I’m back from an enjoyable excursion to Disneyland. There’s not much to tell of the visit to the Magic Kingdom itself, except for the three transgendered, barely feminine, still somewhat androgynous individuals who chatted away in front of me in the ridiculously huge and glacially-paced snack line on Main Street (one of whom, I kid you not, was called "Pat"), and the weird fact that our two-year-old didn’t bat an eyelash at the Haunted Mansion, but found the Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh mildly frightening. Oh, and the fireworks were superb. Some of the most excellent pyrotechnics I’ve witnessed in a long while.

To reach the Dominion of the Mouse, I drove down Interstate 5 through California, and learned some curious things in the dusty town of Coalinga, near the lonely junction at Highway 198. The first was the most disquieting, but I feel that it is my duty as a patriot to tell the truth: the oil industry, and gasoline market prices in particular, are controlled by homosexuals . The first clue was the word "faggots" spray-painted on a dumpster next to the Union 76 station, but further chilling proof was provided at the Chevron station across the road. The name of the brave soul who uncovered this conspiracy shall forever go unsung, a faceless hero in the eternal battle to keep the internal combustion engine safe from buggery. Nearby, a rest area’s picnic table imparted local culinary tips that were nowhere to be found in my Frommer’s guide.

Since my first choice for lunch was pretty much shot down, I opted for the nearest corporate greasy spoon, which turned out to be a Red Robin in the middle of nowhere. No sooner had I sat down, though, than I realized Nature was issuing its siren call. I found the restroom, and once the formalities were under way, spent a few moments taking stock of my porcelain environment. Interestingly, either the denizens of Coalinga are of an unexpectedly literary bent, or some wandering English major, pen in hand, had recently made the restaurant’s urinals his port of call; the spaces between the wall tiles were graced by such tongue-in-cheek gems as "A Tile of Two Cities" and "Grout Expectations".

Ah, my mysterious and exotic Coalinga. What further secrets yet lie hidden in your sleepy streets?