Fathers and Sons

I was talking with my friend Jonesy the other day when I couldn't help but ask him what was wrong. We were sitting at my tiki bar drinking Dr. Pepper on shaved ice with crushed cherries. The sun was hot. There was no breeze.

"Oh, I'm having trouble with my younger son." he answered. "He's having trouble dealing with my divorce and he absolutely hates that I live at a nudist resort." He stirred the ice with his finger. When he lifted the glass, the beaded moisture left a ring on the bar. I'd wipe it up later.

(Note to self: put the coasters on the tiki bar.)

"What's he been doing?" I asked.

He put the drink back down near the ring.

(Couldn't he at least hit the same spot each time?)

He gave me a wry smile, "Every time we talk he feels like he has to beat me up about living here. He won't give it a rest. He thinks it's wall to wall parties, naked beauties and orgies."

"I thought the orgy thing was a secret?" I feigned incredulity. "Have you told him that people around here look like people you meet anywhere?"

A nudist resort does not automatically attract beautiful, hard bodies. In fact, just the opposite is true. Most good looking young people enjoy the dress up, the clubs and the sexy flirtations. The people who come here skew older and, as an act of gross rationalization, claim complete body acceptance. This allows them to be over weight and out of shape - without embarrassment. In fact, most of the people here would not go to a clothed beach because of how bad they would look in a bathing suit.

"Yeah. But he doesn't believe me. I even snuck a picture of Adele." He pulled a photo out of his pocket. Adele was a very sweet but large lady of our mutual acquaintance. Picture taking at the resort was mostly forbidden. We also knew that Adele was a free spirit and that she wouldn't mind.

He handed it over to me and said, "I was going to send it to him with the caption:

.............................See Son, It's not all about sex!

I glanced at it and handed it back to him. "Cute." I said. "Adele's husband, Roy, might object."

Jonesy took the photo back and looked at it again. "Oh, wait! This is Roy!" He tucked the photo away then picked up his glass and sloshed a little as he turned on his stool.

(Oh, look! You missed a spot.)

I changed the subject and asked, "What's your son do?"

"Besides bitch at me like we're married?"

"That's rhetorical, right?" I always have to check after that incident with the traffic cop.

He nodded, then said. "He's a teacher in Ohio."

"Oh!" I answered, trying to sound impressed. "He must be real bright."

"He is. if you're impressed with night lights. He was recently turned down by Mensa Lite. He spelled his name wrong on the application. I asked him how that could happen and he claimed it was a union thing. The teacher's union is very strong in Ohio."

I never know when Jonesy is messing with me. "What's Mensa Lite?" I prodded.

"Mensa Lite is for pseudo-intellectuals. People who talk about their degrees rather than their accomplishments. People who talk about the book reviews they read, rather than the books they have read. People who think Al Gore is an intellectual."

"So, why're you so down on him?" I wondered.

"Maybe it's because he won't let up on me. Maybe it's because when his mom left me he never once asked me what had happened or even how I was doing." He paused and picked a piece of cherry out of his drink, dripping across the bar and onto the deck.

Then he seemed to rouse himself, remembering that he was supposed to be making a joke or something. That was Jonesy's coping mechanism. Mine was wall to wall parties, naked beauties and orgies.

"You know," he said, "I remember the night he was conceived and, I gotta tell you, the sex wasn't that great."

There's the old Jonesy I know!

He sat a little straighter in his chair and I could see the gleam in his eye. He was getting ready to be on a roll. I picked up my drink and sloshed a little on the bar by way of encouragement.

"I kid around about his mother being unfaithful but I am almost 100% certain I am his father."

"How so?" I played the straight man.

"When he was born he had my last name." I smiled and he continued, "Did I ever tell you why we named him P.J.?"

"Uh, uh."

"Because his mother had called dibs on B.J."

"Cute." I said. I began to fondly remember Jonesy's ex-wife but he wasn't done yet.

"Isn't it ironic," he asked, "that being an actual bastard is passed on through the mother?"

I had to laugh.

"And why isn't there a specific name for illegitimate females? I think bitch would have been a great choice. But it was already handily taken by adult women." Jonesy has been a little bitter since the break up.

I sucked on some ice, tasting the cherry juice.

"I am wondering one thing, though."

"What's that?" I mumbled through the ice.

"Even though I am as certain as a guy can be that his sons are legitimate, does my recent divorce make them Bastards by Proxy?"

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Lost & Found

Another season has come and gone here at the resort. The chaise lounges and lawn chairs are being stacked and stored and the buildings are being winterized. The pool is closed and covered. The grounds keepers are preparing for harsher weather and the CLOSED FOR THE SEASON signs are in place. The first of the fall leaves are beginning to trickle from the pre-autumn sky, littering the roadways and paths with their colorful, earthy presence. The smells of the late season campfires are being replaced with evidence of indoor fireplaces; gray plumes of smoke drifting lazily across the morning landscape.

On my party deck, The Taki Tiki, things are still fairly normal. I won't start putting the outdoor furniture away for at least another month. My new fire pit is getting a work out and I keep the hot tub going all year long. And, although my last big party of the summer is history, I will still be having smaller gatherings of friends over until it gets too cold. Then we'll move the parties indoors.

All of this does not, however, prevent a certain kind of nostalgia from setting in for the recently departed season. This struck me as I was putting things away from last weekend's party. I have a spare bedroom that I use for storing party supplies, masquerade costumes, linen, beach towels, and anything else that does not conveniently go with the neat freak motif in the rest of my house. This is where I keep my Lost & Found.

As I was standing there, adding a pair of rhinestone studded sunglasses to the mix, I felt a weird sense of joy for the accumulated memories of the recent past as well as a sadness for its brevity. I handled a catalog for a winery in the Napa Valley, an oven mitt, a little red lace choker that some babe must be searching frantically for, a green table cloth, a Giants tee shirt and two more pairs of sun glasses. There is a set of keys that no one has claimed or asked for; a small leather bag, a bottle of tanning oil, and a little silver serving tray.

Over the course of the summer, various items came and went from my Lost & Found. And I usually had the same mixed reactions as I added or removed the items. It could easily be summed up in the phrase "good times". But when I tried to analyze the feelings, to compare what I was feeling with what I was holding, I came up empty.

This puzzled me for a while until I realized that I was feeling nostalgic about things I could not even remember. After all, if I knew whose sunglasses these were I would get them back to them. I have no memory of who was wearing the Giant's tee shirt or (God help me) the little red lace choker thingy. So I was basically getting emotional over a box of junk that other people aren't even missing themselves.

On the other hand, these memories are not missing because of an alcoholic black-out. They are missing because I was busy with my guests at another part of the party. While I was making Liki Tiki blender drinks at the Tiki Bar someone at the hot tub was putting her sun glasses down. While I was happily munching on a grilled burger, listening to the Not An Exit story for the first time, someone else was tucking their small leather bag behind a chair leg so it wouldn't get lost. And while these minor items were being carelessly cast about, my friends and I were having some of the best times of the summer.

So I guess its alright to feel nostalgic when I look into the Lost & Found box. But not so much for the baubles that were lost as for the treasures that were found.

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I Really Do Think About This Stuff

I've been thinking about relative value, recently. This came about because I had to buy a big blue tarp to cover my tiki bar for winter storage. The roof part of the tiki bar comes off and is about the same height as the base, so I put them side-by-side and covered it all over with a big blue tarp. I bought the tarp with every intention of it being disposable.

Because of the odd shape and size that I had to cover, I had to buy a tarp much larger than I needed. I draped the tarp over the disassembled bar, pulled it tight on one side and laid a board on top of the tarp and screwed the board and the tarp to the deck. I then pulled the tarp tight on the opposite side and repeated the process. When I had all four sides secured to the deck, the tiki bar was neatly covered with a tarp that would not blow away. Finally, I used a razor knife and trimmed away the excess tarp and threw that away.

Now, I know what you are thinking. "What happened next?" "I have never heard such a fascinating tarp story in my entire life." "Johnny, you are so clever and . . . masculine!"

Yes. I am. And thank you. But the point of my story is that I bought the big blue tarp for $35 knowing I would cut it up and dispose of it in the spring. This was well worth it to me because I had just finished re-finishing and polyurethaning the bar and I viewed it as protecting my investment.

I also have a 10x12 deck gazebo that has a vinyl roof with a gazillion streamers sewn in, that makes it look like a thatched roof. It really looks cool. I noticed at the end of the season that the gazebo roof faded over the summer and that some of the thatching looked a little tattered. This was the first year for it and I thought that was a little quick. So we pulled out the paperwork and ordered a new top. I took the current top off for winter storage and plan on using it next year again -- but now I have a spare.

The replacement tiki gazebo roof cost $35.

I thought, "Huh?"

This gazebo cover is custom made to attach to the gazebo framework. It has grommets and Velcro and precisely cut angles and double seams and has two pieces to accommodate the cupola. And a shitload of fake thatching meticulously sewn in place. For $35.

So, I'm asking myself is this the best deal I've ever heard of or are the big blue tarp people a bunch of gyps? This is when I began thinking about relative values. The gazebo roof was only $35 because it was a component of the larger product -- the tiki gazebo. And I guess they price replacement parts based on their actual replacement cost, relative to the cost of producing the entire product. Whereas, the big blue tarp people are pricing their product on the basis that the big blue tarp is the entire thing so -- how much will the market bear?

Another way to say this would be perceived value. The sum of the components should not exceed the value of the whole. Conversely, it should not be cheaper to buy all of the components separately.

And that's what's wrong with Hollywood. The individual components (actors) cost way more than the total product would justify. The workmanship is shoddy and at least, with my tiki roof, I don't have to listen to its pinhead views on anything.

So I feel like I got a great deal on my replacement tiki gazebo roof but it should weather a little better than it does. I think the big blue tarp people make an OK product but it is just a big sheet of vinyl so I think it is over priced. And I think a free Tom Cruise movie with free popcorn and sodas with free refills and free hot dogs would not be worth the gas to get there.

Tiki Gazebo Roof -- * Blogbooger (out of ****)
Big Blue Tarp -- ** Blogboogers (out of ****)
Tom Cruise -- still ***** Blogboogers (out of ****)

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