Traveling with the Ancients.
Today, we spent in St. Maarten. While we make sure to washy washy our hands on the ship, we were met with an infestation on the beach nonetheless. Worse than the Norovirus, worse than Legionnaires, yet no vaccine can stop it. I’m speaking of the blight of “Lady, got scarves, got sun hat, I massage you, I braid your hair-itis.” When did a white person with their pasty scalp and fine limp hair ever look good with beaded hair? If they left Bo Derek’s hair alone, the movie could have easily been called Fifteen instead of 10. If it didn’t work on a supermodel, what hope would there be for our kinky Jewish locks? Then, dressed to complete our authentic Island look with a cover-up rocking that carefree Island look as interpreted by 12-year-old seamstresses in China locked in a factory pushing out this beach attire. It’s the textile industry’s equivalent of inmates in New Hampshire prisons banging out license plates with the state phrase “Live Free or Die.” So many women wanted to massage me that I thought I was lying on Harvey Weinstein’s couch in his Ritz Carlton suite vs. on a spinal cord torturing $10 beach chair rental. After being accosted by the first 30 salespeople in about 8 minutes, I now understand why our doctors’ offices and hospitals don’t let our sales reps in. If I had only read up on St. Maarten, I would’ve known that he was the patron saint of crap for sale. Just rename the Island St. Markdown, as we were assured we got the lowest price for beaded necklaces on the Island!
Rubber Chicken 