Tuesday, July 31, 2007

PETA Not Pro-Pigeon

Despite the pro-choice platform most members of the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) personally endorse, the organization has recently come out in favor of forced and unwanted abortions for many of our cities' inhabitants. In Los Angeles recently, PETA's Chief Wildlife Biologist Stephanie Boyles endorsed the use of a "morning after" pill as a form of population control. "We're not trying to fool with Mother Nature," said Boyles. "We're trying to get them (cities) to solve problems in a kind way but in an effective way."

You see; the L.A. Chapter of PETA have had it up to their perfectly manicured eyebrows in bird shit, or specifically, pigeon shit. Those head-bobbing bros produce up to twelve little pigeons a year. Multiply that by the estimated five thousand birds looking for their big break in Hollywood, and you have a lot of pigeon poop. In the past, PETA has endorsed several solutions, including "safe" devices like wire coils, spikes, or sheet metal to deny access to nesting areas or to frighten pigeons away. The new plan is for city workers to feed the city's pigeons food laced with the drug OvoControl P, which literally scrambles the inside of the egg, keeping baby pigeons from hatching. Emergency contraceptive pills approved for humans do not work in quite the same way.

Actress Pam Anderson, a rabid PETA supporter for years, supports the organization's new policy, "I've seen a lot of pigeon sex tapes, and its obvious to me abstinence is not the answer." Sources say Anderson is one of the few Hollywood elite who have been voluntarily spayed or neutered.

This is of course, not the first time PETA has looked at planned parenthood ideas. Critter Condoms, a contraceptive for animals, was partially funded from a PETA grant. Anderson recalled, "It was a good idea; but we had trouble slipping the condoms on little poodle penises."

So, how can the majority of PETA members label themselves as "pro-choice", but support forced abortions of these city dwellers? An anonymous PETA official summed it up, "We defend all animals, including unpopular ones like rats, etc. - but a rat has never crapped on my SUV."

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Remembering Arne Petersen

Just last week, I discovered that someone I considered a friend had passed away on February 9, 2003. Arne Petersen, the Danish-born developer of Taino Beach Resort and Ritz Beach Resort on Grand Bahama Island, Bahamas, suffered a gunshot wound to his chest during an armed robbery in his home. I worked for Arne for a couple of years, after I left John and Ron Holt. He will never know it now, but Arne has influenced me greatly, even to this day. The George Benard Shaw quote on this blog's header owes its placement, in part, to Mr. Arne Petersen.

Working with Arne was difficult sometimes. He was the most "hands-on" developer I have ever seen in my life. Every resort problem, from new construction to new light bulbs, passed through Arne at his beach-side office, the first table on Taino Beach's restaurant deck. He was very approachable; employees and timeshare owners alike could stop and talk during breakfast. Okay, maybe "talk" wasn't the best way to describe it. Arne could speak and understand English, but many times he chose not to. He would sit there with his twinkling blue eyes and reddish complexion (was St. Nicholas a Dane?), nodding his head, waiting for you to finally give up getting your point across. Only then would he smile sweetly, a twinkle in his eye, and throw a friendly verbal jab at you. As I've grown older, I've used this "Mr. P." technique effectively; pretending not to understand what the Hell you're trying to tell me, rather than bother arguing with you. It saves a lot of time, believe me.

Arne only pretended to be a grumpy old man. I remember the day after a killer sales day, when everyone literally bought everything we threw at them, Arne appeared at our morning sales meeting brandishing a fire extinguisher. He ran from table to table, bellowing in his intentionally broken English, "Too much heat! Too much heat! You burn my poor owners!" He was proud, but damn if The Danish Hammer would admit it. It was hysterical.

To this day, I find myself unconsciously adopting another of Arne's mannerisms. When you see someone you really don't feel like talking to, put on a shit-eating grin from ear to ear, wave like royalty, and say in the thickest Danish accent you can, "Hihowareyou?". For some strange reason, it makes the other guy look like an idiot. Somebody needs to throw some grant money on this to find out why.
While he generally distrusted most Americans (most likely due to bad business deals in the past) Arne Petersen passionately loved the Bahamian people. His proudest moment was the day he finally got his long over-due Bahamian citizenship. (Imagine, this is a man who poured millions of dollars into the Bahamian economy, contributed to dozen of charitable organizations, and employed a hundred employees at any given time, but was continually denied?) When the government finally decided to reward him with citizenship, every employee was as happy as he was!
Arne protected his people. I know he gave many of his people no-interest loans to buy cars and houses. If any of the Bahamians needed money, Arne was the first they went to, and Arne would usually give it to them. Of course, payments were deducted from paychecks.
One last thing. Arne loved Tanio Beach and Ritz Beach, especially the trees and foilage he had landscaped. He drove the gardeners crazy. Every tree, bush, and flower was under Arne's green thumb. Arne understood more than anyone, you can always make things better than they really are.
God be with you, Arne. I'm sure the people you left behind can carry on, but I'm sure you are missed every moment.

Arnie and long-time employee Gaynelle

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Jamaica's Gambling Problem

The two main political parties in Jamaica, the Jamaica Labour Party (JLP) and the People's National Party (PNP), are distancing themselves from a revenue stream that should have been in place since Jamaican independence. While casino gambling is touted as a sensitive topic, especially since a general election is imminent, the fact is, it should not be considered at all. For Jamaicans, it is a dead issue. You missed the opportunity. Now get over it.

Both parties do not want to anger the powerful church community, which has led fanatical anti-casino campaigns in the past. And I don't blame them either. But it is too late anyway. The time for Caribbean casinos to establish themselves, was long before expansion of the gaming industry in America. A few forward thinking Caribbean nations, notably the Caymans, the Dominican Republic, Aruba, Puerto Rico and The Bahamas, had their casino operations in place long before Americans could gamble outside of Nevada. Nowadays, casinos are virtually everywhere in the States; Nevada, New Jersey, on riverboats along the Mississippi River, and Indian reservations. In my opinion, for Jamaica to directly compete with casino gambling in States-side is foolhardy.

Recently in Jamaica's newpaper, The Gleaner, "With the world-renowned tourism product 'Jamaica' barely passing the three million mark in 2006 - while less-recognised tourist destinations such as Singapore celebrated 30 million tourist arrivals - there are some who strongly believe that casino gambling would add variety to our attractions."

Crap.

Again in The Gleaner, "The tourism master plan for the period 2001-2010 - established during the tenure of then Tourism Minister Portia Simpson Miller - calls for diversification in the sector to improve and make the product more attractive to a wider range of visitors by having 'greater variety and a higher quality of visitor attractions,' and 'a wider range of recreational and entertainment opportunities.'

Not crap.

The difference is, of course, no mention of casino gambling.

I urge both parties to refrain from the promise of casinos, and concentrate on tourism education in the schools, creating niche marketing opportunities (like eco-tourism, for example), and cut crime in half. That is what the tourist needs to visit Jamaica, and Jamaicans could benefit greatly as well.

A Fairy Tale . . .

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a miserable, old King. His Royal Court included many of the bravest Knights in the Land, and well as the Lords and Ladies of The Realm who had somehow earned their way into the disagreeable old King's favour. His possessions were many, with some accepted as rarest in all the Land. But none were more rare, nor as lovely, as the old man's beautiful Queen, Gwenelle; a nineteen year old dark-haired beauty with the most magnificent, voluptuous breasts anyone had ever laid eyes upon.

Sir Gabriel, the King's bravest Knight, was mesmerized by the young beauty's stunning endowments. The Knight vowed, to himself of course, to single-handedly slay ten dragons for a single touch of The Queen's perfect pair. But alas, poor Gabriel knew it was never to be. The old King was an extremely jealous man. And the Knight knew the penalty for his desire would be an excrutiating death, should he ever try to touch Her Majesty's glorious breasts.

On a day like any other, Sir Gabriel finally broke down and confessed his secret desire to a colleague, the King's Royal Physician. As the Knight sobbed, unable to keep his Dark Secret any longer, the Physician patiently listened. Finally the Physician quietly said, he could arrange for Gabriel to satisfy his urges, with two important conditions. One; Gabriel could not touch The Queen below her Royal waist. And two; the Knight would pay the Physician 1,000 gold coins to arrange it. Without hesitation, the young Knight readily agreed to the scheme.

The very next day, the Royal Physician made a batch of itching powder and secretly entered The Queen's Chambers. He gingerly poured a little bit into The Queen's brassiere as her handmaidens bathed her. Soon after she dressed, the itching commenced and became more intense as dusk approached. Upon being summoned to The Queen's Chambers and upon examining Her Majesty, The Royal Physician gravely informed both the King and Queen only special saliva, if applied liberally for four continuous hours, would cure this type of itch, and that tests had shown that only the saliva of the King's bravest Knight, Sir Gabriel, would work as the cure for The Queen's worsening condition. Though horribly jealous, the old King relented and quickly summoned Gabriel.

When the young Knight arrived, the Royal Physician pulled him aside and slipped Sir Gabriel the antidote for the itching powder, which he quickly put into his mouth. Returning to the couple, the knight barely contained his excitment as Gwenelle shyly slid her sheer robe past her delicate shoulders, revealing those magnificent objects of his Desire. And, for the next four hours, with the jealous old King sitting nearby, Sir Gabriel licked every inch of The Queen's beautifully voluptuous breasts. He played her upper body like an instrument; lightly teasing with his tongue, then pressing his face deep into her generous mounds. Gabriel was indeed, in Heaven! As the Royal Phsician had predicted, Gwenelle's itching gradually subsided, then stopped altogether. Sir Gabriel was completely satisfied, completely exhausted, and the miserable old King was forced to grumble his thanks to his bravest Knight.

Sir Gabriel returned to his own Chambers, and slept soundly. But soon, there was a loud knock at his door. The Royal Physician pushed in, demanding his payment of 1,000 gold coins for the services he rendered. But with his fetish now completely satisfied, Sir Gabriel could not have cared less about his obligation. And, knowing the Royal Physician could never report this matter to The King, Gabriel simply laughed and told him to get lost.

The very next day, the Royal Physician slipped a massive dose of the very same itching powder into the old King's underwear. The old King immediately summoned Sir Gabriel . . .

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

Is Your DNA Gay?

Is there a link between sexual orientation, with something that's inborn? Something that clearly enviroment, or personal choice, have nothing to do with? It's the "nature versus nurture" question - do people choose their sexuality, or is "gayness" determined by their DNA? Michael Jackson was right. You have to look at "the man in the mirror". Well, you kinda have to look at two mirrors together - aiming carefully to get a good look at the top of your noggin.

Richard Lippa, a professor of psychology at California State University at Fullerton, collects photos of hair whorls. I'll save you the trouble of looking it up; hair whorls are circular swirl hair patterns most people have at the top of their heads. Lippa insists only about 10 percent of the general population have whorls that rotate counter-clockwise, but over 20 percent of gay men have counter-clockwise whorls.

Lippa says, "You're born with either a clockwise or a counter-clockwise hair whorl. It's fixed, it's biologically determined. No one's going to argue that your hair whorl is influenced by learning or culture." His theory - you can't choose your whorl, and you can't choose your sexuality, either.

So dude; you can't help it if you're gay! It's genetic! Somehow your DNA strands crossed, and where I see Halle Berry, you see Danny Divito. And, while unsure of your own sexuality in your formative years - your barber knew all along you would grow up dreaming about some guy's asshole!

Is your DNA gay? Only your hairdresser knows for sure. Ask your stylist which way your whorl whirls. Here's a little ditty to help you remember; "Clockwise is RIGHT, counter-clockwise is RI-YAN (Seacrest)."

Q: Where can men over the age of 50 find younger women who are interested in them? A: Try a bookstore under fiction.