Sunday, January 27, 2013

The Happiest Place

You park in a labyrinth. Do you have everything you need? Lock the doors. Level H, row nine. You are here. Cartoon Mark Twain. Animatronic Lincoln. Cartoon Thomas Paine. Cartoon Bob Dylan. Everyone wears a name-badge stating where they are from. Gregory from Los Angeles. Alcohol is forbidden on the premises. There are security cameras in the parking lot. Please keep your arms and legs inside of the tram at all times. Please do not climb the rocks. “On good days you can see clear out the park.” The lady next to you is foreign. She has waited in line for the tram; waited in state-wide gridlock; waited in line at the gas station—she has waited her whole life for this day. Everyone has. She cannot wait to pass the gates and wait further. Everyone who waits gets a turn. First-timers get badges. People with canes are provided with chairs: Everyone is in this together. There is always more than one line but both remain the same length and move at the same speed. The illusion of choice. Children must be taught how to behave while in line. Most are not. Old-timers say that the lines aren’t like they used to be. Get your “Waiting in line” expression on. True American food. Get your churros. Get your popcorn. Get your customized pretzels. Get your cartoon J.D. Salinger holding a nine dollar craft brew. Single-serving turkey legs. If you choke the next one’s on us! On good days you can see clear out the park. The fastest ride has the highest peak. Lockdown seating only. Three, two, one—zero to sixty in one second. Everyone grins. Then the drop. People scream. Get your scream time in. Everyone digs scream time. Dig your cartoon Michael Jackson singing through the speakers. Now the loop: grind your teeth pry open your eyes. It’s the happiest place. Everyone grimaces tumbling through the loop. Necks were misaligned; mistakes were made. If you open your eyes at the apex of the loop, if you turn your head towards the setting sun at the exact right moment you can see clear to the Pacific. Oh Beautiful for spacious skies. Better luck next time. Balloons within balloons. Plastic chains and plastic spoons. Get your “It was so worth the wait” face on. Got my souvenir cartoon John Lennon peace sign shot-glass. Whiskey’s in the car. Absolutely no cutting in line. Absolutely no flash photography. Parties of twelve or more will be charged eighteen percent gratuity. Get your novelty toothpicks and discount breath-mints. Everything you want. The illusion of abundance. Freedom isn’t free, nor happiness. Prices may vary. Come again soon! Freedom-Land. Annual pass holders save money in the long run. Chaos isn’t free. No one is frenzied, everyone is happy. Consumerism is such cliche. The happiest, happiest place on earth. 

Gregory Nordquist lives and writes in L.A, where he is either too hot or too cold.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Family Manners

Beyond the free-for-all approach to large family get-togethers for in-laws and outlaws, her family no longer has any manners at table. There is no formal prescription or proscription of actions surrounding holiday get-togethers, except for the one great shared meal each Thanksgiving. Rules apply then. Animosities must be held in abeyance. A hierarchy of age is instituted for serving and seating. The smallest children are banished to another room, at least to another table, usually a card table, or TV trays. Adults are left to their strained relationships, but everyone is expected to be on their best behavior: no discussion of politics, religion or sex, by tacit, mutual agreement. All three subjects, therefore, become focal points of riotous disagreement within the first few minutes. It had been her deepest hope that it would work this year, but she knew it might be doomed and had planned for it.

She realizes one result of not allowing the youngest children at the main table will be their postponed acquisition of profanity until preschool. But the best result is that the children are not served from the turkey she prepared especially for the feuding adults from her own very special recipe.


Rick Hartwell believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like William Blake, that the instant contains eternity.