Read this book as a lark in preparation for our trip to Disney World this year. I would be dishonest, however, if I said the premise of the book and its marketing did not appeal to my puerile instincts. Why wouldn't you want to have a peek behind the curtain of Disney's stage? The book started off promising enough, but it soon became apparent that Mitchell a) is not that talented a writer (viz. certain pieces of dialogue that are so stilted as to defy even the most generous attribution of license), and b) he relies on stereotypes and plot to drive the story, rather than developing characters more fully. He shows us the slutty princess, the bitch-queen dancers, and the narrator (I avoid purposely conflating the author and the narrator--although the book is entitled a memoir, I sense that the author's portrayal of himself is not entirely honest), who the author casts initially as a preternaturally aloof and cynical skate rebel, pseudo-keenly seeing through the magic-washing of Disney, and who the author later inexplicably miscasts as a sanguine and starry-eyed Disneytron. I believe the transformation of the attitude of the narrator is in service to the conclusion of the book, which, if the narrator retained his indie-cred cool, would not have been possible (again, the fatal flaw of plot driving character, and not vice-versa).
It's all just a hot mess, with some sweaty sexy parts thrown in as a carrot to keep the reader engaged and the naughty bits engorged while the narrator stumbles through a cartoonish and implausible metamorphosis into a mindless WDW groupie. The fact that the narrator is shocked when things ultimately go off the rails fatally undermines any credibility and trust established between author and reader in the early pages of the book. It says a lot about the book that the factoids contained in the footnotes to the narrative are actually the most interesting parts.
David Foster Wallace should have written this book in the style of A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. The Goodreads entry for this book would then have gone all 404 on us under the sheer weight of the stars given to the book.
As it is, caveat emptor: read it as you would US magazine, knowing that the brief period you spend with it will pass the time, and nothing more, and once you're done, it will lay curling and dusty on the bathroom floor.