Musing on High-End Resort, Ahem, "Amenities"

It hit me as I sat in the resort's overpriced French restaurant. The wife and I were having their expensive dinner, a typical "fine dining" experience involving exotic ingredients, artistic presentation, miniscule portions, spotty and snobby service, and a bill for two adults that would feed a local family for an entire week. Yeah, whatever, the wife enjoys it, so I'm in, happily, with both feet. I'd rather go to the Burger King, but it's no big deal.

And she's wearing the sexy underwear I set out. And after dinner we're going to get it on. I don't mind the situation at all.

I was facing the bar, and got to watch the bartender lovingly clean all of the glasses, holding them up to check for spots. Okay, that's a good thing, the kind of attention to detail that they should have, especially in a place that's getting $9.50 for a mixed drink. And in and out trooped the wealthy and trendy folks that keep a high-end resort like this in the green. Lots of guys who looked like they were right out of Ralph Lauren ads, with the perfect hair and teeth, just the right tan, manicures, a little bit of gray at the temples, a new manicure, the whole bit. All of them in that 45-60 frame, young-ish but not doddering old, on top of their game, on top of the world, knowing what they're about, how to get it, and eager to get some more of it. Yeah, that kind of standard economic status posing and blah blah blah whatever.

Most of the guys were with what appeared to me to be their ladies. Again, very well taken care of women in that 45-60 range. Immaculately preserved, with the perfect hair and teeth and nails, in the little black dresses, very well maintained and fit, with the tan and the jewelry all in the right places. Most of them blond, duh, with that slightly longer than shoulder length standard cut. Extremely sexy, but appropriate for their age, not trashy or over the top, just right for the place. For my sensibilities these women were just about right, except for the overly thin part. What can I say, I've always been a MILF-y kind of guy.

But they clearly were not young and vital and large-breasted, not bikini models or swimsuit calendar girls, not in 5" spike heels with the outline of a miniscule thong clearly visible under the constricting tightness of a sheer white micro-mini, not with permed-out big hair full of volume, not college coeds out for fun in their nubile prime, with just the right amount of make-up, just that little bit beyond appropriate. They weren't young and out for wild fun, thrilled to death to be with a man of means and power and charm and smug vitality. They weren't young and awed by the ride in the Mercedes SL600; they were thoroughly accustomed to it, long since fully entitled to it.

But there were a number of young ladies just like that, moving through the restaurant, at the bar with the slightly graying Polo ad guys. These young ladies were just out of place enough for me to place them, most easily.

That's when the question came to me: how does a place like this, kind of way out in the relative central Atlantic seaboad boonies, mesh its operations with this aspect of 'business?' Of course, a place like this draws men who know what they want, know when they want it, and have the resources to make it happen. So does the hotel/resort enable them in any way, or are they on their own to arrange for their escorts?

If the men are on their own, what business supplies the young ladies? Is it a city-based business? I mean, the nearest big city is a good 80 miles away. That's not too far, but on a busy weekend night, that's a wait time of at least two hours, probably more. Would Polo ad guy want to wait that long, or would he have just made the plans and made arrangements before arriving? I'd think that most of the guys there would think ahead, and if they were headed to a place like that and knew they'd be in a position to take advantage of escort services, that it would all be set up far in advance.

But then again, there would be some would-be customers who would suddenly, impulsively want to dabble in escort services. So who do you call? The local town is a mountain hamlet, and the young ladies there, while comely and down to earth, probably wouldn't quite have the level of sophistication and most definitely not the wardrobe to get in on resort escort operations.

So would an escort company have a forward-deployed satellite office? The big-city escort service has a local office in Mountain Hamlet where the ladies wait for their opportunities to shine? I guess that would be one business model, but then again, would their be surpluses, shortages? Would there be needless waiting, young ladies not called forth, a valuable commodity not producing income? I would see an opportunity here for the intrepid entrepeneur.

And what of the hotel's complicity? Just about every hotel I've ever stayed at, the low-budge and the insanely expensive and exclusive, the American and the foreign, had a way for a male guest to very, very quickly make arrangement for escort services, if that is what the male guest would like. Usually it's the concierge guys (not the concierge gals), sometimes the bell hops. These guys probably get a cut up front, maybe a percentage, maybe a flat rate for proper referrals. Yeah, that's commerce, the power of the market at work.

But in a really snooty place like this, a privately owned hotel with the philanthropist owner's private artwork collection up there on the club floor, would that be countenanced? (Of course, if I owned the place, of course it would be.) Who knows, really? It's a fact of life, and I would guess that if the hotel knows about it, then they just kind of let it happen. As long as things don't get public or ugly or out of hand, then there's really no reason to step in and take charge of a situation that doesn't need to be taken charge of. Does the General Manager know? Yeah, probably. Does the owner know? Yeah, probably.

And the last question I mused on, as I drank my over-expensive wine with the uninspiring dinner: how much would these ladies be charging? Now, straight sex with a lady for money is a function of a number of variables. Hookers are cheap. Prostitutes, usually a little bit more expensive. Call girls, yet more expensive. Escorts, yeah, they're going to be at the top of the menu.

And then there's venue. If they're walking the street, it's going to be cheap. If they're coming to the very well-known and highly expensive resort hotel, it's going to be expensive. If you're boinking in the cab of your Peterbilt, it's not going to be that much; if you're bumping uglies on the 500 thread-count Egyptian cotton king-sizes of the hotel, then it's going to be a lot more expensive.

Then there's just the remoteness of the location, the distance from source to consumption. Would these girls get mileage, or the escort equivalent? Would this be considered a long-distance outcall, or would the business be mature to the point that this venue was a relatively stable and common one, despite its distance? You'd have to think there'd be at least some kind of surcharge for the distance (assuming the big-city-centered business operation).

So overall, I was figuring at least $500/night for these ladies, probably more. Not like I've got any true experience in this; I just enjoy studying it and speculating on it. It's something no one wants to acknowledge, but it's happening whether you like it or not, and just about everyone involved is getting something out of it.

And after dessert I just took the elevator up to five, went into the suite with my sweet lady wife, and did the exact same thing for free. Well, maybe the $240 dinner didn't make it quite free, but free enough.

A Weekend at the High-End Resort

Just spent a very nice fall getaway weekend with the wife. New car, beautiful weather, uncluttered roads, and the absolutely magnificent, particolored leaves drifting down as we swooped through the passes and the hollers of the interior mid-Atlantic. Great weekend with my delicious 40-something wife, the kids in the care of a good buddy. Some nice, quick time apart.

And we ended up at a very high-end resort. Former hunting lodge for rich folks which had passed through a number of owners and finally ended up with yet another obscenely rich rotund white guy, him beaming--of course, he's insanely righ--over two chins in the brochures, in his $500 tie and $1000 jacket, with his massive $200 cigar in his hand, yeah, whatever. Great place, in a beautiful location. And we registered to find we've been bumped up to the private club level, in a giant suite with our own butler. Very nice indeed, and unexpected. A tiny little bit of service to us which endeared me to the place, and made me want to return, even before we'd seen the room(s).

Our butler hurried off to get my wife a Bailey's on ice, which we'd mention in the merest passing, as a joke really, while unseen servants took our stuff right on up to our room. Nice touch. The car had already disappeared, and a guy in truly ridiculous hunting livery, right down to a very expensive and shiny top hat appeared to hand me my claim check. More excellent service, anticipatory service, the best kind, the kind I'd expect paying $500/night for a place to shower, shave and sleep.

Up to the room with the butler, who picked us up in the lobby. We're on the private floor, so have to swipe our room card into a special slot on the elevator, a nice security touch, but also a very subtle yet high-profile way to show everyone else in the elevator you're headed to the top floor, with the other important and/or rich folks. Hey, you just might be somebody, and the lower-floor rabble take that slightest step backward, the better to take you in, to study you, to compare themselves to you, to ask themselves if you're actually someone of note. But us, no way, just boring reg'lar folk, living it up for a few days.

We got a tour of the private artwork on display up there in the club floor hallways, and it was impressive, too, with a no-shit piece of famous art that I remembered seeing in a book or poster or on TV or some such. Couldn't name the artist or the painting, but recognized it instantly. Kind of interesting, cognitively dissonant in a pleasant way, to encounter that kind of thing, a famous piece of art, right there on the wall, where you can just step right up to it and really look at it, the private property of someone who makes more money in interest and profit in a day than you'll make in your entire working lifetime. That was a pretty big jolt, to come up with that little personal metric as I looked at his painting (which I wouldn't purchase myself, eve if had I that kind of money).

Then into the suite, with 20-foot ceilings and wonderful everything. Expensive, heavy, wooden furniture, with more expensive upholstery. Everything very conservative. Lots of gold trim everywhere. Lots of marble, everywhere in the two bathrooms. Fantastic view out the front of the place over the mountains to the west. The fridge with all of its stuff complementary in its entirety. So much for the $4.85 Diet Cokes, a very nice departure if you ask me.

Then some relaxation time and then down to the resort's expensive French-y restaurant for our scheduled dinner. The service truly was pretty crappy. I'm not a fan of French cuisine in general; I find the food tasty if over-hyped and over-produced, and always, absolutely always far too small on the portions. And this place was no different. Lots of expensive wine, and a set-price meal, which I went with. Great presentation, lots of fun, and it took forever, waiting for the next course of tiny-portioned whatever to show up. And all in all the meal was about $250 for the two of us, and it took over two hours to crawl through five courses. I've had much better food and service, in a number of places, especially at those kinds of prices. Come to think of it, I had a comparably priced meal with my wife at one of the best high-end restaurants in Disney World in March, and it was so much better than this place. Better service, better food, better wine.

Then upstairs and to bed in an overly soft bed with overly soft pillows. I did get a kick out of the Pillow Menu, with a choice of about 15 differnet types of pillows from which to choose. Water and feathers and down and fluff and cotton and seed husks and fiberfill and foam, with a zillion choices for pillow cases as well. All I had to do was call up our butler and ask for the right pillow, and bam, it would be there. Sure, I could do it, but what's the point for a pillow I'm going to use for about 7 hours? If I were going to live there for a few nights or weeks, sure, I'd switch out. But really, what's the point for just a few hours? I guess that's the egalitarian in me, the equality-minded liberal, not wishing to bother the butler--whom I'm paying for with my very high room rate--over something as small as this.

Up in the morning somewhat early, and into the club lounge. One of my favorite places in a high-end hotel, the lounge in the club floor. One of the best deals and best places to hang out, especially for breakfast and before dinner. Sit and read, get some chow and a drink or two, and be waited on very privately in a very comfortable setting, without having to pay for it. Great deal. Had a couple of bagels with some very tasty cream cheez as I read the local paper.

Then out the door and off on our exciting local adventure. The place was expensive as hell, yeah, but fun to splurge a little bit, to literally see how the other half lives. And off down the road with my delightfully delicious wife sitting next to me.

Imagined "Bless You" Etiquette

I was in a rather formal meeting the other day when one of the guys blew out a big sneeze. He didn't blow his stop and scream, like some morons, and he didn't do one of those ridiculous Georgia Peach squeaks, he just sneezed, like any normal person would do. No problem, we're humans, it happens.

And right away a lady across the table from him chimed in with a perfectly inflected and clearly audible, "God bless you." She wanted it heard, and she made sure she was heard, despite the fact that the senior guy at the head of the table was talking about something his boss had directed to be a priority.

Okay, to me that's a rude interruption to a meeting. Not the sneeze, but the "God bless you." That is trampling over the talking of someone who is organizationally senior to you, as well as just downright rude to do in any kind of civil conversation. You wouldn't just blurt out, "Give me a pencil," or "What's for lunch?" in that meeting environment, would you? No, of course not. That would be rude, insensitive, shallow, and just plain stupid. So why is a clear and emphatic "God bless you" tolerated?

Of course, it's a religion thing, at least on its face. Who's going to tell anyone, man or woman, to keep their "God bless you" to themselves? Who's going to open that religious freedom can of worms and actively tell someone to save it for a more appropriate venue? Certainly not me. Someone who would be that bold and to my mind that rude to give a "God bless you" in that context would have more than enough spine and self-righteousness to dump all over anyone who even hinted at disparaging--although it would not be disparaging, not at all--their religious beliefs.

So, the pointed "God bless you" was delivered, and after a slight pause, at which point the issuing lady looked up just enough to make her movement visible, the sneezing guy offered, "Thank you."

Okay, we're back to trampling over the talk of the boss in a formal meeting. We're once again back to interrupting, being rude, and disregard of common courtesy. Oh well.

To my reading, sneezing guy didn't want to say, "Thank you," but that little movement of Godblessyou Girl forced him into the move. He'd just sneezed, and she'd ratcheted up the unspoken tension in the room by inviting in God and her religion and her clearly focus on self-righteousness. So, he was now, in the space of only a couple of secons, open to a perception of being rude and disrespectful of her beliefs, and even openly disrespectful of Gawd, up there on his golden throne. So, he had to give the "thank you," whether he wanted to or not. Too much pressure, right there in the room, the 12 folks at the table and the others sitting against the walls. Never mind the boss was trying to communicate something important; the sneeze and its aftermath had altered it all.

And of course, this all took place in the space of about five seconds. Godblessyou Girl got her thank-you, and she mumbled a barely audible, "You're welcome," and graciously relinquished control of the meetin back to the boss.

I thought that was an amazing interaction.

Me, I don't say a word if someone offers a "God bless you" or even a "Bless you" if I happen to sneeze in their presence. No, religion and God or Vishnu or the Buddha or Allah or Yahweh or Old Scratch had nothing to do with me sneezing. It's a purely physical bodily reaction to an olfactory stimulus to expel what the body determines to be a threat, and/or a foreign presence. The body's defenses kick in, and you explode briefly to get that schtuff right on out. Actually, I find it rather enjoyable, that tension, the rapid building of the tension to a very tight, coiled, highly pressured moment of almost unbearable compression, and then the explosive release, both physical and mental. But spiritual? No. Yeah, there are more than a few sexual comparisons to this building of tension, and the pleasure at release. I enjoy sneezing, and it feels good.

Why should I enable someone else's religious beliefs by giving in to their "God bless you?" I don't believe in any of that crap, so why should I acknowleged it, legitimize it by saying "thank you?"

Of course, this is usually taken as rudeness. I'm not a militant atheist; I'm a Golden Rule guy. I'm not going to smack someone down for saying something religious, not unless they're cramming it down my or someone else's throat. And I don't take a "God bless you" that way. It's a basic politeness, and I can accept it as that, but usually I won't give a thank-you for that.

Naturally, there have been folks that have gotten made. I can't really be concerned with that. If they get upset over something petty like this, then they'll find something else to tick them off anyway.

More Hurricane Stupidity

NPR had a fluffy little bit this morning that just perfectly encapsulated the Ignorant America approach to natural disaster. Check it out: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4973282.

The first message was clear: the initiative and hard-working immigrant making the best out of a bad situation, providing a needed service and at the same time making money for themselves. The Chinese restaurant had gas and a stove and flashlights, so opened up and fed those who'd show up. Good on them for seeing an opportunity and taking it.

The first Ignorant American identified admitted--why would someone actually admit this on national radio?--that he'd gotten in line because he saw all of the other people standing in line. So if they were handing out strychnine, would this moron get in line to get a handful of it as well? Yeah, he probably would.

Ignorant American #1 the proceeded to talk about how it was so good to just "get out," yabbering about his "cabin fever," having been cooped up inside his house, riding out the storm "since yesterday afternoon." What? This idiot actually says something like "cabin fever" in the context of not leaving his house for something like 20 hours during a major natural disaster? Again, I'm dumbfounded that this idiot would admit this to a stranger, let alone a stranger who is going to broadcast this interview to a few million people. This moron is probably the kind who also prepares for a hurricane by buying lots of ice, and beer and margarita mix, and hanging out on the condo balcony to watch the storm. And then complains and tries to sue his condo management when he loses an eye to flying debris. What a fool.

Then there was the next family interviewed, who admitted they'd come out to the Chinese restaurant out of genuine necessity--they had no food at home. Yeah, there'd been talk of Wilma approaching south and central Florida for over ten days, and these idiots had not gone out and bought any food or water. Another pair of typical Ignorant Americans, not thinking about anything but what's on TV tonight, who I can call on my cell phone right now, and I'll jsut pop down to the Taco Bell at midnight if I get hungry.

I'm almost disappointed that the hurricane didn't weed these fools from the gene pool. I guess it will soon enough, given their demonstrated attention to their own safety and welfare. I just hope that they don't now or never will have children.

Speak English Redux

I picked up my new car from the dealership on Saturday. Relatively painless, except for the realization that I'd just shelled out over $48,000. I had a new rep, too, a new sales guy. I don't know what happened to the guy who showed me the car back in August when I ordered it, but I'd been directed to this new guy, let's call him "Regis."

Regis was a nice enough guy, clearly in full automobile sales mode, always fawningly polite, always careful to say exactly what I wanted to hear. He hung on every word, asked all kinds of personal questions, got me talking about myself, all of the things that are designed to make him my buddy and friend and confidante as quickly as possible, to establish that relationship of friendship, so I'll be so much less likely to upset him, reject him, turn down the things he offers to me, the things he's selling to me. Okay, I know all of that, so the typical sales crap has no effect on me. If I'm going to pay close to $50,000 for something, for anything, it's going to be exactly right. And if Regis wants his commission, or whoever gets the commission, then they're going to earn it, that's for sure.

But I digress.

Regis was friendly, but his command of the English language was far from what he thought it was. He kept trying to spice up his talk with big words, but the problem was that although he was competent with the proper usage and context, his pronunciation was totally off the mark.

The first was was "incomprehensible." We were bantering about something unrelated to the car, kids' soccer, I think, and Regis worked in this word. Except that it came out "incaprensble." Yeah, I understood exactly what he was saying, but his delivery let himself down.

Then the floodgates just opened up, and out poured the mangled words.

As he discussed my awareness of the road, "cognizant" became "coenizan."

"Responsibility" became "sponsbilty."

"Traction" became "tarction."

"Dynamic" became "dynamk."

And it just went on and on, one after the other. Now, REgis was a nice guy, and I wouldn't have a problem with going back to him for another car, when the time comes. He was friendly and delivered the services that I would expect, given the car and the amount of money I spent. But he let himself down with his mangled vocabulary.

Should I have corrected him? Yeah, maybe. That would've helped him, but it also could've pissed him off, my presumptiousness to correct his mode of speech. Maybe he actually mangles the pronunciation of those words on purpose, deliberately, as a bold and powerful statement of personal identity and uniqueness. I don't know, it's possible. So I just let it go. No need to embarrass a man just over that.

The Fascinating Dog

That ultra-power mullet has got me transfixed, I swear. It's the most imposing, the most awe-inspiring Mullet of Ultimate Energy that I've ever seen, and I've even been to the mullet mountain--http://www.mullet.com/--and have drunk deep of its vibe and flow. Hey, Dog is a guy who can pull off a massively poufed-up platinum mullet, in Hawaii, no less. Get some!

I love watching this guy work. Having lived in Hawaii as a little kid back in 1967-68, and again recently for over three years, it's fun to just watch where he goes, all of the local-kine places he shows up at, and the nonstop flood of local-kine shitheads filling up the jail.

Overall he seems like a nice guy, a genuinely nice guy. I'm disappointed that there hasn't been more conflict on the show, though. Not conflict between the "cast" members, as is the typical scripting response for reality TV. I'd like to see a lot more physically violent take-down of fugitives. There was that one time Leland got into it with the loudmouth shithead owner of the sleazy motel, but that wasn't much of a fight. I figured Leland would pummel the living shit out of that guy, but it devolved very quickly into a boring grapple, a draw. Leland, work on your one-shot take-down shots, the head-butt to the bridge of the nose, the Thai kickboxing kick to the side of the knee, the police headlock.

And then there's Wife Beth. Fascinating thing to watch. Me, I dig older women, so Beth is right there in the perfect range. But hell, every season her breasts get bigger. They're absolutely ridiculous now, just jaw-droppingly silly. Yes, there is too much of a good thing, and it's going on inside her bra. And the make-up and the outfits are too much, too. She's fun to watch, though, and I sure wouldn't want to piss her off up close.

So, have a gander at Dog and his crew, and suppor their show. Good fun.

"Lost" Has Lost Me

It's just like goddamn Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Within just a few weeks of coming out, taking off, and gaining a ridiculous level of popularity, the same lucky, lucky contestant would be on for 45 minutes, and only 3 questions would be answered. It would be irrelevant, intentional stalling, pointless observations on their home and childhood and friends and first communion, instead of just answering the goddamn question, right or wrong. Jeopardy has always been the kind, and remains rightly so; they pose the answer, and a question is immediately required. That's proper quiz-show pacing.

And now there's Lost, and it's going the same way. Hey, I like the premise: A large ensemble cast is thrown together in tragic circumstances, and as things develop we learn more about the charactes as well as being pulled into a very intriguing mystery about their location, and their fate(s). I like this a lot, and it got me into the show before the first season ended.

And now, just into the second season, I've left the show and won't be back. And I'm telling everyone I know to do the same. It's typical, and I can't say it's unexpected: rather than just tell the story, let the narrative go where it's supposed to, ABC has just stretched it out, with bullshit hype and drama and music and bad drawn-out acting along with way too much "previously on Lost" padding and back-end "coming next week" teasers. Given the roughly 48 minutes that the show actually runs in its scheduled one-hour slot, the story actually moves forward only about 15 minutes a week. They're yanking our chains to increase their cash flow.

I mean, I like this show, and want to watch it. But I don't need ten minutes of re-cap each week. And I don't need drawn-out scenes with bad emotion and music. I don't need stupid dream sequences. I need the story to progress logically and on a decent schedule.

I mean, look at Twin Peaks (). That's some of the best TV of the last 30 years. And it only went 29 episodes in 2 seasons. Why? Well, the core story, the story that hooked everyone with the mystery of Laura Palmer and the mystery of the evil, the White and Black Lodges, well, that was pretty much over once Agent Dale Cooper crossed over and came back fundamentally changed. After that, how do you ratchet up the excitement again? How do you top that story? Easy: you can't. So the show ended. (more on this at: )

The irony: ABC aired Twin Peaks. They won't make the same mistake again by letting a runaway hit run away with them. They'll stretch it out for as long as they possibly can, vamping and dancing in place, squeezing every single dollar and cent they can out of the franchise. That was clear enough to me after watching the new season of Lost; I wonder when everyone else is going to figure it out.

So, until I hear--from someone who's dumb enough to still be with the show--that things have picked up, Lost has lost me, for good.

"Smooth Jazz," My Ass

More anti-commercial radio rant:

Do the program directors really think we're that stupid when they put on their sultry baritone-voiced announcer to pour into our ear that we're listing to "Smooth Jazz" 107.3 or 106.5 or 105.9 or any other dial location in all of the major urban markets all over the country? Are they aware of the lie, the clear and cognizant misrepresentation of their product set, or do they really believe the crap they're shoveling to us?

Hey, I listen to the station. More correctly, my wife likes it, so it's on in the car and at home sometimes. It's her wake-up station on the alarm clock, so we usually get at least 20 minutes of it in the morning.

They do offer a modicum of smooth jazz. It's really radio-friendly jazz, commercialized and heavily produced formulaic stuff that is inoffensive and easy to spin. This is the David Benoit stuff, his cynical, over-produce "homage" work to Vince Guaraldi and such. All he's doing is jazzing-up original classics, nothing that deep or talented there.

Then there's Fourplay and John Tesh, the likes of Kenny G. and Yanni. It's all mass-market jazz-pablum, formulaic and predictable, the chords and the harmonies always going in the direction you want them to go. It's cafeteria jazz, easy and accessible, the kind you can tap your foot along with.

But then they Marvin Gaye singing "Sexaual Healing" or "What's Going On." Or any other R&B oldies. Or Earth, Wind and Fire playing "Let's Groove." Now, that's post-disco Top 40. Yeah, the listeners like it, I guess. I'm sure the number support the listener base, but it's not smooth jazz. Not in the least.

If you want smooth jazz, tap into the current genre of lounge and chill. There are tons of very smooth, very cool, and yet highly accessible tunes available there. I offer Digby Jones' "Pina Colada Mix" or Italian Secret Service's "Via Beato Angelico." Or try St. Germaine's "Good Thing" or Minnie Ripperton's "I'm the Black Gold of the Sun." There are tons of great tunes out there, good smooth jazz, if you've just got the courage to find them and then play them.

But then again, commercial radio is not about that. It's about making money, whcih means maximizing listener numbers in order to cram more commercial time into the hour. So, expect smooth jazz to keep playing Top 40 and MOR crap from now until the end of time. More than enough reason to take your business and attention to XM, as I've done in one vehicle, and soon enough in my second car. And then soon after that, into the house so we can bag this commercial radio bullshit for good.

Wretched Jack FM

How do I describe my depth of loathing for Jack FM? How do I take any stronger action than NEVER tuning in to this cynical crap? I mean, even if I'm surfing the dial for something good and a song comes on Jack FM that I absolutely love, like The Clash's "Train In Vain" or Redbone's classic "Come and Get Your Love," I'll tune away from the station. I loathe and despise goddamn Jack FM that much, you worthless corporate scumbags.

It's finally reached the point where I have to make a public statement about this garbage this morning on the drive in. As the radio scanned in 7-second intervals due to the fact that all of the NPR stations are doing their semi-annual fund drives, it paused on goddamn Jack FM. In those seven seconds, I heard that smirking, smarmy announcer they use tout the Jack FM web site. Great, thought I, a computer interface for a station run by a computer--perfect. The jerkoff announcer concluded his bit with something like, "You can go to the Jack FM web site, or just sit there and look stupid," and that was the end of the bit; the radio skipped on up the dial.

So this is how they promote their station and its ancillary services, by directly telling the listeners that they consider us to book, and therefore are stupid? What demographic data, supplied by what ad company, has come together to advise them that calling their listeners stupid is a good marketing ploy?

Naturally, the entire attitude of Jack FM has been "We just don't care. We do/play whatever we want." Yeah, that's a load of crap from the get-go. The not-caring part is spot-on, given the fact that hundreds of station personnel across the country have lost their jobs because of the fully automated format. The format is a freeking computer playlist, set on random. So yeah, I fully buy the fact that they don't care. Human resource expenses are way, way down, IT/ADP costs might be up a bit but as the format works itself out they'll moderate, so margins are likely up. So what is there to care about, other than the music?

The music, ah, the music. That's what commercial (music) radio is mainly about, of course. Top 40, pop, M.O.R., all of that market-oriented crap. I heard another Jack FM spot a few weeks back that was about requests. Naturally, if the computer is playing the songs, who are you going to call to make a request, the IT guy? No, sorry. The jerkoff Jack FM announcer said something like, "Requests? Why would we take requests on Jack FM, since what we do here is PLAY ONLY WHAT WE WANT!"

The attitude is pathetic. It's operating on a number of levels here. The first one is domineering and paternalistic. It's about Jack FM knowing more about music than me, about knowing more about what I want to hear than I do myself. Yeah, that's a good way to earn my loyalty, by talking down to me, by denigrating my musical knowledge and preferences.

The other aspect of this attitude is about exclusivity. This is like the Cool Guy back in high school, the one who hated everything, and if you wanted to be a cool outsider then you had to be just like him. The only way into the undefined yet commonly known circle was to adopt whatever the hell his outlook was. Same thing going on here. The poser-outsider Jack FM--playing all the Top 40 and pop they can muster, the absolute ultimate in non-outsider musical selection--pitches the faux hard attitude that they do whatever they want, critics and parents and your friends be damend, and if I want to be cool like Jack, then I'll just shut up and go along with what they determine is right for me.

Again, how does this endear me, the smarter-than-the-average-bear listener? This approach, naturally, is perfect for the core of Ignorant America, which prefers the easy road of being told what to do and like and buy and think rather than make the slightest effort to develop an independent, informed, educated and personal opinion. Jack FM will do the work for you, by telling you what to listen to, and by definition that it's good, and everything will be just fine.

The good news in all of this is that the same technology that allows Jack FM to fire the on-air staff and let the entire format run on computer allows me to set up my very own radio station for me and me alone. I have an ever-growing personal song list on my home PC, and one at work, too. I've got about 1200 CDs loaded, and from them have pulled about 4000 songs that I don't get tired of listening to. The playlist is entitled "Scrumpox FM," and that's what I listen to at work, at home, and soon enough in the car. My new car will have an AUX IN jack for a media player, and the days of being subjected to the endless garbage of commercial radio will be over. I'll my own music in the car, and will get XM sat radio installed soon enough. The same thing that makes Jack FM what it is will give me the freedom to completely walk away from its ilk and never come back.

So wither and die, Jack FM. That's the least you deserve. I'm not the ignorant, stupid listener you think I am, that your demographers and statisticians have assured you that I am. I am not the stupid-looking listener you've called me in your misguided spots; and for that I'll never listen. And, I'll happily encourage everyone else to abandon you and your cynical crap.

The Living Endoscopy

Like most other 40-something men who actively monitor their health, the time finally arrived when it was time for me to lay on the sterile table and undergo my first-ever colonoscopy. In the end--ha!--it was no big deal, and a nice autumn day at home afterwards to take a nap, read the paper, and relax a bit.

It started with the gastroenterologist's recommendation, "Have you ever been scoped?" No, well then that's what we'll definitely need to do. In mere minutes he had the meds arranged, the date set, and I was out the door with instructions and prescriptions.

Then came the Night of Preparation. The nice lady from the day surgery clinic, as she asked me all of the questions that would inform the anesthesiologist of what to do and not to do, and would also cover them for insurance and liabilty purposes, assured me that the evening before would be the most unpleasant aspect of the entire process. And man, was she right. I'll take a video camera up my butt any day as long as I don't have to go through the prep procedure again.

First was the cessation of all solid food 24 hours prior. That meant a biscuit for breakfast and nothing more. Clear drinks were okay, but that's not much consolation when you drive past the Burger Whop and the smell makes you want to drive right through the front door to get a sandwich. Then dinner had to be either clear jello or bullion, again nothing solid. Okay, I went with some Wyler's Zesty Garlic chicken bullion, and as soup with nothing in it goes, it was okay. Then the real punishment began.

Within 30 minutes it was the Reglan tablet. As I waited for it to work is magic I mixed up the GALLON of Trilyte mix, a vicious stool softener and laxative. To lessen the impact, I had a choice of flavors. I picked pineapple, and I fear I now may be off the taste of pineapple for the rest of my life.

I knew it was going to be bad when I poured the stuff into the glass, and it poured like oil. Not like water, with that dynamic action, the lightness, the clarity, none of that. It poured and flowed like baby oil, but smelled like pineapple, you know, a really industrial, synthetic, probably petroleum-based pineapple, something very manufactured.

And I put it to my lips, and my perceptions were fully realized. If it had been like water or juice that would've been fine, but it was thick, just like weak oil. Jeezus, it was nasty, with that wretched pineapple taste. And so it went, a glas of it every 15 minutes until the entire jug was gone. That should've take about 2 1/2 hours, but ended up taking more like 3 1/2. Why the time difference? The extra hour was me sitting on the toilet, groaning like a wounded buffalo as this junk just blasted its way through me. Absolutely vicious, that's the only way to describe it.

I finally was done with the horrible, horrible, miserable, disgusting fluid and wanted to head to bed--tired from a day of work--but couldn't because it still had to work its way through and take everything else with it. That was another 45 minutes of cramps and pain and disturbing intestinal articulation before I could get in bed and get to sleep. And then there were the four more wake-ups during the night for the same thing.

Up at 0500 and off to work to get some hours in. Out the door at 0830 and to the hospital by 0930, spot on time, as they'd asked. Paperwork went fine, and then to the lab for a bit of blood work after getting my wristband locked on. And asked my full name and birthday, numberous times. Then up to Three and the Endoscopy Suite, again with the name and birthday. Wouldn't want the wrong guy to get a probe stuck up his ass today, right? It's not like I'm going to have my twin brother or my best-bud fraternity buddy come in and take this test for me, now, is it? I thought about a private room, some semblance of discretion given that they're sticking electronic devices up people's asses. But no. Not in the least.

This is when it really got interesting.

I step to the reception desk, which really is just a standard hospital metal desk, overloaded with folders and bins, at the end of a little hall. Open to my left is the main restroom and linen cupboard, also stuffed with all kinds of things, mostly gowns and blankets. And to the right, the entire recovery and prep area for the whole endoscopy suite. I step to the desk, and as I glance to my right to see five bays with three sets of feet protruding, I hear a huge, ripping, strangely tremulous fart. I mean, a good 15 seconds of prolonged squeaking, clearly resonant with pressure and modulation, something that would be truly impressive and remarked upon admiringly in just about any other context than this. And, no pained silence afterwards, nor any raucous laughing, but instead the reassuring, just-maternal-enough voice of the unseen recovery nurse cooing, "Yes, Mister Farbenblatt, that's what we want. Just push it out." Ol' Farbie groans in relief and blows another one as good as the first. Now this is a guy who's not used to just letting rip.

Okay, so now I know what I'm in for. And I can't help but immediately think of the folks who work here, who get to do this 8 hours a day, five days a week. How many folks go through here a day, 20, 30? I mean, do they hear the sound of post-colonoscopy farts in their dreams, the rumbling baritones, the tweeting screamers? I feel sorry for them, more than myself in my current situation.

But then again, there's no stench here. No horrible refried-beans-n-cheddar burrito pall hanging like World War I mustard gas in the low spots, like phony Hollywood moor fog. No smell at all, nothing, which surprises me a bit given the activity going on. But then again, on a bit more reflection, that makes perfect sense. There's nothing left in me or any of these other poor victims to make a stink. We shat it all out last night in the prolonged agony of the laxative-water and the 3 dozen trips to the toilet in 3 hours. We're as clean as we can be, inside and out.

I'm shown to the restroom and changing room, told how to put my gown on, and given a bag to store my clothes in. As always the gown is probably older than my kids, with holes in it, no less, and the pattern is something from a 1960s barber shop apron. Soft, though, wonderfully soft from its hundreds and hundreds of washings. And it's open in the back, of course. I tie it the best I can, but when I'm done I've got a clear plastic bag that's got all of my clothes in it, and it's plain to see I'm truly commando, more like cave man, under my dumbass little gown.

I emerge into the suite, and the first nurse gives me a pre-warmed blanket over my shoulders. Nice, really nice, and I felt a bit like a little kid. I'm shown to my bed, and as I lift a leg up to hop it, the dorky gown only going to above my knees, I know my hoo-hah is on display to the world, and of course, one or two of the nurses are looking, and they get the glimpse they're anticipating. I'm not looking at them, but can see them peripherally, and I even hear a sort of cheer or noise of triumph just as I get onto the bed, of course as my legs are as spread as they're going to get, as the gown is as open as it's going to get. Someone is happy with the view, and I'm happy to provide it. I'm no Chippendale, but I'm no Elepant Man either. The nurses get this every day, so why do I need to be shy or coy? I see it as a fringe benefit of their work environment. What with the unending farts and the anal insertion all day long, and all of the other nastiness assorted with working the endoscopy suite, why not give them something a bit more positive? After all, in another few minutes, two or three of these ladies are going to be attending when the GI doc runs his electronics up my ass.

So I'm on the bed, and I get another warm blanket. Man, is that a nice sensation, even sitting in this open bay hospital suite with the guys (no women getting 'scoped today, go figure) to my left and right tweeeeeting and frapping and blarfing away as they recover from their recent procedures. I felt like a little kid, warm and safe and all set, which is probably just what they want (although I tend to doubt they actually think of the psychological comfort of the patient, just the physical comfort).

They got my IV in my right arm, and I was more or less ready to go. Befor they wheel me in, in comes another guy for his procdure, probably right after me. He's in his dumbass gown, with his onw little clear plastic bag of belongings. But it's the look on his face that gets me. This guy is absolutey mortified. He can't believe what's going to happen to him, and he's almost panicking thinking of it. Who knows if it's just the raw personal shame and embarrassment of having someone, having many different strangers get a close-up look at your third eye, or if it's the fact that he's going to actually be penetrated. That fear is in his eyes, the look on his face, the tight smile of a guy trying to keep it together when he wants to run like hell. Someone has ordered him here, whether his wife or mom or doctor, and now he's here and doesn't want to be. He is scared to death of what's going to happen to him, and it's oozing out of every pore of his body.

Poor stupid bastard, I thought, lingering on the stupid part. I mean, who really cares about what's going on here? If I'm here on the orders of my doc, it's for a good reason. He wants to find something out, and this is the test that will help him. Who cares if he sees my asshole, or anything else? Who cares if any of the nurses get the same view? I could care less, really. We've all got one, so what's so special about mine? Nothing, that's what. Let's do the job, and get on with life, just as long as I don't have to drink anymore of that wretched liquid laxative concoction, that's all I care about.

They drop the bed and wheel me in. The anesthesiologist tells me that she's going to run the juice into my IV, and it'll burn a bit as it enters. The nurses chirp, "We're ready here, doctor," and in strides my dorky GI to run his instruments up my butt. He gives me a perfunctory, hollow, "How are you doing, today?" and before I can answer he's behind me, on his stook and slipping on his gloves. I feel the slight burn of the juice going in, and within about four seconds everything gets really, really thick. I manage to comment to the doc, "Man, that stuff works fast." She tells me to concentrate on my breathing, the cool oxygen flanges up my nostrils. I take two deep breaths, and then am waking up as they wheel me out the door of the exam room.

"All done," chirps an unseen nurse as I slowly slog my way through the heavy, heavy waves of fuzzy, tugging unconsciousness to make out where I am and what's going on. Right away I'm pretty much aware, at least I know where I am--on my right side with my ass sticking out on a hospital gurney--but can't seem to say too much. I'm smart enough to realize that I'm still dopey on drugs, so I just stay quiet, rather than say something stupid. I put my head back down and just go right back to sleep.

I awake either 75 hours later or just a couple of minutes later. I'm back in the recovery bay where I've started, and I'm on my back. I ask for my glasses and can then see the world around me clearly. They're wheeling the poor stricken, panicked schlub next to me in, and he's already hyperventilating, he's so scared. I react by farting long and luxuriously, as Alexandre DeLarge said so eloquently in A Clockwork Orange, "a wonderful vibrate-y feeling all through (my) gutty-wutts." The pressure is less, and I feel fine except for a fine, delicate little headache crouching behind my eyes. It's an anesthetic thing, I know, and I get a drink of water to help it along.

The nurses just keep monitoring me and my blood pressure and my status as I recover, doing just fine. About 15 minutes later they roll Panicky Guy out, and he's doped up like an Afiran rhino for translocation. They must have totally knocked this guy on his chemical ass just to get him to unclench himself and his mind, to relax a bit and make the procedure better for everyone involved.

As he finally comes out of his fog, the nurse asks him in her most sincere, maternal, non-threatening tone, "Mr. Nutterbutter, how are you feeling?"

I love this part, just love it. He mumbles somehting absolutely unintelligible, no-shit caveman talk coming out of this guy, low and throaty and rambling. I'm reminded of William Hurt in Altered States, when his throat structure reverts. A few minutes later the guy is still a million miles away, but close enough to talk. He's on the other side of the curtain, so I can seen none of this. the nurse again asks after his health, and he replies in a wonderfully drugged monotone, "Bob Nutterbutter, 5-5-5-1-2-3-4." The nurse jokes to her endoscopy suite buddies that he must be one of those "name, rank, and serial number guys." Everyone gets a good laugh out of this. Me, I just keep my mouth shut, eyes and ear open.

For another 15 minutes, every time they ask the guy anything, he replies only with his low, halting, "Bob Nutterbutter, 5-5-5-1-2-3-4." That's all the dumbass can get out. I wonder what kind of mind reacts that way to an encounter with tranquilizing drugs. I wonder what kind of thought and mental struture this guy has got, that his default answer to anything posed to him in this state is his name and apparently his phone number. I think it would be helpful if he were in an accident, or drunk off his ass in a foreign gutter, but doubt he'd be of much help to himself if asked to describe the nature of injuries or problems. I wonder if it's a defense mechanism, that this guy's fear of the hospital, the procedure, of exposing his ass, of getting penetrated was so deep, so ingrained and visceral, that he's actually gone somewhere else, that his true Nutterbutter Self, the conscious kernel of who this guy really really is down deep inside, has tucked itself away for protection. That seems pretty logical and plausible, given this guy's obvious fear before it all started.

Slowly, he comes on out of the drug haze, and his first comprehensible words are to ask when he can leave so he can get back to work. And now that the drugs are more or less gone and his procedure is behind--ha!--him, he's free to ramble, and that's just what he does. All he does is talk, a mile a minute, about all of the folks counting on him, how he has to get back to work, how he's got no time to waste, how he has things to do, how he has to get back to work, how he's got appointments stacking up, how he's got to get back to work and blah blah fucking back to work blah! Damn, I almost told the guy to shut the hell up. No wonder he's in the hospital, so focused on work that he probably has neglected every single aspect of his health his entire adult life. No wonder he's uptight about the hospital and its procedures.

Feeling even better, he mentions he's into real estate, starts selling his company, baldly, brashly, unashamedly. He tells the nurse to open his plastic bag so she can pull out business cards to give everyone. The nurses aren't interested, but he's either too stupid or too drugged still--or both--to pick up on it, and he keeps hammering away at the real estate crapola, about investments and houses, and how to make money and how the market is trending blah blah blah. It's obvious he's showing off his knowledge to a bunch of folks who don't know as much as he does, his sales spiel clearly resting on a torrent of industry terms and recent references to establish what he believes is an immediately credible professional standing. To me he's just obnoxious. And he won't shut up.

Thankfully about then I'm released. I'm escorted, with a nurse at each elbow, to a chair in the hallway to await my wheelchair ride downstairs. I get right back up and stick my head back into the recovery bay to bid a "Thank you, ladies," to all of the nurses. Surprised reply from them; apparently this kind of common courtesy isn't too common for them. Hey, they did their jobs well, took care of me, and why not give them a simple thank-you? Why can't more folks remember to do this?

My wife's been called, and she'll be here in no time, since we live literally around the corner. No, I can't just walk out on my own; I have to be pushed out the door in a wheelchair. Yeah, that's a bit much, but I understand that it's policy, and it's policy because the bean counters in the insurance underwriters have made the risk calculation for patients recently under sedation and decided that the risk is just too great, and evryone has to be wheeled out the door to their vehicle. And who do they get for me? Well, just the nicest 70-something lady you can imagine, one each Fran.

I'm reminded of the time I got off the ferry in Penang, Malaysia, and was headed to a hotel. I knew where I wanted to go, and it wasn't that far. I was in my gear, and had my backpack all set, so I just set out. But the pedicab guys were relentless in pummeling me, the big white guy and obvious rich tourist (despite the shorts, boots, and backpack), for their measly fare to the hotel. The loudest and most pathetic of the bunch was this Chinese guy who looked to be about 150 years old. He had wrinkles in his wrinkles, no teeth at all, and couldn't speak a lick of either English or Malay, nothing but Chinese. I haggled a price, and asked him if he'd had the juice to get 155 pounds of me and another 70 lbs or backpack to my desired address. He assured that he would, for all of about US$1.10. Not a bad deal, and he was happy, too, so I hopped in.

Fran wasn't quite as pathetic and needy, and genuinely eager to do her volunteer job in schlepping me out, but I did feel bad about her having to push gigantic me down the hallway. She didn't seem to mind, though. Thank you, Miss Fran.

Down to the waiting Honda, inside and buckled in, and to the house. I have a couple of warm tortillas for lunch, hungry as hell, and completely empty in the entire system, guaranteed. Then read the paper at a wonderfully leisurely pace, reading every single article I wanted to, not rushed, not having to listen to the kids or anything else. Beautiful day outside, the family room doors to the front and back open, with the sun pouring in, a slight breeze making it all perfect, there in teh whie leather recliner. The wife is home for the day, and is showering ahead of going to an evening class. She's right there in her bathrobe, just as nekkid as I was under my gomer hospital gown, and she's looking absolutely delicious. No one home but the two of us, but even I am surprised at how my modestly advance age steps right on in, and despite all the thoughts of my wonderful sexy wife and her white bathrobe and what the two of us just might do together for the next four hours, I'd just much rather take a nap. So I pull the blinds, strip down, slide between the sheets, and take the most glorious 3-hour afternoon nap I've had in quite a few years. The wife and I can hook up later, sometime later.

Musing on the Red Blouse and All Them Bangles

I was at a working lunch with a local professional society today, and as things got really tedious about 2/3 of the way through, my attention drifted to the rest of the main dining room and what was going on. Nice enough place, a local favorite, a bit stuffy, but with the predictable decorations and such. Great traditional neighborhood place, but not really my kind of place.

And then the woman in the red blouse caught my eye. More specifically, the 25-odd gold bangles she had on her right arm caught my eye. And another dozen or more on her left arm. I mean, not just an interesting smattering of bangles in different styles to create that sort of trendy clash-and-match synergy of personal style, but a truly over the top display of dozens of gold bracelets, chains, bangles, charm bracelets, etc. So much of it that it was distracting, an ostentatious and overabundant display.

So what was she saying with all of the gold, and I did make the assumption that it was all gold. Was it just a horrible needy public plea of "Look at me!", an ugly public admission of poor self esteem and therefore the need to create attention? No, I didn't think that.

Or was it a sort of bangle-by-bangle habit that went horribly out of control. And now it's a compulsive thing, all of the bangles out of the jewelry box, and onto the wrists and arms one by one, and each evening the same compulsive ritual of putting them all back, unable to leave one out, and always looking for another to add to the rotation? Yeah, that was a lot more plausible.

I wondered if she had to do weight calculations, if she actively balanced her arms out.

Then expanding my study a bit--the table discussion still on a boring idea for a Jan/Feb speaker engagement--I noticed her red blouse. And red indeed, candy-apple red. Like new Corvette red. Red like the overdone colors in a Tarantino movie. Red like hot lipstick, forbidden lipstick. Too red for her and the venue, just a little bit too bright, too intense. Not a ruby or burgundy, romantic red, but also not a wicked hot neon, just a wicked sexy red, not a smoldering red, more appropriate for her, I thought.

And her age? Me, I guessed around 50. I thought she looked pretty good. Her shape was nice, and that over-red blouse was pretty tight as well. She knew what she was doing when she put it on, that was for sure. Pretty good presevation for her age, I'll give her that.

And then the make-up. The lipstick was surprisiingly subdued, not a match to the blouse. But her eyes had that thick Egyptian coating of jet-black mascara, above and below and all around, this thing that older women seem to be drawn into. It made her eyes look sunden, and it just absolutely killed her overall look. I could go with the bangles as a statement of eccentricity and personal style, and the same with the blouse, especially since she could physically pull it off. But the makeup just brought the whole package crashing to the ground. The eyes made her look sad, and made her look a lot older than she actually was. Too bad.

And as a post-script, being a guy, I just couldn't help but wonder what this woman would be like in the sack. Would the bangles stay on, clanging and ringing, a veritable cascade of brass and gold chiming in the rhythm of the action? That would be pretty sexy, I decided, but that's about as far as I got with my sexual musings on the older lady with the red blouse and all them bangles.

Justice Harriet, The Perfect Choice

Why perfect? Well, first off, it's her name. How perfect is it for a Supreme Court Justice to be Harriet? That's an exact fit, up there with Elihu and Boniface and Spaulding and Jonathan. Nice and old and established and anachronistic, in keeping with the best attributes of the institution itself.

But that's not most important. What is most important, what makes Miers the perfect choice for a female Supreme Court Justice is that painted-on look, dead-aunt-in-the-casket-at-the-funeral-home look she's got going on so well. She makes Ginsberg look like flipping Charlotte Rampling, naturally, but that Egyptian eye liner thing she's got going, along with that stodgy jewelry and frighteningly red lipstick make her look like some kind of 50-something drag queen, your favorite uncle Earl who just came out as a woman after his wife Miriam died a sudden death.

Miers is just right for the job because she's got just about no sexually attractive attributes. Just look at O'Conoor and Ginsberg and Janet Reno for your examples--not just unattractive, but downright scary, the chew-your-leg-off kind of scary. Brilliant legal and jurisprudential minds, sure, they've got me distanced by miles, but to ask one of them out for drinks, even in one's deepest MILF fantasy, that's just out of the question.