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It started out perfectly innocently. My husband found a brochure from a nice hotel here in Virginia Beach which offered a chance to see a beautiful Christmas tree illumination and Santa Claus. It was free and close by, and looked to be a nice alternative to the Mall to bring the kids. As I looked at the address, I thought . . . hmmm, that sounds like it's near Regent University, but then thought that I suppose they needed a hotel in that area.
As we drove down Indian River Road, we made a turn into the university, trying to find the Founders Inn. Then we saw a gaggle of giant satellite dishes, and noticed the CBN sign. Yes, as in Christian Broadcasting Network. We kept driving and before us loomed the Inn along with some policemen working the parking lot. I glanced sideways at my John Kerry bumper sticker, wondering if a) they'd let us in or b) would my car be vandalized by the nice, clean cut families entering the Inn. Curiosity got me over any worries about my car. As we walked toward the Inn, the kids looked in fascination at the horse drawn carriage carrying people around the block. I relaxed a little, thinking this was a nice service to the community and nothing should be read into it.
We entered the hotel and began looking at all the decidedly more secular Christmas displays lining the lobby. One thing struck me about the hotel in this mostly Middle Class Virginia Beach -- this place just oozed with money, and lots of it. State of the art flat screens were everywhere, displaying breaking news -- I read some blurb about Alito and abortion, as I walked with my family down the hall. The hotel bistro advertised the wines of the night, which did surprise me a bit. As we entered the Atrium where a big Christmas tree stood decorated only with white lights and golden angels, we listened to a children's choir sing as the crowds grew. I grabbed an intinerary of the program, and read that coming up next, Dr. Pat Robertson was going to read a Christmas story. I was in denial for a moment, thinking is this doctor related to that nutty, off his rocker, let's assassinate the president of Venezuela, hard right wacko televangelist Pat Robertson? Oh, seeing it's his university, it's probably him.
He was late. The announcer asked if any children would like to come down to see the story. Looking around at the high class, spare no expense spectacle, I figured this would be interesting. So my 4 year old and I worked our way down the stairs to sit on the floor awaiting his entrance. Then I noticed the lights and the cameras. Oh shit, I thought, I hope I'm not going to end up being on 700 Club. I felt frantic, regretting this whole thing, wanting to escape. I asked my 4 year old to sit on my lap, as I embraced her, filling with dread. Okay, Beachmom, you are a reporter, just observe, I thought! Pat Robertson finally arrived, dressed in nice slacks, a red shirt, and a leather jacket. I have to say, for a man of his age, he looked quite young, yet the aura I got from him more than anything else was once again, money. I groaned as I saw the bible -- come on Pat, there are KIDS here. Where is the nice children's book? He opened the bible, reading the passage, and then elaborating in tortuous and laborious detail about the stable, and the animals, and such. My daughter immediately told me she didn't want to stay for the story. I told her it would be rude to get up and leave. So as we listened to this very uncharismatic, not much pizazz for the kids, boring old preacher, I looked at the people and the children there. Most weren't paying attention, but the ones who were raised their hands reciting the details of the bible stories they had memorized. A mother sat next to me videoing the whole scene. Maybe Pat Robertson means us much to her as JK does to me, I shuttered to think. I kept a running commentary going to keep my daughter from getting up and making a scene. Finally, he was done, and then said a prayer, as he closed his eyes just like he does on the TV show -- like someone has just kicked him in the balls, and he's writhing in pain. One hell of a way to pray. And then it was done.
As we left, we saw the illuminated courtyard beautifully lit, like an English garden with Christmas lights instead of flowers. Damn, I thought, that cat has a LOT of money, no doubt increased from the pockets of families milling around now. My family and I were starved so we drove across the street to the only Waffle House in town, and chowed down on waffles and bacon and hash browns as we listened to Johnny Cash on the jukebox. Well, I thought, I've lived here for nearly 5 years, so I suppose it was about time I see the famous resident of Virginia Beach. As we recounted the evening, my husband said, "hey, why didn't you stand up and start shouting HUGO CHAVEZ! HUGO CHAVEZ! HUGO CHAVEZ". Damn, that would have been a GOOOD story -- from my jail cell. Yet in this bizarre world, it's the "socialist" who is giving cheap oil to the poor while the millionaire "Christian" is calling for his murder . . .
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