Holy Land: Part I

I tend to randomly read upwards of 20 or 30 articles per day on the Internet. I'm not entirely sure how I get to these sites or subject matters, but it's one of those things that happens. Click on one article, lead to the next, and end up a formidable Jeopardy player. Repeat daily.

Ending up at the hellish corner of slate.com is one thing I wish on no Internet vagabond. Especially myself. For some reason I was reading an article by the awful Seth Stevenson (while watching the PAC Arm Wrestling Championship at the Mohegan Sun, which is a bizarre and interesting sport) about traveling to Orlando (specifically Disney) and I thought, shit, I could do better than this. Then I thought, actually, I have done better then this.

So I dug up a strange article on the Holy Land that I wrote early in 2004 and laughed at its awful mistakes. But be its mistakes many, I still had 5-6 good lines that were worth reprinting somewhere. A little back-story is necessary: I wrote this article for a magazine writing class I took that sophomore year (I think), and the professor we had was a genius in unconventional terms. If you search in the Miami Herald's database for mass murders you'll find a story he wrote that was among the best non-fiction published in America that year. He was a master at telling the story and not being apart of it. He was also bat-shit crazy. Half of our class dropped out the first week, and the other half didn't know a piece of publication beyond Teen Vogue. But we became an odd traveling class led by a master of script and lunacy.

Either way, I wandered to the Holy Land to write this article (while I think most of the class bought there's from homeless people or paid me to write it). And although I didn't think it was possible to get a feel for the year that was 2004, after reading this I actually think it is. This piece feels like it was written by a stoned 19-year old the year George Bush was re-elected (it was on our watch), and it should.

My professor originally gave it a C- (he said I was writing about myself to much, but I'd grow out of that). But I ran into him a few years later and we ended up having a long conversation about Hunter S. Thompson's Hells Angels (which I was reading at the time). And he said, "that article, you know, it wasn't terrible". Three years later. The man was a non-fiction genius, and I'm not. So I think it deserves some re-publication, and although it needs massive editing, I'm letting it go in its raw and backwards state (against my better judgment). Here's part one:

The Holy Land: Walking With America

Past the weak city lights of the Orlando Metro area, and hidden oddly along a consistently construction filled area of the I-4 corridor, sits a Holy Land. It finds itself among the behemoths of the only industry Orlando now knows, and yet it never advertises, it never even tries to compete. And how could it. Or why would it. Other than obscure signs that tourists might see while speeding to the main events of Universal Studios and Walt Disney World, this “theme park” simply does not market itself. And yet somehow it survives.

The Holy Land Experience sits on a plot of land across from a god-less 7-eleven and on an area itself no bigger then a Super Wal-mart. In fact, many of the folks visiting the Holy Land almost certainly found themselves at a Wal-Mart at some point in the past week. It would seem that it takes a rare sort of individual to bypass the technological marvels of the Orlando theme park scene, and instead choose an educational pilgrimage to a glorified church on the side of an interstate highway. But you get the feeling that in America maybe this type of person isn’t as rare as one would think. Cruising my Hyundai Accent into the opening gate, probably reeking of bong water and looking like a new age Bob Dylan, the gate keeper (who seems to serve no real purpose other then fatherly greeter) gives me the expected up and down.

“Are you here to go to the park today?” He asks a question that will be heard several times before entering the gates of a Holy Land. There seems to be some questioning, some suspicion, of a hippie looking college age student showing up at an out of the way religious theme park alone and with a notepad. And rightfully so. Once past the test of the gatekeeper, I pull around to the youthful parking attendant whose not very busy collecting a holy five dollars from the few cars trickling into the early afternoon parking lot. He also gives the same suspicious eye that should be expected by any heathen entering the gates of a religious theme park, but he, like every other cheerful employee that will be encountered throughout the day, is impossibly and unfailingly kind.

“Park anywhere to your right, dude,” he says.

Clearly my presence has set off some dude alarms.
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The Holy Land Experience opened amid some controversy in the winter of 2001, and it immediately tried to bill itself as something other than just a general theme park. In fact, the park sued Orange County in an effort to get the land tax exempt under the general codes that most churches are governed under. And somehow it was a court battle that the park did end up winning. It was allowed its tax-exempt status as long as it did not use profits for anything other then “evangelising and worshipping,” whatever exactly that means. Another controversy that has continued to follow this place comes from the Jewish community. Many felt that the concept of the park, much like the concept of many Charlton Heston movies, was to convert Jews to Christianity. This claim was intensified with the opening of the Scriptorium in 2002. The exhibit was set to display Torah Scrolls, considered holy in the Jewish community. And also it is considered disrespectful to have these holy documents viewed openly to a paying public.

But those in charge at the Holy Land Experience (who are fairly mysterious bunch other then founder Marvin Rosenthal, and one should note the equally mysterious last name) stand in front of these attacks with basically the same line that can be found on their web-site; “The Holy Land Experience is a bible-believing Christ-centered ministry”. It is not trying to convert, it’s not trying to sway the Jewish Community, it is what it is. A ministry. Much of the reason that the Holy Land Experience offers so little in the way of advertising is to keep a low profile from the constant attacks that it has to defend itself from. It is a “non-profit” entertainment place, and it refutes the idea that even though it costs 30 dollars to get into a themed area, that looks very much like a park, it is not a theme park. Another oddity that makes this place distinctly different from any other roadside slop found from Kissimmee to Lakeland; it has a dress code.

And through it all the place really does seem committed to spreading a message through a very strange religious medium. As Judge Cynthia MacKinnon said in her decision to allow a tax-free Holy Land to operate, there was no proof that anything other then the distributing of a religious message was taking place here. And over the past 4-years that the park has been open that has been pretty hard thing to argue against.
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The first thing that will strike any experienced theme park traveler upon entering the Middle Eastern themed village at the front of the Holy Land Experience is the sound. There isn’t any. People inside the park wander around in silent or whispering retrospect. It’s not a fancy restaurant quiet, or a John Cougar Mellancamp concert quiet, its real quiet. It's library quiet, it's desert quiet, it is, in reality, a holy quiet. Families (the handful that are present), and the somewhat large groups of elderly, walk around this allegedly re-created Jerusalem with whispers and shuffling. It’s like we’re studying, but only some of us seem to know exactly what.

Walking the length of the “experience” takes but 5 minutes at a leisurely pace, and the buildings that look as if they were plucked straight from biblical times are well done, but they contain little. Although it is noteworthy that unlike most buildings in the theme park world, these are real. There are no facades or fake architecture here, they really built these temples as if they were such. But it is a strikingly serene place, and actually a pretty neat change from the usual intensity that can be tied in with any of the more common theme parks of the Disney Belt.

The problem is it just isn’t all that exciting. The employees do try to make this place fun, but only the Church Lady would call this her Mardi Gras. One thing that was fun and pleasurable is the parks bathrooms. They are breathtaking. Cleaner then a public bathroom probably should be, and oddly small. With only one stall and one urinal, you get the impression that the architects of this park were not expecting a Times Square New Year’s Eve type of crowd here. Outside of this model bathroom a tour is forming, and somehow, as if being led through the parted Red Sea, I was in it.

We sit in a circular seating arrangement in the same type of silence that almost seems expected for this place. A religious looking figure is on the mounted televisions above us (another common theme park tool) explaining the virtues of the experience we are about to take part in. There is a joke about King James that everyone gets, and than we are led into the alleged center of the Holy Land controversy; The Scriptorium. This place is at the heart of the Holy Land Experience; the Van Kempt Family collection of biblical artifacts, which our thoughtful tour guide informs us is only an exciting 10 percent of the entire collection. So it’s easy to think that we are about to view the real prime cut of their lauded collection (to which some estimate is worth anywhere from 20 million to 100 million dollars).

“If you love God’s word,” our now departing biblically dressed tour guide says with a smile, “you’re going to love this area.”

And hence we embark on a longer then necessary 55-minute journey into the Van Kempt Collection. The whole time thus far my fellow travelers have been giving me strange looks, and distancing themselves from the liberal vibe that it is becoming apparent I’m giving off. My questions are met with dodging, and it is clear that I’m on my own in this little tour. But they’re all extremely polite, and consistently let me lead the way. So we wander from room to room, viewing boring looking old bible after boring looking old bible. The production value is low for the more common Orlando theme park, but the heart might just be there. And, of course, everyone notices my note taking that has been going on for the entire tour, and they are clearly disturbed by it. But more to the point, the bibles have the group’s attention; Sennacheib Prism from 700 B.C., 14th century Hebrew Scroll, a 1445 German Historianbibel. The gang’s all here. Where are all the dinosaur bones?

The problem with the exhibit becomes clear about a boring 25-minutes into our journey, all the bibles are written in Hebrew, or some other Arabic language. So the group looks distantly and smiles passively at artifacts they can’t possibly understand, but only appreciate. By the 9th or 10th room even the assorted group of holy rollers I’m with, all of which are over the age of 60 and clearly having been pre-converted, seem exhausted by looking at things they can’t possibly comprehend. And somewhere in a distant room a newborn sounds like he’s being crucified. The sound distracts the group from the nothing we were otherwise observing, and the walk through ends surprisingly like every other ride at any other theme park, with a gift shop. What’s the only difference between a gift shop at the Holy Land Experience and a gift shop at other theme parks? There are no metal detectors here.
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But in reality the interesting thing to note while on a visit to the Holy Land Experience isn’t the weak bits of entertainment that can be found randomly throughout the park, but the people in the park. This is America here; this is the majority, and this is who is in power right now. No one here seems like a radical, they seem like a mass of people that are simply looking for something to hold onto, but by some strange series of events this group holds everything from the Executive Office to the legislature.

Looking around at the license plates in the parking lot on a common day at the Holy Land is like being transplanted directly into the heart of the Mid-west. They read Iowa, Illinois, Wisconsin, Kansas, and the Florida plates are almost certainly rent-a-cars rented by some family from some state that was colored red on election night. This place is the current voice of America. And yet somehow there seems to be a lot of feeling sorry for Christianity going on here. A lot of stories of early and current Christians being persecuted for spreading the word of Christ. As if, in some perverted way, Christians aren’t (and haven’t been) in the majority in this country for some 250 years. But this is the most unified voice in our country today. They’re all old, they’re all religious, and they all sure as hell vote every election Tuesday.

One of the final rooms in our Scriptorium tour had a cross hanging securely above an American flag, and no one flinched. It’s a common trend on the t-shirts and sweaters and cars of the people here as well; American flags and crosses. In no particular order. And the messages we are subliminally barraged by seem to hold a strange consistency. It is that the 21st century is a shitty time for America, and only the religious right truly has the power to do something about it. We are all asked at the very end of the Scriptorium tour, in a small room made to look like any other living room anywhere in the United States, by some voice that comes down mysteriously out of a hidden speaker, “What are you doing with the word of God in your world today?” Translation: All of America should be at this park, and we all need to be thinking about God in the same way. Only you can help us achieve that goal.
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From the Scriptorium tour you wander past the large bushes skillfully cut to read “HE HAS RISEN” and towards the snack bar. Everyone is eating ice cream, and yet somehow the only flavor they seem to have is vanilla. It is hard to tell if the low paid workers here are mocking the visitors of this place, or whether they are genuinely happy to blessed enough to work at a Holy Land. Although on the whole it does seem like they like it here, lots of “God Bless” greetings and good-byes.

After the snack bar I find a white lawn chair in front of the massive backdrop of the a re-created golden temple from Jerusalem for the 4 o’ clock temple presentation, as does just about the rest of the people present on this Tuesday afternoon. The head count for today seems to be about 300, which includes the tour bus that showed up at about 3 P.M., approximately 2-hours before closing time. I keep wondering what happens that is so special at the end of the day.

But for now everyone has settled in to listen to a man that is dressed like he’s about to go on a safari, but claims to be a minister. And he sounds like one too. He begins preaching to the assembled who seem weary from a day filled with preaching. It’s a very generic and boring sermon that doesn’t seem very much different from any other one that you could here in any church in America. The only difference is that we all paid 30 bucks a head to hear this sermon. Even those that have seemed excited all day to learn more and more about Christianity seem pretty bored by the common themes that our minister, for the next 20-minutes, keeps going over. They seem like normal churchy lines; “I can not think of a greater privilege then the living God has chosen in our bodies,” or “If you are here, and you are a Christian, you are blessed.” Pretty standard really.

Half of the audience around me seems to be ready for their 4 P.M. nap, and the minister droning on in front of us isn’t helping. He seems to be feeding a pretty common theme of the Holy Land Experience; this place is un-holy form of boring. Somewhere behind me the Devil has gotten into someone’s cell phone, causing it to briefly interrupt the monotony that is taking place all around us.

Finally the sermon wraps itself up and the minister orders us to head towards Calvary’s Garden Tomb for the final show of the day. We’re about to give up on this place, about to guess that nothing of real interest ever happens within the confines of the Holy Land Experience. And that maybe, in the end, the dullness that surrounds the place prevents it from ever presenting a provocative message. But everyone here seems to know something that I do not, and we all head towards the Garden Tomb for the final show of the day with the same sort of silence that has been consistent since we arrive.

The final show is called the Via Dolorosa Passion Drama, and although I haven’t caught onto exactly what that means, the people crowding around the garden area seem to sense something exciting is about to happen. And their right, the final show is really about to bring this place to its collective knees. Finally, as if a gift from the God of Monotony himself, The Holy Land Experience is truly about to live up to its namesake.

Muddy Waters

My Google Mercenaries paid me a nasty visit this week. They said that their numbers reflected a strong negative vibe from my last string of posts. People hate politics, they claimed, especially people in the Southwest. What happened to the power-boats, the jokes about Gary Busey and the sly insights about the movements of deadly rapid Panthers?

Plus they told me of a small group of radical feminists that were none to pleased with my portrayal of them. I tried to explain my theory on the modern state of said group, but to no avail. These men are number crunchers, cruel highly-armed readers of the pulse who have no time for theorem and speculation. They want results, or at the very least violence.

"Tell more jokes", they said.

"About what? People need to know about the struggle in the Democratic Party and Duncan Hunter's sadistic plans to implant egg-rolls with Bibles", I said.

"No, the people want jokes."

"But they'll be offensive."

"As long as the jokes aren't offensive to feminists".

"But I don't know any jokes that aren't offensive to feminists".

At this one of the Mercenaries grinned and reached deep into his heavy silk vest. He was surrounded by two other ominous figures, both in dark Siberian suits and yellow-python slacks. They we're barely blinking.

"Take this", the lead Mercenary said. And he handed me a piece of folded parchment paper. "It's a joke only told late at night on the History Channel, and those in the higher parts of the Google Oligarchy are pleased with it".

With this (and my promise to be less political) they left me unharmed. I spent the rest of the night guzzling warm margarita mix and scanning the horizon for snipers.

The note read: Why do women wear make-up and perfume? Because they're ugly and they smell like shit.

Indeed. And my past weekend was not in the least political. I spent it drinking on a dock while masterfully hunting sting-rays and fending off bottle rockets. The mass of calcium and iron inserted into my gums weeks ago has healed to a level where this debauchery is now possible. And probable.

My friend drunkenly crossed the Indian River on a kayak in the middle of the night. Originally, it looked as if I would be the one to attempt the journey, but Tim offered to try it for money. And a bet, as compared to a simple stunt, is never a contest. He made it in approximately four hours (there and back), with only a cell phone light to guide his way. By the time he'd made it to shore I was one of only three people awake at the end of the dock shooting dry clear rum and soy sauce.

Since the shoreline looks basically all the same at night (unless you know what you're shooting for, or you're not hammered), Tim was having a tough time locating us. I was communicating with him via cell phone and it seemed clear that insanity had begun to set in. His shirt was wrapped around his head and he was screaming about blue-winged vultures. We ended up locating him with crane calls and the occasional yell of Bring Me Peter Pan! This managed to not only wake every other house along the shore, but also guide him safely to our booze-filled dock.

He brought with him treasures from the mainland.

And so was the weekend. This is what happens when you're not reading the New York Times and filling your veins with the junk of our Democracy.