In fact, I've been enamoured - maybe even slightly obsessed - ever since I met her when I was eight and she was ... um ... well, a lot older.
I'm not going to try and continue this pervy bit of deception any longer than that, because it will take you all of two seconds to realize that I'm not talking about a woman (though my much crushed-upon seventh-grade math teacher would be approaching 50 now, which I find more depressing than potentially arousing), but rather about Disneyland.
Yeah, that Disneyland. No, there's not another punchline. Yeah, I need help.
Disneyland turns 50 this year, and the Mouse held a big Happiest Homecoming on Earth kickoff celebration this week, to which I was invited because I've managed to consistently deceive the Disney people into thinking I somehow cover this sort of thing for a living. Well, until right now.
And here's where one of the most fundamental contradictions of my personality rears its freaky head. Despite the fact I'm cynical, sarcastic, boobie-obsessed and frequently intoxicated, I totally and unabashedly buy into the Disneyland myth. Not Disney the corporation, and not even necessarily Disney the movie/animation studio, especially when they release shoddy direct-to-video sequels like Lion King 1-7/8 - Pumbaa Farts Louder Than Ever.
Nope, I'm all about the original Disneyland, built in an orange grove in Orange County in nineteen-fiddy-five, brainchild of one Walt "Freeze Me When I Die" Disney, who just wanted a fun place to hang out with his daughters.