Man About Town: Ejected from home, we're going to Disneyland

"Mom needs some room," I tell the little guy.

So we pick up his buddy Keaton and head to Disneyland, a place dripping in happiness. On the way down, the two boys fall asleep, drooling on the leather seats in 2- and 3-foot swells (could've surfed it).

Repeat after me: Their joy is your joy.

Nonetheless, we have a spectacular time at D-Land, 10 hours of Euclidean lines and occasionally overpriced cuisine.

"I know some good restaurants here," the little guy says, and leads us to pizza of the highest rank.

The damage? By the time we're done, we've spent well over $300, including the $45 pizza dinner.

That's not admission, that's rent.

So, we live here now, residing in a corner of the Indiana Jones attraction that is closed for repairs.

Not very conventional — no schools, no pubs, constant parades. But it's really starting to feel like home.


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