The next time you find yourself naked and surrounded by several hundred enthusiastic nudists in a hot tub if you can remember only one thing remember this: Keep your friends close and all the other dudes in front of you where you can keep an eye on their hands or not. The Grateful Dude abides, but he does not judge.
In the summer of 1990, I had just taken over the position of social director at Paradise Lakes Nudist Resort from the incomparable Mr. Ron Johnson. I knew that I needed to do something spectacular to commemorate the ninth anniversary of the resort, but I didn’t have a clue how I was going to do it. One morning, as I was finishing up my daily drink chip tournament rounds, I was called over to the conversation pool (otherwise known as the Big Ass Hot Tub) by a young couple. They informed me that they had just returned from Hedonism II, a clothing optional resort located in Jamaica. They went on to say that while there, they had taken part in an event to set a world record for the most naked people in a hot tub. They informed me that they were able to fill their clover shaped hot tub with 271 naked people, but even if they had more bodies available, there wasn’t much more room to stuff them in. That’s when it hit me; our hot tub was at least twice the size of theirs and if I could get enough people to participate, we could set a virtually unbreakable record and get some free advertising at the same time. I used all the resources I had available to me (keep in mind that the internet wasn’t a viable option at the time). I posted flyers all over the resort, put a full page ad in the Paradise Parrot (anyone remember The Parrot?) and even placed an ad in the AANR national magazine. I then went after the mainstream media. I put together a tantalizing press release that I knew they couldn’t resist to use as a “teaser” piece on the 5 o’clock news and sent it out to the local television, radio and newspapers. As expected, they all took the bait, including all three affiliates from the major networks. What I didn’t expect is that somehow the wire services got hold of it and the story went national. Even a friend of mine in California called to tell me that she saw it on the evening news. On the big day, it felt as if the stars had aligned. The weather was perfect (not surprising for Florida) and you would have thought a plane had crashed into the swimming pool from all the media frenzy going on. The parking lot was filled with multiple trucks and vehicles emblazoned with logos reading NBC, ABC and CBS. I sat down with Fred and briefed him on everything he needed to know and then turned him over to the reporters. Being a natural showman, the interviews went off without a hitch. One thing I didn’t realize is just how long it takes to count and fill a gigantic hot tub with naked folks and what I should have known is what happens when you cram hundreds of naked bodies up against one another for several hours. You couldn’t tell exactly what was going on in there, but from the sound of things, “folks was having a pretty good time”! Thank God the media didn’t seem to catch on, but let’s just say there were some very interesting tales to be told in the nightclub that evening. The final tally was 307 naked people in a hot tub and to my knowledge that record stands to this day.
The next time you find yourself naked and surrounded by several hundred enthusiastic nudists in a hot tub if you can remember only one thing remember this: Keep your friends close and all the other dudes in front of you where you can keep an eye on their hands or not. The Grateful Dude abides, but he does not judge.
0 Comments
I’ve had a crazy reoccurring dream for about twenty years now and I just can’t seem to shake it. The dilemma is always the same; I’m walking around in an unfamiliar urban area and I have the uncontrollable urge to take a poop. I approach person after person on the street and inquire as to the location of the nearest restroom, but each person I confront just turns their head and acts as if they didn’t hear a word I said. As I continue to walk, I realize that this is becoming a more and more pressing issue. Eventually, I come across an old man sitting on a bench in front of what appears to be his shop. This time, when I pose my question, he just turns and points to what looks like a bombed out building on the other side of a huge open lot strewn with large chunks of concrete and twisted steel. I attempt to make my way across the lot, navigating over each more treacherous pile of rubble on my quest to reach the restroom on the other side. Finally, I arrive at the door marked “Men’s Room” and as I walk inside, I am confronted with the most neglected public restroom I’ve ever seen. All the plumbing is broken and spewing water. Trash is strewn everywhere and a fowl stench fills the air. I pull open the first stall door to reveal a toilet that someone forgot to flush. When I open the next stall door, all I find is a hole in the floor where the toilet used to sit. Then I come to the third and final door, where I find what appears to be my best chance for relief. Behind this door is a huge pile of broken glass, jagged bathroom tile and discarded plumbing. At the summit of this monstrosity sits a pristine golden commode beckoning me forward, so I decide to attempt my ascent. The route is treacherous with many setbacks and quite a few injuries along the way, but eventually I make it to the top and take my rightful place upon the golden throne. Now here’s the rub: once I have reached my lofty goal, I am unable to relieve myself no matter how hard I try and that’s when I wake up. I was lucky enough to have Martha Beck personally interpret my dream for me and as it turns out poop dreams are very common. What she explained is that poop often represents an expression of our creativity that in this case appears to be blocked. That’s how dream analysis works; you break the dream down into symbols and a then take a look at each one individually. Do you have a reoccurring dream that you’d like to make sense of or a very vivid dream you had last night and just can’t seem to shake? If so, I’d like to take this opportunity to invite all of my readers (that means the both of you) to take me up on one free dream analysis. Just place a pen and paper next to your bed and as soon as you wake up from a vivid dream, write down as much detail as possible. Don’t worry if what you’re writing doesn’t seem to make sense. It probably won’t. What matters is that you write down as much detail as possible, as quickly as possible before it all slips away. Then, send me an email with the details to wali@thegratefuldude.com. I will reply to your email with a couple of possible dates and times for you to choose from to discuss the symbolism and meaning of your dream. Please make sure that you choose a time for me to call when you can be in a private and comfortable place in order to work through the process. Dream on dudes. Dream until your dreams come true. So there’s this dude that lives across the street from my condo complex. Let’s just say that we don’t see eye to eye when it comes to politics. Every election cycle, he puts out lawn signs endorsing each of the candidates that he would like to see win. Although I respect his right to do this, it has always bothered me that both sides are not being equally represented to the passing motorist, so a couple of elections ago I decided to do something about it. I went down to my local party headquarters and picked up signs for all the candidates who were running against his candidates. I planted them firmly into the ground out front making sure that each lined up exactly with its opposition across the street. Early the next morning, as I was pulling out of the driveway heading for work, I glanced over to bask in the glow of the fine work I had performed in the name of maintaining our first amendment rights. What I saw took me completely by surprise. Each and every one of my signs had gone missing, while all of his were still in place. The whole way to work, my mind raced with possible scenarios of what might have transpired. Maybe a huge tornado had devastated just my side of the street. Possibly a marauding band of homeless activists had taken exception with my political views. Or just maybe our landscaping contractor had put together a late night covert tree trimming mission and determined that the signs were detracting from the beauty of our Crepe Myrtles, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow the dude across the street had something to do with all of this. Anyway, all “The Good Guys” won that election and I really didn’t think about the incident again until the next election cycle. While heading to work, I noticed a whole new crop of signs in front of the dude across the street’s house. All those old feelings came rushing back to me and I was determined to find out if this was just some sort of crazy coincidence or if there was in deed a plot to stifle my constitutional rights and therefore influence the outcome of the election. Back I went to campaign headquarters to procure another batch of opposing signs. When I arrived home that evening, I proceeded directly out to the street, rubber mallet in hand, and I pounded each sign into the soil as far as it would go, all the time keeping a wary eye out for the dude across the street. The next morning, I got up early and anxiously walked out to the street only to find that once again, all of my signs had vanished. Now in my heart of hearts, I knew that it must be the work of that dude across the street and I was outraged. I’m not a violent man, but I have to tell you that I began to entertain certain sadistic fantasies directly concerning the dude across the street. One involved pulling up one of his signs and stabbing him in the eye with it. In another, I used a shotgun to decimate each of his signs while I forced him to watch with his one good eye. I am happy to report that I never acted on any of these fantasies (I don’t even own a shotgun, you can call home and ask my wife), but the thoughts continued to persist. Several months later, my good friend and neighbor, Kirk, and I decided we would make a dump run in his truck to dispose of some old BBQ grills and patio furniture that had been piling up in the communal area for quite some time. As we pulled up to the end of the driveway, there he was; my arch nemesis, the dude across the street, and he was planting yet another sign. Without thinking or even any hesitation, I shouted to Kirk, “RUN THAT BASTARD OVER”. Kirk turned to me and calmly said “OK, but might I inquire as to why?” Concerned that if I took the time necessary to explain the whole ordeal, the dude from across the street might escape, I blurted out, “He keeps putting up those damn signs”. Kirk turned to me and said “I know what you mean brother. Somebody keeps putting up those signs over here and I just keep pulling them up and throwing them in the trash can”. Now you would think that would have been the end of it, but those negative thoughts about the dude across the street continued to persist even though I had empirical evidence that the thoughts were not true. Luckily, I had been studying The Work of Byron Katie (thework.com) and it turns out that our mind tends to hold on to these stories, causing us to experience negative emotions like anger, fear and depression as a result of us playing an endless talking loop in our heads. I downloaded a copy (all the materials on the web site are free to download) of the Judge Your Neighbor worksheet and followed the step by step instructions and Voila, I am no longer plagued by this untrue thought process about that dude across the street. If you have some story playing over and over in your head and you just can’t seem to shake it, I suggest you give the worksheet a try. Keep in mind that you are the only person experiencing this negative thought and it has never even crossed the dude across the street’s mind. Just keep asking yourself: Is it true dude? The nudist community and the world lost a great dude this year. Mr. Ron Johnson was my mentor, my hero and my friend. In his early career, he was one of the original members of the doo wop group The Crew Cuts. You may not remember the group, but most everyone has heard their hit song “Sh-Boom”. When I arrived at Paradise in the late 80’s, Ron had been the social director there for years and had pretty much shaped the Paradise image. One day, he approached me with a proposition while I was performing my duties as beverage manager. He said “Buddy, (I’m not exactly sure why he called me Buddy), I’ve accepted a new position in Cocoa Beach and believe you would be the perfect fit to fill my shoes.” I was honored and a little surprised that he had that much faith in me, but I had witnessed how much fun he had doing his job and figured anything was better than doing another monthly bar inventory. I accepted his offer and then Ron said “Meet me on the basketball court at 9 am to begin your training”. The next morning, I arrived at the court to find Ron wearing shorts (he rarely wore shorts) and dribbling a basketball. He passed the ball to me and said, “First one to ten wins” and then proceeded to wipe up the court with my ass. He was at least twenty years my senior, but I was no match for him on the court. I believe the final score was 10-2, but I think he felt sorry for me and let me have the one basket. I’m still not exactly sure what the actual purpose of the game was, but afterwards I did have a deepened respect for the man. Over the next two weeks, he took me under his wing and taught me everything I would need to know about how to carry on the “Ron Johnson tradition” at Paradise Lakes. Then left me to fly on my own. I guess things didn’t pan out for Ron in Cocoa so he returned to Paradise the next year. I am pretty sure that he would have liked to have had his old position back, but Ron was way too classy a guy for that. Instead, he started coming up with new ideas about how to improve the entertainment at Paradise. Ron had a golden voice and an amazing ear for music. One of his major accomplishments was something he called “The Moonlight Serenade”, in which he brought together a group of members for a weekly performance of classic tunes from the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s.When Ron first came to me with this proposal, I have to admit I was a bit skeptical as I had heard most of the performers on Tuesday’s karaoke night. When I expressed my concern to him, he smiled and explained that he just couldn’t tell anyone no, but not to worry, he had a plan. As it turned out, his plan was quite ingenious. He turned up the volume on the folks who could actually sing and turned it down on those who were vocally impaired. That’s just the kind of guy Ron was. He was truly a selfless man and seemed to find his greatest joy in the pursuit of helping others have fun. If there is a heaven, I’m sure Ron is in charge of the activities, riding around in his golf cart with a handful of drink chips and his bull horn calling all the other angels out to play.
There’s this dude that works at my local post office named Henry. Henry definitely isn’t the fastest postal worker. The truth is that the young lady who works next to him can usually blow through about five postal patrons in the time it takes old Henry to finish up with one. The crazy thing is that although the line is very long, no one ever complains or even grumbles. What you do hear are giggles, chuckles, a few snorts and even the occasional belly laugh. It seems that instead of the usual mundane post office waiting line, the lucky taxpayers of my little town have Henry and his Going Postal Comedy Review. One minute he’s dressing down a customer for improper packaging while completely rewrapping the item for them and next, he’s giving a lecture on the legal power of the postmark, not to mention that after violently shaking your package, he proceeds to ask if you’ve included anything fragile. Followed by a five minute dissertation on all of the possible prohibited substances you might have ignorantly included in your shipment following each one up with the question “Are You Sure?” and a skeptical smile. After many enjoyable visits to the post office, I concluded that Henry is a man who truly loves his job and that got me to contemplating my own career choices. As many of you know, I spent ten wonderful years performing the duties of Entertainment Director for Paradise Lakes Resort. I went to work every morning excited at the prospect of handing out drink chips to that day’s nude shuffleboard champions. In the latter part of my tenure at Paradise, my son was born and this new found responsibility made me think I should pursue a somewhat more “acceptable” career path. Since I had a little computer experience from producing the event fliers for Paradise, I decided I would go back to school to become a systems engineer. That one decision not only provided the income and stability I needed to help support my son, but turned what was a pleasant hobby into a dreaded job. As my son reached adulthood, the shackles of doing a joyless job were wearing me down. Somehow my amazingly intuitive girlfriend picked up on my feelings of career dissatisfaction, (maybe it had something to do with the fact that each evening after work I would go running for the shelter of my Walter’s little helper), so she devised a secret plot. As I was shaving one morning, she told me that she had read about an upcoming five day writer’s seminar called “The Comedian’s Way” at some yoga retreat center located up in the Berkshires and asked if I would be interested in going. She proceeded to read the short description and it really sounded appealing to me. I have always been a fan of stand-up comedy and I could damn well use some help with my writing skills. After I accepted the idea, she mentioned that she had also signed us up to stay for the weekend seminar with someone named Martha Beck. The writer’s workshop turned out to be an absolute blast. I got to work on my comedic timing while telling all my goofy old stories to a captive audience of very funny folks that I believe will turn out to be lifetime friends. After our last hilarious dinner together, it was my turn to do what she wanted to do, so picture this: I’m sitting cross legged on a yoga pillow with about 300 women and only two other (obviously tricked into going) men. A thin little woman named Martha Beck stepped onto the platform and the ladies in the audience start to lose it. You would have thought that The Beatles or even Jesus had just hit the stage. After I listened to her speak for a while, it all came back to me where I had read that name before. Oprah. My amazingly tricky girlfriend had one trick up her sleeve that she loved to play on me quite frequently. She knew that I would rather have my eyes put out with a hot poker than to read Oprah magazine, so she would set a copy next to the toilet opened to a story she knew I would be interested in and the trap would be set. I would be so taken with the article that I would close the magazine in order to find out the name of this incredible publication only to find Oprah smiling back at me as if she was in on the deception. Martha was entertaining enough to distract me and I began to realize that not only did I agree with what she was saying, it seemed to physically ring true to me. I could actually feel her words resonate at a core level and that was something I had never experienced. During the seminar, Martha kept referring to ladies in the audience as her coaches, so on the trip back home, I asked my amazingly perceptive girlfriend what she meant by “coaches”. As she explained, she smiled as if she had just hooked the tournament winning fish. She proceeded to play a recording of a conference call introducing people to the Martha Beck Life Coach Training program and by the end of that call, I was indeed hooked. I looked over at my amazingly intelligent girlfriend and said, “This is what I’m supposed to do.” As I uttered those seven little words, I set in motion the beginning of the rest of my life and it literally felt as if the heavy metal shackles of my unauthentic life had just dropped away. I’m now about one third of the way through learning how to be a coach, and I’m putting together an awesome set of tools. If any of you out there reading this are feeling like I was about your career or any of your life choices, please feel free to shoot an email to wali@thegratefuldude.com and I’ll do my best to help you discover the path to your authentic life. Until next time, listen to what your body is trying to tell you and find your Authentic Dude. A couple of years ago, I became very aware of just how much people are wrapped up in this story of Christmas. I had purchased a life size skeleton for our annual Halloween party, named him Slim, and hanged him from our balcony dressed as a pirate. I received several compliments from neighbors about what an excellent decoration that was, so I thought to myself, “Why not just dress him up for every holiday?” (i.e. Easter Bunny, St Paddy’s Leprechaun, etc.) As fate would have it, the next major holiday was Christmas (I couldn’t come up with a pilgrim costume in time for Thanksgiving) and let’s just say I received quite a different reaction. Two moms across the way accused me of ruining Christmas for the neighborhood children. I told the story at work, expecting some support, and one of my coworkers shared her belief that just the sight of poor old Slim might drive some child to become the world’s next serial killer! Now it is common knowledge that Jesus wasn’t actually born on December 25th and that after the Roman’s adopted Christianity as their official religion they just took advantage of the extremely popular Pagan Winter Solstice celebration to commemorate the birth of the Christ child, but after a little research into the subject, I realized that there are quite a few popularly accepted beliefs that just aren’t true. Actually, a lot of what we believe to be factual about the Christmas story comes from 19th century carols instead of the Bible. Matthew 2 talks about “wise men from the east.” Following a star and looking for the King of the Jews, they make it to Jerusalem, where they have a run-in with King Herod. Next stop is Bethlehem. There, they find Jesus—whom Matthew describes as a “young child,” not a baby—with his mother in a house. Not a stable and no mention of a manger. Many believe the Wise Men didn’t deliver the gifts immediately after the birth. It could have been a couple of years later. Not a word indicating there were three of them, either. That idea comes from Matthew 2:11 wherein it details the three gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. No camels, no flowing capes, no sparkly crowns. Nothing to even indicate that they were kings at all. In fact, most scholars figure they were astrologers which would explain what they were doing running around in the desert following a star instead of managing their own kingdoms. Have you ever heard someone say, “People who call it Xmas are taking the Christ out of Christmas.”? Some Christians get downright defensive when this so called abbreviation is used, but as it turns out it isn’t an abbreviation at all. The first letter in the Greek word for “Christ” is chi. And in the Roman alphabet, chi is represented by the symbol: X. What that means is that Xmas is an entirely justifiable replacement for Christmas that goes all the way back to the beginnings of the faith itself. If you think that there are no discrepancies in the secular version of the holiday, you would be quite mistaken. For example, we’ve all heard names tossed about like Father Christmas or Kris Kringle for the guy typically portrayed as an overweight white dude who wears a fur lined red pimp suit and drives an awesome ride powered by magical reindeer, but who was the real life inspiration for the modern day Santa Claus? The lovable and jolly character that sits around in North American shopping malls encouraging youngsters to sit on his knee for a photo-op is derived from the legend of Sinterklaas, a charitable figure from The Netherlands. Sinterklaas is assisted by some candy-tossing dude, named Zwarte Pieten (Black Pete) and not a bunch of industrious elves. Sinterklaas himself is based on Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of Amsterdam, sailors and children. Saint Nicholas, who is an actual historical figure revered in Christianity, is depicted to look even less like the Americanized Santa than the Dutch Sinterklaas. That is, he isn’t heavyset and he doesn’t have a predilection for red-and-white outerwear. He’s Greek, thin and looks pretty much like most other saints. Here’s a shocker: According to the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, while both male and female reindeer grow antlers in the summer each year, male reindeer drop their antlers at the beginning of winter, usually late November to mid-December. Female reindeer retain their antlers until after they give birth in the spring. Therefore, every single one of Santa’s reindeer, from Rudolph to Blitzen, had to be a Dudette. It has also long been believed that the leaves of the poinsettia plants are poisonous when ingested by humans or even our pets. This is simply not true as poinsettias are nontoxic to humans and animals. Note: Don’t try this to impress your friends at a holiday party. It won’t make the eggnog sit well and don’t ask me how I know this. The truth is that it’s not the stories, legends or myths that matter this holiday season. What really matters is spending the holidays with beloved friends and family and all the joy, love and general feeling of good will toward your fellow dudes that the season can bring, so my wish to you is that you have a Grateful Holiday however you choose to celebrate it and a Dudely New Year As we approach this uniquely American holiday of Thanksgiving, I’m reminded of the true reason we celebrate. And no, it’s not gluttony, football or even the pilgrims, for that matter. It is gratitude. Just the fact that we are free to go where we want, say what we believe, eat what we like, love who we choose (and even marry them in some states) and wear (or choose not to wear) the clothing we prefer would make the majority of people around the world green with envy. Unfortunately, many Americans insist on focusing on what they believe is missing in their lives or what their neighbor has, instead of being thankful for all the blessings bestowed on them. Research has shown that people who practice gratitude on a regular basis experience better physical and psychological health combined with a much stronger sense of wellbeing. They tend to be more optimistic, joyful and engaged in life. They are far less susceptible to negative emotions such as anger, anxiety or even depression. In addition, gratefulness and optimism have been linked with better immune health. A University of Utah study found that stressed-out law students who were optimistic had more immune-boosting blood cells than those who were pessimistic. The simple truth is that being grateful is just good for your overall health. When I first open my eyes in the morning, I like to take a sort of “Gratitude Inventory”. Before I get out of bed, I try to make it a point to run through a mental list of everything for which I’m grateful. It really seems to set the tone for the day and helps me to focus on and appreciate other things I experience throughout the day. When I’m having a particularly difficult day, I try to take a few moments to review my list. It always seems to make the situation a little less worrisome. Sometimes I feel the need to give a little “constructive criticism” to my amazingly accepting girlfriend and what I’ve found is that if I preface my comment with letting her know just how truly grateful I am for her, it tends to make the process of working through our differences go much more smoothly. If I find myself getting upset or angry with someone I encounter, I tell myself to stop, take a deep breath and try to think of reasons why I’m grateful that this crazy SOB has come into my life. I’m not saying this one is easy, but when I’m able to pull it off, I can literally feel my mood shift away from anger. When I hit that proverbial bump in the road on the highway of life, I tend to look at it as a learning opportunity. Many times, the lessons of my failures have led to some of my greatest successes. One of my favorite expressions of gratitude is the simple act of saying thank you. Not only does this make me feel better about myself, but it just might be the single interaction that turns that person’s day in a positive direction and that can be contagious. Most importantly, I try to focus on all the wonderful things I do have and not the things I don’t. I’m not telling you that I don’t have bad days and sometimes fall off the “gratitude wagon”, but in the words of John F. Kennedy (a great dude indeed), “As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them”. Have a Grateful Thanksgiving Dudes! When I eventually left my job of social director at Paradise Lakes Nudist Resort to pursue my fortune living as a nudist ex-pat in the textile world, the one thing that I missed most about the naked world was the palpable sense of community I had always felt there. What I came to realize was that there was an almost unconditional acceptance and respect for one another that went far beyond standard social norms. People really did look out for each other. I can’t tell you how many times I heard one resident asking another something like, “Have you seen Jim Lately? Maybe we should drop by his place just to make sure he’s doing alright”. If someone fell sick, neighbors would take turns dropping by meals, picking up prescriptions or just holding one’s hand for a while. It didn't matter whether you were tall, short, fat, skinny, rich, poor, hairy, bald, black, white or even purple, for that matter. As long as you were naked, you were a member of the team and the other team members would stand beside you and defend your right to be exactly yourself; your Essential Self. Maybe this was just some hold over from the “Hippie Communes” of the sixties or the fact that it’s extremely difficult to be disingenuous sans clothing. Whatever the case, it made for a truly wonderful living environment. After leaving the nudist community, I searched for many years in vain to try to find that sense of belonging I had left behind in Florida. I moved from one apartment complex to another and all I found were neighbors that appeared to be afraid to make even the slightest bit of eye contact in fear that I might be a serial killer or even worse, a Democrat. When I’d venture to say “good morning” or even “hello”, I would receive a blank stare followed by a rush to get in their door and then the sound of multiple dead bolts clicking into the locked position. I eventually purchased a home in a brand new housing development thinking that I would be the force behind creating the community that I longed for. I was one of the first owners to move in, and as other homes were completed and occupied on my block, I would make it a point to knock on each door, introduce myself and welcome them to the neighborhood. I decided that my next step would be to plan a block party and invite all my neighbors so that everyone would have a chance to get acquainted. I made a trip to Sam’s Club and picked up gigantic amounts of hot dogs, hamburgers, soft drinks and beer. On the day of the party, I set up my grill and sound system in my driveway, preparing for a large turnout that would serve as the vehicle to kick off the start of the community that I had been dreaming of. Now maybe it was the fact that I had erected a gigantic illuminated peace sign as my Christmas decoration or that I regularly chose to fly a Tibetan Prayer Flag from my flagpole, but not one of my neighbors bothered to show up or even come out of their house to acknowledge my effort. I later sold that house and moved to Virginia for a job opportunity. It was there that my amazingly accepting girlfriend came home one day and exclaimed, “I found the place we've been looking for!” We got in the car and drove to an unassuming beachfront condominium complex. As we pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a group of people (and their dogs) assembled on the community deck, cheerfully drinking and socializing with one another. I asked the crowd, “Special occasion?” and someone answered “Yes! Tuesday!” followed by the entire group breaking out into uproarious laughter. A beautiful young lady with long curly red hair and an infectious smile approached us and said, “You must be the folks that are interested in the third floor condo. Follow me and I’ll show you around.” We walked up a long winding staircase and witnessed the most amazing view of the Chesapeake Bay either of us had ever seen. She went on to explain that she hoped we would take the unit since it had been quite a while since anyone fun had lived up there. Now I’m not exactly sure how she knew we were “fun”, but she went on to explain how one of the longtime residents had made it her mission to make this a fun place to live. As new residents moved in, she made sure that they knew that they were invited to the party. Over the years, the idea just sort of snowballed with one cheerleader after another stepping in and picking up the baton. To this day, we live in a loving, caring and joyful commUnity. We range in age from 25 to 85 and I never seem to return without at least one person shouting out my name to welcome me home or saying something like “It’s good to see you! We missed you! Can we have a movie night this weekend? How about cooking out? Brunch on Sunday? It seems I have taken on the role of social director once again for a slightly smaller group of not so naked people. If you’re like I was and find yourself living outside the nudist community, but yearning for that sense of belonging, don’t worry Dude. There are like-minded people everywhere and they are looking for a Dude just like you. Friday started off pretty calm. I met up with John, the prince of all things maintenance, to perform the final checks on the four new pools we were opening to the public that evening. John was old school when it came to pool maintenance; he did everything by hand. These new pools came equipped with a fully automated chlorination system that he was having a bit of a hard time wrapping his head around. We went from pool to pool that day testing the ph levels on each. When we arrived at the new hot tub, we were greeted by old Henry and a crowd of his friends who were all ready and waiting to christen the new hot tub. I always thought that Henry had been misnamed at birth and had his parents waited a while, they would have named him Harry because he was one of the hairiest men I had ever seen. Old Henry stepped right up to us and proclaimed that he volunteered to be the first man in the new hot tub. Before we could stop him, he threw off his towel and stepped right in. He submerged himself all the way up to his neck and shouted “I’m number one!” He sat there for a moment with a big smile on his face, and then I asked him, “How’s the water, Henry?” He said, “The water is fine!” and proceeded to exit the tub. Everyone applauded as he stepped out, but then suddenly, the crowd silenced. What we didn’t realize is that since we had not tested that tub yet, we were unaware that it had extremely high acid levels. As he made his way out of the hot tub, it became very apparent that hairy Henry wasn’t so hairy anymore. In fact, every hair on Henry’s body below his neck had been melted off. After a quick hose down, we determined that besides the radical hair loss, old Henry wasn’t that much worse for wear. Saturday night was to be the piece de resistance: the ribbon cutting ceremony to officially open Club Fred. The club was packed that night with patrons in scantily clad costumes to celebrate All Hallows Eve for the first time in the new club. I had painstakingly prepared for this ceremony by painting a large pair of old hedge trimming shears with gold paint and stretching a beautiful golden ribbon across the dance floor. I had asked DJ Jesse, “The Legend”, to call up Fred and Randi to officiate and I handed over the microphone and the golden shears to Fred. He then approached the golden ribbon, made a short speech, and attempted to cut the ribbon. Unfortunately, the ribbon remained intact. After an unsuccessful second attempt, he proclaimed, “I’m sure my staff tested this prior to asking me up here.”, which of course I hadn’t. At that point, “The Legend” sprang into action, grabbed a pair of scissors from the DJ booth and by the time he was completing his third attempt, swooped down and cut the ribbon. I’m pleased to say that the rest of the weekend went off without a hitch. I still look back on the events of that Halloween with a great deal of fondness. If I had to do it all over again, I think I might have sharpened those damn hedge trimmers, but other than that, I wouldn’t change a thing. Until next time, keep your trimmers sharp and watch your acid levels, dudes. I was never a big believer in omens and the like, but I should have paid heed to the signs that were unfolding. At Paradise, we had chosen to combine the Phase 3 grand opening with our most popular weekend; our Halloween Extravaganza. To begin with, we were finalizing the details at the Thursday manager's meeting prior to the big event. We were interrupted by a call from the tiki bar. Rich, the food and beverage manager, picked it up on speakerphone and barked, “This better be important. We're in the middle of a meeting!" Crystal, our lovely new bartender, replied in a panicked voice, “Rich, come quick! My Busch is foaming and vibrating!” Without missing a beat, Rich came back with,“Don’t move! I’ll be right there”. Needless to say, the meeting fell apart into uproarious laughter. As it turned out, Crystal had just connected one of her kegs incorrectly, but in hindsight that was just the first sign. Then, around 3 pm that same day, the obligatory afternoon thunderstorm blew in. Living in the lightning capitol of the world, most folks around these parts just took these storms for granted, but Kenny wasn’t like most folks. You see, Kenny was a little different; he was some sort of lightning magnet. Kenny had survived being directly struck by lightning on three separate occasions and had also been in seventeen buildings that were hit. Kenny kept very accurate records of these things, you know. Understandably, Kenny would get a little nervous in the afternoon, so I usually made it a point to stop by the front gate and check in on him. Just as I was approaching the gatehouse on my golf cart, the sky opened up and the brightest flash of white light I had ever seen pierced the roof of the gatehouse, followed by a cracking sound that could wake the dead. As the smoke cleared, all I could see was a large black rimmed hole in the highest point of the gatehouse roof. I quickly parked the golf cart and rushed inside, expecting the worst. What I found was Kenny crouched in the corner, mumbling something to himself over and over. I never figured out what Kenny was trying to tell me, but his building count went up to eighteen that day. As soon as we got a makeshift patch on the roof, it was time to set up for the Ladies Night kickoff party featuring the Wickedest Witch Lingerie Contest. Halloween weekend parties at Paradise were always crazy, but with the opening of the new club, this year would be off the chain. I had asked all of our lovely contestants to line up on the stage and told them that I would call them down one at a time to parade around the judges, who were seated in the middle of the dance floor. My first contestant was a tall slender beauty, dressed all in black and wearing four inch stiletto heels. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to have ladies stepping down to the dance floor from a three foot high stage. Thank god the room was packed beyond legal capacity that evening because just as she lost her balance and started to plummet head first towards the dance floor, she was gently caught by the crowd of adoring onlookers below. Now I really don’t think she had rehearsed this little prat fall, but her theatrics definitely played a part in her being crowned the Wickedest Witch in Paradise. To be continued… Same Dude Time, Same Dude Channel |
About Wali,
|