My parents first moved to Anaheim, California when I was eleven and I attended junior high school there. Then we moved to a different town in a rural area where I went to high school.
After I graduated at sixteen, we moved back to Anaheim and I was delighted.
At that time, Anaheim (in Orange County) was a fantastic and thriving place to live, with lots of opportunities.
Huntington Beach was only about six miles away from my parent's home. Knott's Berry Farm (in Buena Park) was two miles away.
Disneyland was five miles.
On summer evenings I often walked to Knott's Berry Farm - just to hang out, watch the tourists, and smoke cigarettes. I started (secretly) smoking at sixteen because I thought it made me look cool and tough. It probably only made me look trashy - but that was close enough.
Every summer night at exactly 9:00 p.m. Disneyland would shoot off a display of fireworks. We never got tired of watching the fireworks from our back yard.
Knott's and Disney were undoubtedly the biggest attractions in Orange County at that time, and getting a job at either place was a prestigious endeavor.
Naturally, I eventually applied for work at both places (at different times, of course). And I was hired at both places. But neither job worked out.
Knott's hired me as a cook in their famous chicken dinner restaurant. The problem is - as a new employee (and a very young one) I didn't have regular hours. They kept me "on call".
Sometimes I had to work in the afternoon. Sometimes it was evenings. Often it was on weekends. Occasionally week days. The inconsistencies infuriated me beyond redemption. I finally told them to put their chicken where the sun don't shine and I quit.
I admittedly didn't know much about working for Disneyland. I did know a gay "reindeer" who was in the Disneyland Christmas Parade - but that's another story for another time.
No - I'm not kidding.
Becoming a member of the "Disney Family" was like being recruited into the CIA. There were more Disney rules than the rules God had in the Old Testament.
For my initial interview, I was interrogated by a gigantic, rotund black man wearing Uganda attire. I knew this was simply a ploy to see how I would react (Disney employees have to deal with all types of foreigners and ethnicities). I got along good with the guy. No problem.
I was hired as a ride operator.
My enthusiasm for joining the Disney clan began to rapidly diminish when I was presented with all the rules and regulations of how I should behave, act, dress, and look.
I had the "cute", wholesome blonde blue-eyed appearance that exemplified the Disney image - - but in my rebellious youth I wasn't about to be transformed into a plastic Ken doll.
They scrutinized everything from your hair and clothing to shoes and fingernails.
I'm not sure if this photo will be readable, but it's a letter concerning their shoe policy:
With each new rule my panic increased, until I decided that I was going to be transformed into a Nazi. I balked and backed out.
In retrospect - a thousand years later - I regret my rash decision. I think working for Disney would have been a positive and interesting experience.
I would have never thought about this, but yesterday I was going through an old plastic storage container and found all of my Disneyland rule and regulation books.
The male employees were called "hosts" and the females were "hostesses"
