Nothing says, "Get thee to a nunnery, reality!" like removing one's fig leaf in public. After all, what better escape from our escapist society than to turn to one's left and drink in the canvas of a 60-year-old man's withered equipment, marooned on his leg like some hideous snail that has lost its shell. Absent airbrushing and product placement, the human body truly is a marvel and an occasion to a meditate on the nature of a God who would outfit His people so poorly for life outside of air-conditioning. Next to a crustacean, our armor seems flimsy and riddled with extraneous holes. Our feet are too small, and more often than not, when presented with the nakedness of our species, we cringe in disgust and yell, "Cover up! Help us, Marc by Marc Jacobs!" But no such veil lurks here, and the visitors to the Naturist Beach become like Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange, eyelids forced open by the bland splendor of Eden. In about 30 minutes, you'll be begging to be cast back into the wilderness of corporate brand names.