The opening – or openings – of the new amusement park in Southern California did not go well. On 13 July, a Wednesday, the day of a private thirtieth anniversary party for Walt and Lil, Mrs. Disney herself was discovered sweeping the deck of the steamboat Mark Twain as the first guests arrived for a twilight shakedown cruise. On Thursday and Friday, during gala preopening tributes to Disney film music at the Hollywood Bowl, workmen back in Anaheim, some twenty-three miles away, mugged to finish paving the streets that would soon lead to Fantasyland, Adventureland, Frontierland, and Tomorrowland. Last-minute strikes had compelled the builders to haul in asphalt all the way from San Diego.
The invitation-only press preview and dedication, broadcast over a coast-to-coast TV hookup on 17 July, was a disaster from start to finish. At dawn, with carpenters and plumbers still working against the clock, traffic on the freeway was backed up for seven miles, and gridlock prevailed on the secondary roads surrounding the former orange grove along Harbor Boulevard. Studio publicists had issued twenty thousand tickets to reporters, local dignitaries, Disney employees, corporate investors, and Hollywood stars – including Eddie Fisher, Debbie Reynolds, Lana Turner, Danny Thomas, and Frank Sinatra. By mid-morning, however, more than thirty thousand people were already packed inside the earthen berm that was supposed to seal off Disney's domain from the cares of the outside world. Some of the extra "invitees" flashed counterfeit passes. Others had simply climbed the fence, slipping into the park in behind-the scene spots where dense vegetation formed the background for a boat ride through a make-believe Amazon jungle.
Afterwards, they called it "Black Sunday." Anything that could go wrong did. The food ran out. There weren't enough drinking fountains. A gas leak temporarily shut down Fanmyland, site of many of the twenty-two new Disney-designed rides the crowd had come to inspect. It was terribly hot, too. Main Street USA melted, and visitors' high heels stuck fast in the fresh asphalt. The nervous proprietor (who had spent the night in the park) accidentally locked himself in his apartment above the turn-of-the-century firehouse near the front gate. As the moment approached for the boss to welcome a vast, stay-at-home audience to his California kingdom through the magic of television, Walt Disney (1901-1966) was nowhere to be found. And somehow, ABC's twentyfour live cameras managed to cover all the glitches: the ladies walking out of their shoes; “Davy Crockett," star of Disney’s new weekly series, drenched by a hyperactive sprinkler system as he thrashed about on horseback in Frontierland's western scenery; the regal Irene Dunne showering announcer Art Linkletter with glass and soda water while attempting to christen the Mark Twain on televised cue.
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