How best to fight Mickey Mouse?

There are two schools of strategy for making war with the Burbank-based Walt Disney Company.

One strategy, from Florida, is making national news because it is driven by the culture war and the presidential campaign of Gov. Ron DeSantis. The other strategy, from Southern California, is little-known because it’s grounded in local concerns in the city of Anaheim, whose residents have spent decades being outmaneuvered by Donald Duck and friends.

Contrary to conventional wisdom, which says that the best defense is a good offense, it’s the Anaheim strategy that is more likely to succeed.

This is, in part, because Florida’s fight resembles nothing so much as Pickett’s Charge, the suicidal, uphill attack that cost the Confederate Army the Battle of Gettysburg.

DeSantis launched media, legal, and political warfare against Disney after the company opposed his legislation, known as the “Don’t Say Gay” bill, that restricts teachers from talking about sexual orientation and gender in Florida classrooms. The bill is part of the governor’s campaign messaging hostile to “woke” progressivism and gender non-conforming people.

The governor seemed to think that a war against Disney would help in the Republican primary polls. Instead, he’s collapsed there. Why? Because he’s launched a cultural attack on the world’s most sophisticated producer of culture. In other words, he took Disney on at its strongest point. Worse still, DeSantis, while seeking the nomination of the party of business, attacked a revered American business.

Meanwhile, DeSantis’ rival, former President Trump, has criticized the governor’s attacks on Disney as excessive. Instead of changing course, DeSantis has revealed himself as a political amateur by digging the hole deeper—moving to strip Disney of control over a local government entity that controls the area around Disney World. Predictably, Disney, one of the world’s richest companies—with better lawyers than the state of Florida—is winning its legal battle with the governor.

But DeSantis’ attacks have been so ham-handed that he has made Disney seem sympathetic, a victim of state persecution.

True to form, Disney, an opportunistic multinational corporation, has moved to exploit that sympathy here in California—and specifically in Anaheim, by seeking to advance an expansion plan called DisneylandForward.

Disney has all but owned the city since the theme park opened there in 1955. Today, it is responsible for one in five jobs and a sizable plurality of general fund revenues. The company has used gifts, investment promises, philanthropy, and raw lobbying and political power to secure a suite of tax rebates and protections, bonds, and public benefits too long to list here. In 2015, the Los Angeles Times estimated the value of Anaheim’s support for Disney over the previous two decades at $1 billion.

But in the previous decade, some civic leaders—most notably former Mayor Tom Tait and former councilmember Jose Moreno—managed to get elected despite Disney’s political opposition to them. And in office, they slowed, and in a few cases reversed, giveaways to Disney. As a result, Anaheim has limited Disney’s geographic footprint to where it stood in the 1990s.

The Anaheim strategy most closely resembles Foreign Service Officer George Kennan’s approach to global communism—containment. Politicians avoided frontal assaults or hot rhetorical battles with Disney. In fact, they tried to deemphasize Disney controversies—and emphasize the needs of local neighborhoods, prioritizing the “children of Anaheim” over the “children of tourists,” in Moreno’s formulation.

In the process, they managed to quietly contain Disney’s more aggressive expansion ideas. (In this, Anaheim may have saved Disney from itself, especially considering that its most high-profile addition to Disneyland, “Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge,” has been called a flop.) Indeed, when the House of Mouse first proposed DisneylandForward in 2021, it went nowhere, with city officials unwilling to prioritize it.

But the door to expansion has been reopening. City government has been in turmoil and transition because of an FBI corruption investigation, involving the proposed sale of Angel Stadium that ensnared “a cadre” of political leaders, including Mayor Harry Sidhu. At the same time, Disney-backed candidates have been winning recent elections.

Now, DeSantis’ culture war has made the company politically sympathetic, offering an opportunity to revive DisneylandForward. Even Gov. Gavin Newsom, who has come to view Disney as an ally in his own rhetorical war against DeSantis and other culturally conservative governors, has publicly supported the venture.

Newsom’s logic here is clear—the enemy (Disney) of my enemy (DeSantis) is my friend. But the governor’s support of Disney (he’s even touting a company-funded economic study) is a mistake, one that may make it harder for Anaheim leaders to negotiate a fair deal with the theme park.

DisneylandForward would give Disney far more control over what happens inside the resort area. That would allow it to squeeze in new attractions like “Frozenland,” a theme park rendition of Zootopia, or a TRON rollercoaster.

But the plan is modest in other ways, reflecting the company’s recognition that it no longer has the sway it once had in Anaheim. DisneylandForward specifically rules out any additions to the company’s Anaheim footprint, for example. The plan is also full of detailed promises of what the House of Mouse will do for the city and its workers—union contractors for future development, local hire rules, a new workforce development program focused on Anaheim’s young people, and company support for affordable housing projects (which Disney has opposed in the past).

To win support, Disney is doing far more than internal lobbying—it is appealing directly to the community. This summer, Disney is hosting community meetings in city parks—the free kind, with green space and playgrounds and pools—all over Anaheim.

Even with all this effort, DisneylandForward is no sure thing. Patient containment is a winning strategy. And Anaheim is much tougher than Ron DeSantis.

The post Anaheim Shows Ron DeSantis How to Build a Better Mickey Mousetrap appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

It is the self-consciousness of the idea of Main Street—from its origins in a Nathaniel Hawthorne sketch of New England, to Walt Disney’s construction of a Main Street USA, to the establishment of ersatz Main Streets in today’s urban malls—that makes it so essentially American. Main Street has been used in myriad ways to describe very many different things—from the crushing power of convention to the thrill of new entertainment, from the small town to new big city neighborhoods.

Main Street’s meaning could change quickly. In the 1920s, to invoke Main Street was to call up an image of the dullness of provincial life. By the 1930s, Main Street represented the bedrock of America’s embattled democracy. For decades, Main Street stood for the local; today it’s an importable model of planning and development that can be set up almost anywhere.

Main Street bears double political meanings that in turn raise complicated questions about whether the United States lives up to its ideals.

As public space, the American Main Street has always represented an ideal of community, where persons from different surrounding neighborhoods and social classes come together as rough equals. But Main Street also has a history of discriminatory practice going back more than a hundred years. Northern “sundown towns” in the late 19th century and first half of the 20th century policed their Main Streets by warning and expelling anyone who didn’t “belong” after the sun went down. And historically Main Street usually has been defined by the ruling class of the area, with outsiders—by class, ethnicity, religion, color—not particularly welcome.

So even as we celebrate the ideal of Main Street as a space of democratic equality, we should remember—and rue—the reality.

Part of the reality is this: America’s small towns and their Main Streets have died a thousand deaths, but Main Streets also live on and multiply now as never before, as we recreate them in wealthy suburbs and big cities. Over the past 20 years, America has seen the growth of ersatz Main Streets, facsimiles of the real thing, in private shopping places everywhere.

The Main Street of Springfield, Mass. in 1905. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

As the malls of America have become deserted, those shopping centers still clinging to life have strived to emulate the amenities of what they had rendered obsolete: Main Street. They have installed benches, street lamps, grassy areas, and even band stands, providing the feel of public space in the open air, the feel of a community. These facsimiles of Main Street, creations of commercial landscape architects, can be more successful than actual Main Streets, since the national retail brands in ersatz Main Street attract shoppers in the massive numbers needed to make a public space seem genuinely “public.”

If we prefer the authentic to the ersatz, then this new Main Street poses a challenge to the original article. What’s the best response to such a challenge? To do what the ersatz Main Street can’t: provide the individualized shops and restaurants that you won’t find in the ersatz space. The real Main Street also must work harder to draw in people from outside the community, with street fairs and festivals, art galleries, craft shops, and other one-of-a-kind attractions.

Meanwhile, the ersatz Main Street carries its own double meaning: It represents a corporate usurpation of the idea of Main Street—and also an expansion of the idea. Indeed, since the Great Recession of 2008 and 2009, Main Street has taken on a broader meaning and wider constituency than it ever before possessed. It is not just small businesses that Main Street represents. The phrase has become a substitute for what we all share, the American commons. We are either Main Street or its opposite, Wall Street. In this polarized time, we belong to one pole or the other.

One paradox is that the public space of Main Street, regulated spaces that must be open to all, may be harder to police than the ersatz Main Streets, which are private spaces where certain standards of decorum can be swiftly enforced. We don’t usually notice the limitations on our behavior in private spaces, but they exist, often in a sign posted as you enter the space.

Is it possible that the private space of the ersatz Main Street, which welcomes shoppers of all religions and colors, is a more hospitable space than the public space of Main Street? Is the private Main Street more tolerant of difference (as long as you keep your shirt on and wear shoes) than the public space of warring statues and demonstrators armed with torches or guns, where intimidation can be masked as self-defense? If this is the case, it argues for the democracy of the marketplace, which embraces anyone, regardless of creed or color, who has the money to make a purchase.

Today, Main Street faces what some see as an existential threat: e-commerce, which has made any physical shopping space increasingly a luxury. The real Main Street has a future in this digitally dominated marketplace—it is not competing with e-commerce—but the ersatz Main Streets of malls may have more to worry about. Will they evolve as hybrid showrooms where consumers can touch the merchandise before buying it cheaper online? Or as places to pick up merchandise ordered in advance and delivered locally? Or will e-commerce fall victim to its own success and be defeated by Main Street—the infinity of choices and merchandise reviews consuming so much of the shopper’s time that it’s simpler to just go shopping in a store with limited, pre-selected, merchandise?

If Main Street means anything today, it signifies an idealized space where American society can practice its highest values, which include civility, tolerance, and yes, commerce. And Main Street’s endurance, as an idea, demonstrates the authority of myth to nurture a sense of community, even in a society as fragmented as ours.

The post A Short History of the Idea of ‘Main Street’ in America appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

Though Disney Parks today are well-established cultural icons, the Walt Disney Company’s start as an interpreter of American history and ideals began long before it opened the gates of Disneyland or Disney World (1955 and 1971, respectively). From its creation in 1923 as “The Disney Brothers Cartoon Studio,” the Disney operation was producing films that echoed Americans’ ideal version of themselves. Often set in a glorified 19th century rural American heartland, these animations featured a hero (usually the indomitable Mickey Mouse) whose strong work ethic and bravery in the face of risk always found the “little guy” and “common man” triumphant over his foe. Such optimistic sentiment held great appeal in the country’s Depression years, and most certainly led Mickey and company to become household names.

Promotional poster from Life Magazine for Disney World’s 1987 celebration of the bicentennial of the U.S. Constitution.

By World War II, the company was cementing its association with the “American Way” by producing propaganda films and war-related goods that served the U.S. cause. Disney characters appeared on war bonds, posters, and on more than a thousand military unit insignia. They also appeared in short patriotic cartoons: The Spirit of ’43 has Donald Duck expounding on the importance of paying taxes; Donald Gets Drafted, shows, as expected, the irascible cartoon waterfowl getting drafted. Donald Duck in particular became so well recognized as an American symbol during the war that in February, 1943 The New York Times called him “a salesman of the American Way.” For their promotion of wartime allegiance and good citizenship, Mickey Mouse and friends joined the ranks of the Statue of Liberty and Uncle Sam as faces of our nation.

This narrative of upholding American values continued at the brand’s theme parks, where Walt Disney translated it into a physical experience using American folk history. “Disneyland,” he said at the park’s grand opening, “is dedicated to the ideals, the dreams, and the hard facts that have created America.” Visitors are made to feel as if they are stepping into carefully curated moments of history, ones chosen to fit a tidy narrative that highlights the nation’s past and future commitment to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It celebrates a simple story that tells us that through hard work—and perhaps a bit of pixie dust—any American can make their dreams come true.

Main Street U.S.A.’s manicured small-town charm and bustling shops boast of American optimism and enterprise. The colonial-themed Liberty Square teems with symbols of the nation’s commitment to independence, even when it requires a fight. Its centerpiece, the Hall of Presidents, provides a stirring homage to our government and its illustrious leaders. And while Frontierland’s cowboys and pioneers harken back to the rugged individualism of the Old West, Tomorrowland’s space age attractions point ahead to America’s constant eye to a better future and the conquest of new challenges. American heroes like Abraham Lincoln, Paul Revere, and Davy Crockett—whose legends are repeated to us in childhood—are brought to “life” here through Disney magic.

The pocket map, “The Story of Disneyland with a complete guide to Fantasyland, Tomorrowland, Adventureland, Frontierland, Main St. U.S.A.” from 1955.

Visitors not just from all over the country, but from around the world, can find themselves standing amidst Disney’s version of America’s past, creating a sense of collective memory in all who visit. It’s perhaps telling that the parks have been popular destinations for not only four sitting U.S. presidents over the decades (Carter, Reagan, H.W. Bush, and Obama), but also foreign heads of state—from Prime Minister Nehru of India to the Shah of Iran to Khrushchev (who was famously barred from visiting)–hoping to get insight into American culture.

Fittingly, in 1976, as the nation celebrated the 200-year anniversary of Independence Day, the Disney Parks staged a 15-month bicoastal extravaganza of Americana, “America on Parade,” which Disney dubbed “America’s Biggest and Best Bicentennial Party.” The festivities included special touches such as television programs, books, and records.

The stars of the show were the parks’ daily parades—50 floats and more than 150 characters representing “the people of America”. They were seen by an estimated 25 million park visitors, making it one of the largest shared celebrations across the nation (and were even designated “official bicentennial events” by the U.S. government). The grand show helped solidify the theme park’s place in the minds of Americans as spaces not only for family-friendly vacation destinations, but as ones where they could come together to share cultural and historical heritage.

WWII aircraft worker’s pin featuring Mickey Mouse, from the Lockheed Martin Aircraft Plant in Burbank, CA.

To be sure, Disney’s unique ability to appropriate and transform American history in its own nostalgia-tinged image—what has come to be called “Disneyfication”— has drawn significant criticism. Its idealized imaginings of the country’s past can certainly strip out its more complicated, controversial, and unsavory elements in favor of a simpler, sunnier story.

But when it comes to collective memory, it must be noted that the past can be remembered one way and exist factually in another, and that many different versions can have their place in the American mind. For many park visitors, the value of “Disneyfied” history is not in its factual accuracy—or lack thereof. The importance of “Disney’s American history” is in how it gives life to a folk history we would like to have, one that gives us a sense of optimism and unity. It makes easily accessible a version of American history that shows visitors less the nation that we have been than the nation that we want to be, and, indeed, hope that we are.

Even as characters change and Tomorrowland becomes an artifact of yesterday, Disneyland and Disney World continue to be touchstones of American collective memory. From annual Fourth of July celebrations to contemporary additions to the Hall of Presidents, from a 1987 celebration of the Constitution’s bicentennial, to the swearing in of new citizens on Main Street, U.S.A., the parks have established themselves as places to celebrate shared memories and civic pride—and allow it to evolve and expand.

The post How Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse Elevated the Everyman appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

Like Dust Bowl Okies, the entire family—my parents, two sisters, and I—piled into a hapless 1960 American Motors Rambler crammed to the gills with our ragged possessions. The quest took us a month because the car kept breaking down. I spent a lot of time by the side of the road on Route 66, pouting about leaving my friends behind. I didn’t appreciate the journey at the time nor the heartstring that tugged my father across America.

A German Holocaust survivor, he had only one immediate family member who survived World War II: a sister, Freda, who lived in Hollywood. His parents and brother died in Treblinka, the extermination camp in Poland.

In pre-Skype 1963, if you wanted to embrace family, you did it in person. So we drove.

Littman in his Cub Scout uniform in 1963, the year his family moved from Detroit to Los Angeles

My dad drove in near silence, oblivious to the cacophony generated by me and my squabbling sisters Fawn and Laurel, ages 4 and 12; my referee mother who tried to distract us with bologna sandwiches, games, and songs; and my dog, Beauty, who reluctantly gave birth en route to three whimpering newborn puppies who were tucked in a cardboard box in the backseat.

“Hey! How come I didn’t see the Studebaker?” I challenged Laurel as we played car bingo.

“Cuz you have terrible eyesight—you’re as blind as the puppies,” my older sister smirked. She cheated with impunity only to be dealt retribution when the dog threw up on her just before we suffered another flat tire in Texas.

Through all this, my father somehow found solace on the road. He could be alone with his thoughts and his grief while driving. Since arriving to America in 1937, he’d marveled at the country’s wide-open spaces. After joining the Army in 1943, he hopped on a bus out of boot camp in Arkansas whenever he got leave.

My father spoke rarely, mumbling softly in German in words I didn’t understand. But he wasn’t talking to me. The ghosts of his parents and younger brother had hitched a ride with us, and Dad played tour guide for 2,500 miles across America’s heartland, sharing his awe of his new home. They bunked with us in an endless series of family motels like the Cactus Motor Lodge in Tucumcari, New Mexico, distinguished from the rest because it had a pool.

Jacob and Arline Littman

My mother Arline, a schoolteacher, wanted me to jot down everything I saw and felt on the postcards I collected of the places we stayed. “You’ll look upon it years later and discover a snapshot in time better than any Brownie Fiesta camera could take,” she said. (I recently found the postcards again in a yellowing scrapbook that had hibernated in my parents’ garage for half a century.)

So I wrote about frolicking in Buckingham Fountain in Chicago, wading across the muddy Mississippi River in Missouri, whispering like the wind through Kansas wheat fields, inhaling the red dirt and oil-scented air in Oklahoma, and idling on the trunk of the panting Rambler drinking Dr. Pepper in Texas as my father let the overheated engine cool.

I also pressed into the recesses of my mind and soul indelible images of having a family picnic in a park in New Mexico on a hot, sweltering day; meeting a lonely girl my age who had no one to play with until our brood landed for an extended spell while the Rambler was fitted with a new muffler in the Land of Enchantment; my dad gingerly lighting off firecrackers in the Arizona desert while my sisters and I waved sparklers under a canopy of shimmering stars; and a smothering dust storm that greeted us at the border of California.

“Don’t be afraid, Boychik, we’ll get through this,” my father reached over his seat and lovingly brushed my cheek. He promised me I’d appreciate the journey once we arrived at the doorstep of the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica. “Not too many people get to do this,” he smiled ruefully.

Indeed, Route 66—commonly known as the “Main Street of America” or the “Mother Road” —had a short-lived heyday from 1926 until 1985. Before its debut, trains were the preferred mode of travel cross-country. Then, the completion of the Interstate highway system eclipsed it. Today, the world jets across America.

But my father took his time. He had no job prospects, nor did my mother. For six weeks, the five of us camped in a rundown motel in Culver City by the old Hal Roach Studios where they filmed the Our Gang Comedy series. My mother cooked meals on a hot plate. I made friends with Jorge, a Mexican-American boy, the first Latino I ever met. We shared my first cigarette. And one by one, we gave away the puppies and Beauty as our money ran thin.

My dad struggled to find decent paying work as a skilled optician in a non-union town. My mother took a job as a sales lady at the May Company before eventually getting a permanent position as an elementary school teacher. I actually made the family’s first money—a quarter—helping an elderly lady carry her grocery bags home. My folks trusted her and me in the City of Angels, innocence long since abandoned by the wayside along with many of the remnants of Route 66.

Still, in between the hustling, my family discovered the fun of Disneyland, Pacific Ocean Park right before it closed, the Hollywood Bowl, and oranges.

Sometimes, Aunt Freda came with us on our adventures in the City of Angels. To me, she was formal. But she and my dad talked for hours in German and Yiddish, sharing laughter and fond memories of their pious Jewish upbringing in Berlin before Hitler came to power. She continued to call him “Boobie,” a childhood nickname.

Likewise, my father affectionately called me Boychik. Once he mused: “I’m showing you the world near and far, Boychik. Someday you’ll thank me for this.”

I never did thank him while he lived, but beyond the pale of my boyhood, I now realize the journey was the seminal moment of my life. I left moribund Detroit for a new city that was just coming into its own in 1963. And that move afforded me education and career opportunities and love I never would have realized had we stayed.

In my scrapbook, I often described the Route 66 adventures and kitsch tourist sights as “fun.” But I know it wasn’t fun for my father and mother. They rolled the dice with everything on the line.

A few months ago I took my teenage son William to the Route 66 exhibition at the Autry Museum, not too far from our home in Los Angeles. Just before the museum exit, my fellow travelers and I were beckoned to jot down on a Post-It our thoughts and place them on a commemorative board.

“Thank you, Dad, for the experience,” I wrote simply. “Thank you for letting me follow your heart.”

The post Chasing Holocaust Ghosts Down Route 66 appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

When I was growing up in the 1980s and early ’90s, Disneyland was so reliably empty on the day before Christmas that it became a family tradition to spend December 24 in the “Happiest Place on Earth,” often along with a visit to my grandmother, who lived in Anaheim. When my uncle, a Disney freak and expert park navigator, came down from Northern California to join us, we could ride every attraction in eight hours. Tickets got more expensive each year, but they didn’t break the bank; in 1989, adult admissions for one day, without any discount, were $23.50, and kids ages 3 to 12 were $18.50.

Today, I have three little kids, the oldest of whom is 6, but I wouldn’t think of taking them to Disneyland. Disney—via special events and the invention of holiday attractions—has all but eliminated any notion of an off-season. Christmas week is now so busy that ticket sales are sometimes cut off as Disneyland and its sister park, Disney’s California Adventure, reach capacity. This year, you’ll probably find the worst holiday traffic in California on Main Street U.S.A.

And the expense of taking the kids would be hard to justify. Disney has hiked the cost of a one-day ticket to visit just one of its two Anaheim parks to $96 for anyone 10 or older. For children ages 3 to 9, it’s $90. Throw in gas money and another $17 to $22 for parking, and for a family of five, we’re talking $500 just to walk in the gate, before we eat or drink a thing.

That’s enough to raise the question of whether the average Californian—median annual per capita income in the state is a tick under $30,000—can afford to visit this most iconic of California places. Even worse, admission inflation seems to outpace other inflation gauges—one-park, one-day admission has gone from $63 to $96 since 2006, despite the Great Recession. Remarkably, attendance to the park increased over the same time period.

True to California life, Disneyland has become overcrowded as a result of the combination of its popularity and underinvestment in infrastructure (which is to say, not enough new parks). The company manages this problem by raising prices–and making it harder for Southern Californians to come to the park. This latter move feels like a betrayal of the community that helped put Mickey on the map.

Disney has suspended sales of the Southern California Annual Passport that many locals bought in order to visit frequently throughout the year. (Those who have the passes can renew them, according to the Disneyland website, but no new passes are being issued.) Disney does offer a “select” Southern California pass, but it works on fewer than half the days of the year; neither brand of local pass gets you into the park during the height of the summer or the weeks of Christmas and New Year’s.

Now, there are probably a few people reading this who do not see our diminishing access to Disneyland as an issue as serious as access to, say, affordable healthcare or high-quality public education. But for those Californians who understand that a visit to Disneyland is an essential California cultural experience that should be denied no one, it’s obvious we face a statewide crisis that cries out for a forceful response.

What could that be? As Walt Disney once promised: “Disneyland will never be completed. It will continue to grow as long as there is imagination left in the world.” So here’s what I’m imagining, to fulfill Uncle Walt’s vision: a state constitutional amendment that guarantees every child born in California one free visit to Disneyland before he or she turns 18. For the record, I’d insert this new birthright in Article X, which already guarantees the right of every Californian to access our coast.

Such a right is easily justified by history; we launched the Disney park empire in California in 1955. Certainly Disney and other capitalists might object to the cost of all those free admissions, but wouldn’t there be considerable long-term public relations value in making Disneyland one of the rare experiences all young Californians share?

With fewer than 500,000 native Californians born a year, we’re talking about less than $50 million annually in new financial commitments. If Disney or the state generously wanted to open the program to every California resident under the age of 18 right now (9 million people according to the census), we’d still be talking a less than $1 billion hit, spread over many years, for a company with annual revenues approaching $50 billion.

I must admit there are two issues with a Disneyland-for-all-kids constitutional amendment. The first is practical: This new right could create even more crowds in the short run.

The second issue is constitutional. One of California’s finest legal scholars has informed me that, despite all the crazy things already in the state constitution, this measure forcing a private company to provide free goods to the citizenry might be blocked as an unconstitutional “taking”—unless the right comes with “just compensation” for Disney.

Both issues are easily handled—with one stroke that would solve the problem of Disneyland access and a few other California quandaries.

Here it is, Mickey! The state should acquire and give Disney a piece of land, with all environmental approvals and entitlements in place, large enough to build another park in California. Where? Disney could build a third park on a large piece of land next to its Anaheim resort, but hasn’t moved to do so. (One reason: The city of Anaheim is not nearly as friendly to Disney as it once was.) Land on the coast would cost too much, so it should be inland. And to leverage corporate welfare, the land should be tied to another public project that is already acquiring large amounts of land.

The perfect location: something close to the planned high-speed rail station in Fresno.

Talk about Tomorrowland! A new Disney Fresno could draw crowds large enough to make high-speed rail economically viable—especially if Disney focused the park on exploiting its newly acquired rights to the Star Wars empire of George Lucas, himself a son of the San Joaquin Valley. Heck, if the California drought lasts a couple more years, the landscape surrounding Disney Fresno might be passed off on park patrons as the desert planet Tatooine, where Luke Skywalker grew up.

Far-fetched? Maybe, but when has that deterred Disney? As Uncle Walt liked to remind people, “It’s kind of fun to do the impossible.”

The post Give Every California Kid a Free Trip to Disneyland appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.