15 Hours In Disneyland: An Amusement Challenge.

"Too much fun? What's that mean?
It's like too much money. There's no such thing."
- Daryle Singletary - "Too Much Fun"

For millions of tourists every year, Disneyland is billed as “the happiest place on earth.” Whether you’re 2-foot-tall or just too big to fit into your favorite Winger t-shirt, this park of amusement is supposed to put a smile on your face and a skip in your step (and maybe even a Pooh in your backpack). But what I wanted to know is if it’s a place that you could actually spend an entire day at without wanting to vault yourself right off of the Matterhorn and onto Goofy’s oversized head.

THE CHALLENGE: spend 15 hours at Disneyland.

A few guidelines were put into place to make this thing official. First, time was split between classic Disneyland and its next-door offshoot, California Adventure. Thanks to the “deal” that is Disney’s 1-day Park Hopper ticket, this would only cost $186 and the donation of my liver to binge-drinker Captain Hook. Second, absolutely NO stepping off the premises of these adjoining theme parks, even if only to go back to the parking lot. Third, while sleeping is not permitted during this day of fun, the occasional (but brief) squat underneath a shaded tree is allowed. And finally, no matter how excusable, I cannot accost any working member of the Disneyland staff. With the rules established, it’s time to survive Disneyland.

Hour 1:
From the initial trolley ride to the park’s main entrance, my eyes were wide with curiosity and the front of my pants were a tad moist. It was just like being a kid again. Nine o’ clock in the morning and the first thing you see is a giant, garden flower-version of Mickey Mouse, so the expectations for the rest of the park were set pretty high.

Real magic DOES exist.


Hour 2:
Since Emily had never been to a Disney theme park and the last time I saw Mickey face-to-face was when I was thirteen (and didn’t have the balls to kick him in the knees), we decided early on to do everything we encountered that seemed even remotely interesting. This lead us to waste invaluable time in Tomorrowland, with such stinkers as Star Tours (a Star Wars “ride” that hasn’t been updated since Return of the Jedi hit theaters) and Autopia, which can only be described as “go-karts for kids with serious energy deficiencies.” Thankfully, it also landed us on Space Mountain. Unlike Star Tours, this shoots you into a galaxy far, far away so fast you might actually see Princess Leia’s boob in hyper-speed.

I love Disneyland!

In space, everyone looks this cool.

Hour 3:
By this time, the sun had officially begun its assault on my skin. One thing about the California sun: it takes pity on no one. Crippled Vietnam War veterans will feel its shiny hate just as much as the little girls singing “A Whole New World” into their ponytails. Thus, rotating between water rides and indoor attractions seemed a good plan. We got soaked silly on Splash Mountain (where I made sure that the ride’s photo station caught me molesting my own nipples in mid-fall). Then we took our wet bottoms over to the Matterhorn to air-dry, where I finally got to witness a middle-aged Asian man hit on three American women while his teenaged son watched and hopefully took mental notes. (“But what do I say after I tell them hair on head smell like boo-tiful cactus melon?”) Also, we stopped to commemorate our Disney day with Disney Fun Hats. This way, everyone else at the park knew that we meant business.

I want Mickey Mouse to father my first child.


Hour 4:
Our first food break was upon us. A stop at the over-priced Café Orleans made me realize why mixing ham, cheese, and funnel cake into a sandwich is never a good idea. The grapes were delectable, though.

Disneyland is overpriced and stupid.

Hour 5:
Learned of the wonderful invention called “Fast Pass,” which basically allows you to hold your spot in line while you wander off to look at and do a bunch of other crap. Probably the most useful hour of the entire day.

Disliking Disneyland less once again.

Hour 6:
Switching gears, we shot over to the California Adventure section, which overtly enforced the idea that we were, in fact...in California. The rides were super, though, and made for my favorite part of the day. Mulholland Madness snapped my neck around like I was actually riding around Mulholland Drive, California Screamin’ made me hoarse, and Soarin’ Over California was the most intense HD IMAX experience I’ve had since that educational video on the female anatomy I watched in college. Mind-blowing hour.

I have a renewed sense of wonderment!

Hour 7:
The sun is really starting to get to me. I think some stuff happened at some point during this hour, I just can’t be sure of exactly what.

Disneyland: home of death itself.

Luckily, The Roadrunner had provided a way out of this heat trap.

Hour 8:
It's the halfway point and the sun wants to end my life. It’s tried on several occasions to break my spirit and has all-but-succeeded most of those times, leaving me to wonder if I’ll want to leave my apartment ever again after today. I sip a non-alcoholic margarita underneath a canopy while Emily catches a quick nap, thus eliminating herself from the challenge (that she was admittedly unaware of), proving that I am all that is man and she...not so much.

Fuck you, sun and thank you, slushy drink.

What's inside that butt cup? You'll never know...

Hour 9:
Sleepy time is over and will be replaced with crap your pants time. Onto the Tower of Terror! Honestly, I’m glad that we did this one during daylight as I needed the extra rays of sun to dry my pantaloons. Definitely left a part of myself on the top floor of the tower.

Feeling good but still hating the hell out the goddamn sun.

Has anyone seen what used to be inside of me? I'm going to need that back...

Hour 10:
Grabbed a quick bite at something called Taste Pilot’s Grill which, contrary to popular belief, does not serve its food by launching it at your face. I do not recommend the Tangy Bleu Burger. It tasted like bitter ketchup and feet. After suppressing my gag reflex, we ventured back to Disneyland proper, catching up on some popular rides that we missed the first go-round. One question: why has Pirates of the Caribbean not been updated with all the success of the movies? I recognized not one set piece on this lazy canoe ride. Arrrrgggguably the greatest disappointment of the day.

Jake’s forecast: irritable with a chance of punting the next person who stops directly in my path just to put their thumb up their butt.

Hour 11:
If Tower of Terror was the Sixth Sense of Disneyland, Haunted Mansion was the...well...Haunted Mansion of Disneyland. I half-expected a holographic version of Eddie Murphy to appear midway through the tour as an old, fat, black woman ghost and I fully-expected to punch that hologram in the face as hard as I could if it happened.

I’m beginning to grow a tad disenchanted with this whole Disney experience.

Hour 12:
Two words: Fast Pass. Two more words: Indiana Jones. Two more, less interesting words: The Ride. Put those words together and you get a surprisingly mediocre ride on a fake Jeep. We brush it off and rush to get some ice cream before the official nighttime festivities can begin.

The excitement builds in me once again like a childish geyser. Rumble, rumble...

She can physically contain her excitement no longer.

Hour 13:
The point behind spending an entire day at Disneyland is to experience the daytime AND nighttime activities. Once the sky goes black, a parade of flashing bulbs fills the streets. My favorite Disney characters (namely Dopey, Pinnochio, and that big dragon thing) came rolling by in what is called the “Electric Parade.” I call it “Good Luck Snapping a Picture of These Friggin’ Things That Won’t Come Out Either Blurry or Remarkably Dim." Sure, their name is catchier but mine speaks the truth.

Pretty lights.


Hour 14:
When the parade passes, we scurry over to the castle–along with literally every other person in Southern California–to witness the famous fireworks display over the castle. I can’t even make a joke about this. It was breathtaking. The sappy, inspirational music coupled with the image of AN ACTUAL REAL-LIFE TINKERBELL flying over the castle in front of a spectacular fireworks display damn near brought a tear to my eye. It made me miss being a child in overwhelming awe of the simple things.

Once again, I find myself believing that magic really does exist. I thank you, Disneyland.


Hour 15:
We did it! To wrap up our marathon Disney adventure, we watched a water spectacle featuring most of Disney cast that was essentially Fantasia: H20. But we couldn’t rightfully leave Disneyland without seeing the jaw-dropping racial stereotypes encompassed by It’s a Small World and spinning ourselves sick on the Teacups.

It was now time to say goodbye. And at that point, even though we had seen and done just about everything Walt Disney had to offer, we were still just a little sad that it had to end. I’d gladly return next year to do it all over again.


This Entry In Song:
Guster - "What You Wish For"
I Can Make a Mess Like Nobody's Business - "The Best Happiness Money Can Buy"
Michael Jackson - "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough"
Panic at the Disco - "Nine in the Afternoon"
Modest Mouse - "The Good Times Are Killing Me"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Remember When This Was All New?

"Walked away to another plan.
Gonna find another place, maybe one I can stand.
I move onto another day. To a whole new town with a whole new way...
...I pack up my belongings and I head for the coast.
It might not be a lot but I feel like I'm making the most.
The days get longer and the nights smell green.
I guess it's not surprising, but it's spring and I should leave."
- Modest Mouse, "World At Large"

I wake up earlier than usual. I have nearly an hour before I'll leave for work; it's just enough time to sit around and consider doing something, without actually doing it. Shower, don't shave, change clothes. Wrapping a tie around my neck, I leave the apartment and let my legs guide me down a memorized series of footsteps toward the train station. North Hollywood, Universal City, then Hollywood & Highland. My stop. I wait 14 minutes for my bus. I ride 17 minutes to the closest stop it will let me off at. Another 9 minutes of walking and then it's work.

"Hello, I can help the next person in line. How are you today?" Deposits, withdrawals, transfers, payments. "How's the day treating you so far?" Transaction histories, statement inquiries, cash advances, MoneyGrams. "Did you get everything figured out with your account since the last time you were in?" Check photocopies, money orders, split deposits, auto loans. "You're welcome. Have a good one."

Between customers, I think of my own finances. Have my student loans been paid this month? When does my next paycheck hit my account? I need to stop spending so much on coffee. When will my tax return be sent to me? I think of the next concert I want to catch or the next must-see movie coming to theaters. I think of what I did last night, the night before, and the night before that. I don't think of what I'll do tomorrow, the day after, or the day after that. Constantly reflecting, never predicting. My girlfriend comes to mind at least twice, even on a busy day. Other things breeze through on regular occasion: My family, my friends, the pet dog that used to be alive, the pet donkey that still is, a list of MP3s I should download, a list of grocery items I forgot to pick up, and whether I hate a snowstorm or a heatwave more.

A different hairstyle crowns my head--this time a slight faux-hawk. A "slow-hawk." I receive a compliment from 3 customers, all of them hairstylists. The compliments aren't for me so much as they are for the person took a scissors to it. 500 gay men give me the flirtatious eye. One girl tells me I look great in glasses. Strange ratio. My co-workers ask favors of me, I oblige. I ask favors of them, they hesitantly do the same. I document arrival time, lunch time, and departure time on my time sheet.

I leave work. Goodbye teller window. I get a ride or I catch the bus. The air is probably still warm, but the sun is becoming less noticeable. Train ride to North Hollywood. Walk to the apartment. Couch or chair? Drink or piss? Pool or fitness center? It always ends up with sleep.

Then it's tomorrow.

Regretful realization: there comes a point where even the exotic becomes mundane.


This Entry In Song:
Jack Johnson - "Adrift"
Sondre Lerche - "Dead Passengers"
Modest Mouse - "The Devil's Workday"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

The Los Angeles Metro Ruins My Life.

"I almost broke my neck tryin' to get out the door. And I chased the bus 'til my feet was sore. On the trail--the tail--but I couldn't catch up. I guess it must have been my day for me to have bad luck."
- Kris Kross, "I Missed the Bus"

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the Los Angeles County Metro Transit for making everyday an adventure and an overall pain in my neck. (And by neck, I mean ass.) Because of the "well-timed" and "not-at-all random" timetable that your aptly-named "Dash" system provides, riders get the thrill of chasing down a bus that wasn't supposed to show up for another 5 minutes, or waiting for a bus that was marked to stop half an hour earlier.

"Maybe it runs on Central time..."

When I think fun, I think L.A. Metro.

Because it just wouldn't be Los Angeles if you could only sit next to a homeless man that smells like stale farts and old hats while being on time for work. No, in L.A. you only get the pleasure of hearing Toothless Paul rant about the obvious connections between Jesus Christ and Sponge Bob Square Pants after having sprinted for the 6:45 bus at 6:29. If you're extra lucky, you may get the bus driver whose mother didn't love him enough and therefore won't stop for you even while you chase after him. Then you can just walk the 4 miles to work.

Warning: This Bus Does Not Stop For Passengers

Los Angeles Metro Transit, fuck you very much. I hope your drivers all die of terrible hemhorroids.


This Entry In Song
Modest Mouse - "Missed the Boat"
Against Me! - "Stop!"
Gym Class Heroes - "Catch Me If You Can"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

I Think This Horse Wants Me Dead.

"I like beer and I like cheese. I like the smell of a westerly breeze.
But what I like more than all of these is to be on horseback."
- Mike Oldfield, "On Horseback"

What do you get a lady for your 3 year anniversary? Is it diamonds? Fine china? Tickets to go see her favorite musical? If you're a chump, maybe. A real man sets his lady atop a stallion and rides her off into the sunset with a six-shooter in one hand and his genitalia in the other. I'm talking a galloping ride of epic proportions through terrain so breathtakingly beautiful and transcendent that it would make God himself smack his forehead and say "I'd love to meet the guy who made that!" Or, if you're a real man on a budget, you take your girlfriend to ride some pretty tame/smelly horses underneath the HOLLYWOOD sign at a place called Sunset Ranch. But, hey, that scenery was pretty nice to look at.

Meet Sawyer. That's him, right there. He's got a great sense of humor.


Look at me when I'm mocking you dammit!

This one time, about halfway through the ride--while straddling the edge of a cliff that would have surely killed a lesser man had he fallen off it--Sawyer thought it would be a hoot if he bucked me around like I was a piece of unpopped corn and he was a microwave with a vendetta to settle. Ha! Like Jim Carrey, this horse. Oh! And then there was the time where he considered it a real riot to turn around and bite the face off the horse behind him. Of course, the other horse didn't find it quite so hilarious, but me and Sawyer had a good laugh over it. Then I think I passed out for a few minutes due to terror. But when I woke up, I could see for miles and miles...



The mountains were breathtaking. And so was the sight of the city from a far distance. It really makes you feel so small and unimportant.


That ass makes a guy feel pretty small, too.
(Sidenote: that ass belongs to a horse named Tiny. Nice!)

Lest you think we were in any real peril on those bucking broncos, we were wearing adequate protection as provided by Sunset Ranch. Because when you fall 10+ stories onto a bunch of jagged, unforgiving rocks, this is what's going to save you.



And if I might add, I felt the helmets gave us a Rain Man-esque element of style that was really lacking in our ensembles. Two points for headgear!

But really, the experience was all-around enjoyable. We saw a piece of L.A. that we never knew existed while making our spirits high and our butt cheeks numb. We battled ferocious, hairy beasts and lived to tell the tale. And we capped the night off with a romantic dinner, dressed in our finest attire and only smelling slightly of horse remnants. (And fear. It took me a while to calm down from my near-death experience.) Good times.

Now, the true question is: what do you get a lady for your fourth year together? Pearls? Perfume? A trip to a Mexican apple orchard? Only time will tell...


This Entry In Song:
Modest Mouse - "Gravity Rides Everything"
Rufus Wainwright - "King of the Road"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

A New Year. A New Face.

"Get 'em up, put 'em up. Get your dukes up now."
- Modest Mouse, "Dukes Up"

It’s story time, readers. So make sure you’re sitting in a comfy chair and have plenty of fluids on hand. You're about to hear how this blogger's face became the target of hillbilly hatred on New Year's Eve.

After returning to the grand state of Iowa for Christmas after having been a few hundred miles away for about 3 months, I realized why I only keep in contact with family and a few select friends. This realization struck me like a fist to the face. Why? Because I realized it after I had received a fist to the face. Allow me to set up the scenario.

Balltown, Iowa. You might say that it’s the epicenter of drunken hillbillies and warm beer. (And you’d be correct.) This is not exactly the type of place you would want to be on New Year’s Eve, when the warm Busch Light is flowing like tap water and every walking heap of cow dung is trying their hardest to start a brawl. I know this now. The intent was to stop in and say a few quick hellos to a few distant-but-not-forgotten friends. A short, 30-minute detour. Well, 45 minutes later I was walking to the car with a wad of tissue paper stuffed up my nose to stop the bleeding while my glasses lay helpless somewhere on the moonlit gravel.

I was dressed in a snazzy pair of dark blue jeans, a black button-up shirt, and a pair of black leather shoes that might as well have said “come hump my leg.” In short, I was looking good. The rest of the basement-dwelling chug-a-lugs were outfitted in shit-kickers and old-pig smell. So, yes, I stood out from the pack. On the way up the stairs and out of the party, one rosey-faced intoxicant grabbed me by the collar (presumably to make me one of his own kind…a redneck) and insisted that I was looking for a fight. Now, being in the martial arts for nearly 10 years has taught me how to handle just about any situation that a guy could throw himself into. And it’s because of that decade of hand-to-hand combat training that I was able to freeze up and yelp that I was, in fact, not looking to engage in fisticuffs.

Not Pictured: An Opponent.

But, when that didn’t work, I reciprocated this kind man’s gesture and grabbed him by the throat. Knowing that there were several of this pit stain’s buddies within a few feet of our scuffle waiting to knock me into a hay bale somewhere, I didn’t throw a punch or lift a leg—partly because I was smart, and mostly because I was terrified.

When I was finally able to shove this scrawny tobacco spit of a human being away, I grabbed my girlfriend, Emily, and headed out the door. The problem was, a few of my more inebriated friends from inside had witnessed my scuffle and there was now a full-scale riot erupting in the garage from which I had emerged. But it was hard to thank them for their loyalty because I was too concerned about finding my best friend—and my ride—Tony, who was lost somewhere inside the mutiny.

If I had walked back to his car, right then and there, a beautiful face would have been salvaged that night. Instead…

By this time I was shouting for Tony at the top of my lungs in some twisted game of Marco Polo…a game he didn’t know we were playing. At this point, I stood more than 50 feet away from the Balltown Massacre taking place inside the garage and it would seem that I made it out of the scuffle unharmed. But wouldn’t you know it, another partygoer noticed this too and decided that just wouldn’t do.

WHAM!

I was sucker-punched by “some fat, pansy a--hole” (Emily’s description, not mine). When you’re punched in the face, not much goes through your head except a lot of question marks. That considered, I believe the first words out of my mouth were “what the f--k just happened!?” Tears came to my eyes but surprisingly, I was still on my feet. Since I saw no blurry figure standing in front of me, I assumed that the portly coward had run back to join the brawl. Perfect. Not even a chance for redemption?

The rush of adrenaline I felt at that moment is probably comparable to being shoved out of a plane or chugging a few pints of Red Bull. I wanted someone else’s blood on my knuckles. It was at this moment that my inner macho man took over and I turned from a lover to a fighter. Rational thought was fleeting at a rapid pace and if it hadn’t been for my wonderfully sensible woman pulling me away, my feet would have surely led me back into the hillbilly tussle because…let’s face it…men are stupid. We are crotch-grabbing cavemen with something to prove. When we get dethroned (a.k.a. face-punched) we want to forcibly take our crown back (a.k.a. kick the other guy right in the balls). Even me, a generally sensitive type of fellow, can fall victim to those super-masculine, my-dong’s-bigger-than-yours urges. And while I’m not necessarily ashamed of it, I’m not all that pleased with it, either.

Eventually, we found Tony (granted, a little later than one would hope) and we scurried off to his car and, later on, to a hospital. Tony felt bad because he was the one who suggested leaving an earlier party to pass through this one. Emily felt sick because she heard the crunch the fat guy’s knuckles made with my nose. I felt shaky because…well…I still wanted to kick some hillbilly ass.

Needless to say, that night didn’t end well for any of us.

The epilogue goes something like this: I visited a doctor who told me my nose wasn’t broken. For the next few days, I spent most of my time recounting that story for family and friends. I initially lied to my worry-wart of a mother about what happened to my face but eventually spilled the beans. I got a new pair of glasses. I had to catch a plane back to California a couple days later, where I chugged Sudafed and Ginger Ale to stop my sinuses from screaming at me. And now, I sit feeling the bridge of my nose and realizing the doctor I visited is probably incompetent and my nose is most likely broken.

What did I learn from this experience? Cowboys don’t like suave men. So next time I should dress down and bring several of my largest friends with me. Or perhaps just stay away from Balltown, Iowa.

New Year's Resolution: Don't get punched in the face again. It hurts.

This Entry In Song:
Reel Big Fish - "Beer"
Modest Mouse - "Dukes Up"
The Pixies - "Broken Face"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Long Distances For Small Spaces.

"All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go."
- Peter, Paul, and Mary - "Leaving On a Jet Plane"

Sunday, September 14th, 2008. It was moving day. Packed into small and flexible groups were the essential items that I'd be needing for both the road trip as well as our ending destination in North Hollywood. These tiny subsections of my livelihood contained just enough to get me by: clothing, kitchen supplies, and your average odor-defying bathroom products. My lady friend (or "girlfriend," in case she reads this and gets upset that I called her my lady friend), Emily, did not share my sense of petite packing. I have confidence that if I had let her bring her actual bedroom closet, she would have.

But let's move on, for fear of digressing.

The drive from the Midwest to the West Coast qualifies as my first "real" road trip. For the first time, I crossed more than one state boundary in a single sitting. And for the most part, it was enjoyable. Four of us braved the everlasting stretches of roads: accompanying me and my better third was Emily's father (who supplied his truck to tow our spiffy Nissan Sentra packed to the brim with "essentials") and sister--a pair of kind souls if ever I'd met any. There were plenty of sights to be seen, plenty of songs to be heard, and the frequent stops for gas gave us opportunities to interact with the locals.

It was also 28 hours in a car.

In my head, I envisioned the trip going something like this: "Look, there goes the Iowa border! Look it's the Rocky Mountains! Hey, it's Las Vegas! What's that? We're in California already?"

(Now Entering: Warp Speed)

In reality, it was closer to this: "Why in the hell does it take so long to pass through Utah?"

(Not Pictured: Fun in Utah)

But when we finally saw the official road sign promising us that we had entered the boundaries of California, I can safely say that the excitement was palpable...and probably just a little sticky. We had arrived to our destination in four separate pieces...as four separate persons are inclined to do.

Having never seen our apartment in person before, I was prepared to be overwhelmed. I was also prepared to be underwhelmed (just in case). I wasn't prepared to be just whelmed, which is exactly what I was. I didn't have strong feelings either way about our new living set-up. The place was a 1-Bedroom but would have 3 people (including our mutual friend, Molly) living within its walls, which makes for a very cramped Three's Company scenario. It looked beautiful, clean, and generally welcoming, but its diminutive stature simply didn't lend itself to being a habitual resting place for large parties of people--or even just a few, large party people. Let me say it another way: if I lived in the apartment alone, I'd be singing to the ceilings that I'd "moved on up." Instead, I realized how individual cashews must feel in those small little cans.

On the other hand, my previous apartment was a studio and it featured what my girlfriend and I lovingly referred to as a "bedcouch." So, it was still a step in the right direction. Plus, I'd be living with a good friend and a girlfriend. And I'd be fulfilling my dream to start living my days without being steeped in regret over the things that I hadn't done. And that's worth a long drive in a cramped car and a year in a cramped apartment.

Because sometimes in life, you have to deal with cramps to achieve your dreams. And that's a phrase worthy of its own bumper sticker if ever I've heard one.

The Three Stages of Travel (In Song):
The Happy Start. Stone Temple Pilots - "Interstate Love Song"
The Long, Long Middle. Modest Mouse - "Out of Gas"
The Big Arrival. Phantom Planet - "California"

Be Back Soon,

Shaky Jake