Some alert readers have noticed that Denise’s Facebook posts suggest an idyllic ocean voyage, whereas my narratives paint a darker picture, one of two innocents seduced into the lower rings of Hell. Is one of us, maybe both of us, guilty of “fake news”?
I am sickened and distressed by the implication that either one of us might have intentionally misled you, the discerning public. These unfair aspersions would wound anyone. But they are especially hurtful to us because just last year I won the George Santos Prize for Ethics, and Denise won the Nobel Prize for Water Color Painting. It is a tragedy that our flawless reputations have been besmirched by baseless slander. Sickened and distressed, I say, and the shame is on those who have challenged our integrity!
The seeming discrepancy in our accounts is innocently explained. Denise, you see, is an optimist. She looks at the giant panorama of life and glories in the bright colors and beautiful ideas. Conversely, I fixate on those areas where the Artist painted outside the lines, and that’s assuming I get past the fact that the picture has been hung slightly askew.
Our recent ocean voyage is a case in point. Did Denise get seasick? Absolutely. But to her, that detail is not relevant. Because she loved the cruise, because she adored the luxury and the pageantry, my rant about seasickness is, to her, like looking at the Mona Lisa and then harping about the drudgery of cleaning paint brushes.
I, on the other hand, think too little is said about paint brush cleaning, which I hate. For one thing, you never get them truly clean, not unless you use a caustic substance that smells like bad memories. I suspect this misery may be the best explanation for works by Jackson Pollock, whose dribbling could have been done with a stiff brush or, for that matter, a 2 x 4.
I digress. We were talking about pleasure, which I favor. For example, I like going to top tier restaurants and sitting with my elbows on white tablecloth. I like it when tuxedoed waiters deliver five course meals and fill my water glass before I realize it is running low. But I almost never go to such establishments. The primary reason, and this is something we have discussed before, is that I am a cheap bastard.
For us cheap bastards, the final bill always is a shock, even though we have known the cost of everything as it was ordered. It is as though we subconsciously expect the universal laws of first grade mathematics to be suspended until after we pay for the meal.
My being a cheap bastard subject to computational delusions is not the only reason we do not frequent expensive restaurants. For example, there are no fine dining establishments located within a five minute walk of my house; whereas my own refrigerator, pantry, and stove, all are conveniently located just a few steps from our living room.
Which is to say, I understand why Denise loved the cruise. Every meal was an event. We were waited on by charming and refined professionals who delivered great service and excellent food. After polishing off an exquisite desert we did not wait for a bill. We did not indulge in the advanced mathematics and ethical analysis required to find just the right tip. No sir. We finished the crème brûlée, bid our servers a thank you and a farewell, and waddled a very short distance to our room.
Would I recommend crossing the Atlantic by ship, rather than jet? It probably will cost a little more than an economy plane ticket, but the cheapest ocean liner stateroom is far more luxurious than the best first class seat on a 787. The trip takes way longer, about six days longer, but offers the distinct advantage a jet-lag-free arrival. The most significant disadvantage is that, unless your goal is New York, you will have to arrange a flight from the Big Apple to your ultimate destination.
I very much hope that this little essay puts to bed the vicious rumor that Denise or I may be exaggerating, or otherwise failing to relate our experiences with an honest and precise recitation of all relevant facts. This is important because there is a morals clause in the contract with my professional aqua badminton team.