Rudolph Revisited

SANTA’S TRUE COLORS AREN’T JUST RED AND GREEN
 

In the holiday classic “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” Santa’s saccharine sweetness gives way to his true nature. To a starry-eyed tot watching this drama for the first 11 or 12 times, all is magical in this land of talking snowmen and red-nosed reindeer. To the seasoned viewer, however, each year’s presentation reveals yet another blatantly bigoted, sexist, or conformist statement.

I have always loved Rudolph… he is probably the closest thing to a perfect man God has ever created. He is sweet-natured, well-mannered and adorably unique.

And yet, in the past fifteen years of watching this holiday treat, along with the rest of the world, ugly things have started invading my happy little red-nosed winter wonderland.

As soon as the curtain opens on "Christmastown," Burl Ives – disguised as a snowman – recaps for us that every year, as we all know, “Santa uses a team of flying reindeer” to deliver toys to deserving children. Oh, he “uses” them alright… the old bastard!

Just because he is “jolly” (aka OBESE) and wears red fur and laughs a lot, we are supposed to think he is the cat’s ass. By this token, if Cruella Deville gained 400 pounds and started wearing red instead of black and white, would she suddenly have a reputation as a righteous babe that all the kiddies adore? She already likes to laugh, so she’s good there already. I don’t see it happening.

Anyway, this Santa bastard… he takes claim for delivering toys all over the world in one night, and yet… if you ever bust in on a wrap session Christmas Eve, you’ll see that it’s your mother doing all the hard work and putting Santa’s name on the gift tag. The old coot just sits back popping cookies and slugging nog while yo’ mama is the one working her butt off to give you a merry Christmas (and preserve Santa’s rep at the same time).

But all this aside (I’m sorry, I’m rambling on, emotions are running high – Rudolph is why we’re here today)… as soon as Rudolph’s parents discover their child has a special feature, Daddy Donner slaps a glop of mud on the poor baby’s nose to conceal it.

And just in time, too… as here comes Santa ‘nosing’ around to check out the new offspring. He remarks what a fine specimen Rudolph is… and, as if on cue, Rudolph’s faux sniffer seemingly leaps to the ground of its own accord.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Donner…!” Santa scolds. And at first, you get excited, thinking that Santa is going to lambaste Donner for covering his child’s most prominent and exciting feature. But Santa makes quick work of any appreciative thoughts you might be harboring where he’s concerned. In evident disgust, he hastily spits “…a RED-nosed reindeer!” before he huffs out of the cave. God forbid anyone should display ANYthing but a regulation, standard-issue, run-of-the-mill, coal-black reindeer nose! You must CONFORM. That is Santa’s crystal-clear message here… the roly-poly bigot! Anyone trying to go his own way and be himself might not be shot on sight, but he’ll definitely want to consider long and hard getting a nose job (or at least wearing a falsie outside of the cave) or relocating to somewhere that freaks are accepted as the norm (i.e., The Island of Misfit Toys).

Donner sets Rudolph straight on his disfigurement and tells him that he WILL wear the falsie to reindeer tryouts… “No son of MINE is going to go around with a RED nose!”

Rudolph obeys his overbearing dad and sets forth for tryouts with the falsie securely in place. At tryouts, he meets young Fireball, with whom he discusses life and love (in the shape of an attractive young doe standing on the sidelines). Fireball assures Rudolph he has plenty of time before his turn arrives to get acquainted with the young lady. Rudolph and Clarice hit it off instantly and are starting to lay the groundwork for a loving monogamous relationship when Coach Blitzen bellows that it is time for Rudolph to step up to the plate. Rudolph, letting no moss grow ‘neath his hooves, hastily asks Clarice for the honor of walking her home after tryouts. She delightedly accepts, adding in a shy whisper, “Oh, and Rudolph… I think you’re cute!” This is all our dear hero needs to fuel his maximum flying reindeer capabilities. “I’m cute! I’m cute! She says I’m cuuuuuute!” he shouts with glee, flying roughly 25 feet into the air… not once, but twice. Coach Blitzen’s reaction? “Not bad. Not bad at all.” Hel-LO! You, MISTER, are NO reindeer… you are a JACKASS! This young buck will consistently put the rest of you to shame! Clearly, this little lad is, and will continue to be, the star of the show. He is exceptional in every way. Probably 98% of the established adult reindeer team doesn’t have that kind of power! Aaaaaaarrrrrgggh!!!!

His peers are impressed and they begin horsing around with him (if this scene had been shot in a locker room, they would have definitely been snapping towels at his nappy reindeer ass). Scorn rears its ugly head on the snow-white landscape as Rudolph’s falsie pulls another banzai mission. The other deer are repulsed and freaked out. We are fortunate that they don’t toss their oats… that’s how creeped-out they are at the sight of Rudolph’s flasher. Coach Blitzen, after a momentary difficulty with his eyes lolling back into his head and nearly popping clean out of his skull, tells him he is OUT! [Message here: It doesn’t matter how talented and amazing you are, if you’re unique, you are a freak… we don’t want freaks...]

But… what light through yonder window breaks? Clarice still thinks he’s swell! She’s a bright girl and knows a swank guy when she meets one! Black nose or red nose, she’s in this thing for the long haul. As Rudolph walks her home, she breaks into a sweet song for Rudolph’s benefit about how “There’s always tomorrow for dreams to come true…” Rudolph appreciates her loyalty and they share a tender moment… that’s when Clarice’s father busts onto the scene and commanding his daughter to return to their cave, says, “No daughter of MINE is going to be seen with a RED-nosed reindeer!” Aaaaaaarrrrrgggh!!!!

Have you kids gotten the message yet?!!! If not, do you have A.D.D.?

Conform or lead a miserable, lonely life!

Rudolph knows he can’t go around with the falsie on anymore. Everybody in Christmastown knows he’s a freak with a red nose and he’ll never get the job he was born to do. He hated wearing that damned falsie anyway. Part of him is glad that it kept popping off, but he knows he has to leave the only home he’s ever known and set off for parts unchartered. He happens to bump into Hermie, the young elf who “wants to be a den-tist.” He, too, is a misfit, and the pair decide to hit the tundra together, singing happily about the fact that they’re both misfits and that’s how they fit in.

While on the run from “the Bumble” (aka, the Abominable Snowman), they meet up with Yukon Cornelius, an amiable bloke whose shopping list consists of “cornmeal, gun powder, hamhocks and guitar strings.” He tells them that the place they should live is The Island of Misfit Toys, and says he can take them there.

Unfortunately, once they arrive, the king of the island tells them that the island is for toys alone… those toys that no little boy or girl loved. Yukon jokes that even among misfits, they’re misfits (yes, thanks for pointing that out, Yuke). King Moonracer (yes, that’s his real name) tells our motley crew that, although they shall not be permitted to reside long-term, they will be provided accommodations for the night… as long as they promise to tell Santa, if they ever return to Christmastown, about the misfit toys… because surely HE can find little girls and boys who will love them. This, of course, is assuming that Santa’s not some mean jerk who discriminates against imperfect mutants.

Among our misfit islanders… a decidedly gay “Charlie in the box” (ohhhhh – he keeps coming out – get it?!), a pistol that shoots jelly, a train with square wheels, a cowboy who rides an ostrich, a polka-dotted elephant, a bird that swims, etc. The one resident that has always disturbed me, and undoubtedly will continue to disturb me, until the day I die, is the dolly. She is cute, she is lovely, she has a sweet singing voice, her dress is not torn and she cries real tears… so WHY is she an unwanted toy? There is nothing wrong with her. There should not be a problem finding a friend for her! Why does her predicament seem so familiar to me? I am scared to even ask what her name is…

Meanwhile, back in Christmastown, the deer are getting panicky that Rudolph hasn’t returned. They figure he has probably ended up on the Bumble’s pupu platter. Donner feels guilty and decides to go find his son. Clarice and Mrs. Donner want to go too, but they are told, “No… this is MAN’s work.” Yeah, well, whatever.

Donner doesn’t come back right away and the women say, “Screw it! Somebody’s gotta find our honey boy and Donner doesn’t have the balls to pull it off!” (well, I mean, we don’t hear them saying it, but it’s totally implied)

Long story shorter, they all end up in the Bumble’s cave and Hermie makes oinking noises to lure the Bumble out, Yuke drops some heavy metal on his head and then Hermie extracts the Bumble’s choppers, forever protecting the winter wonderland from the dreaded danger of the Bumble’s powerful jaws and razor-like teeth. The deer head back home with Hermie, whilst Yuke teaches the Bumble a valuable trade.

Upon arrival in Christmastown, it is announced that the blizzard of the century has struck and Christmas has been canceled. Santa will never be able to see his way through that storm. Rudolph’s nose beams at an opportune moment and Santa, noted for his high IQ (not!) deduces that Rudolph’s nose will shine the way to their every destination. Oh SURE! He’s a FREAK and an outcast until HE can save YOUR ass and then you’re all over him like a cheap red fur suit!

You know what happens then. Rudolph, being the forever-forgiving and loving soul that he is, says he’ll do it. He’s an instant celebrity then, because his blinkin’ beacon has saved Christmas… from the commercial Santa aspect, anyway.

And this year, something new and disturbing occurred to me as I watched.

They stopped and picked up the misfit toys like they do every year. And as the final credits rolled, I watched them hand each of the glad-hearted misfit toys an umbrella and push them out of the sleigh towards their final destination.

Are we honestly to believe that some flimsy UMBRELLA is going to safely guide them to that special little boy or girl that will finally love them? What about the other toys? Santa takes them directly down the chimney in his sack… and yet the misfits are just shoved out with no guidance or protection whatsoever! I found this deplorable and unforgivable… and heartbreaking, when you see the happy little smiles on their faces as they jump unknowingly to their inevitable demise. I guess we’re supposed to figure that the Christmas magic will keep them safe… what kind of idiots do they take us for?

I guess maybe the kind that spends a few hours writing a review on how unworthy Santa is to hold such a lofty place in our hearts. I just needed a little mental cleansing and I think maybe this will help me rest a little easier tonight. I probably won’t even wake up when the red glow beams in through the window at me.

One last question… do you really think that a flying reindeer with a glowing nose really needs some heavyweight fatty to help deliver presents? It seems to me that Rudolph is MORE than capable of delivering the gifts on his own. Santa is just a figurehead and a dead weight in the sleigh. Think how many more presents could fit if you left that lardass back at the Pole! You wouldn’t find Rudolph getting stuck in the chimney… ever! ‘Cause he’s sleek and sassy and built for speed!

Viva Rudolph! We love you!

And Mele Kalikimaka to all of you!

Conrad :(

Who loves a good massage more than I do?

No one does.

The best ever came from Bruce… Bruce worked at the Four Seasons Wailea on Maui and brought people bliss and serenity every day he worked.

It wouldn’t occur to me to request a male therapist, but Bruce was the greatest.  He looked like Mr. Clean from the commercials.  He had quite a talent with his hands and with hot stones and melting cocoa butter.  

The first time with Bruce was the best time with Bruce… because that was the time he put the little soft hot stones between my toes… soooo happy!

Subsequent times were great too, but he tended to focus more on the therapy of what needed fixing, not so much just feeling cozy.

I’m a cozy girl.  I really wanted the toe treatment again, but it was not to be.

Bruce ended up retiring to somewhere like Arizona.  I guess he had to retire to somewhere where the stones were hot and cocoa butter would melt.  

Sadness.

 

Then there was Suzanne… Suzanne was from some foreign country and she was awfully wonderful too.  She worked at the Four Seasons Lanai at Manele Bay.  

I figured, after Bruce, no one would fill the void.

But Suzanne changed all that and gave me renewed hope.

She had a few beautiful tricks of her own… the most memorable to me was when she had me sit up and she put two little rows of hot stones under the fitted sheet, so when I lay down, there was a glow of warmth on either side of my spine… delicious!  She also remembered to put the little hot stones in between my toes, and they (and I) will never forget how splendid it felt! 

I was looking forward to having another of Suzanne’s massages on my most recent trip to Lanai.

I called the spa and inquired as to if she was still with them.

“Oh, I’m sorry… Suzanne moved to Texas…”

Texas?!  What the #%*?*??

“Did you want to request anyone else?  Male or female?”

I just told them to book me with whoever was the best.

Who they booked me with was Conrad.

 

I was seated in the waiting area with a few others.

Promptly at 5:00pm, a door opened and a couple therapists trickled out to collect their clients.

But where was Conrad?

Like Ping the little yellow duck on the Yangtze River, Conrad straggled behind, clearly marching to the beat of a different drummer.

He might have to work with the females, but he wasn’t going to come down the chute at the same time!

He greeted me and we fell in line behind the four pairs of clients and therapists in front of us.

All the other therapists were chatting good-naturedly with their clients.

Conrad followed suit with a smile and a “How’s your afternoon going?”

Out into the hall we all went… and then a quick right back through another door and another corridor.

It all seemed so un-glamorous and un-luxurious being filed in like eggs on a conveyor belt.

 

Conrad showed me where to put my things and then excused himself to let me prepare.

After I was situated, there came a light knock on the door and I cleared him for reentry.

Before he started the massage, he said, “Now, if the stones are too hot, just let me know… ‘course if they’re too hot for you, they’re probably too hot for my hands too…”

Question:  Who is this massage about, Conrad?  Me?  Or you?

The client is always in charge.  It’s all about the client.

I don’t care to hear about Conrad’s hands.

Where is Bruce? Where is Suzanne?  And WHY am I here with Conrad?

 

With the first stone, I was alerted to the fact that Conrad likes his stones HOT.

I let him know they were a little too warm for me and he remedied this situation a few times by dunking them in ice water (I think this is what he was doing… it sounded like what he was doing). 

When the stones reconnected with the skin on my back, they were cooler.  Unfortunately, his hands felt cooler and wetter too.

I want very warm stones and very warm hands and oil to accompany them.

Am I asking too much?  I don’t think so.

After he did this a few times, he seemed to lose interest in the cooling of the stones.

I decided to just bear the heat, as I preferred them being a little too hot to being a little too cold and wet.

 

What else about Conrad?

His nails needed clipping.

One of the cardinal rules of massage therapy is to keep your nails clipped down so there’s hardly any white showing at the tip… NOTHING should extend beyond the tip of your finger.  If I can feel you have nails, they’re too long.  Period.

 

Then, at one point, I could feel he had some sort of rough skin on his palm… a callous… a scab, perhaps… whatever it was, it was rough and it was touching my warm, soft, bare skin.

 

Another rule fallen by the wayside:  Not once did he check in with me about the pressure, nor did he say prior to starting, “If at any time I go too deep or hit a sensitive spot, just let me know.”

 

He did not ask if the temperature in the room was comfortable to me, if I was too hot or too cold.

 

He did not ask if the music was to my liking or if the volume was acceptable. 

P.S. – I hated the music… sounded kinda New-Agey-meets-tortured-souls-communing-by-a-towering-bonfire… there should always be a choice.

In addition, at one point, there were people talking in the next treatment room for about five minutes… I couldn’t hear what they were saying, it sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher, but it was most UN-relaxing.  I have never been in a spa and had to listen to the other humans… that’s why you’re going there… to get AWAY from the other humans.

 

I might come across as sounding awfully demanding here, but when someone is getting a massage from me, all of these issues are addressed.

In summation, if you’re coming to Hawaii and staying on Lanai, skip the hot stones with Conrad.

Go get yourself a couple of chocolate martinis at the Lodge… they’re much better at warming you up and adjusting your attitude… at a fraction of the price.

 

 

 

D!

Upon arrival to Lanai, we were the first to shoot off the airplane and straight to the Four Seasons desk.

One substantial local gentleman manned the desk and the accompanying transportation engineer (shuttle driver) flanked the side of the desk.

 

The driver was hungry for luggage to comandeer and he reached eagerly for the handle of my sporty (and very eye-catching) orange Samsonite wheely-bag.

In one swift, deft motion, he affixed to it a tag with my name and “The Lodge at Koele” on it.

He pointed to the shuttle bus waiting outside the window and told us we could wait here or on the bus.

Having no interest in dallying with the others, we proceeded out to our trusty steed.

A scruffy-looking fellow wearing a tee shirt which proclaimed “WEATHERBUG” in large text was the first to join us, followed by a chatty family of three… Papa Bear, Mama Bear and little Junior, complete with a youthful baseball cap to top his closely-shorn head.

All of these folks had oodles of luggage, which the eager transportation engineer had stowed in the compartment to the rear of the seating area.

As he climbed aboard, he glanced quickly at Tim and myself and stated, “…and that’s all you had…” in a heavily accented voice.

Still trying to decipher his hasty address, we nodded and said, “Yes.”

Then I said to Tim, “Does he have my orange bag back there?”

Tim said, “I’m sure he does…”

I nodded, “Yes, you’re right… we were the first ones at the desk and he grabbed the bag directly from me and slapped that tag on it… of course, he has it…”

 

On the ride to the hotel, the driver prattled on and on and on about Lanai and had any of us been there before and when was that and the population is only 3000 so when you do something wrong, everybody hears about it.  He was friendly, if hyperactively so.  For such a small island with little going on, he seemed exceptionally high-strung and amped-up.

Turned out the three bears were returning after a 10-year absence to show little Junior the lay of the land… he was but a twinkle in Papa Bear’s eye during their last visit and apparently his time to see Lanai had come.

Weatherbug was just on-island for the day and was scheduled on the last flight out at 6p.  The driver warned him of the hours of the rental car place so he could avoid being stranded unintentionally.

 

We arrived at the Lodge and descended the bus steps, only to be halted by the driver.

“Wait, wait! You need your leis!” 

Well, he was right about that.

Where were our leis?
The driver had called them from the rental car place and said he would be there in five minutes.

I suppose they didn’t take him seriously.

Perhaps he was notorious for telling tall tales.

Perhaps he was not.

(After all, from what I understand, if you do something wrong on that island, the word really gets around.)

Momentarily, someone appeared and draped the fresh flower leis on us with a smile.

We proceeded toward the mouth of the Lodge.

Where were our warm moist towels with which to freshen ourselves after our arduous journey?

Customarily, those are to come close on the heels of the leis.

We felt rather like unexpected company that had injected ourselves without warning.

Hmm.

 

Fiona greeted us warmly, handed us each a glass of fresh pineapple cider and promptly seated us for the check-in process.

Martin, the assistant director of rooms who prefers to keep a very low profile, came quietly forward with our towels.

Why does this man always pose as an underling instead of assuming his lofty post with pride?

How about, “Ms. McDonald, Mr. Loyd, so good to see you again… if I can be of any assistance while you’re here, please don’t hesitate to let me know…”

 

Fiona rejoined us and completed our check-in process.

Our room was not yet ready and she told us she would ring my cell phone when it was cleared for occupation.

We headed out onto the front verandah to check our other bags until we received the call.

Fiona intercepted us and said she had just gotten final approval to send us to our room.

We told her we had another bag, an orange one, we hadn’t seen since the airport.

She called out to the driver, who was still nearby.

He looked momentarily confused and then said that the bag was already in the room.

We recounted our tale from the airport and said we weren’t sure the bag had come with us or not.

Sure enough, we reached an empty room… there was no bag in sight.

 

Fiona said they would locate the bag and call us directly to let us know it had been found.

After she left us, we inspected the room, and it was, indeed, to our liking.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen…

How long do you wait?

Surely she had called the driver and the desk at the airport and one of them had said, “Yes, I have it right here… a BRIGHT orange suitcase… can’t miss it!”

We were hungry for lunch and tired of waiting for a call.

Timmer called the front desk and Martin answered.

Apparently, he was unaware of the situation, and so Timmer had to recount it in its’ entirety.

Little Martin, again, said he would find the bag and keep us in the loop.

We tried to call the Clubhouse… best salad EVER… “The Experience Salad”… I could tell you what’s in it, but why don’t we just let it be a surprise… just order it, that’s all you need to know!

Turns out the Clubhouse is closed when the golf course is… which is on Monday and Tuesday… it was Tuesday.

Grrrr!

Another disappointment.

We were directed over to The Terrace.  One side of the restaurant was filling quickly; the other side was empty.

I asked the hostess if we could sit on the empty side.

She feigned a command of the English language and said something about a large party which was expected and that the noise they generated might bother us.

So we got stuck in the cattle car instead.

Should I just label each new disappointment with a big ol’ “D”?

Yes, why don’t I?

D!

 

Nothing on the menu appealed to me.  To help soften the blow, I ordered a Lava Flow.  That was good, anyway.

Timmer ordered a beer.

Finally, I decided on a small Caesar salad and onion soup.  I reflected on the onion soup we had ordered through room service on a prior stay, and it was divine.

Timmer ordered a pastrami sandwich.

After a lengthy wait, the food arrived.  My salad was small and the lettuce was yellow.  

D!

The onion soup was just kinda glucktious.  

D!

I think maybe I enjoyed it more the first time because it was night, it was cold outside and it was a cozy thing to eat from room service.

Timmer said his sandwich was all dried out and tasted like last week’s meat.

D!

A horrible privileged family sat next to us.  They seemed like the loud abrasive party that the hostess had warned us about.  Only she had seated them next to us, instead of buffering us from them as she had promised.

First, the mother came and sat at one end of the table.

The waitress asked where the husband and kids were.  She answered that they were finishing up a game of pool and they would be along shortly.

As she placed an order for the whole family for lunch, she alerted the waitress to the fact that one of the offspring had a peanut allergy.

Why was it when I was a child, it didn’t seem like anyone had nut allergies and now all of a sudden, every other kid has them?  Even on the Young and the Restless, little Summer Newman has one… hell, a whole storyline revolved around the child and her nut allergy!

Anyway, the mother sat there with a contented little smile on her face while texting on her Sidekick.

The waitress brought out the glasses of iced tea and milk and they sat there and warmed while the woman waited for her brood.

She sat there by herself for roughly 20 minutes before the rest of her entourage appeared.

Finally, the husband lumbered in, followed by a lumpy younger woman (who we suspect was a nanny) and two small offspring (probably around 6 and 9 years of age).

The children whined and squirmed in their seats, making it easy for us to accept the check when it arrived at our table.

 

We were stunned to see that our extraordinarily mediocre meal carried the lofty price tag of $83.

This did include two beers and a Lava Flow, mind you… but STILL!

We paid what it cost and went back to the room to change and head out to the pool area.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Call of the Day...

First call today… around 745am:

One of the concierges calls and reminds me that she booked a party of 3 and a party of 2 to go on a Zip Express this morning at 10am.

Turns out that there's a problem and the party of 2 wants to cancel.

The airlines lost their luggage and they need to go to town to buy new clothes.

I remind the concierge of our 48-hour cancellation policy and she tells me that she has already told them that we are pretty strict about it.

Then the man gets on the phone.

He greets me and starts his sad tale.

I tell him that I am not a supervisor, I have no authority, I just take reservations.

He asks me to just take a minute and listen to what he has to say.

"Danny" then proceeds to launch into the whole explanation.

"I've got a 16-year-old daughter here, it's her first trip to Hawaii and she's in tears because she's been wearing the same clothes for 3 days.  I just want to take her to town to buy some clothes."

"Please, just find it in your heart…" he pleads in his Southern drawl, adding, "I don't know if you're a mother, a sister… whatever… just put yourself in my place and think about it…"

Then he comes at me with, "I'm sure you've run across this type of situation before…"

"Actually, no…" I said honestly, "I've never had anyone want to cancel because their bags weren't delivered… people have said they were sick before… and we do excuse them if they provide a doctor's note…"

What I wanted to say was, "Yes, well, that's why I NEVER check bags on airlines…"

What I wanted to say was, "Well, I think a trip out on the ziplines will do far more (as far as clearing up your daughter's tears) than a trip to Wal-Mart will…"

What I wanted to say was, "I didn't get to go on MY first trip to Hawaii until I was 29 years old.  Not only that… there are starving people living in squalid conditions around the world that will NEVER see Hawaii and will NEVER leave the square mile in which they were born… and you want me to feel bad for YOU?"

If he was planning on going shopping today, why did he ever book the tour? 

Or, if he IS so fickle… why not go shopping AFTER the tour?

Give me a break, Dude!

My heart does not bleed for you and your spoiled, teary-eyed 16-year-old who is staying at a luxury resort and has had to wash her underwear in the sink and now can't go shopping for new clothes… in one of the most pathetic places in the world for shopping, anyway…

Did I leave anything out?