonder to behold. Her passive face looks a bit sad – same as when we’re sober – but as soon as I say anything to her, she lights up with an ear-to-ear grin. The four of us walk into the Submarine Voyage, but immediately decide that it’s too claustrophobic, and leave before the ride even begins. We do It’s a Small World, the ethnicity cheese-fest that I still say no Disneyland day is complete without. Lorelei is better, but she doesn’t want to talk to Christina and I about it. Fair enough, but it’s hard to hear. We were, like, four-way bonding, and now the bonds are eroding. Despite the episode, I still say that two men and two women may be the perfect way to do, well, anything.

After some more whispers with Lorelei, Adam announces that our next ride is going to be Alice again, and that’s fine with Christina and me. The ride is even better the second time. I declare my desire to do the nearby Mad Tea Cups. Lorelei and Christina are certain they’ll be sick on it. Adam suspects the same, but agrees to do it anyway. Adam and I get in a teacup, and I ask what’s up with Lorelei. He explains that she saw a mother striking a child, and it brought up a lot of issues for her. I’m like, wow. He senses that I feel worried, left out, ashamed, and maybe afraid that we need to go home because of this, but he reassures me. I react to this spectacular act of friendship by twirling Adam in about 3,600 degrees around the silly tea cup circle. Adam assumes a sort of Zen posture, masking what’s probably a deep discomfort. Our post-Mad Tea Cups dizziness is a trip-and-a-half, a wormhole inside a Russian box.

We do Alice for a third successful time. We heart Alice. We’re standing in line at the Matterhorn, and I feel like I can somehow sense the Earth spinning, and that I’m barely riding it, that I’m clinging to the planet by the barest soles of my feet. Adam knows I was thinking about something deep after Space Mountain, and he encourages me to tell us. Thanks dog. I tell them all about my cosmic red light trip, and how it’s really about their trips. I say that after I hear about their universal truths, I want to say, “Red light.” It kind of means “I get you.” Lorelei likes this and picks up on this. By an hour later, any time someone says something acidy and supposedly deep, like “everything is made of nothing and nothing is made of everything,” someone responds, “yeah, red light.” In the context of a phenomenal acid trip, it’s the perfect button, the rock that we can cling to while the flood washes over us. Red Light.

At the end of the evening, long after doing every other ride we can even conceive of (and some we can’t), we hit Space Mountain one more time. As the cars climb the “launch pad” (ha ha), we’re all overcome by that feeling, you know, like in a Spielberg film you know well, where the Ark is about to open, or the shark has jumped onto the boat. You know the satisfying climax is about to arrive. You savor everything wrong and right that led to this, and you surrender to the ensuing of wonders. We all see it, and we don’t care which Disney-fascism-cams think we’re crazy, and we all shout, “RED LIGHT!!”

By then, the acid is fading. As Jack Black would later say in another context, it was a face-melting rip. Disneyland almost destroyed us, but we came back and kicked its ass, and can now wear our LSDisney day as a tremendous badge of honor. We lived one day of our lives to the fullest possible extent. Like a prisoner with a last meal, no morsel of the experience was too small for us to savor. We wore Disneyland, and Disneyland wore us. Acid does not disparage Disney any more than a diving mask disparages the ocean floor; no, it lets you appreciate the majesty and the magic. (Though you may suffer some brain damage.) On our way out, we stop for clothes, even though the only thing for sale that I like are those hats with your name sewn in cursive. Lorelei gets a watch. She later has it engraved with the date of our trip, and the words “Red Light.” Today I wonder if Lorelei still has that timepiece.