Inane Party Blather

How many holiday parties have I gone to? Not that many, it's not like I'm in high demand. Maybe four or five, tops, and a few office functions. And as usually happenns, when you get disparate folks together, in the era of PC when you can't tell jokes or are afraid of generating an equal opportunity complaint, there just isn't that much to talk about. Instead, it's hollow, meaningless, absolutely inane crap. Here's one that I overheard last week:

A: "Man, it sure is cold."
B: "You got that right, man. Really cold."
C: "Yeah, it was sure cold this morning."
A: "Yeah it was."
B: "Uh-huh."
C: "So cold it froze my bird bath. Solid."
B: "Man, that's incredible."
A: "Solid!? Really? Man, that's cold."
B: "Yeah, and icy, too."
A: "Yeah, all that ice out there . . ."
C: "I saw some on the street the other day and . . ."
B: "You can't be too careful about ice in the street, you know."

That's the point where I stepped in and said, "Yes, this is what happens in the winter time, this coldness phenomenon. It's regular and seasonal, and should be anticipated." Then I moved on to the next stupid knot of unimaginative folks, this group talking about shoes. I just stood there in silence, marveling at the jaw-dropping mundanity of it all.

The admission in the Talking Heads' "Psycho Killer" is spot-on: "When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed/Say something once, why say it again?" Now, that's not a psycho talking, that's just someone who has some common sense, and actually puts it into practice. My interpretation of the song is that the psycho killer comes out when all of his common sense is so constantly trampled upon and ignored. Hell, I'm halfway there most days when I get out of bed.

My sister hosted a party at her place, and for once she had the food ready on time. Good chow, and lots to drink. Her friends are a bit weird, but I just hung by the fireplace, in a comfy chair. My folks were there, and had brought a lifelong friend around, a woman who had the serious hots for me when I was a teenager (and she was in her early 40s), and on a number of occasions way back when came as close to seducing me as she possibly could, without actually saying the words or taking the actions necessary to clue a dumbass 16-year-old into the possibilities awaiting him. It would've been fantastic, D, if only you'd had some imagination and a little bit more conspiratorial drive.

(I tried to make something happen after my divorce, sending her a short yet direct "I've had the hots for you since . . ." letter. Never heard a thing, like it never even happened. The poor, boring thing.)

But I digress. D was there, and she's always been a pretty outspoken Democrat-liberal, the kind of person that my oldster parents, getting more and more Republican and conservative by the day, absolutely despise. Her perceived Democrat squishiness on every issue just drives my parents nuts. Me, I'm seriously divergent from my parents on most political issues, but they could never call me squishy or soft on any issue. I know what I believe, and I've actually thought about why. We differ, and that's that.

So, D comes over and opens with, "Your father tells me that politically we probably have a lot to talk about . . ." a clear invitation to actually have a conversation. Okay, now that's what I'm interested in, that's what I'm talking about, the opportunity to talk about something interesting, intellectual, of substance, where there are ample spaces for different opinions and smart insights, mutual respect, to learn something as well as get a chance to put your own ideas out for consumption and review. Now that's what I relish, an adult conversation on adult topics. That was great, and I was primed.

And she just sat there. Okay, I started off. Abortion is too much to jump into right away, and after all she's a Catholic. So why not the death penalty. That's a good one for who comes down where, and why. But all of her answers were stock, all of them going, "I could just never do that to a person." I asked about murderers of children, rapists of children, and it was, "Oh, I could never make that kind of final decision about a person." And I asked about serial killers, the sane and deliberate ones who murder dozens over periods of years, and again it was the, "I just couldn't make that kind of decision . . ." blah blah blah. She had no reasons behind her opposition to capital punishment. There was no moral stand, no ethical foundation, no framework of facts of personal beliefs other than she just couldn't do that to another person. Okay, that might suffice, to approach it from a totally empathetic point of view, the "do unto others" approach. Okay, that's valid, to a point, but she had no ideas, no concept, hadn't even thought about any of the hypothetical issues involved. I asked her how she could be considered a responsible citizen for not having a developed opinion on this? Oh, she'd decline to be on a death penalty jury. Okay, how does that serve society as a whole? Well, she'd serve on another jury? But what if everyone wanted to pick their own juries and court cases, where does that leave the jury and judicial system?

Over and over I asked polite yet pointed questions to draw her out, to hear where she was coming from, seeking that intellectual challenge, hoping she'd actually say something that would challenge me to put my views into context and into order for understanding, maybe even question my onw points. But no, she had only stock answers. She was just full of air, of TV talking heads sound bites that she'd heard and liked, the aural equivalent of something shiny that you pick up and put in your pocket. And when challenged, she'd just say the same things over and over, pulling a George W. Bush, attempting to mask ignorance and unwillingness to engage with a shoddy facade of resoluteness and stoic surety.

So I just let it all trail off, listening to the folks next to me talk about how they couldn't wait for "American Idol" to start up again in January.

The Insidious Baby Steps of Corruption

It happens so slowly, so quietly, seemingly innocently, but then within a few minutes or a few hours, you start to think about what you are doing or have done, and that feeling of being duped, or being used, or having compromised something you vowed you've never do starts to creep in, making you feel stupid and weak and hypocritical. You've got to watch out for these situations, and they're out there every day, the tiny, little baby steps that take every culture, every society down that road toward the buying and selling of everything, where everyone has their hand out, every transaction doesn't just implicitly involve but is explicitly predicated on baksheesh, where there is no backscratching without an equal or greater service performed, where there is no rule of law because it is ignored, skirted and subverted actively and consciously by a populace who would rather get by easily than make difficult yet honorable personal choices in a public venue where everyone is treated the same.

If you've ever been to Mexico, you know what I mean. If you've been to China or Malaysia or Indonesia or Egypt, you know what I mean. And hell, that's most likely your experience as a comparatively wealthy foreign visitor, someone above the fray and the standard squalor, someone who gets to leave the filth behind and return to a simple society where bad guys pay and hard work and honesty pays off, right?

It's always interesting to encounter corruption. For Americans, for most Westerners, it's the stuff of TV shows and movies, predictable stereotypes with greasy hair and tacky clothing, their hands out, grinning. But it's not quite like that. It's about getting your cabbie to take you where you thought you were going in the first place, instead of maybe getting robbed and beaten. It's about being allowed to easily depart a country instead of being detained or delayed, or worse. It's about avoiding deepening problems with persons of petty authority, who answer to corrupt officials with increasing authority. It's about the naked display of power and wealth, the power of wealth, and the corruption of power. It's always something to encounter real-live naked corruption, and it always gets your attention.

It started on the beach in the Bahamas. Out in front of our gigantic luxury resort, its many-acred complex stretching all over the place, and its towers taking up what vertical spaces they could as well. But hey, the beach is open to everyone, and that's who comes on out, the folks from the other hotels, from other lodging sites in Nassau, and from the cruise ships. They come to see the hotel, partake in its recreational offerings, get the real estate pitch, and bask vicariously for a few hours in the luxury that the property tries so hard to exude.

My kids were playing in the sand at the high edge of the surf. And so were two little Chinese-American (or Chinese-Canadian, I'm not absolutely 100% sure) kids. The girl was maybe 10 to my daughter's 9, and the boy, maybe 7 or 8 to my son's 7. They were having fun, making friends, digging in the sand, enjoying the beach, just like kids are supposed to do. And me? I was in the hotel-provided shaded chaise lounge about 4 yards away, watching them, hanging out, relaxing, watching the world go by. And so was the wife, my sister, and my folks as well. All resort guests, all set, with our distinctive resort green-and-white striped towels, gotten with permission and a surprisingly meticulous check of our hotel ID cards by the folks at the towel hut.

Chinese mom and dad were there, too, rapping with each other in Mandarin. The kids' fluency with English was conspiculous in its nativity, no trace at all of having been brought up anywhere other than North America. Typical Chinese couple, Dad doing whatever Mom ordered him to do, and Mom ordering him around, a lot. I'm not a Mandarin speaker, so I didn't get any of it directly, but her tone communicated what was going on, and I watched Dad go to and fro, a surprisingly far distance down the beach (maybe another 80 yards), to get this and get that. Why their kids were playing there, I couldn't tell ya.

As I sat with my kids near their little sand castle, Chinese Mom played her opening gambit: "Say, since our children are playing so well together, can you please get them some towels?"

Me: "Get who towels?"

Chinese Mom: "My kids. They need towels. They're cold."

Me, I played it cool, instantly recognizing what she was doing. I wanted to have some fun with this, and also wanted to thwart her, but not directly or cruelly, not publicly or angrily, just beat her at her own subtle game. So I countered, "Well, the towel hut is right up there. See the cabana with the shade on it . . .?" and I pointed to the destination.

That got her, and she hesitated. She wasn't ready yet to admit she wasn't a hotel guest. But then what to do? She countered quickly, "I see you have a lot of towels here already. Maybe you can give me two of those?" Yeah, she was observant, all right. We did have a number of towels, all together 7 of them, which would be one for every family member we had at the beach. That's what I told her, so sorry, but we have a one-for-one situation, and all of the towels are spoken for.

CM: "But my kids are cold."

Me: "Uh-huh," (and I had to smile as I said this), "So just have your husband go and get them some towels," again pointing up to the towel shack. Now I was making it clear they were bad parents as well.

That's when she trailed off, and I was happy to let her go. I had succeeded in not saying "no," or even the slightest negative-sounding words. Actually, I was being neighborly and helpful, right? That was my victory. I had beaten her at her own game.

No, they weren't hotel guests, that much was obvious. We all had special little laminated, fiber-optic, stereographic-holographic daily-color-coded wrist bands which anointed us as the chosen Atlantis few. They didn't have them. If they were guests, they'd have gotten them right away, like we all did, as just another way to proclaim publicly how fabulous we all are as resort guests. But they didn't. They were folks from some other resort, from some place off-property. Yeah, I knew that.

So I thought about it a bit. So what if I got them a couple of towels? Yeah, maybe the kids were cold. That would be a nice, caring thing to do. But the kids were playing away in the sun; they just weren't cold. So what if they got a couple of towels? I didn't have to pay for them or sign for them--I wouldn't have to reconcile and defend my towel usage to a resort representative at any later time. Even if Chinese Mom kept the towel and took it home with her, it wouldn't matter to me at all. Sure, it would go into the larger increased operating overhead of the hotel, but what could two towels really add to the already obscene level of price-gouging we were undergoing every time we bought a $7 hot dog or a $25 beach toy? Hell, in some respects I really wanted to go grab a handful of towels and deliver them to her, just to get back at the hotel for boofing us to the tune of $52.00 for two cheepo snorkel/mask sets. Yeah, that would be some disproportionate yet satisfying payback, I reasoned.

But that's when the legacy of my dad seeped in, those goddamn ethics and principles. I could get her towels, but it just wouldn't be right. And that was it. She was not entitled to them, and therefore the correct answer was to keep them from her. If she wanted them, then she had to comply with the requirements to obtain them, specifically being a resort guest. And that was that.

These are the baby steps of corruption. This is where it begins, where it forms, coalesces and all too often, solidifies. This is where principles are sold out, and no one seems to care. This is where getting back at The Man take precedent over doing the right thing, and both parties to the deal start down that algae-slicked slope toward compromised morals and lack of honor.

As we headed in, I looked down the beach, and she'd gotten her towels. Man, for the four of them she had maybe 8 towels or so. Who knows where she got them, and I felt a pang of defeat, but it had not been on my watch. I'd recognized the threat, had dealt with it subtly and honorably, allowing both parties to retain dignity and honor. But at the same time I'd done battle and had successfully defended my ground. She, just as determined to get what she had not earned and was not entitled to, not content to await the day when she could honorably and legitimately lay claim to what she coveted, had just backed up and come around to another door, this one left ajar.

And as globalization slowly swallows the US and the rest of the Enlightment West, this is what we're faced with. It's an inexorable onslaught of cultures and societies in which corruption and tailorable moral contexts are not only tolerated but are an ingrained part of every waking moment. As the peoples from these cultures/societies of corruption seek out the level playing field of the USofA, they bring with them their attitudes of laissez faire when it comes to leveling the playing field, a flexible and hihgly mobile yardstick of what is fair and what is not, all of it self-centered. It's happening around you every day.

Chris'mas in Da Eye-Lunds

Well, not really the islands, just one island exactly, right next to a really big one. Paradise Island, actually, just a short reinforced concrete elevated span away from beautifual, quaint, chronically congested downtown Nassau, Bahamas, that is.

The airport was great, through customs and immigration in no time, with no inbound inspection at all, out to the waiting charter van, and off to the hotel, the vaunted, commercially proclaimed and illustriously imagined ATLANTIS! Not a bad drive, until we got into Nassau itself, on December 23rd. Pretty crowded would be a ridiculous understatement. Thank goodness the driver wasn't on the meter, or the fare would have been astronomical.

Of course, there was one guy there with us, some unfortunately stereotypical New Yawkah, traveling alone, for some reason incredibly antsy to get to the hotel. As he intently read his New York Times, he was full of direct and surprisingly biting criticisms of the driver and the charter company, all of which he would preface by saying, "I'm not criticizing you at all, but . . ." and then would follow his surprisingly direct and insulting criticisms. I had to wonder what line of work this guy was in, most definitely not sales. Probably entertainment/media, that kind of thing, maybe a lawyer. Somewhere along the line this schmuck had been taught or had thought up the concept that he could viciously criticize folks openly and without fear of reprisal or contempt just by saying a hollow, "I'm not making a criticism here, but..." by way of introduction.

There were his complaints about the bus, about the roads, about the minimal A/C in the van, the crowds, and most of all about the time to get to the hotel. Hey, it's vacation time there, Rudy or Vic or Jason or Gino or whateverthefuck, just relax and take it all in a bit. Breathe deep, see something you've never seen before, and chill out a bit. Or better yet, rent your own goddamn cab so you can order the driver around more directly, without the rest of us having to suffer through it. Or walk, you ass. You're in the van now, so shut up and deal with it. More questions from this schlub about dinner, a place to eat, how long he'll have to wait, what he could eat, where he'll sit, what he couldn't eat, what kind of chairs they had, what kind of crowds there were, how and where were the tables constructed--oy!

Then thankfully to the hotel, huge and clean and manicured and magnificent and absolutely dominating the entire skyline of anything within fifty miles. Can't miss this place, no way. I guess that's the point, after all. Huge spires, lots of detail, lots of sculpture, lots of fountains.

Check-in was great and simple, with a number of staff in the lobby continually asking if we needed any help, if we had any questions. Now that's an excellent way to build a customer relationshp right from the start, that kind of direct engagement. It wasn't intrusive, but exactly the kind of engagement I'd like to have when coming into a place like that, huge and imposing. I was favorably impressed from the start.

Then to the rooms in the Beach Tower, a somewhat long walk past the theater and the comedy club and two restaurants and the ballrooms and the grand ballroom and the convention center and the game room and the Beach Tower lobby and the teen club and the concierge and the lobby lounge and the buffet restaurant. Not bad, but a long way. Now, I've been to the Hilton Waikaloa Villiage on the Big Island of Hawaii, and they have a similar physical layout. The Hilton has solved this with a mini monorail train, or a choice of a much slower yet equally efficient boat ride to all of the resort's destinations. Kids love both, as do the old folks. The youngsters who are in a hurry can walk it. Nothing at all like this at Atlantis, just an unfortunately scheduled shuttle bus if you'd like to take it.

The rooms were nice, clean and ready. Except for my sister's, which was completely unprepared. She had a major coniption over that, totally unwarranted.

Then it was a quick change and downstairs for pool and sundeck adventure, and some lunch. We hit the outside grill, and ordered burgers and hot dogs and soft drinks all around, for three adults and two kids. And that's when it started, the realization that we were a captive audience in someone else's capitalist cornucopia. Lunch was $55.00. And that's U.S. money too, not Bahamian. Ouch.

Then to the pool and fun with the kids in the main tower pool and the lazy river for the rest of the day. Dinner was at a place called Seagrapes (that's where Seawine comes from!) right there off the Beach Tower lobby. Great buffet with excellent food. Excellent layout, with tons of stuff for the kids, lots of seafood, great selections of absolutely everything, and it was all high-quality chow, not the kind of amazingly disappointing low-grade meat and such that I experienced at the Sandals in St. Lucia a few years back. And the staff, to a man and woman, absolutely fantastic, friendly and helpful and courteous, just top-notch in their service and attitudes.

Bill for dinner for five adults and two kids? Over $400. Ouch again.

Couldn't help but notice that the elevators and elevator lobbies are in extreme need of maintenance, more likely total overhaul. Also saw an awful lot of slot machines out of order in the casino. I can't imagine why cashflow generators like slot machines aren't kept in constant operating condition. I'd think it might be a good thing to be a journeyman slot machine repairman in the Bahamas these days.

Up the next day and to the the lagoon beach. Nice spot with great shaded lounges, and a cabana guy right there to help out, again with the positive attitude. Into the totally calm lagoon for some snorkeling with the kids. The snorkel vests were free, but the charge for a mask and snorkel rental was $15/hour, surprisingly not too bad. I opted for the purchase, so went to pay, and for only $53 got two sets of snorkel and mask. Holy crap--ouch again. And then the kids wanted to play in the sand, so I got two sand bucket and spade sets, $52--ouch yet again. Only 9:00 a.m. now, and we're already down over $100, for about $19 worth of low-grade Chinese-made plastic.

The kids did the slides and the other pools, and explored like crazy. All of the outdoor attractions were free, and were pretty well maintained. No trash lying around, and the sidewalks and such were clean and wide. No trash in the pools, either, which was quite good. Lots of lifeguards, all over the place. Well run and clean attractions outside, consistent throughout the whole place.

We explored the place a bit that night, all through the hotel to the casino and to The Dig. The casino is a no-shit moneymaker, that much was clear, despite all of the broken slots.

The four Dale Chihuly sculptures there in the casino are absolutely magnificent, their majesty and wonder clearly lost, not even registering on the majority of the mouth-breathing idiots eager only to get at those slot machines and spend their children's future.

The Dig was very cool, a brilliant concept executed flawlessly. Great exhibit, and the creatures and presentation there were outstanding.

The kids were up for jet skiing the next day, but just looking into it immediately soured me on doing it. First of all, the operators were not with the hotel at all, but independent guys who had specific spots on the beach as their turf. Beat-up jet skis, with greasy-filthy life vests to wear, coated with thousands of tourists' layers of suntan lotion, sweat, skin, whatever, horribly worn and likely unserviceable. The operators themselves were just about in rags, just filthy torn shorts under filthy torn t-shirts, a big turn-off. Competition was fierce, and so were the prices. They started at only $60 for 30 minutes, with the 'very special' deal of $120 for an hour. I asked, "How is that a deal then, me bruddah?" And then the price would drop to just $110 for an hour. Sorry, but I won't take a jet ski to see Jesus at $110/hour. Their pitches were so canned, so corny, so full of crap that they managed to put me off their product entirely. I was with my son, and he was clearly eager to go jet skiing, so those sly, sly businessmen, so accustomed to dealing with The Gullible and Easily Influenced Rich American Tourist, offered me an extra five minutes just because I had my son with me. What kind of deal is that, why don't I get an extra 20 minutes if he's so special, if you're so touched by the love of a father for his son? Nope, they'd have none of that, so I had none of their shitty product. I would think the hotel could make an awful lot more, and do it better, by taking this on themselves. They were boofing us enough on the prices for everything else, why not on the water sports as well?

The jet ski money instead went into the arcade. Guess how much one play was on one of the arcade machines? Only $2.00 a shot, but $2.50 for the really hot games. So a $20 value card sure didn't last long in the game room.

I did like the hawkers on the beach selling "Cubian" cigars. A very clever little ruse, and I watched it work time after time on dumbass tourist morons too intoxicated by the idea of banned Cuban cigars at larcenous prices to actually hear the guy say "Cubian" instead of "Cuban." I don't smoke at all, never have as it's filthy and disgusting and nasty and grotesque and expensive and fatal n' all, but I asked, and the guy admitted pretty quickly the absolute best cigars he had were from the Dominican Republic, and he still bought them in bulk at tobacconists on the island for resale to the tourists. Great scam, and I watched more than one dumbass lay down $40 for a selection of 5 cigars probably worth about $10 at the absolute most.

The resort was packed by the same kind of vacation crowd you'd find in Vegas: expensive and ridiculous manicures, gold chains, lots of cigar-smoking (both men and their trying-way-too-hard women), greasy, slicked-back hair, trashy high heels, spendy track suits, lots of sequins everywhere, and a pervasive shallow attitude of self-righteous sophistication and taste for having picked a place that tells you how sophisticated and tasteful you are for choosing it. Lots of bad jewelry, women with a ring or two on every finger to match their half dozen necklaces and three earrings, men with ridiculous gold pinky rings and their look-at-me-I'm-a-moron bling necklaces. Lots of navel jewelry, too, often on women for whom direct attention to that area of the body is not necessarily a good thing. Lots of braided hair, done by the local women on the beach for ridiculously high prices, and almost always on dumbass white girls, and even on the unbelievably ridiculous white guys--they all looked just plain stupid, as stupid as Bo Derek did 25 years ago when she did it.

Lots of Kevin Federline wannabes out there, with their trendy $80 boutique-bought wife-beaters and designer beat-up straw cowboy hats or $200 fedoras, along with their high-end track suit pants and $200 Nikes. All coming across as Kid Rock posers, so much like the idiot poser posse on those cell phone commercials. Lots of little teeny female popstar wannabes too, with their bad hair and even worse makeup, in awful bathing suits. And all of their parents, who were trying to be and act and think and exist just like their ridiculous kids. Pathetic, really. Modern America, no shit.

Strangely enough, didn't see one single thong bathing suit the entire time. Saw a couple of pretty small bikinis, but nothing that could be called a thong. Saw a couple of stereotypically hilarious guys in banana-hammock Speedos, but both were, in fact, genuine Europeans, for whom this is absolutely natural, an integral if highly ingracious part of the culture.

And lots and lots and lots of boob jobs. Tiny little 5'2" women weighing all of 98 pounds, with breasts the size of canteloupes. Absolutely ridiculous, skinny little things with massive breasts, barely constrained by their bathing suits. Lying down for their compulsive suntan, with those grotesque bulbous lumps sticking up in the air like the artificial peaks they are. I wondered who the fake tits were for, for the women--and surprisingly, there were tons of girls, and I mean 13, 14, 15 year-old girls with them--and their self-esteem, or had they done it for their men (boys)? Hard to tell. I couldn't really fathom how either of them could take any kind of self-esteem solace in the fact that they had laid out thousands of their or their parents' hard-earned dollars to have artificial constructs surgically implanted into their bodies in order to become or to appear to become something they are not. It has always been, and more and more is fake, lame, hollow, shallow, and desperate. The attractive teenager with the very flat yet very nicely shaped natural breasts was infinitely more attractive, and caught a lot more of my pseudo-lecherous 40-something attention than did the 20-something bimbo all of five yards away in her white bikini and grotesquely massive boobs. Sheesh.

Saw only a few truly stunning women, surprisingly few that actually turned my head. The best was a 40-something mom in a wonderfully faded brown-pink bikini, an old and clearly favorite bikini, which further endeared me to her. Nice bod, nice tan, and the fit of her bikini bottom across her rear was as perfect as you could get. I just stood at the bottom of the water slide stairs to watch her go up, and then made sure I was at the bottom to watch her emerge. Fantastic.

Not too many bad tattoos, not like the stunning selection of atrocious tattoos we witnessed at Sandals. Nothing like the Georgia football player with the rifle-scope reticle pattern tattooed right in the middle of his throat. Sure, it may be cool now, but what are you going to say to that senior executive when it's promotion time in another ten years? Saw a few bad tattoos, like cursive names and family portraits, but not nearly as many as I thought we'd see.

TV selection there was pretty lame, with hardly any cable channels available. I'd think they'd have the superstations on, and at least 3-5 movie channels. Nope. And a few foreign channels, for the Frenchy Canadians, the Spanish speakers, etc. The media is dominated by Miami, sadly.

On the last night went to a very nice restaurant called the Seafire. Absolutely flawless meal, with outstanding food served by a fantastic staff. Perfect way to finish the trip. Spendy, sure, as is everything at Atlantis, but this one was worth it, as everyone in the family had a wonderful time.

The promenade outside the restaurant was up against The Marina at Atlantis, where we were privileged to encounter some of the most naked, shameless, obscene displays of unadulterated conspicuous consumption I've encountered in my entire life. I'm talking the luxury yachts. Within our modest view was what my dad and I estimated to be about $150 million in seagoing architecture. These aren't just yachts, like a 35' sailboat, but are 140' ocean-going ships, with radar domes the size of a car, a helicopter landing pad on top, and more square footage of living space than most of the resort's guests' homes. There was a sailing catamaran with a mast of probably 90'. And there were dozens of these things, all over the place, parked cheek-by-jowl, rammed up next to each other in these hotel slips.

My question was simple: if I'm so rich to own or even charter one of these for, say, $10,000/day, then what in the holy hell am I doing parking it outside a resort hotel? Everything I need, and then some, is on this ship, so why do I need any land at all? Why aren't they in a secluded lagoon somewhere, off a deserted island, under the moonlight, actually out in the ocean for which they were built? Well, my observation makes sense for me, but I'm just not thinking like the snobs and assholes who own and charter these things. It's not about getting away, but about spending money and making sure people see you spending it. Over and over, the quarterdecks were open, the blinds up, the doors and windows and hatches wide open so everyone walking by could see right inside to the main salons, to see the people in their lounges in front of the dual 72" plasma screens, the sound turned up so loud that we could hear it on the dock. It wasn't about privacy, it was about making conspicuous their conspicuous consumption. It was about us being able to see and hear them being rich, about us being compelled to voyeurism, being forced to see and watch them, to question our own miserable existences and wish that we were them. The shallow bastards. They may have money, but I saw no exhibition of class.

The only thing I could figure was that they were parked at the hotel to go to the casino. So how much does someone who can afford a ship like that play with and/or lose in a night at the casino? I don't really know, but I'll be they're not playing the quarter slots. I figured that what they were playing with in a night or two would probably pay the tuition for a smart young kid at a state university for four years. But then again, that's just me. I can't imagine having that kind of wealth, and why those who do have such a total incomprehension of what it's like to live normally.

And then time to go. To the rundown and grossly in need or repair departure lounge at the Nassau airport. Coming in is easy and speedy, but not so getting out. The security setup is a joke, one stupid line after another. Then winding around corners and up steps, to the overcrowded, filthy, smelly departure lounge. You'd think with the money the island is pulling in, they'd be able to build and maintain a decent place, but apparently not.

And on the jet and off the island, a 3-hour ride back to cold, cold civilization and the job waiting the next day. But thanks, Grandma and Grandpa for a fantastic holiday diversion to a neat place, somewhere I've never been before. Can't say I'll be back anytime soon, but at least I can say I've been there now.

"He Spread His Arms . . ."

I saw this bumper sticker pinned up (how ironic) in the cubicle of a guy I was meeting with the other day:

"I asked Jesus, 'How much do you love me?' He answered, 'This much.' And he stretched out His arms and died."

Holy shit. This guy is a government employee, and he's got this posted right there in his cube where anyone who stops to talk to him can't miss this thing. It's right there, and he's got it there on purpose, of course.

Okay, where to start?

First, some background. In the space of a 40-minute meeting, Cubicle Guy managed to work in the following:
He was the principal of a Christian school
The Christian school was destroyed by a storm (although strangely, this was not attributed to Satan--I wanted so badly to ask him if Satan had done it)
He left his original job with the government to become a principal at the Christian school
He had to--apparently highly reluctantly--return to government service once the Christian school had come down (I wanted to ask if they had insurance, but didn't)
He was, did he mention, a born-again Christian
Jesus, the son of God, had been accepted into his life as his Lord and Savior (we got that one not once, but twice)

Wow, pretty heady stuff for a quick meeting about an online resource and tool that I am attempting to develop for government use. The wretched atheist bastard in me wanted to point out things like, "If you believe in Creation, as I know you do, how is it the science you reject in your ludicrous and illogical beliefs is the same science that allows all of these computers, and your job to exist?" But that would have been rude and mean as I was a guest, so I let it go. His little asides about his faith and his position within it went off at about one every five minutes or so, a pretty respectable ratio, and one I'm sure that any televangelist would be proud of.

This guy was doing it intentionally, too, not like just spewing "you know" as meaningless punctuation to speech. He was actively, intentionally inserting God, and more importantly Jesus, into our conflab. I found that unprofessional and insulting, actually. I didn't come for a speech on Christianity; I came for a development meeting about mutual responsibilities. I had nothing to say to him about my questions about God and Buddha and Vishnu and Confucius and Mohammad and the entire pantheon of the divine and such, nothing about my doubts and increasing belief that it's all just a load of shit. Nope, I keep that to myself, and I don't put it on others. I have my beliefs, so why couldn't he just have his, and we could be professionals working on our daily tasks? Nope, he had to put it right out there, almost like a challenge. Again, I just let it go. He's not going to convince me, and I'm not going to convince him, so what's the point?

And then I noticed the sticker. The very first thing that struck me is that's an awfully in-your-face kind of thing to put up in your private workspace. Sure, I've seen the occasional crucifix, and I've seen some other devotional items, but that sticker just struck me as a bit too direct, a bit too in-your-face. Maybe that's just the indignant atheist in me, I dunno. I wondered if I could put up a sticker that would say something like, "Satan is keen to devour your soul and make undignified wax candles from your rendered flesh and innards." Now, that's ugly and horrific, sure, but if you're a true Satanist, this would be a completely accurate depiction of your faith and your placement within it. You'd be pretty, ahem, stoked to get that sticker and put it up in your space, to spread the good news of the Dark Prince to all of the those non-Satanic folks about the one-and-only religion that you'd come to embrace, right? But how would your co-workers react? They'd probably call it threatening, and have it removed, or cause the boss to have it removed, with tongs and gloves on. And you'd get an official censure in your personnel file about threatening language and inappropriate behavior. And any argument you'd put up about freedom of speech would be squelched with the appeal to "good order and discipline" and "the good of the group." You'd be the bad guy, no doubt. But then again, all Satanists are, right? I don't know, I've never met one.

And as for the text of this sticker that he had, that first line caught me: "I asked Jesus, 'How much do you love me?' First of all, isn't that the neediest question you could ever possibly ask of someone, even of the Son of God? I've been married for just about 12 years now, and I know for sure that I've never asked that question of my wife. Why would I? There's no way to answer it. My two kids, 7 and 10, have never asked that questions. There is no need to answer it for them--they already know how much I love them. My actions and words tell them, and have told them every day of their lives.

I mean, to ask someone "How much do you love me" implies a huge hole, a huge need and lack of fulfillment. It betrays lack of self-confidence and lack of self-respect. It implies a person who doesn't fit in, who is alone, and who is looking for something. It implies someone who is an outsider, pathetic, who cannot find acceptance anywhere else. Actually asking that question betrays a panoply of pathologies; if I were ever asked that by someone, I'd never look at them the same way again.

And then Jesus stretches his arms and says "This much." Okay, that's about five feet for the average man (yeah, I know, JC was not an 'average man'). So, Jesus loves me about five feet worth? So is that five feet of licorice, or five feet of spun gold thread? Five feet of pure platinum bars? What exactly is the measure of spread arms?

Yes, it's figurative, leading directly to the chilling, dark, ugly, violent ending to this little bumper sticker tale, "And then He died." So, you're so needy that you have to ask how much he loves you, he opens his arms for a spatial representation, also logically in a gesture of embrace, but it's really a sacrificial position, and he dies on you. You're so needy, and he admits he loves you, which is the way it should work out, and then he runs off because he's dead. How can this be seen as a happy ending? You get the love and acceptance you need, but the one who is giving it abandons you.

But he's out there, everywhere, all the time. He's always loving you now, because he's dead and now he's everywhere, all the time, ever-present, giving you that wicked-sweet Jesus-love 24/7. Yeah, that's the argument. But I'm not feeling it, never have. I've wanted to, and I still want to feel it. I've asked and asked for it, although I have to admit I've never begged. Maybe that's the difference. I've asked real nice. I've asked on behalf of my kids, asking for some of that good stuff so I can forge a path for myself and them. I still want it, to feel that presence and love, the infinite compassion and wisdom of the divine and omnipotent. But it's never come down, not once, not ever.

So my response has been cynicism and rejection. Too much bad stuff going on out there, every single goddamn day, to allow me to believe in any kind of gigantic cosmic love-and-compassion entity.

Jesus may have spread his arms and died, and he may even have done it willingly, but he's busy with other folks and other issues, and hasn't called my number yet. I've asked, and still am, but am getting nothing back. (Hell, I'm asking right now, as I write this highly blasphemous bit.) Instead I get Jesus freaks like the pushy cubicle guy who strikes me as just the kind of needy, insecure person who needs just that kind of clingy, mutually supportive community of easily swayed, non-intellectual, exclusive like-minded-thinkers to make himself feel comfortable, to give him a sense of place, to give him a moral foundation, code of personal conduct, a simple framework for life and death and purpose, and direction that he clearly can't develop and enact on his own.

A Place for Intelligent Design

All praise to the gods of common sense and logic, for hammering out on their divine anvils the celestial lightning bolts of insight and directness, and zapping that Dover, Pennsylvania judge right between the eyese with them. This is a victory for fairness and equality, a victory of inclusion over segregation, a victory of everything and everyone else over narrow-minded and exclusionary (arguably racist) Christianity. I'm thrilled.

That being said, I don't really have a problem with Intelligent Design (ID). If that's what you want to believe, more power to ya. You can believe anything you want, absolutely anything, as long as you don't cram it down my or my children's throats. And that's what the ID folks are trying to do now. Sure, ID is a sham and a lie behind which lurks the clear intent of re-introduction of Christianity in schools. Make no mistake, these folks are not for or about Religion in schools, not even morality in schools; they are for Christianity in schools. There is a reason the forefathers said that religion and government should be separated. That's because when the two are put together, people end up getting burned at the stake. Take a look at the Spanish Inquisition for your shining example of enlightened governmental authority informed and ruled by Christian religions belief.

ID has no place whatsoever in a discussion of science, because it is not science. It is faith and belief. It is philosophical and metaphysical. Science is a rigorous and straightforward discipline of facts and research upon facts and hypotheses, not a study of belief systems and the unknowable mystical and spiritual. ID is not about facts and dedicated inquiry and verifiable testing of discrete, identifiable elements to determine empirical data supporting or disproving a given hypothesis. The core of ID is faith, belief in a Grand Someone or Something out there that had and likely continues to have a hand in the overall workings of all of reality. Hey, if you want to believe that, and if you can somehow meld that with your religious beliefs, whether they be Christian or pagan, it's absolutely nothing to me. If that's what makes you feel good about yourself and others, then please, go right ahead and do it. But don't ever tell me that it's science and that my children must be exposed to it. That's where the line gets drawn.

Here's my compromise: Why not teach about religion in school? Why not offer study in philosophy and spirituality and mysticism? I have absolutely no problem whatsoever with this idea, as long as EVERY SINGLE religion, belief, cult, sect, movement, and others get equal time, or have a fair shot at getting equal time. No, not just the biggies like Christianity and Islam and Hinduism and Buddhism, but absolutely every alternative out there--that would be fair.

But how to do it? Here's what I've thought up, in broad strokes, mind you:

It would be, for example, a high school-leve curriculum for 11th and 12th graders. It would be an elective, and not compulsory. The overall framework would be developed and overseen by the state, but the local school board would configure the program to meet local needs. The title of the course would be something like "Introduction to Religion" or maybe "Religious Interpretation." It would be an overview or religion, its bases, and how religion develops and is conceived by those who practice its diverse aspects.

And now the good part: each of the modules would be developed and presented by a different member of a faith. The "teacher" would essentially be a moderator and manager for what would be a speaker series. If there were, say, 30 classes (2 classes per week for roughtly 15 weeks in a semester), there would be 30 opportunities for presentations. And who would present? Well, of course, the competition would be extremely intense for all manner of religious institutions to present their views, and I can see that some zealots would want to monopolize the process, demanding 18 classes out of 30 for a full discussion of their subject areas. Sure, any good salesman would take advantage of such an opportunity, and what we're talking about here, after all, is a direct competition for the collection/allocation of souls into a specific following, right?

The answer would be a simple lottery. All interested parties would register, and there would be a lottery for the available class periods. Every presenting faith would have one entry, and they would have an equal chance of being chosen in the lottery than the others. Here's the possible list I can up with quickly of possible faiths/positions/beliefs that might participate: Lutherans; Quakers; Methodists; Church of Christ; Church of England (Aglican); Calvinist; Amish; Menonite; Roman Catholic; Eastern Orthodox; Russian Orthodox; Greek Orthodox; Sikh; Gnostics; Mormon; Jehovah's Witnesses; Christian Science; Rastafarian; Zoroastrian; Judaism and all of its variations; Ramayana Buddhist; Theravada Buddhist; Copts; Atheists; Agnostics; Wiccan; Druid; animist; Hindu; Falun Gong; Santa Ria; Shinto; Daoist; Confucian; Sunni Islam; Shi'a Islam; Sufi Islam; Sun Myung Moon; Aum Shin Rikyo; Satanic; any number of cults, etc. And this litte list is just a start. A quick Google of available religions comes up with goofy stuff like Zulu mythology, Raelism, cargo cults and Hellenic polytheism. Just take a look: . I mean, there's a ton of believin' going on out there, and the Christians are in the minority.

Okay, so everyone gets one ticket in the hopper, and out of all of the groups that may want to participate, 30 get a chance each semester. The next semester, another lottery of newly submitted groups gets another 30 chances to speak their minds on their subjects.

Of course, there would be issues of formats and time limits and such, but that could be worked out by the school board. A good teacher/moderator could be a real boon to the program, spurring Q&A and making it interesting for the students.

In this concept, everyone would have an equal and fair shot at offering their faith to a portion of the public to which they might not otherwise have an introduction. Of course, individuals speakers and subjects could be grounds for a student opting out, or parents pulling a student, and a quick trip down the hall to study hall covers that immediately and easily.

Would I allow my kids to participate in something like this? Of course I would. In fact, I'd strongly encourage my kids to take a course like this, just as I always encourage them to seek out and listen to/expose themselves to the new and different and divergent. They are smart enough and mature enough to make their own choices, and choice of religion, or no choice at all, is after all a personal decision that they should be making for themselves.

So where would ID fit into a plan like this? I think it probably would go away, as there'd be no need for it, not in this kind of environment. The zealous Christians would no longer have to hide their evangelical Christian proselytization agenda within the transparent Trojan Horse of Intelligent Design, so could get straight to the "Jesus Lord and Savior" message they want to put out anyway.

Are There Wheelchairs in Heaven?

I heard this question asked in an interesting and blindingly obvious commentary on NPR this morning (http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5042181). In short, the narrator, a lifelong quadriplegic, was dismayed by the comments he heard over the death of an "acquired" quadriplegic friend's death. It was all about the hollow, typical, "He's gone to a better place," and, "He's released from his pain," but also included, "He's got his legs back," and, "He's running around in heaven now." The narrator was dismayed at how so many folks saw his friend's--and therefore his own--disability as a horrible curse from which death is welcome door to freedom. He asked his wheelchair question, and answered it himself with something like, "In heaven, it won't matter whether you've got legs/can walk or not."

I agree with that, but his simple question and similarly simple answer has got me once again thinking about What Lies Beyond.

The short and easy answer, as provided by most religions is, "Of course there aren't wheelchairs in heaven." And why exactly is that, eh? Well, Billy, all infirmities and pains and imperfections will be cosmically, divinely wiped away in the Great Beyond. Everyone will be perfect, absolutely perfect, in every possible way. In heaven there will be--there are--no walkers, eye patches, crutches, braces, casts, prosthetics, glass eyes, skin grafts, dentures, or transplanted organs. There will be no ongoing medication, oxygen bottles, or dialysis. There will be no scars, no blemishes, no imperfections at all. No warts. Maybe no freckles, although there are more than enough folks who think freckles are the epitome of cute, pure, wholesome, and downright wunnerful.

Severed limbs will return, although I'd have to wonder where'd they'd been all along. Surgically removed tissues, like an appendix or gall bladder certainly would come back, right? I mean, we were all designed intelligently, at least that's what the ridiculously shrill morons say, so there had to be a purpose for those extraneous organs, right? If you lost an eye in the war, then it'll be back, for sure. But what about that malignant growth that you had taken out in college? Does it come back and get stuck back on you? I would guess that it's not malignant anymore, but do you have a choice about taking it back? What about the scabs you picked, the warts you had removed, the fingernails and toenails you endlessly clipped off, the hair and dandruff and skin you shed and sloughed off? Does that all come back? Where does it all go?

There will be no breast augmentation, and logic then dictates that all effects of breast reduction also will be reversed. Sorry, Queen Latifah.

But what if I like my scars, my badges of honor from sports, or fights (the righteous kind, naturally)? What if I want to keep my scar to remind me of something particularly important in my life? If I'm dead and in heaven, what do I need to be reminded of life anyway? What if I think that my wife's freckles are the single greatest thing about her, the reason that I fell in love with her from the very beginning?

What if I like that big mole right below my right ear? It's not some massive, hair-sprouting monstrosity, but it's part of me, or at least was while I was on The Planet Below. We spent an entire life together, so I think I'd like to keep it, if anything as a reminder of my time as a mortal, of the earthly existence that I suffered through. But do I get to keep it, or is there some kind of approving authority, a cosmic and divinely appointed Greater Heaven community standards board of handicaps and other unpleasant features that's going to judge my imperfections and then wipe them away? Or does God do that? Wouldn't he want to delegate something like that to a board of learned and experienced saints? Do I get a fair hearing in a public forum, or is this all decided and enacted without any input from the one who is affected? Do I have a say, and do I have representation? Who can I talk to in heaven who can get me a good advocate before the board? Who could point me to the celestial bar association, and what kind of rates do they charge for representation before the Wart Board?

I love my tattoo, too, but do I get to keep it? The right would say: of course not; a tattoo is graffiti on the most sacred of canvas. God gave you the skin, so now he's taking it back, and returning it to its original state, in my case all pallid, white-pink, boring and caucasian. The left would argue: of course you get to keep your tattoo, since it's a symbol of your individuality and personal creativity. Me, I love my tattoo, three simple letters over my heart representing my wife and two kids. I love it being there, love to see it in the mirror, love to know it's there, and even love the memory of the pain I went through to have it put there permanently, at least for the time I'm allotted here on the Big Blue Marble. Given the choice, I'd like to retain it.

If there are no imperfections or the like up there in heaven, does everyone have perfect teeth? I'd assume so. It'll be blinding, Jessica-Simpson-white teeth, lined up in absolute precision. No dentures. So do we have to keep treating them, or are they permanently white?

Does everyone have perfect hair? No bed head or cowlicks or a bad part? What about cheap braids, and are beads and puka shells allowed? Do you always have a perfect haircut, and is it permanent, or do you have to keep getting your hair cut up in heaven? Where are the Vietnamese barbers in heaven, do you get a shoulder massage, and how much do you tip? What if you've always wanted a bristly flat-top, a wicked mullet, or to poof your hair out like a dumbass Vanilla Ice--will the haircut sub-committee of the community board of saints come down on you for an affront to the good taste and community sanctity of what is acceptable heaven-hair? What if that's you, and you actually enjoy looking that way? What if your default, inherent, God-decreed hair is a 1954 pompadour? In heaven, aren't all things great, so your own personal happiness is paramount? That means I get to keep my Flock of Seagulls special, right? But if everyone hates it, don't I have to get rid of it?

If everyone has perfect hair and teeth, do they have perfect bone structure, and muscular structure to match? Do they have supermodel cheekbones, ultra-ripped male abs and pecs? Are all of the women's butts and breasts perky and upthrust? I think I'd like that, I guess.

Is there stuttering in heaven? Probably not, I would guess. Everyone will enunciate and orate like a young James K. Polk, Napoleon of the Stump.

And what about height and weight? Of course, the overweight on Earth just pine the day away longing for death so they can finally be fit and trim (embalming will do that to ya). The sickly and thin can't wait to become full-bodied in heaven. Everyone will have the optimum body mass index of right around 19 or 20 (but of course, that won't be the right number for many folks). The marathoners will want to be under 1%, naturally. But what is the optimum height? Me, sometimes I'd love to be 8'10"; other times I'd like to be 4'10". Does the board of saints assign everyone the same height, so that we're more manageable, so there's competiton and resentment, so there are no celestial Napoleons running around causing trouble? If we're all the same height, at least it makes fitting your wings a lot more straightforward, and would keep inventory management down to a very cost-effective mode of operation. What is the optimal height, 6'? And is it different for men and women? AGain, who's deciding all of this?

And sexual attributes? Are all the guys going to be an average of 5"? The shorties probably like this idea, whereas the celestial Ron Jeremy's probably think that's a pretty raw deal. And the women--what about breast size, nipple size, buttocks size, hips and waist? Who gets to choose, or do we all just default to some generic standard, the heavenly cookie-cutter mold of human dimension and proportion and construction, from which no deviation is allowed?

So, by the time you get to ironing out all of these imperfections and blemishes and generally considered physical limitations, what will we all look like? Will the women all be the 1980 Cheryl Tiegs? Will the men all be a taller Tom Cruise, or a slightly less gruff Liam Neeson? Will we all be the same? Hell, will there even be a male-female difference? Is the soul a sexual entity, or is this a corrupting stain of the flesh?

Will there be black and white in heaven? Brown and yellow? No one could argue, except frothing idiot racists, that racial differentiation is a flaw or handicap, so that would necessitate racial diversity in heaven, right? After all, God put us down here this way, so there's a reason, after all, even if we have no idea what it is. So we'll still have our racial differences in heaven, of which most folks are highly possessive and proud, except maybe Michael Jackson and other freaks, but he'll have enough identity issues to worry about with all of the original things of his reverting back to their original, God-given state. So does this mean we get soul food in heaven? Chinese and Thai? If so, I'm all for it. Lots of diversity, sure.

Okay, in heaven will we all be the same? A yes answer is the logical and inescapable conclusion of a celestial process that weeds out all imperfections and blemishes and limitations, and handicaps. But then again, we all keep our free will and ability for self-determination, right, since that's a basic tenet of the concept of heaven? So maybe some folks will find ways to make themselves stand out from the generic and identical choir invisible. So we're back to tattoos, and--gasp!--piercings. Would that be allowed in heaven? Would your dear, departed grandmother countenance your nose ring, multiple ear holes, or metal apparati strung through other portions of your post-mortem divine body/shape/form? Even if she does put up a stink, who wins the argument? Does God care if you have painted fingernails?

If there is a heaven, isn't it really about the total actualization and realization of everything that truly matters, the most important things there are? For the die-hard religionists, that of course means the Glory of God, sitting around praising and worshipping Jesus, making Buddha and Allah happy all of the time. That scene means that there is no free will or freedom, but that upon death and ascension everyone is unwillingly transformed--if you're good enough to transcend and ascend--to a mindless drone in the service of the respective Deity. There is no more personal decision making or choice; you are an unthinking slave, serving the ultimate master blindly and with no choice or options as your eternal reward for being a Good Boy/Girl down there in the realm of the mortal.

And if there really is free will and freedom of choice, I think heaven is going to be a pretty loud and colorful, highly energetic, and in many ways a very hectic and interesting place. Everyone gets to do and be whatever they want, all the time, 24/7 in days and weeks and years that never end. There is no concern for safety since it's not an issue to begin with, and it's nothing but having fun, doing what you want to, all the time. And looking the way you want to. So maybe you want that shaved head with a pentagram right on the top of your melon--no wait, then you'd be an un-made-up Boy George, and holy crap is that guy one sad, sorry, drug-sotted and ugly sonofabitch. But you're getting the picture, right?

But if it's all about self-actualization, there will be no need for diversity or anything else. We'll all just be who we are, pure energy, pure soul, pure love, whatever mystical form or concept that The Big Guy may have in store for us. None of it will matter, nor will it even be an item for contemplation; there will be no capacity for that kind of thought as it will be totally irrelevant. This will be existence on a plain of which we cannot conceive.

If this is so, doesn't that make our time on Earth a false, hollow, meaningless and utlimately pointless way station on our way to actualization or a return to the true soul? If we transcend all of the physical, mental, physical, and mystical concerns that so plague us on earth once we die and move on and/or up, then what is the point of being on Earth at all? Is it an object lesson on being grateful for your wings and harp, about being happy you're not down in hell eating the red-hot balls of monkey shit? I am missing the point on what life on earth is all about if there is a heaven at the end in which all doubts and fears and concerns and wrongs and all other questions about life as a mortal are rendered moot. I've yet to hear any holy man of any religion give an explanation of this fundamental paradox.

This is assuming you believe in all of this. I think it's all ridiculous; you die, and that's that.

So, are there wheelchairs in heaven? Yes, of course there are, if that's what you want, but probably not too many of them.