Chapter 3 - Late High Fiesta (20-21)

A Chronicle of the Age of Consequences ___________________________________ 20

medical mystery to doctors, its source, they told us, was almost certainly environmental. It was likely, in other words, that some part of the toxic, synthetic, and increasingly abnormal project we call 'civilization' had poisoned Gen. Maybe it was our time in Los Angeles in the 1980s. Or the power lines near our house after our move to Santa Fe in the early 1990s. Or the proximity to Los Alamos, a nuclear weapons lab, during an archaeological survey she worked on. Whatever the cause, and despite our efforts to live as healthily as possible after our twins were born, industrialism had struck home.

At the other extreme, of course, was Disneyland.

Say what you will about the "Happiest Place on Earth," it deserves its sobriquet. Sterling and Olivia love the place; and so do we. In fact, I've been going to Disneyland since I was their age – back in a prehistoric time when you needed an 'E Ticket' to get on the best rides. Sure, the park is as phony as baloney, but isn't that the point? We certainly thought so. After a couple of days of confronting cancer, battling mind-boggling traffic, eating food-like substances in generic restaurants, and negotiating a labyrinthine megalopolis (my patience has faded along with my memory of LA), we were ready for grinning mice and singing bears.

It worked. We were happy for sixteen straight hours.

I look at it this way: if Late High Fiesta means we have to suffer the consequences of industrial diseases why shouldn't we participate in its manufactured happiness as well? Besides, a smile is a smile, after all, no matter what the source.

You won't hear our children complaining. That's because the Fiesta's organizers are very good at what they do. On the drive to

Chapter 3 - Late High Fiesta ___________________________________________ 21

LA, for example, we stopped for two days at a sunny resort in Phoenix that featured a wide assortment of watery amusements, including a giant slide, a lazy 'river,' a noisy waterfall, a relaxing hot tub, and enough chlorine to choke a school of whales. The kids had a blast. They especially enjoyed floating the lazy river atop the huge inflated donuts supplied by the resort. Gen relaxed with a book in a poolside chaise while I camped out in the hot tub.

What we were doing, of course, was precisely the purpose of the whole Fiesta itself: relax, indulge yourself, forget about tomorrow. Limits? Consequences? Don't be a killjoy. We'll worry about that later. Meanwhile, party on.

And what a party it's been. Not only have we been going at it full tilt since World War II, we've come to think of the Fiesta as "normal."

I know I do. Take where I live, for example. In the American West, one of the chief intoxicants of the Fiesta was cheap gas, which begat long-distance driving (among many other novelties) for millions of Westerners. The road had a huge influence on me. It began a few days before my sixth birthday when my parents went West in a covered station wagon, moving us from staid Philadelphia to frontier Phoenix as part of one of the first waves of mass suburban immigration.

My earliest memories center on driving – with my father, who worked clear across town; with my friends, who seemed just as restless as I was; and by myself, indulging in every minute of my unleaded independence. Cheap, instant mobility became second nature to me. I grew to adulthood in an age defined by an easy horizon.