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

COLUMN: Venturing into the World outside the Gates

By Tobin Barnes
We’ve been lolling in the lap of luxury for a couple days now, ever since our flight into Los Cabos, Mexico, and our desperate escape from the freak show at the airport.

Once ensconced, things in this vacationer’s paradise are much better than we had expected. In the mornings, we walk for miles on the pristine sandy beach and, in the afternoons, sit around the pool with the swells who can actually afford all this on a regular basis. (Can they tell we’re from the South Dakota branch of the Clampett family? Maybe, but our room’s just as nice as theirs. Har!)

The army-sized resort staff jumps and almost runs into each other whenever we change positions in our beach chairs, seemingly always in a bother about what more they can do for us.

“So, you’re living like a big-ga shot-ta!” my Italian grandfather would say...if I had an Italian grandfather.

But since I don’t, I’ll tell you what my old man would say if he were still alive: “Champagne appetite on a beer salary, huh?”

And he’d be exactly right.

We could almost get used to this, the high life of wealthy, pasty-faced gringos, but that won’t happen since it takes a long time to accumulate the points we’ve used to stake this, our don’t-get-used-to-it place in the sun.

Other vacationers around us probably just took the funds out of petty cash. What’s big to us is probably small to them. (One thing that always astounds me when I travel is how much money there is beyond the humble confines of South Dakota.)

So we’re rubbing shoulders with the well-to-do, trying to act like it’s no big deal getting pampered.

However, small pangs of guilt, but only occasionally, cross our minds when we think about the overly indulgent digs we’re inhabiting or when we think of how needy the staff must be to work so hard to cadge a few bucks in tips here and there.

But then, what can WE do to solve the world’s problems midway through a vacation? After all, what should we do about such inequality, go home? Protest this excessive luxury by rejecting it? Such would amount to a drop in the bucket, wouldn’t it?

Or should we tip these poor people as much as we ourselves can afford? Which, admittedly, isn’t much.

These distressing pangs, I’ll have to admit to my regret, though considered, don’t last long amidst the balmy breezes.

But they were more evident the day before on our trip into town. Then we were rubbing shoulders not with rich gringos, but with the hard-working locals.

Well aware of costs we actually had to pay, we had decided to ride the local bus ten miles into Cabo San Lucas rather than take a taxi the way well-funded vacationers do. It saved us about forty-some bucks, despite the advice of the bellhop: “You might want to take a taxi. Those buses get crowded.”

And indeed they do.

The bus stop was outside the gates of the resort, beside a racetrack of a highway. We waited 15 minutes, trying not to get sucked into the backwash of some insanely high-speed traffic—people drive around here like they’re Jeff Gordon in the Darlington 500. But then the bus arrived and we were on our way, but standing up and hanging on.

Yeah, all the seats were taken. As many people were hanging on for dear life, just like us, as were sitting. The genial, smiling faces of the locals, who happily served as members of the resort staff, was replaced by the now impassive faces of laborers going to or getting off from a hard day’s work.

As we rode along, we caught glimpses of the dusty and humbly small, non-resort habitations of the local population—places where the people on this bus lived. It was their relatively inexpensive labor that enabled paradise-like conditions enjoyed by Mr. and Mrs. Gotbucks at the resorts.

From people we talked to, a vast majority of the workers had come from other parts of Mexico to find what were considered well-above average jobs in Los Cabos. So, I guess, rich and poor were both getting a good deal here, though when I thought about it—occasionally—it all seemed a little lopsided.

Brian Regan on Degree of Pain

This and the next video are very good. Actually, it would be best to watch the one below first.

Brian Regan on Emergency Care

THE ETHICIST: Expensive Boo Boo

COLUMN: We Don't Belong Here

By Tobin Barnes
So we’ve been sitting on a shuttle bus at the Los Cabos airport for a goodly long time now. We’d paid a mustachioed bandito, sans bandoleras, named Alberto, $28 to be on this bus that would “soon” take us to our hotel. We have discovered that in Mexico “soon” is a variable, kinda like “x” in a mathematical equation.

Alberto, who is no longer around--which makes us nervous, has promised us the sun, moon, and stars, including the return of our twenty-eight bucks and two rounds of golf at the best course in Mexico, and all we have to do is attend a ninety-minute free breakfast while somebody talks.

This breakfast can be on any day of our choosing. We chose two days from this day, thinking we’ve more time down here than things planned anyway, so what the heck?

In the meantime, we’ve rightly deduced, after getting a breather from running the airport hustle and bustle, knees and elbows gauntlet, that the breakfast presentation we’ve committed ourselves to is going to be about time shares. Yeah, by all indications at the airport, sales of time shares is the number one pastime amongst the local citizenry of Los Cabos.

But also, as we’ll eventually realize, it’s more than that outside the sanctuary of our hotel. It’s not just sales of time shares, it’s sales of “you name it, senor.” The locals live, breathe, and eat the stuff.

And actually, it’s much more than even that. It’s all about separating the yankee from his dollar--the true Montezuma’s revenge. (We never did have any trouble with the water where we stayed in Los Cabos. Other Mexican locales might be a different matter.)

Anyway, the bus driver finally gets on board, but only after a “guide” arrives to accompany him. It seems the friendly guide is riding along to give us some tips about spending time in Los Cabos. And tips we get--especially about time shares (he knows Alberto), but to be honest, about other things as well.

Turns out he’s an American from East L.A. of Mexican extraction, and evidently his job is to clear the airport confusion from our minds and to seal the deal about our attendance at the breakfast. Admittedly, he’s a funny, entertaining guy, but as indicated, he’s not just along for the ride. His presence purposely reassures us, after the airport culture shock, that there truly is two rounds of golf over the horizon, not to mention other goodies.

And all we have to do is show up for the breakfast with our invitation that outlines our grab bag of perks. We resolve to do so, hoping that we’ll never see Alberto again.

By that time, we arrive at our hotel, and it’s like going from hell to heaven in one short bus ride across the limbo of local life. Once inside the hotel’s protective gates, we are immediately welcomed to paradise by a grinning bellhop who escorts us not to the registration desk but the hotel bar, where he seats us at a balcony table that overlooks an absolutely gorgeous scene of verdant palms, serene infinity pool, white sandy beach, and the azure Sea of Cortez.

Wowsa!

He says he’d like to serve us complimentary drinks while he personally takes care of the registration here in this idyllic setting. Despite the distraction of a margarita and Corona with lime, we make sure the bellhop is well aware that we’re staying at this hoity-toity joint on points, not dollars. By now, we’ve been fully alerted to the fact that we could never afford to pay for these digs. We’re massively out of our financial element.

In other words, we are not worthy! (When do we start bowing?)

Oh, he’s aware, all right, probably having already mentally down-sized his tip.

But the smile stays glued on, nevertheless. And we were to find out that it probably wasn’t forced. Every, and I mean “every” staff member we encountered during our six-night stay at that hotel was amongst the most genial and kind people we have ever met on our travels.
(Some trips we’ve taken in the United States we’ve been overwhelmed and gratified to get any genial help whatsoever along the way and not instead to be brusquely hustled elsewhere about our business.)

And when we arrive at our fifth-floor, ocean-view room, we are again blown away. It is, by gigantic leaps and bounds, the nicest place we’ve ever stayed.

Oh thank you, thank you, Hilton points! And thank you, thank you Paris Hilton, though you’re probably not involved in the day-to-day operations, are you?

(It’s quite true we couldn’t afford to pay for something like this. If we reserved the same room next year, it would cost us a whopping $619 per night, $3714 for the six nights--and that’s their second cheapest package. We’d have to take out a mortgage, for crying out loud.)

So we bucked up and decided we were going to do our level best to enjoy it, gosh darn it!

I’ll tell you more about the trip next time.