Can't we all just get a longboard?

Despite all of man’s flaws there are but two types of people: Those who enjoy soccer, and those who do not. I am common American: I don't understand the fantastic admiration of soccer, the game, the players, the hype. Actually, the same divide or separation criterion exists elsewhere of course. For instance, people who don’t enjoy Frank Zappa or Thelonlious Monk. Or Salvador Dali. And of course: The Surfer and Non Surfer—souls who have never ridden a single fin or never enjoyed an evening session waiting for one last wave before the sun lazily slumbers into the pillowy horizon.
Then there’s the soccer fan. Although the soccer fan is crazy. He is not completely crazy. That distinction is reserved for New York Nicks’ fans who, when in the NBA finals,  attach orange and blue flags to their cars and then burn their cars, busses, cop cars when their team wins.

He has a hunch

It's ok , you can shake my hand, I can't touch my face or any other body parts, I can scratch my elbows tho. What's going on? I heard that the Bailout Industry is asking your people for more money

 Who is this bozo?
 Mind bending, truth twisting.  A continuously agitated display of buffoonery.    Ridiculous boasts, mind twisting claims of greatness, attacks and mockery of citizens, congressional personnel, scientific professionals,  highly honored individuals,  pettiness  and peevishness. He is obsessed with ratings rather than the goodwill of the country for which he leads with a boiling cesspool of poor information and alternative realities.

 ‘ I have a hunch......’.  He is compulsive. He lacks empathy, is self-congratulatory , with a narcissistic hunger for adoration. A ‘war time president’? Give us a break, he is  more like a sun king.

 His xenophobia is the sine qua non of his political bests.  Easier to steer the ship when the sailing is smooth,  perhaps a few tweaks here and there to keep the tassels a fluttering properly. Your ship is lost at sea with an incapable helmsman. Individuals reveal themselves in times of crisis:

This bozo has revealed himself from the days of the New York Posts ’Page 6’ pageantry of the Donald’s whoredum of a world.  Infantile,  short tempered, so boorish and  predicable , so thin skinned , so deplorable.  An ill informed populist, demagogue. The favorable optics of his pathway are as superficial as his defunct university,  are as misguided as was the sloganeering banner of the stupid TV show. The American exceptionalism that he touts appeals all too well to his simpleminded view of complex situations.  He has promoted his very own version of political distancing.

I have a hunch too

The very proper gander

The very proper gander

by James Thurber as interpreted by an anonymous story teller

 

 

Not so very long ago there was a very fine gander. He was strong and smooth and beautiful and he spent most of his time singing to his wife and children. They lived in Ohio, where almost everybody loved Benedict Donald, the over seer of the largest chicken house in all of the universes. One day somebody who saw the Gander strutting up and down in his yard and singing remarked,

 "There is a very proper gander." A red white and blue hen named Spinderella heard this and promptly reported to Mr Donald that night in the roost.  "They said something about propaganda," she said. "I have always suspected that," said Mr Donald, and he went around the barnyard the next  day tweeting to the whole universe that the very fine gander was a dangerous bird, more than likely a hawk in gander's clothing. A small brown hen  named Smiller remembered a time when at a great distance she had seen the gander talking with some hawks in the forest. "They were up to no good," she said. A duck named Mr Globalist remembered that the gander had once told him he did not believe in anything. "He said to hell with the flag, too," said the duck. A guinea cluck called da Hooch recalled that he had once seen somebody who looked very much like the gander throw something that looked a great deal like a bomb.

Finally everybody snatched up sticks and stones and descended on the gander's house. He was strutting in his front yard, singing to his children and his wife. "There he is!" everybody cried. "Hawk-lover! Unbeliever! Flag-hater! Bomb-thrower!" So they set upon him and drove him out of the country.

Moral: Anybody who you or your advisor thinks is going to overthrow the government by incompetence must be driven out of the country.

The fly in the plane

Insects don't seem to be concerned about where they are: they only require an environmental ambience.

A moth that flutters in  through the open window of a  28th floor condo is so consumed by the pursuit of an illuminated light bulb, that it has no regard for any long range plans. That moth will fly erratically as it easily dodges  attempts from you to swat at it,  eluding capture,  perhaps to be released back outside.

Suppose you  miss and you tip over the glass of red wine, spilling on the carpet. The moth will advance  to the consumption of the light, which he thought was just beyond the branches of the monkey pod tree. There is probably  very little chance of escaping  your condo to breed, which is the long range plan

A fly boarded the plane with Mr Trex and me today. I don't really think that it cares where it is.
When we land and the fly escapes, it will have no recollection of where it spent its maggot hood.
Wherever, it will be the same: a tuna salad, a pile of dog crap, a melting ice cream sandwich

This is Mr Trex, he sat next to me when I flew to PDX. He could not eat his meal, arms too short, see? I was able to get him a can of ensure and a straw, he was grateful. He invited me to meet his wife and kids

The Year.......

"The older I get, the better I was"
 
A few things that happened the year I was born:

Brazil Beats Czechoslovakia in the World Cup
The Beverly Hillbillies and the Lucy Show began 
Jon Bon Jovi, Demi Moore and Ralph Macchio, amongst others, were born
Gas was 25 cents/gallon
Morning sickness drug thalidomide found to cause birth defects
Phil Knight develops the first Nike running shoe
USS Arizona Memorial Dedication
The Rolling Stones adopt their band name
Nelson Mandela was imprisoned
Danial Inouye elected to the US senate
John Barns elected as Governor of Hawaii
The first Taco Bell opened
Goldfish Crackers go on sale
Jack O'Neil trademarks the term "Surf Shop" (but never enforced it)

The Surfboard Chair

He went to Hawaii for a break from the wretched northern winter.

His girlfriend at the time backed out of the trip: a break-up, so his roommate was glad to go instead.

He took a surf lesson and was entranced by the whole experience: Floating in the Pacific, undulating waves rocking him as he sat on his longboard. He never really caught a wave, but the experience was breathing in him. He wanted to bring something back with him to keep the fire alive, but a proper surfboard would have no purpose in the land-locked never-lands of Fargo

When he finally bought the chair, shaped from an old fiberglass longboard, cut into 3 sections and shaped into an Adirondack-like chair, he could not believe he bought such a great piece of furniture. It was impressive. It was different from all of the other chairs he had seen in North Dakota. He half thought it would unfold itself and reform into its former longboard shape. His friend said, 'that'll look great on your porch!" It was an impressive work of art and functionality

It was packed up and crated back to Fargo. It was too big to fit in the jeep.  In those days,  he could fit everything he owned into his Wrangler, but the surfboard chair changed all of that.

After he married, a year or so later, nothing would fit in the jeep.  He got a bigger car, a new job, children. The surfboard chair moved with him from house to house, state to state. All that moving around took its toll on the surfboard chair. It looked worn: the paint chipped, the point of the nose broke off. It went into the attic of the new house.

Just before the divorce became final, when he was moving to an apartment, his wife said "take this goddamned chair". He put the longboard chair on the porch before he unpacked anything else.

It seemed impressive, almost too big for his apartment. But, it looked good. He could not believe he bought such a great piece of furniture

A Poem: The end of quiet surf session

12/6/2013
The time has come to say goodbye: our satisfaction for the small session is finished. You, who stayed to my left, balding middle aged guy, and you 'goofy-footer,' on my right, though we barely spoke, I feel our kinship.

My bruddah, you were steadfast in passing me your ball of board wax when I needed it. You were gracious in offering me a few waves that you could have taken yourself. Although they were small in size they were large in bliss and contentment.  No surfer can ask for better companions.

The session is over for all 3 of us, as we paddle in. Life's  responsibilities are now to take over. We are leaving behind an unusually empty surf spot.

We will go our separate ways, not a fond embrace, but perhaps a relaxed shaka. It is unlikely we will meet here again, but perhaps, we will: paddling in the sun, the gently rolling swells, catching sweet, soft unhurried waves, glancing at  the Ko'olau mountains in the distance, not completely impeded by the skyline of Honolulu, and in between sets, sitting quietly, saying nothing.

Stoke Atrophy

Modified from Surfer, The Magazine, editorial:


Learning to surf has not always been easy: it is certainly not an automatic, pre-programmed process, at least for me. The stoke ( to wit, i.e. the 'passion') grew from the depths of a previously unknown and uncharted spirit. The paths to the line up have been, and still are, peppered with obstacles and deterrents. If it is not one's own physical health, then it is something else: offshore winds, box jellyfish, low tide and high coral, kona winds, the crowds, and yes even the surfer chicks have chuckled at me. There are times when these encounters can get in the way, and they can gain strength in overcoming one's desire to surf.  My gestalt therapist noted that if one lets them win, those otherwise petty forces can be effective at keeping you on the land

And if that happens, other  pressing responsibilities of life tend to take over: you are not so eager to leave the 1 1/2 hour meeting at work, the broken closet door beckons your attention,  and eventually, riding waves takes a back seat. An otherwise uninteresting colleague invites you golfing, you possibly take on another hobby, you tease the cats more than usual, and then you are not interested in having the puka in your board fixed by Kimo, you are no longer following the used board section on Craigslist searching for the next addition to your quiver. You can talk yourself out of the 3 minute drive to the south shore beach because the tide is too low, and the guys at the line up will just shoot you the stink eye once you paddle out, or without mentioning a word, they will gnash and claw at what's left of  your faith in humanity.

This might be the foundation being laid in the making of surfing becoming a chore-something that you have to do instead of something you want to do. So you take a break, you stop surfing for a little while. After some time, you notice your muscles are a little less toned, they begin to shrink, becoming atrophied, and you start to wither away. Your wife is telling you to go to the doctor, because something must be wrong. You used to surf too much , she would say. Now she's worried that you are not surfing at all! Your once tanned skin is now translucent, your once broad shoulders are now a boney clothes hanger  for your golf shirt to hang loose from, Soon your surf buddies forget about you. They stop calling, the don't invite to surfing or to beach grills. You become a hermit: A lonely, translucent depressed excuse of a human being, depressed, with weak shoulders and a worried wife

 Loosing your will to maintain performance can be disheartening. Even Pope Benedict lost his stoke. But fortunately you are not the Pope,  and one day you day-dream about the reason why you had the stoke.  You tire of your wife's worrisome attention: you know it's not a medical concern. You wake one morning, you enjoy a  rare perfect cup of coffee and decide to stop being a cowardly sniveling self-involved drab of a person and you confront your unworthiness. You're going to paddle out to the line-up and smile at your salty brethren and compete for waves like a surfer should, no matter if the wind is onshore or your muscles are cramping  or you bruise your ribs.

Pass me the pliers, don't crush the cat

We are looking  for someone who can perform as a cat holder-downer while we give our grey cat "Fumo" a full body clipping. Fumo was part of the matrimony package which is all fine and well. I think if he were a guy person, he would probably work as a crusty bartender and wear python skin cowboy boots, but I digress. He is a medium hair domestic who sheds everywhere, everyday, and in every place in our apartment: on the bed, in the kitchen, in the roast potatoes and on the white couch (not ours..it came with the place). Fumo is a rockin cat, but the professional groomer was against the idea on principle. The vet offered to anesthetize him (Katamine), which requires the insertion of a breathing apparatus: too much stress on both the cat and my wife.

Back to the job. You do not need to be a professional cat holder-downer, but having experience will put you on the short-list. It is a two person job.You must obviously dig cats. He does, however, have the potential  to hiss, bite, scratch and/or otherwise maim your hands, forearms, face, and solar plexus. There is no protective equipment, so you are welcome to dress accordingly. I just saw an old style fencing helmet at the Beretania Street Goodwill that I could purchase for your reimbursement.

The job needs to be done in our apartment and we have plenty of saimin noodles, Primo beer and cool music on the stereo. You can bring a friend, but there is not that much beer.

Freaks, weirdos and pure dog lovers need not apply

More kava, please?

Fairly new to surfing in Hawaii, I learned quickly that first, one must get along, then one can play along. Surfing spots can be somewhat territorial, and in my grommet year, I must have been chased away from all of the great south shore spots: Bowls, Rock Piles, Queens, Canoes, Concessions, Straight Outs, Tennis Courts. Hooking up with Kimo and, over the months, gaining a little more well schooled style, has slowly payed off. I still get da stink eye from a few local guys from time to time, but I am no longer being chased out. Persistence has paid off and I've been befriended by a few of the local surfers. While surfing is the driving force, the gathering after the surf session is wholly just as enjoyable.

I used to see these 3 HUGE guys SUPing in the same spot if I made it there by the late afternoon, However, I've missed them lately. To my surprise today they were gathered in the grassy area near where I was hauling in. We starting chatting a bit; They are Samoan; Amosa, Toma and Kalepo. By anyone's standards, these are big 'ol boys, hanging out on da beach, late afternoon, sipping on kava. Kava? To the uninitiated, this a foul-tasting tea. Kava is derived from a pepper tree found in most pacific isles. The Samoans explained, in the past, the root was chewed by boys until it become a mass of mush and saliva, then squeezed through coconut fiber, mixed with water and consumed in one go from a coconut shell. "That's the best way to prepare kava, it's very strong that way, but now the root is ground to a pulp, squeezed through a sock and mixed with water." I am actually okay with not knowing how it is made.

Kava is an intoxicant, usually used as a social lubricant. In younger days of innocent discovery,there were many intoxicants with which to explore. By the time I entered my 30s, however, I had lost contact with friends that would call and ask if I would want to get high and spend the afternoon watching The Wall, again?

The first time I tried kava was a quick trip to Hilo, after a meeting, on the way back to the airport. I had a large glass, served at a small convenience store, with ice. At that time I was told that kava was like an iced coffee, but it may make your lips numb. The taste is pure wretchedness, it is not pleasant. "How wuch wava is too wuch wava?'' I asked, after half a glass. "Wat wady walks wunny". The effect wore off soon, we were on our way back to the airport, somewhat queasy and no longer less than mildly euphoric. I had no idea, as you will discover, that I developed an unfortunate disrespect for its power. Apparently the stuff I had was watered-down swill. Hawaii is not known for producing reputable kava. The good stuff comes from Fiji, Vanuatu, and Tonga although it does not export well. Kava is a digestif in most of the central Pacific islands, saved for gatherings after dinner, passed around in a coconut shell amongst the guests. To true kavaheads, it is best when taken around dusk and into the early evening hours, and one would not be considered rude to wonder off and enjoy the kava on his or her own.

"Take your bowl and find something pleasing to look at".
"Why?"
"Gaze upon the horizon of the Ala Moana south shore, the Pacific ocean, the breakers you've just surfed, it is poetic. Put that image in your mind and down the kava all at once"
"I might throw up"
"Leave that part out of your poetic image"

I downed the 'high tide' (e.g. The big gulp size. The 'Low tide' is a small coconut shell). The sky was streaked with hues of blue and evaporating cumulus clouds, the shades of blue as the pacific expanded in front of me, shades changing as the water shimmered over the coral , then the deeper water of the breakers and well to the horizon.. We spoke idly of work, life in Samoa, Samoan-converted-Mormons playing American college football. I felt injected with a pleasant calmness and contentment with the world, although I think I remember wondering if it was the kava, or just the company, on the south shore beaches of Oahu. Amosa, turned to me: the boyish-faced Polynesian must've weighed in at 300 pound, and simply said "The pacific". It was not a statement, not an opener for further conversation. Just a word describing the present and it hung between us for quite some, until my witty response "yep". Alas, as the conversation faded, I had an unwavering sense that I was heading for departure time. I had lost the urge to speak as did the others, as a sense of mutism wavered in the air. I felt myself becoming as one with all the others. I think a few others had joined the communal sun set ritual. 4 of us or 10, I can't remember but it all seemed the same. I heard Amosa "hmm" and I must have pondered this for quite some time. We breathed the air of the south shore, the ocean, the sand dust: 'Like sands in the hour glass, so are the days of our lives', 'like the ocean in the hourglass..how'd the water get into the hourglass?'

Sitting there with my brothers, the stars and the moon making their first appearance for the evening over the fading shimmering pacific as the sun was setting, I retained a spot of reality, needing to get home. Leg, head, body, too heavy.... to... lift. I am blissfully paralyzed, and resolve to remain recumbent upon the the sands of the hour glass, the sands of time, the sands of the ages for now, and dream.

I actually slept for 45 minutes, and made a quick decent back to earth. When I got home, Laila looked at me inquisitively, with a slight turn of the sternocleidomastoid. I think the effects lingered on until the next morning. I was not hung-over but had a wary sense of a feeling that I traveled a very long distance over many, many years to finally arrive in my apartment.

When is the next high tide?

A wild summer, so far

Suddenly I saw it coming: The biggest most enormous wave I'd ever seen so close from the water. From the moment I saw it coming over the horizon, I knew I'd never make it through the busting closeout. I scratched the water, frantically paddling out to sea with 2 others behind me. The wave walled up all along the reef, darkened the sky as it reached its peak: Not the entire length of bowls, but aimed right at me. It was 'in betweens'. The crest heaved skyward and fell straight down on us, closing out the entire section.

Time stood still for a moment. I thought of how I actually learned to surf at that spot with Kimo. The winter months with calm seas, absent of swells and rogue waves. The nice and inviting 1-2 foot waves, the occasional spotting of a honu. Once I saw a humpback breaching, several times, while launching upon languid waves with occasional comical wipe-outs. Aaron saw me once and we chuckled at my obvious lack of sure-footedness.

And yet, now, there was this wave, this undeniable mass of water. I saw these huge waves heaving from the shore line, before paddling out. Occasionally, there were, what I thought, challenging, but ride-able bowls...Fools rush in where wise men tread lightly.

As I dove off my board, I did not know if I could swim under a wave that big. I swam down as far as I could, my ears hurt as I felt the crest of the wave impact above me. The under ocean grew gray suddenly. The crash was a depth charge sending shock waves through the ocean floor. I thought, how much time before the next beast unleashed itself? I swam to the surface through the white wash of the aftermath. I paddled to shore, my vain endeavor.

Moral of the story: On certain days, one should stay at work.

My Surfboard

This is my surf board. There are many others like it, but this one is mine. My board is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my board is useless. Without my board, I am useless. I must ride my board true. I must ride longer than the wave, who is trying to pitch me. I must complete the wave before it completes me. I will. My board and myself are defenders of serenity, we will be masters of da wave. The board and da wave are the saviors of my life. So be it.

3/11/2011

As I write, comfortably I mind you, the tragedy of Japan is hard on the mind. It is sad, n'est pas, the earth does not give up it secrets easily. It seems there is sacrifice demanded each time we are temped to discover: 21st century technology is unable to predict earthquakes.

Tragedies remind us of our vulnerability. Possibly we are also mystified by the fact that we still cannot understand the meaning of it all. In the face of tragedy, whenever we approach some new insight, understanding seems to float away from us like a feather in the wind.

Just as each generation meanders through time, expecting to find meaning and relevance, great catastrophes challenge us to seek more understanding. In all aspects of our lives there are limits; we hope that with each successive tragedy, there will be fewer limitations. As a scientist, I don't want to postpone understanding, but some things are indeed beyond my ken. Humans cannot stop their pursuit of understanding and knowledge.

I overheard someone mention 'why isn't China helping out, with all of their might to take over the world?' In these politically cynical times, we seem to lack heroes. There are endless nights spent discussing the origins of tyrants who lead their people into war and on genocidal crusades, and we ask how to banish violence from our schools, our cities, our families. Considering all of this, a lesson from the '60s should be remembered. In its search for meaning, that generation forgot that love and compassion begin not as a political movement but as actions taken by individuals.

Sooner or later, a tsunami will visit every pacific coastline

A fast moving set of waves, at times hugely destructive, produced by an undersea destruction such as an earthquake, landslide or volcanic eruption. Tsunamis, also known as a tidal wave, means 'harbor wave', which actually have nothing to do with tides. An earthquake alone can create a tsunami, but the effect is thought to be greatly enhanced when an earthquake is followed by an underwater landslide, as was the case in July, 1998 when a set of three tsunami waves out of the sea of Bismark-one reported to be 30 feet high- suddenly roared into the northeast facing coast of Papa New Guinea killing more than 2,200.

These seismic sea waves can move through deep water at 600 miles per hour. They are barely perceptible until they approach shore at which point the grow tremendously as they slow down. Tsunami waves retain their power for thousands of miles. In 1960, 5000 Chileans were killed by a set of tsunami waves triggered just minutes earlier by an offshore earthquake of 9.4 magnitude: 14 hours later the waves reached Hilo Hawaii and killed 61. Nine hours later a tsunami hit Onagawa Japan and killed 150.

Surf lore contains a few stories involving tsunamis. In the 1860's, surfer/farmer A'a Holoua is said to have been swept out to sea along with his wooden house as the first set of tsunami waves hit the northeast coast of the Big Island. Ripping the door from his house Holoua rode back to shore while standing on his make shift surfboard

Maybe more credible, 1965 world champion surfer Felipe Pomer ventured into water at a surf break near Lima Peru with a friend on October 1974 about 1 hour after an earthquake. Not long after positioning themselves on the outside of 3 foot waves, Pomer and his friend were pulled out more than one mile as the water drained from the shore in a typical tsunami prologue. Both surfers then caught and rode separate 10 foot waves, one following the other, pulling out a few hundreds yards off the beach and watched as the waves exploded onto the shore.

Mark Twain got the Stoke!

Twain was 30 years old and virtually unknown when he arrived on Kona in 1866. As a $20-an-article travel correspondent for the Sacramento Union newspaper, a brief story of surfing took up just one paragraph in one dispatch. Twain's portrayal of the sport was deft and funny. Sadly during that era, surfing was looked down upon by visiting missionaries to Hawaii, like Hiram Brigham, who presented surfing as 'being in opposition to the strict tenets of Calvinism and against the laws of god'.

Twain didn't think so, and went so far to give the stoke a try himself.

In one place we came upon a large company of naked natives, of both sexes and all ages, amusing themselves with the national pastime of surf- bathing. Each heathen would paddle three or four hundred yards out to sea (taking a short board with him), then face the shore and wait for a particularly prodigious billow to come along; at the right moment he would fling his board upon its foamy crest and himself upon the board, and here he would come whizzing by like a bombshell! It did not seem that a lightning express-train could shoot along at a more hair-lifting speed. I tried surf-bathing once, subsequently, but made a failure of it. I got the board placed right, and at the right moment, too; but missed the connection myself. The board struck the shore in three-quarters of a second, without any cargo, and I struck the bottom about the same time, with a couple of barrels of water in me. None but natives ever master the art of surf-bathing thoroughly.

Surfing seems to date as far back as 3000 BC, but surfing as it exits today is a Polynesian invention. Stand up surfing was deeply integrated into Hawaiian culture since around 1000 AD. I was told that there are more breech births in the Polynesians than in other groups: Hawaiian babies are ejected from the confines of the womb and land feet first right onto a surf board. Surfing spans across all sections of society in Hawaii: Commoners and politicians, young and old, men, women, and children.

A sense of history was most likely lost upon Brigham who, I imagine experienced a horrific wipe out and took a defeatist point of view:Now that would be against the laws of god?

So, fireworks are serious here. Illegal Class B fireworks are something all Hawaiian dudes/dudettes (brahs, sisters) prize to possess. There have been thunderous booms occasionally in my 'hood in preparation for New year's eve. They shake you right out of bed, even when exploded several blocks away. I nearly soiled myself during the first few 'surprise' attacks,

Sanders is a typical Hawaiian brah. We work together. To Sanders, most everyone is a 'dude': nurses, patients, families, doctors, administrators. "Dude, I think the patient is crashing, dude!". Sanders invited us to his family's home in Pearl City, which is adjacent to Pearl Harbor. Driving to the neighborhood, first on the H1 Highway, there are fire works blasting off in all directions of vision. When most of the population has class B fireworks, the 'professional' firework displays of Waikiki beach are diluted in the aerial mix. Driving through the Pearl City neighborhood ( the houses are packed together, typical for any populated island, most of them several generations in multi-family houses) on any other day is a quiet clean decent working class neighborhood. But from sunset December 31st, is near chaos if one did not know better. Spent cartridges and explosive remnants litter the street, and fire-powder smoke hangs semi-translucent in the air. Am I driving through the streets of 1995 Sarajevo?

Sander's family's house is quite large, and sits facing the Pearl Harbor Lake- House, street, Lake(at one time the x-band radar), Pearl Harbor, Pacific ocean, in that order: Pulled pork, Korean-type BBQ, hawaiian/chinese noodles, and on and on. Beer, vodka etc. And the nearly bottomless arsenal of fireworks was non stop. I was privileged to have launched a few mortars (ground to air missiles) with some trepidation and reservation. I like my 2 hands and 10 fingers with which to use to hold chop sticks and beers. They go up, fine. Everyone is vigilant to watch for the one rogue mortar that fails to ascend. The explosion is deafening.....A misdirected mortar could cause a life altering situation. I think it could possibly call one into religion, should they survive the chaotic mess. Next year, your neighborhood might benefit from a Hawaiian brah with dakine choke fireworks.The drive back, Honolulu seemed to have a fine mist and fog in the air, however the odor of spent gun powder permeating the air reminds you that there is rarely fog in Oahu.


I could be wrong, though. Maybe you grew up with terrorist-grade fireworks, and I am just blowing smoke up your skirt, dude.

You people should get off the bus! Would you like a beer?

Riding The Bus, occasionally awarded one of America's best public transportation systems, is a continual exercise in patience and tolerance, for most folks, that is. Late buses, crowded buses, broken down buses. Don't forget about the passengers: Bus passengers who don't have access to bathing, passengers who are openly philosophical, passengers who are pleasantly friendly, passengers who are quiet and content. I once heard a homeless looking guy seemingly spewing quotes from what I gathered was Eric Cartman from South Park: "Fxxkin'Hippies.They're everywhere. They wanna save the earth, but all they do is smoke pot and smell bad" I sometimes end up sitting close to all but the quiet and content.

I needed to pick up my car from the repair shop. Although it is dying a slow death, I was actually going to take it from the 'hospital' and bring it to a funeral home. In any event, the auto repair shop is in a location where I could either take the 42A or the 20. Of course the first to arrive was the number 20. I was actually hoping for the 42A because it is a 'double jointed' bus, and I like sitting in the jointed, accordion part. I slipped the $2.25 into the binnacle and took an aisle-facing seat in the rear of the bus. As the bus meandered left and right through downtown picking up and letting off passengers, an ill-kempt guy took the front-facing seat next to me. After a few moments I heard him say something, but not making any eye contact, thought he was on a cell phone. Next stop, a nervous, figity guy sat next to me, the bus was getting crowded. I heard the the local dude ask me where I was from, and when I told him 'Punchbowl' he kindly told me I was going the wrong direction on the bus. We chatted a bit about my car, and the trip to the auto repair shop. "The 42A gets you closer" he said. Meanwhile, recall that the number 20 stops at the airport and there did happen to be increasing numbers of island visitors, clutching baggage.. We were making slow, but decent progress through the outskirts of downtown, but whenever the bus stopped, the haole-looking dude blurted out "Shit" Mostly under his breath, but those of us in the back of the bus could hear this very well.
"God damned fuckin bus" Eventually he detailed his discontent. "Fuckin tourists" he muttered. " you all should just go somewhere else, get off the [fucking] bus!". Eventually my first neighbor, a local guy, asked me if I wanted a beer, and approximated to me an unopened can of Primo. How cool, man. I did not see any other beers that he may have had and I was truly humbled as I thought this dude, albeit drunken and not having any idea about the anti-tourist sitting next to me, offered me his last beer. That's respect, brother. Seeing that it was his last beer I declined, although the thought of drinking beer in the back of the bus was appealing. Anyway my stop was next. The drunk slapped me a low five, and gave me a shaka (respected again).

I'm getting off this fuckin' bus and I'm gonna have a beer

I ride the bus, I floss my teeth, I trim my beard, my pants fall down

I am not unfamiliar with riding on crowded public transportation: San Antonio's VIA no.551, 'Are those Ruben's Tamales?', NYC's A train where riders are not afraid of chemical warfare, the Antwerp tram where you must exit only the rear of the car. The Bus in Oahu is really not much different. Most times I catch the no. 20 which winds its way from Pearl Harbor to Waikiki, of which the Honolulu airport is a popular stop. With practice, standing on a crowded bus laden with island visitors and heavy luggage, intermixed with warehouse workers and homeless folks becomes less intimidating. It can get so crowded that the only place to stand is behind the forbidden yellow line. I've been banged by luggage, backpacks, suitcases, elbows, small Chinese women carrying sacks of live sea crabs and spiny lobsters, and a whole gamut of other items while riding The Bus. It is the one place in Hawaii to stand up close with the less fortunate homeless persons. I am empathetic towards society's outcasts, but riding The Bus provides a strange combination of being unpleasant yet entertaining. Many of the homeless whom with I've come into contact smell. Fortunately the bus riders seem not to have the weeks-earned smell of urine and whatnot. The recirculated air confines of the bus prohibit standing upwind.

Several riders caught my attention on a recent trip. Now, Hawaii is known, not by me and you, to be a great place to reside as a homeless person, I suspect Honolulu has a good deal of 'working homeless' persons. Homelessness is tolerated here. The gentleman flossing his teeth, albeit not a full house of choppers, I overheard was going for an interview at a restaurant. His tee shirt has probably never been washed. I am the opposite: never floss, always wash. The seat in front of me was occupied by a 40'ish year old guy, trimming his 'stache, avec mirror, and general primping, deodorant application and a quick wisp of aftershave (aftertrim). He got off at the airport

Honorable mention: A pleasant elderly homeless man came onto The Bus clutching his pants with one hand, holding his other hand out for spare change, and collecting I might add! His balance was unchallenged when The Bus was stopped, he made a slow path to the back of the bus, gaining coins with one hand, holding up the baggy pants with the other. When a bus moves, however, balance is preserved with at least a 3 point support base: 2 legs, one arm. Sure enough, when the bus took off quite rapidly, he had to choose which hand to use to hold a steady balance. My guess was right when he used the hand holding up the greatly over sized pants to attain standing balance. It is harder to pick up coins, which have rolled way out of your reach, and possibly into someone else's hands. The pants came down as gravity took over. People on The Bus are cool because thay seemed to act as if this always happens. I am the opposite, I keep my pants on and lose my money.

Toys in the Attic

5 philosophical mind games: ( Adapted from J Jones and W Wilson)

1) Zeno's arrow: The flight of an arrow is an apparent example of motion, but at any given moment it is where it is and where it is not, therefore not moving. This must have drove Zeno's friends crazy when he ranted about this

2) Plato's cave: shadows are reality. The search for a perfect car is an idea

3) Buridan's ass: A stumbling block to the act of free will. An ass, placed equidistant from 2 identical bundles of hay, has no bias for choosing one over the other and ends up starving to death. Likewise, a single doctor in Honolulu, placed equidistant between two sumptuous female targets, will be walking home alone.

4) Occam's razor: One thing accounts for everything else that is going wrong. One diagnosis only: you know the rest of the story

and 5) Pascal's wager: In the cosmic game of heads or tails whether God exits, you have everything to gain and nothing to loose by betting on His existence