My Trip to Disneyland wtih Eugene Ionesco   Sixteen years ago, I went to Disneyland with Eugene Ionesco, his wife Rodica, and renowned mime Jack Albee.     No you didn't. The Mouseketeers are scrambling for reinforcements. You mustn't say Disneyland. You must say Disneyland.     Disneyland is Disneyland.     No it isn't. Disneyland is Disneyland.     How would you know if you've never been there?     The pomegranates explode with trepidation and delight. Can you tell me the way to the train station?     Be that as it may, I still insist that the phone rang and it was Jack Albee, no longer trapped in an ever-shrinking box, asking me if I wanted to go to Disneyland with Eugene Ionesco.     It's not called Disneyland, it's called Disneyland.     Are you telling me that it's not called Disneyland, it's called Disneyland?     No, I'm saying the opposite.     Yes, you are saying the opposite.     No I am not.     Yes you are.     We are both saying the same thing.     We are not saying the same thing.     That is not what you are saying.      That is what I am saying.      What is what you are saying.      What is not what I am saying.     I'm saying that Jack came by and took me to Ionesco's hotel and that he and his wife didn't speak a word of English.     Unless they did.     But they didn't.     Neither he nor his wife.     Neither he?     Nor his wife.     Nor his wife?     Neither nor.     How do you know?     Because I was there.     How could you be there if you were there?     Because I sat there and we didn't talk.     What did you talk about?     We didn't.     What?     Talk.     About what?     Nothing.     What fun. Can I come too?     Spending an hour in a hotel room with a mime and a world renowned playwright who wrote about the absurdity of language but didn't speak a word of English was not quite the barrel of monkeys one would imagine.     Was that the same barrel of monkeys who wrote the complete works of Shakespeare?     We left the monkeys in the hotel room to go to Disneyland.     Why do you insist upon calling it Disneyland when you didn't even go?     I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to Eugene Ionesco. We communicated non-verbally through a mime.     You had nothing to say to Eugene Ionesco and his lovely wife Rodica?     Had anyone bothered to translate the story, would Ionesco have been interested in the fact that I played the eighty-year-old lead in his play The Chairs at the ripe old age of 16 in high school?     Perhaps, oh, I don't know, he would have found it absurd.     Don't say absurd, say absurd.     That's what I was going to say.     No you didn't.     Yes I did.     Why didn't you say it to Eugene Ionesco?     I did.     Where?     On the Matterhorn.     You and Ionesco.     On the Matterhorn.     An e-ticket.     Very much so.     On the Matterhorn.     With Ionesco, his wife, and a mime who shined an apple.     A real apple?     A pantomime apple.     You shared a pantomime apple with Eugene Ionesco on the Matterhorn?     Not really. He dropped it.     Ionesco dropped the pantomime apple?     And the mime dropped the subject.     Which was?     Our trip to Disneyland.     No it wasn't     Yes it was.     What was the subject?     Yes, what WAS the subject.     The hotel room.     The chairs.     The amusement.     The park.     The horn growing from the middle of your forehead.     There is nothing I can do about it.     Is there anything you can do around it?     Dance.     Love to.     The characters do cartwheels through the magical kingdom. My nipples contract in zestful anticipation. Forward the motion. The moon and the stars. The wonderful world of color. Have I lived it or dreamed it? Why would I lie?

 

 

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