THE ETHICIST: Minorities for Money

The second one this time is particularly interesting.

Dance Party Friday - Everybody Dance Now

Don't Fall for the Jury Duty Scam

Click on the picture for more info. (Sent on by Tom Cooley)

Scenes of Old Mitchell, SD on Penny Postcards

Click on the old Post Office to see more scenes. (Sent by Geoff Ziebart, whose family's roots are in Mitchell area)

Uncle Barnes Wants You

One of my AP U.S. History students Photoshopped me into Uncle Barnes. Whatever. At least there aren't any dart holes.

COLUMN: The Best Golf Course in Mexico

By Tobin Barnes
A guard mans the gate to the entrance of the Pamilla Resort and Golf Course. It must be to keep the riff-raff out—and that’d normally be me.

But not today.

Today I’ve got a pass to play the “best golf course in Mexico.” However, I’ve learned that like the word “soon,” the word “best” in Mexico is a variable, kind of like “x” in a mathematical equation.

Turns out that there might be at least ten “best” courses down here, if not more. Absolute words like “best” in Mexico are handy adjectives that can be liberally spread around, like jam on toast—that way everybody gets a little.

Nevertheless, Pamilla’s a pretty good golf course—designed by Jack Nicklaus—and I get to play it twice for free—today and tomorrow.

Yeah, even though my wife sat through the same time shares presentation I did to get these two passes and more, she’s decided she’d instead rather stay at our seaside hotel to walk the beach and sit around thare pool while I’m out playing golf.

And, hey, I didn’t have to twist her arm or anything. The go-ahead was not asked for but freely dispensed, nonetheless.

You see, she’s not a golf nut like I am. Unlike me, she can take it or leave it, while my leaving it would be tantamount to a humanitarian tragedy.

Anyway, my taxi pulls up to the pro shop, and immediately one of the staff members grabs my bag and puts it on a cart. Then he throws some ice into the cart’s cooler where there’s already six bottled waters, gets a cup, fills that with ice and water, and, hey, I’m ready to go.

Then when I’m done playing each day, other staff members are Johnny on the spot to clean my clubs (at home, I clean my clubs maybe three times a year, counting rainy days). Next, they haul them out to the parking lot. What can I do but tip these guys, which, of course, seems to be the point.

Besides the cooler and the poured ice water, my cart’s outfitted with two air conditioners, one for the driver and one for the passenger. My wife, who had carefully read a Los Cabos travel guide, had said, “Hey, maybe you’ll get a cart with an air conditioner.”

I had scoffed at her suggestion heartily. Air conditioner on a golf cart? Har! In forty years of playing golf, I’d never heard of such a thing. Didn’t make sense.

Well, at first class Pamilla, it makes sense when you’re trying to pamper rich people.

When I got back to the hotel, I felt morally obliged to tell my wife she was right. She cherishes those moments when I’m wrong.

But it turned out to be not my only mistake. One of the two days I was at Pamilla, I forgot to wear a collared shirt. Though I was fully aware that I wasn’t in South Dakota anymore, Toto, I realized that I’d really goofed when the pro shop attendant pointed out their policy.

Miles away from our hotel with my tee time coming up, my only recourse was to buy a shirt on the spot. And I knew I was going to have to pay through the nose. After a quick scan through their racks of shirts, I sheepishly went back to the attendant and asked if they had any shirts on sale. Of course, that’s like going into Tiffany’s and asking if you could maybe paw through their bargain basket.

Surprisingly enough, the pro shop did have a sale rack. However, the cheapest shirt I could find was $70. I’d never bought a $70 shirt in my life until that day. But at least it had a Pamilla logo on it. Good for a conversation starter, if nothing else.

Later, one of the guys in my foursome said to me, “You must play here a lot. I see you’ve got a Pamilla shirt.”

I casually replied, “Not really.”

But then, he’d paid $250 to be in my foursome that afternoon. And he thought that wasn’t too bad because if he’d gotten a morning tee time, it would have been $350. I just let him keep thinking that $250 is no big deal for a guy that wears $70 shirts.

Whatever.

And no doubt the course was gorgeous, the nicest by miles of any I’ve been on, but midway through the round it kind of seemed to me that the golf here was pretty much like golf on my home course—a few good shots, but mostly mediocre or lousy ones. Uh huh, just like usual, except with a heck of a lot more sand traps you gotta hack your way out of.

But then at least at home I’d never be paying upwards of three bucks a pop to swing at a golf ball like the other guys in my foursome here in Mexico.

THE ETHICIST: Anonymity Breach

COLUMN: Breakfast Overlooking the Sea of Cortez

By Tobin Barnes
Today we have to hop into a taxi and ride a few miles down the road to the Westin Hotel to hear about time shares. That is, if we want two free passes to play golf on the “best course in Mexico.”

This is going to be a totally mercenary activity on our part. Cold-blooded, actually. We are taking our minds along with us, not our hearts. In other words, no way in bloody hell are we going to buy a time share. Guaranteed. They’re wasting their time on us. You can bet on it. We’re just in it for the goodies.

As I told you before, Alberto promised us the sun, moon, and stars at the Los Cabos Airport if we would only listen to a 90-minute presentation as we eat a free breakfast. Made it sound like somebody would be up at a podium talking while we’d barely have to pay attention. All we had to do was mindlessly enjoy our sausages and pancakes. No fuss, no muss. Then that same day we’d be playing on a Jack Nicklaus-designed golf course—the best in Mexico.

Well, so far Alberto was right, at least about the taxi ride from our resort to the Westin. Paid for—no problem. Next we’re shepherded up to the time shares lobby where a three-piece Mexican string band is playing lilting airs near a breathtaking overlook of the azure Sea of Cortez. Nice touch.

At the desk there, we’re given a questionnaire on which, before long, we’re confronted with a question about our income. We look at each other, knowing that we’re about to get our raggedy butts tossed outta there soon as they see how little we make. But, heck, we’re not about to lie and maybe spend the rest of our lives in a dingy Mexican jail on some obscure perjury law. So we put down the sad facts.

Doesn’t seem to phase them. Maybe they think we’ve got a well-endowed trust fund or something, and I’m teaching high schoolers for a hobby—you know, like rich eccentrics sometimes do to pass the time. Uh huh.

Anyway, we’re soon introduced to a nice guy named David, who says he’s originally from Tijauna. Turns out he’s our time shares salesman. Yeah, he’s nice and we’re nice right back at him. After all, he thinks he’s going to sell us something, and we think we’re going to get free stuff. Nice all around.

But unlike what Alberto may have indicated—and who really knows with Alberto—there isn’t going to be someone speaking at a podium that we can easily ignore. Oh no, it’s going to be face-to-face with David.

And, no doubt, we have a nice breakfast there, talking about non-time share-type things, but then he begins his pitch, starting high and going lower and lower as seems to be the norm in Mexican Sales Strategy 101. Midway through all this—whole thing takes more like two hours than the promised 90 minutes—he gives us a tour of the place, and we agree, it’s all top-notch.

But back at the breakfast room/sales cooker, we’re not budging, despite the fact that champagne corks are popping all over the place. In other words, other customers are budging and buying, and whenever that happens, the successful salesman pops the cork and everyone in the room claps. It’s a party atmosphere, especially for the salesman who just made the sale.

No progress for our David, however. So he says he’s got to go talk to the manager (sounds kinda like a car dealership, doesn’t it?). When he gets back, David tells us he’s been authorized to give us a special deal. We can have our time share every other year instead of every year and at a price he figures even a South Dakota teacher can afford.

Well, you’d be wrong about that, David. So adios amigo, and, hey, where do we pick up our golf course passes, senor?

We’re directed to a small office a short distance away. And sure enough, we get everything Alberto promised: shuttle fare reimbursement ($28), taxi fare back to the airport for our departure, taxi fare back to our resort from here at the Westin (all fares paid in pesos), a coupon for a free meal in Cabo San Lucas, and a pass for two rounds of golf at the Pamilla Resort and Golf Course.

I’d almost kiss Alberto if he were around.

Best course in Mexico? Here we come.

Don't Drink the Water--Not from Those Glasses

Thinking about this drink will sober you up.

JON STEWART: The Jimmy Legs