Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
AC Adapter
I finally had to just go with what I had. It was shortly after I burnt the last DVD movie I created that my AC adapter cord fried its brains out - yes, the new one that had arrived from Dell just five days earlier. My computer probably needed the rest. I had been feverishly using every bit of memory space in the little box. So much so, I had to take all my photos and music off the computer in order to make the DVDs for Christmas presents. Of course, that meant I could no longer make any changes to the movie and that meant this would be the time to discover I don’t know how to spell “cemetery” 75% of the time.
Oh, well. It is for posterity. Something the grand kids and great grand kids can watch and wonder who was that guy who was part of the armed forces that dragged themselves onto the Channel Beaches. Only this guy, my Dad, didn’t even get his feet wet. It wasn’t easy after that. There is still another 30 minutes to add to the production, but I'll have to do this later.
So the DVD was “finished” and my computer was dead once again. December 21, 2008.
That's why no Blogs. No photos. And after more than a week without my power cord, I still am without a computer. There is Dad’s. He is one of seven people remaining on dial up Internet, so until I get my cord which arrived at my sister’s house in New Hampshire five hours after I left for home in NY, there will be no photos of pristine blankets fluffed knee-high, feather dressed Christmas pines and boughs and crystal lined mountain tops.
Be patient. Maybe I’ll have my cord by New Year’s Eve.
The electrical outage resulted in my postponement to book reservations to Hawaii. But I called expedia.com today and booked tickets for Dad and me in January. We are flying out this year for $350 less than last year. Go figure. And it nearly reached fifty degrees in Saratoga.
Oh, well. It is for posterity. Something the grand kids and great grand kids can watch and wonder who was that guy who was part of the armed forces that dragged themselves onto the Channel Beaches. Only this guy, my Dad, didn’t even get his feet wet. It wasn’t easy after that. There is still another 30 minutes to add to the production, but I'll have to do this later.
So the DVD was “finished” and my computer was dead once again. December 21, 2008.
That's why no Blogs. No photos. And after more than a week without my power cord, I still am without a computer. There is Dad’s. He is one of seven people remaining on dial up Internet, so until I get my cord which arrived at my sister’s house in New Hampshire five hours after I left for home in NY, there will be no photos of pristine blankets fluffed knee-high, feather dressed Christmas pines and boughs and crystal lined mountain tops.
Be patient. Maybe I’ll have my cord by New Year’s Eve.
The electrical outage resulted in my postponement to book reservations to Hawaii. But I called expedia.com today and booked tickets for Dad and me in January. We are flying out this year for $350 less than last year. Go figure. And it nearly reached fifty degrees in Saratoga.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Scrooge?
A week until Christmas. At Thanksgiving, I announced I wasn’t buying any presents. So far, I’ve held to my plan, but like a dripping underground pipe filling the grotto with a wet muck, guilt seeps through my conscience from someplace deep and hidden.
I’ll find the source and duct tape it dry.
No cards either. This year’s gap in communication will not doubt cause a loss of contact with a few people, those who contact me only during Christmas and I suspect only after I send them a card. Last year, the number of cards I send only to receive about 10% in return. Bad investment.
This is not to say I have no intensions of giving gifts. I’m making mine. And what a trial it has been, but I finally reached Paris last night – between visits to the bathroom. Makes me wish for the days of half filled bottles of Elmer's white glue and cherry-stained Popsicle sticks. Anyone need a hotmat?
I’ll find the source and duct tape it dry.
No cards either. This year’s gap in communication will not doubt cause a loss of contact with a few people, those who contact me only during Christmas and I suspect only after I send them a card. Last year, the number of cards I send only to receive about 10% in return. Bad investment.
This is not to say I have no intensions of giving gifts. I’m making mine. And what a trial it has been, but I finally reached Paris last night – between visits to the bathroom. Makes me wish for the days of half filled bottles of Elmer's white glue and cherry-stained Popsicle sticks. Anyone need a hotmat?
I Was Robbed
I wanted to see the inner workings of my colon. Kind of like caving from worry side out. The doctor assured me it was a mild sedative, to make me relax. The last thing I remembered was looking at the hugely magnified texture of the thin blanket covering my ass. Interesting.
And then some faded mumbling. The doctor telling me he found one polyp and that he removed it. Something about testing and seeing me in three years. How about ten?
It was warm under the blankets and I didn’t budge. Except for the farting. I remembered the nurse, Mary, said as soon as I did that I could have a drink. Alone in the room I opened one eye. Just a little. At the end of the roll away table was a Styrofoam cup and straw. If I can just get that right hand out – the one leashed to the IV – I might be able to drag the table close enough to snag the cup. In came the nurse.
“Are you passing gas?”
“Like a balloon at John McCain’s victory party”.
She mustered a puzzled look. “Okay, then. You may have some water.”
My thirst matched the volume of liquid I passed late yesterday evening and throughout the night. Even a Desert Flower needs a little rain every once in a while.
“So, everything was cleaned out?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“Good,” I confessed a screw up in the preparation. Instead of guzzling 64 ounces of prep liguid in 8 ounce dosages ever 15 minutes I drank the dosage over the course of 8 hours. One glass every hour. Right down. No bloating.” It was an error on my part discovered after the fact. For two weeks I read the preparation instructions but wrote one hour increments in the margin and that was what I followed, checking off each step beginning last week with no more iron supplements.
“Well, that’ll work.” she replied.
“So why bloat up on a gallon of liquid?”
“Takes too much time.”
That it did. By midnight there wasn’t much left inside or on the roll of toilet paper. I managed to snooze a little ignoring the urge to disturb the cats and rush off to the bathroom. At 6 AM, my last opportunity for liquids before the 6:30 cut off. was missed when I got involved on my computer. Time slipped away in the darkness. Tea turned cold. By 7 AM I had sipped about a half a cup.
Dad, designated driver, dropped me off at the main entrance of the Saratoga Hospital, where two red coated valets stepped out to the curb and opened the door. Just like some fancy hotel. I complimented the young men on their fancy jackets, but gave them no tip. Dad wished me luck and drove Booter, meowing in the back seat, to the ophthalmologist in Latham. I stepped into the hospital where I hadn’t been a patient since the fourth grade, although I don’t remember what for. I just remember playing hangman with Mom. I wasn’t very good at that game.
In the entrance ten people stood in line at that registration window. Oh boy. I stepped to a small information podium where I verified my need to go through this intake process. The lady, named Elaine wore velvet reindeer antlers and a felt Santa helper hat.
“What are you here for?”
“Colonoscopy.”
“Oh no. You can go directly upstairs.” Like a good elf she referred to her list, found my name, checked it twice. “Oh yes, Ms. Perez. There you are.” Elaine volunteered as my personal escort and off we went to sojourn the ubiquitously wandering hallways of the hospital. We rode a maze of elevators entering on one side and exiting on the other. She pointed out which room my procedure would take place.
A lost-in the-woods feeling settled over me. “I guess I should pay attention to where I’m going. Or will you come and get me when it is all over?"
“Oh no. One of the staff will bring you down in a wheel chair.” Dollar signs spun before me.
About this time I began to think of my last hospital procedure. Micronesia. Peace Corps. Third World. But I never saw any M&M’s on the floor, geckos clinging to the ceiling or cats busily scurrying through the ward, tails down, on the defense.
“It’s this your first?”
Coming back to the present, I thought Is this kind of like having a baby? “Yes, I’m a virgin.”
“Here we are,” she proudly chirped as one antler began to droop. Elaine led me into a very crowded waiting room. This is going to take forever. She shook my hand and wished me luck. That’s twice in a span of twelve minutes.
“Merry Christmas, Elaine.”
The receptionist handed me a clipboard with instructions to carefully review my file. The insurance carrier, employer and next of kin were all wrong. It would have been perfect if I had still been in the Peace Corps and Mom was still alive. After updating the forms I ducked into the bathroom. That constant “feel like I need to go feeling” wouldn’t go away. Honestly, there was nothing left.
Nurse Mary escorted me to the prep room. Behind a drawn curtain I learned the man next door was having an Achilles tendon repaired and across the aisle a lady debated a spinal tap. Go for the knock out punch, never-know-you-died drug. As I stood naked in the cubical I turned and looked out the window. Across the parking lot, the field of snow and the new Radiology Center. Could someone be looking at me with a pair of binoculars? Man, my tan line is nearly faded and my ass itches. Cold dry weather of the Northeast. I threw on my robe, pulled on the socks and jumped under the thin blanket.
Mary gabbed away while she tucked a spa warm blanket around me. So far so good. She yakked about friend who came from a family in Italy who owns a spring and bottling plant. Her friend’s mother had been abducted by a well-off man, thirty years her senior. Well-off, but clearly a pig. She was seventeen at the time and the man raped her. Pregnant and disgraced her family forced her to marry the swine and have the baby. After two years of abuse, she fled leaving her son. She hid fearing her family would make her return to the man. He eventually died. She never saw her son again. Other things happened (reunited with her brothers, remarried, other kids, big villa. Now her friend flies to India to do a Zen-Dali-Lama thing. I think this was about where I feel asleep.
It felt like nothing happened and I got robbed of virtually spelunking my insides.
And then some faded mumbling. The doctor telling me he found one polyp and that he removed it. Something about testing and seeing me in three years. How about ten?
It was warm under the blankets and I didn’t budge. Except for the farting. I remembered the nurse, Mary, said as soon as I did that I could have a drink. Alone in the room I opened one eye. Just a little. At the end of the roll away table was a Styrofoam cup and straw. If I can just get that right hand out – the one leashed to the IV – I might be able to drag the table close enough to snag the cup. In came the nurse.
“Are you passing gas?”
“Like a balloon at John McCain’s victory party”.
She mustered a puzzled look. “Okay, then. You may have some water.”
My thirst matched the volume of liquid I passed late yesterday evening and throughout the night. Even a Desert Flower needs a little rain every once in a while.
“So, everything was cleaned out?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“Good,” I confessed a screw up in the preparation. Instead of guzzling 64 ounces of prep liguid in 8 ounce dosages ever 15 minutes I drank the dosage over the course of 8 hours. One glass every hour. Right down. No bloating.” It was an error on my part discovered after the fact. For two weeks I read the preparation instructions but wrote one hour increments in the margin and that was what I followed, checking off each step beginning last week with no more iron supplements.
“Well, that’ll work.” she replied.
“So why bloat up on a gallon of liquid?”
“Takes too much time.”
That it did. By midnight there wasn’t much left inside or on the roll of toilet paper. I managed to snooze a little ignoring the urge to disturb the cats and rush off to the bathroom. At 6 AM, my last opportunity for liquids before the 6:30 cut off. was missed when I got involved on my computer. Time slipped away in the darkness. Tea turned cold. By 7 AM I had sipped about a half a cup.
Dad, designated driver, dropped me off at the main entrance of the Saratoga Hospital, where two red coated valets stepped out to the curb and opened the door. Just like some fancy hotel. I complimented the young men on their fancy jackets, but gave them no tip. Dad wished me luck and drove Booter, meowing in the back seat, to the ophthalmologist in Latham. I stepped into the hospital where I hadn’t been a patient since the fourth grade, although I don’t remember what for. I just remember playing hangman with Mom. I wasn’t very good at that game.
In the entrance ten people stood in line at that registration window. Oh boy. I stepped to a small information podium where I verified my need to go through this intake process. The lady, named Elaine wore velvet reindeer antlers and a felt Santa helper hat.
“What are you here for?”
“Colonoscopy.”
“Oh no. You can go directly upstairs.” Like a good elf she referred to her list, found my name, checked it twice. “Oh yes, Ms. Perez. There you are.” Elaine volunteered as my personal escort and off we went to sojourn the ubiquitously wandering hallways of the hospital. We rode a maze of elevators entering on one side and exiting on the other. She pointed out which room my procedure would take place.
A lost-in the-woods feeling settled over me. “I guess I should pay attention to where I’m going. Or will you come and get me when it is all over?"
“Oh no. One of the staff will bring you down in a wheel chair.” Dollar signs spun before me.
About this time I began to think of my last hospital procedure. Micronesia. Peace Corps. Third World. But I never saw any M&M’s on the floor, geckos clinging to the ceiling or cats busily scurrying through the ward, tails down, on the defense.
“It’s this your first?”
Coming back to the present, I thought Is this kind of like having a baby? “Yes, I’m a virgin.”
“Here we are,” she proudly chirped as one antler began to droop. Elaine led me into a very crowded waiting room. This is going to take forever. She shook my hand and wished me luck. That’s twice in a span of twelve minutes.
“Merry Christmas, Elaine.”
The receptionist handed me a clipboard with instructions to carefully review my file. The insurance carrier, employer and next of kin were all wrong. It would have been perfect if I had still been in the Peace Corps and Mom was still alive. After updating the forms I ducked into the bathroom. That constant “feel like I need to go feeling” wouldn’t go away. Honestly, there was nothing left.
Nurse Mary escorted me to the prep room. Behind a drawn curtain I learned the man next door was having an Achilles tendon repaired and across the aisle a lady debated a spinal tap. Go for the knock out punch, never-know-you-died drug. As I stood naked in the cubical I turned and looked out the window. Across the parking lot, the field of snow and the new Radiology Center. Could someone be looking at me with a pair of binoculars? Man, my tan line is nearly faded and my ass itches. Cold dry weather of the Northeast. I threw on my robe, pulled on the socks and jumped under the thin blanket.
Mary gabbed away while she tucked a spa warm blanket around me. So far so good. She yakked about friend who came from a family in Italy who owns a spring and bottling plant. Her friend’s mother had been abducted by a well-off man, thirty years her senior. Well-off, but clearly a pig. She was seventeen at the time and the man raped her. Pregnant and disgraced her family forced her to marry the swine and have the baby. After two years of abuse, she fled leaving her son. She hid fearing her family would make her return to the man. He eventually died. She never saw her son again. Other things happened (reunited with her brothers, remarried, other kids, big villa. Now her friend flies to India to do a Zen-Dali-Lama thing. I think this was about where I feel asleep.
It felt like nothing happened and I got robbed of virtually spelunking my insides.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Those Two Girls
Snug as two bugs in a rug. Thanksgiving at Jen's. Cold place.
A hike to Hagadorn's Mountain after the ice storm. We then "blogeoned" home, finding squirrel holes, mysterious blood in the snow and deer droppings. No old wells to fall into.
Robin celebrates year 53! Good sisters.
Back in Business
For the second time in the life of my laptop computer (three years in April) the AC power adapter has quit sending the life juice that comes from a wall socket. Of course, this happened while I am in the middle of a project that I have been working on since Thanksgiving and trying to complete before the Night before Christmas. Prior to the failure of the power adapter, I had encountered a program bug in Microsoft's movie maker – too many transitions and the program politely apologizes for the inconvenience but demands to be shut down, no alternative. This discovery came at great expense of time and frustration, but with a valuable lesson. Ain’t nothing good in a free program. (Remember that ObamaNation.)
I even went the radical step of ripping all Microsoft programs from my computer, and reloading the software. This created a few oddities in my computer. One I discovered was none of my video was displayable. After being introduced to the world of codecs - things that make videos work?-I now have, seemingly, all systems working, but continue to have the same flaw that was built into the movie maker. Alas. My father standing in line with me at Best Buy discovered the price tag on the Pinnacle Version 12 Ultimate Movie Maker and handed me his credit card. Merry Christmas. Thank God for Dads.
But just when I thought I was up and creating a movie even little Opie Taylor would smile at, I experienced a Dell equipment failure. Disgusted, I called Dell expecting an Indian to tell me of “No Problem unless Pakistani”. I got a nice guy named TG who told me the product is in stock. Ship date is December 17th. WHAT? Some blah, blah explanation which covers their ass I suppose. Long story, it arrived this morning, four days after the computer power outage, ironically at the same time the ice storm paralyzed the north east.
I even went the radical step of ripping all Microsoft programs from my computer, and reloading the software. This created a few oddities in my computer. One I discovered was none of my video was displayable. After being introduced to the world of codecs - things that make videos work?-I now have, seemingly, all systems working, but continue to have the same flaw that was built into the movie maker. Alas. My father standing in line with me at Best Buy discovered the price tag on the Pinnacle Version 12 Ultimate Movie Maker and handed me his credit card. Merry Christmas. Thank God for Dads.
But just when I thought I was up and creating a movie even little Opie Taylor would smile at, I experienced a Dell equipment failure. Disgusted, I called Dell expecting an Indian to tell me of “No Problem unless Pakistani”. I got a nice guy named TG who told me the product is in stock. Ship date is December 17th. WHAT? Some blah, blah explanation which covers their ass I suppose. Long story, it arrived this morning, four days after the computer power outage, ironically at the same time the ice storm paralyzed the north east.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Me on the Rocks
I broke down and got a hair cut. If it wasn't for the holidays I would let it get even shaggier and not do anything with it until I return to Hawaii.
Oh, the Weather Outside is...
I try to avoid winter as much as possible. I’ve done this by staying inside. Lately, it seems that some sort of injury waits for me in the frosty air. Like the other day. I stepped outside to find a light frost clinging to the front ramp like barnacles on an old ship hull. I had tossed on my down jacket, the one I wore to Everest, over my flannel PJs to retrieve the thin-as-October-ice newspaper, The Saratogian. Before I could inhale one surprised gulp of air, my feet were over my head. Thump. I knocked whatever remained in my lungs out into the stiff air, the veil of vapor hanging over me like a death shroud. I landed flat on my back. When I thought I laid perfectly still staring at the hubcap of Dad’s Subaru I noticed I was slowly ebbing down the short slope. Shit, that’s going to hurt tomorrow.
And it did. Every damn muscle from my neck to my waist and my triceps – because I made an ill attempt to catch myself on the railings – felt tortured. This caused me to remain inside for another three days before venturing out again for the paper. Now when I do, Dad sitting at the dining room table behind a bowl of cookie-laden cereal and stirring his syrupy tea reminds me to watch my step. Like I’d forget.
And yesterday, the second dusting of the winter caused more injury. A powdered coating annoying rested in the driveway. Since it was Dad’s eighty-fifth birthday, I decided I could help him blast the stuff out of the path of the car. I blew through the fluff as quickly as possible, noting that this is the beginning of the six foot snow bank that will rampart the driveway come February. I managed to lift nothing but white air and in doing so pulled a back muscle. Shit, that is embarrassing. Small wonder I was sore the next day when Dad took me to the Y. All that walking, bike riding and swimming of October and early November rotting on the vine.
You know that Amish heater that has been seen in just about every Sunday’s Parade Magazine since August? Dad ordered one right after Thanksgiving and it arrived on the coldest day of the season, so far. The mercury couldn’t crack the 10 degree line. Wind chill was teeth shattering.
He set the mock fireplace in my old room down in the basement where I immediately set up camp in my own private inferno. If there were a bathroom down stairs, I wouldn’t emerge until it’s time to catch a plane back to Hawaii. But with a little sand on the floor and some Ukulele music, I could almost imagine it despite the frightful weather.
And it did. Every damn muscle from my neck to my waist and my triceps – because I made an ill attempt to catch myself on the railings – felt tortured. This caused me to remain inside for another three days before venturing out again for the paper. Now when I do, Dad sitting at the dining room table behind a bowl of cookie-laden cereal and stirring his syrupy tea reminds me to watch my step. Like I’d forget.
And yesterday, the second dusting of the winter caused more injury. A powdered coating annoying rested in the driveway. Since it was Dad’s eighty-fifth birthday, I decided I could help him blast the stuff out of the path of the car. I blew through the fluff as quickly as possible, noting that this is the beginning of the six foot snow bank that will rampart the driveway come February. I managed to lift nothing but white air and in doing so pulled a back muscle. Shit, that is embarrassing. Small wonder I was sore the next day when Dad took me to the Y. All that walking, bike riding and swimming of October and early November rotting on the vine.
You know that Amish heater that has been seen in just about every Sunday’s Parade Magazine since August? Dad ordered one right after Thanksgiving and it arrived on the coldest day of the season, so far. The mercury couldn’t crack the 10 degree line. Wind chill was teeth shattering.
He set the mock fireplace in my old room down in the basement where I immediately set up camp in my own private inferno. If there were a bathroom down stairs, I wouldn’t emerge until it’s time to catch a plane back to Hawaii. But with a little sand on the floor and some Ukulele music, I could almost imagine it despite the frightful weather.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Black Friday
On Black Friday when everyone seems to be trampling each other for extra low prices, we aborted plans to go to Boston when it began to pour. Not getting anyone excited about going to the movies to see Bolt, I followed my sister Jennifer around like the paparazzi as she went to the post office, Dunkin Donuts, and the shop where she had her couch reupholstered. 
Nothing too exciting.
Not my dog.
Friday, November 28, 2008
The Things That Last
Thanksgiving is filled with tradition, minus little kids dressing up in Indian and pilgrim custom. God knows we don’t wish to offend someone or traumatize a tike as we might share a lesson of sitting down at a feast with those who come from different cultures and coexist on the edge where life meets death. It was a harsh time back then. One can only image how a child survived the real drama of life when the crops fail, Paw died and red-skinned heathens were whooping up the devil outside the log cabin.
Whether it is bundling up for a trip to Lambeau Field to see the Packers (Just isn’t the same without Bret is it?), watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade, simply perusing the flyers for tomorrow sales or gathering with friends and family to enjoy a butterball with all the trimmings like Mickey’s cornbread and stuffing, American’s have created traditions. Each year a little variation of the year before and silently without any formal acknowledgement a new tradition becomes part of the tomorrow's landscape.
We gather in Worcester, because Jennifer cooks the turkey. And each of us becuase we come add the things that become tradition because they are glazed with memories.
It is the frozen fruit salad served on a bed of lettuce. One of Mom’s recipes. There was the year that it was accidentally made with three times the amount of mayonnaise that the recipe called for. It was horrible, but now we smile remembering the disaster as the mayo is carefully measured and the batter taste-tested before it hits the freezer. Each year we ask about the three French Canadians who shared our table and blessed us with their French accents and broken English. We bring a pile of blankets and extra socks to endure the 62 degree room temperatures and 55 degree night settings because…I never understand why, except that too is part of the tradition. And maybe it will be the apple pie and the attempts to make a flakey crust as Mom's.
Thanksgiving is about conversation. We share stories and photos, opinions and views. We tell tales of cats, big and wild, and solve the world economic crisis and a few other issues along the way. And don't go home mad.
Three Thanksgivings without Mom. Doesn’t seem like that much time should have passed. Traditions are the things we keep that are so dear. It’s a new tradition without her presence, but not without her touch. These are not harsh times. These are good times and we are ready to face whatever tomorrow brings, taking with us the things that last. The family.
Whether it is bundling up for a trip to Lambeau Field to see the Packers (Just isn’t the same without Bret is it?), watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade, simply perusing the flyers for tomorrow sales or gathering with friends and family to enjoy a butterball with all the trimmings like Mickey’s cornbread and stuffing, American’s have created traditions. Each year a little variation of the year before and silently without any formal acknowledgement a new tradition becomes part of the tomorrow's landscape.
We gather in Worcester, because Jennifer cooks the turkey. And each of us becuase we come add the things that become tradition because they are glazed with memories.
It is the frozen fruit salad served on a bed of lettuce. One of Mom’s recipes. There was the year that it was accidentally made with three times the amount of mayonnaise that the recipe called for. It was horrible, but now we smile remembering the disaster as the mayo is carefully measured and the batter taste-tested before it hits the freezer. Each year we ask about the three French Canadians who shared our table and blessed us with their French accents and broken English. We bring a pile of blankets and extra socks to endure the 62 degree room temperatures and 55 degree night settings because…I never understand why, except that too is part of the tradition. And maybe it will be the apple pie and the attempts to make a flakey crust as Mom's.
Thanksgiving is about conversation. We share stories and photos, opinions and views. We tell tales of cats, big and wild, and solve the world economic crisis and a few other issues along the way. And don't go home mad.
Three Thanksgivings without Mom. Doesn’t seem like that much time should have passed. Traditions are the things we keep that are so dear. It’s a new tradition without her presence, but not without her touch. These are not harsh times. These are good times and we are ready to face whatever tomorrow brings, taking with us the things that last. The family.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Delusion
Okay here is my year end prediction. Just in time for Thanksgiving. Hopefully, I’ll have a bit of time between pie baking, turkey stuffing and sweet potato mashing to get that blog out too.
Frankly, I was shocked to see $1.76 gas in Massachusetts. While we can once again enjoy the sweet smell of toxic fumes rising from the tank as we pump (except in those states with those stupid nozzle covers) and a trip across the Bay State costs $17.00 instead of $50.00, the soft prices are nevertheless alarming. Not that I didn’t predict that the prices would be at $2.00 by the end of the year.
Don’t ask why I suspected such. Maybe it was the common sense feeling that speculators were going to get burned like those who fooled around in dot coms and real estate flips. They were creating a nasty storm and a catastrophe was imminent. Or maybe I suspected the demand pull back would finally catch the market and OPEC by surprise. But by Father’s Day I told Jen the prices would be back down to $2.00.
What would I care about the price of gas? I haven’t bought a gallon since I topped my Jeep off in early October at $3.61. Okay, I rented a car in Hawaii for three days and bought $14.50 at Costco for $3.58, I think. I’ve been riding my bike every since. And since my return to New York it has been so darn cold that the damn Jeep wouldn't start until I put a new battery in it after the weather warmed up a tad.
My psychological breakpoint for a gallon of gas is $2.25. That I can stomach, almost. This price fell into my wallet after I returned from the Peace Corps. Life was good. Without a job, but with money in the bank, I could swallow the price.
I remember the first time I paid $1.75. I was ripped off at a station just off the New York State Thruway. Forty more miles and just south of the Jersey border it was sitting in the ground for 40 cents less. But I was on vapors and didn’t want to chance pushing the Jeep anywhere. I pumped it and swore I’d never pay that much again.
But how about that little?
Now we are caught in a precarious situation. We are breathing again – assuming you are not one of the ten million who have lost their jobs, or lost your retirement accounts, or your house. Americans will treat themselves to a few extra miles on the road this holiday because we deserve it, by God, because we don’t have much left, except hope, maybe a dribbling of hope with those mash potatoes. We’ll make the extra trip to Target or WalMart to pick up the Nano I-pod before trucking off to Grandma’s for glutton and gridiron in front of the brand new 50 inch wide screen high def TV. And that spike we create will raise the eye brows of Saudis and Democrats. The OPEC dudes will cut production and The People's Ruler will talk of imposing an oil tax to curb the spiked demand. By the end of the year the spike will settle, maybe around my mark $2.25.
I just read an article in an October 8th newspaper. To quote, “anyone who thinks gas will be below $2.00 anytime soon is delusional.” I am. I am. After almost an 8 trillion dollar bailout of Monopoly money, the economy isn’t going anywhere. Gas will continue to tank. Gas below one dollar? I say hell yes, until we believe we are personally going to grab a hammer, join Obama’s union and build a new bridge. That’s the real delusion.
Frankly, I was shocked to see $1.76 gas in Massachusetts. While we can once again enjoy the sweet smell of toxic fumes rising from the tank as we pump (except in those states with those stupid nozzle covers) and a trip across the Bay State costs $17.00 instead of $50.00, the soft prices are nevertheless alarming. Not that I didn’t predict that the prices would be at $2.00 by the end of the year.
Don’t ask why I suspected such. Maybe it was the common sense feeling that speculators were going to get burned like those who fooled around in dot coms and real estate flips. They were creating a nasty storm and a catastrophe was imminent. Or maybe I suspected the demand pull back would finally catch the market and OPEC by surprise. But by Father’s Day I told Jen the prices would be back down to $2.00.
What would I care about the price of gas? I haven’t bought a gallon since I topped my Jeep off in early October at $3.61. Okay, I rented a car in Hawaii for three days and bought $14.50 at Costco for $3.58, I think. I’ve been riding my bike every since. And since my return to New York it has been so darn cold that the damn Jeep wouldn't start until I put a new battery in it after the weather warmed up a tad.
My psychological breakpoint for a gallon of gas is $2.25. That I can stomach, almost. This price fell into my wallet after I returned from the Peace Corps. Life was good. Without a job, but with money in the bank, I could swallow the price.
I remember the first time I paid $1.75. I was ripped off at a station just off the New York State Thruway. Forty more miles and just south of the Jersey border it was sitting in the ground for 40 cents less. But I was on vapors and didn’t want to chance pushing the Jeep anywhere. I pumped it and swore I’d never pay that much again.
But how about that little?
Now we are caught in a precarious situation. We are breathing again – assuming you are not one of the ten million who have lost their jobs, or lost your retirement accounts, or your house. Americans will treat themselves to a few extra miles on the road this holiday because we deserve it, by God, because we don’t have much left, except hope, maybe a dribbling of hope with those mash potatoes. We’ll make the extra trip to Target or WalMart to pick up the Nano I-pod before trucking off to Grandma’s for glutton and gridiron in front of the brand new 50 inch wide screen high def TV. And that spike we create will raise the eye brows of Saudis and Democrats. The OPEC dudes will cut production and The People's Ruler will talk of imposing an oil tax to curb the spiked demand. By the end of the year the spike will settle, maybe around my mark $2.25.
I just read an article in an October 8th newspaper. To quote, “anyone who thinks gas will be below $2.00 anytime soon is delusional.” I am. I am. After almost an 8 trillion dollar bailout of Monopoly money, the economy isn’t going anywhere. Gas will continue to tank. Gas below one dollar? I say hell yes, until we believe we are personally going to grab a hammer, join Obama’s union and build a new bridge. That’s the real delusion.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Parade Junkie?
When a parade in paradise starts late you get some shaved ice, settle back with your toes in the grass and sit around talking story. Forty five minutes isn’t a matter of life and death or hypothermia. The same can’t be said for a Christmas parade in upstate New York where temperatures have been hard pressed to climb into the twenties.
The only saving factor was the sun, but the clouds kept creeping over the low hanging orb so flashes on warmth were scarce. Along the route kids played oblivious to the cold. Everyone seemed numb to the artic air that swept down the street toward the Hudson River
where ice chunks built up along the falls under the Glens Falls bridge. I couldn’t tell if the tears in my eyes were due to the bite in the wind or for my longing for Hawaiian breezes. I listened to the hawkers rattle their stolen shopping carts full of Chinese toys down the street, stiff rubber tires grinding against the frigid asphalt. My God the guys gripped the steel of the car with bare hands.
Before the honor guards passed by the gas station selling fuel for $2.03 I couldn’t feel my fingers. My toes felt as if a stone crusher mashed my piggies and wouldn’t let up. The pain rolled my eyes. 
No beautiful Miss Kona Coffee Queen and her court. Grizzled faced Hog riders rumbled by the assembled parade watches dressed in parkas, hoods, scarves and thermal underwear. I was too. Dressed in the same manner as if I woke at Everest Base Camp. 
It is late November. Temperatures 10 – 15 degrees below normal.
By the time the hamburger floated by, I was ready to jump into the deep fat fryer. "Come on Dad, it's time to go. Aren't you cold?"
"Yeah."
"Let's go watch a football game."
Going Nuts
My plan to become the Johnnie Appleseed of the butter nut trees isn't going to happen. A few weeks before leaving for Hawaii I put a dozen in the refrigerator. In order to germinate the nut it must be kept moist and needs to go through a dormant state for about ninety days. After three months I'd plant the seeds in the basement, a cool environment simulating spring. Hopefully, by the time warmer temperatures rolled through the northeast I’d have a couple trees on their way to a healthy life in western New York and New Hampshire.
A jar of Alfredo sauce, a carton of cottage cheese and a few other items were also in the refrigerator. Dad didn’t eat these things so imagine the growth of green stuff when I returned last week. Of course I tossed them out.
A large family size package of Eggos occupied the bottom shelf. Apparently Dad started eating Eggos when he visited Mike in Colorado. He discovered that with syrup and whip cream they make a sweat tasty breakfast, a substitute for his cereal and cookies. The package replaced the nuts which were in a sealed plastic bag.
“Where are the butter nuts?”
“They were getting moldy so I put them outside.”
“Where?”
“Out by the shed. See the black bucket?” I looked out the kitchen window. A chipmunk scampered across the yard.
“When did you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why? Why would you throw out my nuts? You leave moldy food in the refrigerator.” I suspected he needed a big empty spot for that family size Eggo package.
I went outside (and it was butt ass cold) there were no nuts in the bucket. What do you expect when you drop a dozen nuts in a place where there are enough squirrels to outfit every member of the Tsar’s family in furry underwear.
A jar of Alfredo sauce, a carton of cottage cheese and a few other items were also in the refrigerator. Dad didn’t eat these things so imagine the growth of green stuff when I returned last week. Of course I tossed them out.
A large family size package of Eggos occupied the bottom shelf. Apparently Dad started eating Eggos when he visited Mike in Colorado. He discovered that with syrup and whip cream they make a sweat tasty breakfast, a substitute for his cereal and cookies. The package replaced the nuts which were in a sealed plastic bag.
“Where are the butter nuts?”
“They were getting moldy so I put them outside.”
“Where?”
“Out by the shed. See the black bucket?” I looked out the kitchen window. A chipmunk scampered across the yard.
“When did you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why? Why would you throw out my nuts? You leave moldy food in the refrigerator.” I suspected he needed a big empty spot for that family size Eggo package.
I went outside (and it was butt ass cold) there were no nuts in the bucket. What do you expect when you drop a dozen nuts in a place where there are enough squirrels to outfit every member of the Tsar’s family in furry underwear.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
High Post Stumpie
Spot the Stumpie sitting high in office. Poor little guy will not be in NH for Christmas but will spend the holiday with Cocoa the bunny. The plans include deep sea fishing and then a helicopter ride to see the volcano.
Depression
Kona sunrise on Nov 17, 2008What churns holiday memories as smooth as hand cracked ice cream and evokes feelings as warm the soles of feet propped on the hearth? Not Christmas carols ground out by knock-off pop artists and regurgitated through cheap speakers filtering the notes through a strip mall as if it were parmesan cheese through a plastic grate.
A low ceiling sprinkled flakes into the artic air to dance over the wings of the 727. Touchdown, Albany. Welcome home. By the time Dad and I stopped at Cracker Barrel for a late lunch, the Subaru’s front license plate disappeared under a coat of flurries that fell from a patch work of fluffy white clouds, dark threaten smears of winter and Hawaii blue sky. In the ditches that follow the Northway to Saratoga Springs, the dead tassels of the reed canary grass bowed under the burden until sharp winds released the stalks. By the time we pulled into the driveway, only a light dusting remained settled beneath the Robin’s maple.
Sunrise Chicago's O'hare Airport November 18, 2008 I bared the cold. Once inside the house I left my sweatshirt on and donned my slipper socks made of reindeer and felt. Dad took a nap and I settled into the living room to watch the day draw darkness from the night's well. It was before 5 PM. Another 45 minutes will be robbed from the day before the winter solstice begins to take the light back. A wave of isolation washed through me and and left depression on my shores.
I’ll recover, if slowly. My blood will thicken like Thanksgiving gravy, slowly. I’ll forget my afternoon swim and bike ride traded for a walk around the block dressed in three or maybe five layers. My eyes will water and I’ll remind myself to keep my mouth shut so my teeth won’t ache when I have a hot drink after I get back inside. I’ll patiently wait until I can buy a ticket to go back.
I spent the afternoon installing ten latches on the kitchen cabinet doors to prevent Phoenix and Diablo from prowling through the cereal boxes and garbage. This eliminates the half a dozen paint sticks wedged between the handles and doors to foil the attempts at swing the doors wide open and feast. I also discovered the hidden stash of dog food in the basement. Diablo had been eating the two year old food, despite the diarrhea.
I am glad to see my cats. Purring Diablo snuggled on my lap as I sit tucked under a blanket. See, it isn't all that bad.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
O'hare
And just like that 80 degrees becomes a crystal clear shattering 23 degrees. A taste of winter, with Christmas trees and all the trimmings. It actually started while I sat in the lavatory in the rear of the plane. From every crevice that wasn’t mine, poured a chill, as painful as a tourist sunburn, and as deep as the ache of flu-laden muscles. I looked in the mirror and wondered how long ago was it that my t-shirt soaked up my body’s perspiration like syrup on a pancake?
My body thinks it is the middle of the night. It is tormenting me with a series of hot flashes. Bring it on. I don’t expect it to be warm anytime soon.
My body thinks it is the middle of the night. It is tormenting me with a series of hot flashes. Bring it on. I don’t expect it to be warm anytime soon.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Stolen Bike
Last minute chores include fertilizing my plants.
The sprinkler system had just gone off so I was feeding the plants in my backyard when I noticed two kids coming down the road. They were carrying boogie boards and trying to thumb a ride when one delinquent spotted a bike parked between two trucks along the road.
“Hey I found a bike,” one kid said. With his toe he kicked the kickstand up and climb on board. No hesitation, but they scanned the vacant lot for an owner who might be in the weeds taking a whiz.
“Hey, that’s not your bike,” I yelled over my fence.
The two perpetrators looked up. The rider slipped off the bike, but didn't park it.
“Is it yours?” the other asked.
“It’s not yours.” I retorted.
“It was just lying here.” he offered as logic for the crime.
“No it wasn’t. It was on its kick stand.” Is there some rule that if a bike is upright, it’s not fair game?
“Yeah, but it was just here.” Maybe there is a rule?
“So is that truck,” I said indicating the parked vehicle they were standing near. “That’s just there too. Would you steal that?"
Incredibly, the kid without the bike said, “Well, maybe.”
“Put the bike down, take your boards and get out of here.”
"What?"
"What do you mean 'what'? What didn't you understand?"
The kid unceremoniously dropped the bike near the fire hydrant, but neither moved down the road. Instead, they raised their thumbs for the next car.
I went back to measuring fertilizer for each plant, but popped up to peep over the fence after dropping pellets on each plant. By the time I got to the end of the fence the two juveniles had a ride.
The heap-of-a-bike, most likely stolen in the first place, had to be harder to ride than to walk. The chain and gears had more rust than the hull of a sunken ship. For the next two hours the bike sat unclaimed on a road with lots of foot and vehicle traffic. I went to retrieve it, knowing someone would spot me “stealing” the bike.
Now I had a derelict bike, worthless except for two good tires. After consulting with the complex's secretary, I decided to see if the people upstairs want it. If not, I'll leave it by the dumpster and let whoever takes it have it. Just as long as those two kids don't get it.
The sprinkler system had just gone off so I was feeding the plants in my backyard when I noticed two kids coming down the road. They were carrying boogie boards and trying to thumb a ride when one delinquent spotted a bike parked between two trucks along the road.
“Hey I found a bike,” one kid said. With his toe he kicked the kickstand up and climb on board. No hesitation, but they scanned the vacant lot for an owner who might be in the weeds taking a whiz.
“Hey, that’s not your bike,” I yelled over my fence.
The two perpetrators looked up. The rider slipped off the bike, but didn't park it.
“Is it yours?” the other asked.
“It’s not yours.” I retorted.
“It was just lying here.” he offered as logic for the crime.
“No it wasn’t. It was on its kick stand.” Is there some rule that if a bike is upright, it’s not fair game?
“Yeah, but it was just here.” Maybe there is a rule?
“So is that truck,” I said indicating the parked vehicle they were standing near. “That’s just there too. Would you steal that?"
Incredibly, the kid without the bike said, “Well, maybe.”
“Put the bike down, take your boards and get out of here.”
"What?"
"What do you mean 'what'? What didn't you understand?"
The kid unceremoniously dropped the bike near the fire hydrant, but neither moved down the road. Instead, they raised their thumbs for the next car.
I went back to measuring fertilizer for each plant, but popped up to peep over the fence after dropping pellets on each plant. By the time I got to the end of the fence the two juveniles had a ride.
The heap-of-a-bike, most likely stolen in the first place, had to be harder to ride than to walk. The chain and gears had more rust than the hull of a sunken ship. For the next two hours the bike sat unclaimed on a road with lots of foot and vehicle traffic. I went to retrieve it, knowing someone would spot me “stealing” the bike.
Now I had a derelict bike, worthless except for two good tires. After consulting with the complex's secretary, I decided to see if the people upstairs want it. If not, I'll leave it by the dumpster and let whoever takes it have it. Just as long as those two kids don't get it.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
On Saturday
It felt like I was in Hawaii today. Gosh darn it, I was. There is something about watching the fish swim in the breaking waves, in water so clear it reveals a whole other world. The crystal blue waves just kept rolling onto the worn lava flats in front of Hale Halawai where the 38th Annual Kona Coffee Cultural Festival presented the International Market Festival of Artist. The sun sparkled on each crest. Man, does it get any better than this?
How about another parade on Alii? This one, at 9:30 AM.
I took a break from the crowds to walk down to the shoreline. There that feeling hit me. I'm in Hawaii. Except this time it wasn’t followed by, “I wish I could live here.” I am filled with a mixture of emotions. Nice to go home to see Dad and be with family for the holidays, but I sure don’t want to leave 80 degrees for minus 13. Okay, it isn’t that cold yet in New York, but Dad tells me the cold weather is forecasted to arrive starting tomorrow. Sure, that's because I'm coming home.
For breakfast I had two monster pancakes compliments of Cub Scout Troop 12. All you can eat pancakes for $5.00. All I could eat were two. As I rode my bike home I thought one would have been plenty. I rode slowly not to get any cramps. There were eggs and rice and other things too, but after two hot of the griddle flat cakes I could eat no more.
I rode home and left Kona to prepare for the day’s festivities. After I showered and grabbed my camera, I returned in time for the parade. How many parades have I been to this year? Three. Two in Kona just this last week. Unfortunately, I won’t be here for the Christmas parade. That’s when the cement mixing trucks roll. And I say it isn’t a parade unless you got cement mixing trucks. No mixers today, but a few good tractor trailers pulling floats.
I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon wandering in and out of the crowds until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Regardless of where I am I can only take so many people for so long.
Intruder II
Two things I am constantly doing - running around the condo without my glasses and leaving the screen door to the lanai wide open. I berate myself. “Damn, the cats got out again”, for I would not dare continue this habit if they were here. Nevertheless, I can’t seem to break myself, even going to bed with the door left wide open. So when I stalked the living room without my glasses and ran right into the screen, knocking it off the hinges, it caught me a bit surprised to find the door closed. I got to put my glasses on, especially if I’m going to find the cats.
I half expected a mongoose to visit. Maybe he has. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught his nose poking around my bike tire. If not for the breeze which disturbed the newspaper he might have ventured further onto the lanai. And the door was open.
The open door invites in the geckos and a few insects, but I expect both critters would have made their way past the threshold regardless of the screen. Birds have come darn close to entering. The doves and Hawaiian cardinals peck around the patio eating something. I can’t figure out what except the sand which has fallen off the shingles and has washed down to the concrete.
It was dinner time and I was in the kitchen preparing fish when I saw a rangy cat with a collar in the living room. “Well wha’cha doing in here?” He paid no attention as he checked out the Nukuoro totem and my water fountain. Then without much adieu he slipped out the lanai door as quietly as he entered. “Hey Prowler”, I yelled after him. He disappeared under the fence.
The next evening he was out front. As I approached he hissed. “Hey, don’t be hissin’ at me.” I crouched and extended my index finger. He took the invitation and came to me. I petted him and he was friendly enough that my upstairs neighbors returning home from Costco asked me if the cat was mine.
Nope, just an intruder. People in the condo complex are not suppose to let their cats run loose. Before he took off I told him to stay out of the road.
I half expected a mongoose to visit. Maybe he has. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught his nose poking around my bike tire. If not for the breeze which disturbed the newspaper he might have ventured further onto the lanai. And the door was open.
The open door invites in the geckos and a few insects, but I expect both critters would have made their way past the threshold regardless of the screen. Birds have come darn close to entering. The doves and Hawaiian cardinals peck around the patio eating something. I can’t figure out what except the sand which has fallen off the shingles and has washed down to the concrete.
It was dinner time and I was in the kitchen preparing fish when I saw a rangy cat with a collar in the living room. “Well wha’cha doing in here?” He paid no attention as he checked out the Nukuoro totem and my water fountain. Then without much adieu he slipped out the lanai door as quietly as he entered. “Hey Prowler”, I yelled after him. He disappeared under the fence.
The next evening he was out front. As I approached he hissed. “Hey, don’t be hissin’ at me.” I crouched and extended my index finger. He took the invitation and came to me. I petted him and he was friendly enough that my upstairs neighbors returning home from Costco asked me if the cat was mine.
Nope, just an intruder. People in the condo complex are not suppose to let their cats run loose. Before he took off I told him to stay out of the road.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Intruder One
The most common footwear in Hawaii is the slipper, known to the Mainlanders as flip flops. There isn’t much need to shake them out before slipping them on. A little kick sends a millipede or a gecko lurking on the foot strap on their way. In the morning before putting on my sneakers I’ll give them a little rap on the concrete step to be sure there isn’t any unwanted creatures living inside. I have yet to find any.
I’ve camped and hiked enough to know that creepy things can crawl into dark places. Before donning hiking boots, it is a good practice to rap on the heel against a tree stump or hardened earth to dislodge unwanted critters from the cavernous toes. It is wise to inspect where a spider, a snake, a centipede, or scorpion could have made its evening’s nest. This is one reason why boots should not be left outside the tent, even muddy, smelly one. I’ve been to places where I have even slept with my boots inside my sleeping bag so that come morning, my toes didn’t slide into an ice block of stiff leather, which has to be worse than getting bit unexpectedly by a critter.
After my swim at the community pool, I slip off my Chaos—the high-tech slipper—and wrestle my bike socks on over my damp feet. As I do so, I usually sit on the concrete pad surrounding the pool and watch the comings and goings of others. The cute pool maintenance guy who makes mysterious entries through the “staff only” door, the kid coached by a master swimmer, the teens collected on the top bench talking on cell phones. Once shoes are tied and bike unlocked, I swing my backpack on and head to the condo to get something to eat.
This particular day, before I got out of the parking lot I felt something on the side of my foot. It felt like a muscle twitch. There it was again. While coasting I inspected my bike shoe, half-hoping the stitches had ripped out and that was what I felt. But the shoe held together. By the time I got to the fabric store I knew something was inside. Something wedged between my foot and the leather. Something wanted out. And I wanted the same thing.
I couldn’t get the shoe off fast enough. I ripped it off almost before I dismounted my bike and dumped a tail and a semi-swished skink out on the sidewalk. I apologized to him and left him there to die. Except when I came out of the store only the tail was there.
Two days later, his presence lingers. The physical contact and the determined fight for freedom crawls on the side of my foot.
I’ve camped and hiked enough to know that creepy things can crawl into dark places. Before donning hiking boots, it is a good practice to rap on the heel against a tree stump or hardened earth to dislodge unwanted critters from the cavernous toes. It is wise to inspect where a spider, a snake, a centipede, or scorpion could have made its evening’s nest. This is one reason why boots should not be left outside the tent, even muddy, smelly one. I’ve been to places where I have even slept with my boots inside my sleeping bag so that come morning, my toes didn’t slide into an ice block of stiff leather, which has to be worse than getting bit unexpectedly by a critter.
After my swim at the community pool, I slip off my Chaos—the high-tech slipper—and wrestle my bike socks on over my damp feet. As I do so, I usually sit on the concrete pad surrounding the pool and watch the comings and goings of others. The cute pool maintenance guy who makes mysterious entries through the “staff only” door, the kid coached by a master swimmer, the teens collected on the top bench talking on cell phones. Once shoes are tied and bike unlocked, I swing my backpack on and head to the condo to get something to eat.
This particular day, before I got out of the parking lot I felt something on the side of my foot. It felt like a muscle twitch. There it was again. While coasting I inspected my bike shoe, half-hoping the stitches had ripped out and that was what I felt. But the shoe held together. By the time I got to the fabric store I knew something was inside. Something wedged between my foot and the leather. Something wanted out. And I wanted the same thing.
I couldn’t get the shoe off fast enough. I ripped it off almost before I dismounted my bike and dumped a tail and a semi-swished skink out on the sidewalk. I apologized to him and left him there to die. Except when I came out of the store only the tail was there.
Two days later, his presence lingers. The physical contact and the determined fight for freedom crawls on the side of my foot.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Habits
I just ran out of gas, not the $3.45 a gallon type. It’s the drive to get things done. Writing things mostly. For the past twenty-two days I’ve set a routine that began with dragging my ass out of bed before daylight. I know most working stiffs do this. It was something I always hated when I collected a pay check. I am a morning person, but rising before daylight is difficult. The plan was to accomplish much in the morning hours. Play in the afternoon. For the past two days I’ve growled at the froggy burps the cell phone’s alarm threw into my ear. Sleep arrived far too late in the hours assigned to sanitation workers, gum cracking waitresses at the Waffle House and newspaper delivery boys sent out the door by their fuzzy-slippered mothers. “Damn, I got to reprogram that thing,” shouldn’t be the first thought of the day.
I padded to the lanai to see the full moon under the soft gauze of Big Island clouds. One star’s light was strong enough to cut through the hazy sky. This will be gone by daylight.
The plan had been to put “then before when.” That stops the game playing. When I do this then I’ll do that. To illustrate: when I take a shower, I’ll then buckle down to write some more. A few days I didn’t get a shower until the mandatory one before swimming sixty laps at the community pool. I saved some hot water, but I can’t say it resulted in much critically acclaimed writing. I made the point to myself. Valerie, you can waste time with the best of them.It’s Hawaii for crying out loud. Island Time. Later Brah. Taste the water before you flop your belly on your board and join the boys on quest for the perfect little wave before sunset. It’s the best life offers - hope for the best of wave.
I punched my internal work clock and set about the mornings. First priority was to take up the Bible reading plan designed to take me through the New Testament in ninety days, except I only had thirty left to spare. The goal wasn’t to read to gain knowledge or insight, but to have a life changing encounter with God. A lot to expect in thirty days, but I am talking God here. The thirty-first reading came on day twenty-two. And that doesn’t count the study of Genesis which I embarked on.
The insight was remarkable. The relationship, as usual, challenging. I picked up some applications for the guidebook I am working on, and I found my journaling began to sound a bit like some cloistered monk having an out of body experience. All this without the aid of incense, candles or alcohol.
By 10 am, with Romans 4-5 completed, a bit of journaling about my faith's need of the same calm state as a drowning man, and a few more words on the guidebook, I decided my encounters were getting too heady. I acknowledge that I have not written a word without Him, but when I wrote Middle English servitude I had to scratch it out and replace it with service.
It’s November 11, 2008. I served.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Don't Ask
If not politics, then pop-culture? I should have just kept making the sandwich. Shades of Europe - ham and cheese.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
The Orphans
It felt like I was on safari when I passed these guys. Too little to eat me, big enough to snag my heart. These guys – well, we know at least one is female, the calico – are doing well. The one in the front, the boldest and bravest. Yet they are all cowards, hightailing it to the bush if anyone tries to approach. Except maybe the food dude. I don't know.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
My Parade
No matter what the event - Christmas, Fourth of July, a Festival - Kailua-Kona knows how to throw a parade. The Lantern Parade didn’t have the cement trucks roll down Alii Drive, but this small parade attracted a crowd that lined the streets to watch the procession of lanterns bob through town. For the past ten years the parade, kicks off the Kona Coffee Festival. The Lantern parade is a Japanese tradition created to pay tribute to Japanese ancestors. I can’t explain the connection to Kona Coffee Festival.Since the parade features lanterns and glow sticks, darkness is required to appreciate the softly-lit orbs. The parade began about an hour after sunset. Shortly after the last blue lights of the police car rolled by, I headed home. Dark, but not late, this was my first hike home in the dark. In the morning I run in the dark, but at that time of day the traffic is lighter than the flow on a Friday night. Shoulders are wide, except in a couple of places were cars are parked along the side of the road or where a bridge crosses over a dry creek bed. It was there that I started my own two person parade.
Linda, a tourist from Minnesota, sat on the bridge’s guardrail next to the ocean. She was on the opposite side of the road, the side going with the traffic, not the side she should have been on as a pedestrian. Linda had been out to the luau at the Royal Kona. When I passed the hotel the luau dancers were still on stage, so her departure was early. Nevertheless, she had made the most of it in the short time. As I approached she got up and started walking up Alii in the direction I was headed.This stretch of Alii is almost pitch dark, no hotel or condo lights. It’s tough to see where concrete ends and the dirt shoulder begins. Her shoes were not the most sensible. When she stumbled I wasn’t too surprised. But she continued to stagger tripping on nothing but her brain’s inability to manage coordination.
From across the street I yelled, “Are you okay?”
She stopped to remove a pebble from her shoe. In the typical fashion of most people who are intoxicated she said, “Yeah.” Her voice and body traveled into the road. The hell you are.
I was afraid continued conversation would bring her out into the path of a car. She wandered up the road and I cringed when a couple of vehicles whizzed past.
I crossed the road and she staggered into me. “Can I help you make it home?”
“Do you know where you are?” she asked.
Here was an opportunity to be a wise ass and say Hawaii. “Yeah. But, I don’t know where you are going.”
“Right up there,” she waved an aimless finger down the road.
“To the Sea Village?” Whew, only a few hundred feet. “Let me walk with you.”
When we got there, she said, “This isn't it. I’m going to the Sea Cliff. You know where that is?”
Suddenly, I became a tour guide. “Top of the hill.” It was about a quarter of a mile. I wanted to put my arm around her to prevent her from wandering off the pavement, but was afraid she would push me into the traffic. I walked between her and the road. When she veered my way I steeled myself and let her ricochet away from the road. Cars passed uncomfortably close. Fortunately, she was about my size. I couldn't have worn a white shirt instead of dark blue?
She stopped walking. She looked right at me. “You are so kind. Where did you learn that? From your mother?”
Here I paused. Thoughts swept through my head like snow across the midwestern plain. I rewound what I had been thinking before I stumbled upon my Minnesotan.
Why had I gone to the parade? It was fun; something to do. But this was a long walk back in the dark, alone. I pondered Genesis 4, the story of Cain and Abel. (I don’t make this stuff up. Well, some of it I do. I have been studying Genesis this past week, so the story in my head made sense.) I mulled over the idea of whether I should pick up the weird stuff I find on the side of the road – a sheet metal screw, a paper clip, an Allen wrench. I could do something with this stuff. Sell it on the Internet under a site called Lost on the Side of the Road.Of course I learned this from my mother. I simply said, “yes.”
Help others. Do the right thing. Care about the welfare of those less fortunate, except I don’t think Linda was less fortunate. She was just drunk.
But are things that simple? Where did my mother learn this? And her mother and so on? And was every generational step along the way perfect? Was there any disconnect to this concept of doing good? Was someone in the lineage a horrible, horrible person?
Well, yes, Cain. But tonight, I am letting some stranger bounce off me so she doesn’t get hit by a car, or taken advantaged of by another stranger. Look what I found along the side of the road. Not a safety pin.
Did I have to learn this? No, I was born with a conscious, a sense of having a responsibility toward others. God gave me that, even before the knowledge of good and evil. The farther away we have gotten from God, the more rules we have made under the assumption that without the rules we don’t know how to behave toward others. We knew long before there were Ten Commandments.
It would have eaten at me to let you stumble home alone. Am I doing this for me?
“By the way, where are your friends?” I asked. Am I my brother’s keeper?
“I left them at the luau. I’m a very independent person as you can see.”
Yeah me too, but I’m not prone to do stupid things.
I got her home. She’s leaving the island tomorrow, disappointed that the island isn’t prettier. It is all the matter of your point of view. I thought the island was pretty sparse and Kona crowded. But the crowds are tourists, and the land is vast and diverse. Lady You won’t find me living in the snowscapes of Minnesota anytime soon.
I made it home, still alone. I wondered how my brain tied all this together. Only by being alone, I supposed. I thanked God for creating me with the deep sense to help a stranger in need. And His Word.
Friday, November 07, 2008
Smooshed
Normally, I don’t pay much attention to squished bugs found on the street. Sometimes, I might see a flattened cockroach. I assume during its midnight raid of the dumpster put out for collection, the garbage truck got the better of the bug. The sight makes disgust crawl through me, but at the same time I hide my elation. Where natural selection doesn’t seem able to take care of the cockroach, Goodyear might.
Occasionally, I’ll see a millipede coiled tightly in the grip of death. The crunchy little thing attracts the industrious ant. A tiny workers busily march in a chaotic line to the tradegy to carry away lunch, dinner and winter stock. On the side of the road, life partners with death. Nature stays in constant motion, spinning its cycle of existence. If any of this happens in the kitchen, it is really disgusting, and everybody dies, no exception.
This morning I returned from my usual stroll across the street to retrieve a newspaper. The outline of a smooshed bug caught my eye. There on the gray asphalt was the familiar body of a praying mantis.
How many of these large insects are around here? If they came in the bucket load like cockroaches, ants and locust they would be equally repulsive, regardless of their contribution to the eradication of other insects. Have a few of these crawling around the bedroom at night, and suddenly they take on a whole new personality. With images of its eerie shadow cast upon the wall, the night stalker sucks the life out of the new born and drops pebbles in your ears.
I flinched. I wondered if it was the same one I photographed.
Occasionally, I’ll see a millipede coiled tightly in the grip of death. The crunchy little thing attracts the industrious ant. A tiny workers busily march in a chaotic line to the tradegy to carry away lunch, dinner and winter stock. On the side of the road, life partners with death. Nature stays in constant motion, spinning its cycle of existence. If any of this happens in the kitchen, it is really disgusting, and everybody dies, no exception.
This morning I returned from my usual stroll across the street to retrieve a newspaper. The outline of a smooshed bug caught my eye. There on the gray asphalt was the familiar body of a praying mantis.
How many of these large insects are around here? If they came in the bucket load like cockroaches, ants and locust they would be equally repulsive, regardless of their contribution to the eradication of other insects. Have a few of these crawling around the bedroom at night, and suddenly they take on a whole new personality. With images of its eerie shadow cast upon the wall, the night stalker sucks the life out of the new born and drops pebbles in your ears.
I flinched. I wondered if it was the same one I photographed.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Wha'chya Lookin' At
I’ve been addressing an invasion of mealybugs since my arrival. Who will take up the chore once I leave? Maybe this guy will. I just found him in the ti plants. (Click on the photo and see him larger than life.)If not, I suspect the mealybugs will prosper and multiply. I’m most concerned about the ones on my arecas. When I arrived the leaves were covered with these white fluffy, sticky globs of bug secretion which tiny piss ants love. The underside of the leaves looked like freshly fallen snow.
Initially, I thought they were white flies. My first address involved a pesticide. A week later I hit them again. I saw no improvement. On the Internet I found out the pest was a mealybug. I spent two days wiping the leaves off with a soapy rag.
Everywhere I looked I saw mealybugs. The island is covered with them. I saw them at the library, the farmers market and at the pool. They are probably at Wal-Mart and Safeway, but by the time I bike to these places perched on the side of a steep hill, I’m panting, and sweaty. I’m not up to looking at the foliage in the parking lots. Then I discovered where my bugs were coming from. The neighbor’s tree is lousy with them. The branches hang over the fence and drop contaminated leaves and twigs on my ti and areca plants. Every morning, I clean up the infected debris. Every night, I sneak out and squirt the tree with soapy water. I’ve never met my neighbors. "Hi, My name is Valerie and your tree has mealybugs. Can I spray 'em.?"
The situation now seems under control. Spotty out breaks are handled by applying an alcohol-soaked Q-tip to the bug. This breaks through their hard protective shell and kills them.
I suppose when I return in January, I’ll sit out on the concrete and swab the leaves again. Unless this guy has a lot of friends.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Three Pieces
Oh, my brain hurts. There must be something terribly wrong. Yesterday, I put the panel in the screen in upside down. Today, I attached a picture hanger on the bottom side of a frame. Man, you would think I was living in Australia or something.I shipped a flat wall hanging from Luna House to Hawaii. The pottery arrived in three pieces. Could have been a total disaster, but the way in which it broke was interesting. I made a wooden backing and attached the pieces in a tiered fashion, instead of gluing them back together.
Fortunately, I discovered my mistake before I glued the ceramic to the wooden frame. Otherwise, I don’t know how I would have been able to hang it because to attach the hanger as an afterthought would have been impossible.
God, this is boring. I better stop to see what else I am writing.
One Day Left
Once there were many and dreams soared like eagles. Hats were tossed into the ring like popcorn to pigeons. Early rounds of the Sunday morning TV studios and cable networks were made. Stump here, debate there. Favorites and long shots lined up in front of red white and blue banners to tout their plans and promise us hope while pot-shotting the opponents. It was too much, too early to pay attention to for most. We never saw it coming.
A caucus, a primary and a convention later, from the crowd emerged two contenders. The process clearly illustrated that Darwin’s theory of evolution doesn’t work in the political arena. For the past two years we’ve endured the campaigns of the strong and the weak, the financially powerful and the grass-rooted meek, the media backed and the media shunned. We’ve tuned into radio, read the newspapers, watched television and surfed the Internet to be entertained, amused, befuddled and disgusted. Pundits, pollsters, anchors and reporters, newscasters and radio shows hosts cut, sliced, diced to serve up their opinions. We never saw it coming.
We heard the hollow arguments, the inept logic, the empty reasoning, the simple stupid “feelings”, the unabashed emotion. We saw the wide-eyed acceptance of discounted truth and swallowed-up lies. We wondered why the “other side” just doesn’t get it. And we never saw it coming?
Tired, worn out and disillusioned, we want to get it over with. We just want to move ahead. We want to get on with life. Not a life we knew, but a life of change, where we don’t worry about putting gas in the car, or paying the mortgage, or putting our kids through college. Our kids don’t even have to go to college now, because who needs to work? Health care is free. Everything comes on a silver platter. We’ll be poor!
Hell, what are you waiting for? Get out and vote. At least let that be the last credible thing you do for yourself.
A caucus, a primary and a convention later, from the crowd emerged two contenders. The process clearly illustrated that Darwin’s theory of evolution doesn’t work in the political arena. For the past two years we’ve endured the campaigns of the strong and the weak, the financially powerful and the grass-rooted meek, the media backed and the media shunned. We’ve tuned into radio, read the newspapers, watched television and surfed the Internet to be entertained, amused, befuddled and disgusted. Pundits, pollsters, anchors and reporters, newscasters and radio shows hosts cut, sliced, diced to serve up their opinions. We never saw it coming.
We heard the hollow arguments, the inept logic, the empty reasoning, the simple stupid “feelings”, the unabashed emotion. We saw the wide-eyed acceptance of discounted truth and swallowed-up lies. We wondered why the “other side” just doesn’t get it. And we never saw it coming?
Tired, worn out and disillusioned, we want to get it over with. We just want to move ahead. We want to get on with life. Not a life we knew, but a life of change, where we don’t worry about putting gas in the car, or paying the mortgage, or putting our kids through college. Our kids don’t even have to go to college now, because who needs to work? Health care is free. Everything comes on a silver platter. We’ll be poor!
Hell, what are you waiting for? Get out and vote. At least let that be the last credible thing you do for yourself.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Cover Up
How to make an air conditioner disappear. Get the right tools. Without them, it can be a bit difficult. Nevertheless, two weeks later - a lot of putzing around and a lot of thinking (well not so much) - I finally put my shoulder to the wheel and finished – sort of – the screen to hide the air conditioner, which I don’t use. It would have been easier to get rid of the unit or put it into the closet. 
It is not an heirloom, but it is functional and it isn’t going to fall over and fall apart. I worked really hard to make it as square as possible without a square. When that didn’t work I went to Ace Hardware and bought one. I tried really hard to make sure the pattern in the frames hung straight. And while it does, I some how managed to get the middle piece in upside down. I said damn it and left it that way. There will be a day when the irritation grows bothersome enough that I’ll pull the staples out and re-hang the middle panel. Until then...
Note my "entertainment center". Bose radio on a box I refinished this summer.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Trick or Treat
I've delighted in seeing the costumed fairies, dragons, superheroes and ponies come to my door, but not since I lived in North Carolina have I been in a neighborhood where kids' parents knew me. Last night I had a few tricker-treaters. I expected some, but didn’t buy any candy for the little munkins. Call me scrooge, but don’t we live in an age where kids are not suppose to collect treats from strangers?
My first tricker-treater was a total surprise. It was a white cat. She came to the door and meowed.
“Well, well, well. What are you doing here?” I asked her. She sat down in front of the screened door.
The cat hangs out on the rock wall between two other buildings across the way. I figured she belongs to someone even though animals are not suppose to run free. No dogs are allowed in the complex.
I usual ask her what she has been doing to which she never answers. I guess it is none of my business. A few weeks ago, she was sitting underneath cousin David’s truck. I stopped to greet her, sticking my index finger out from my close fist. Cats greet each other nose to nose and this will bring a house cat closer. She almost acknowledged me. Honestly, I don’t remember seeing her since, but I thought of her when I found the dead cat near the complex’s entrance.
"You smell my salmon?" She blinked. "Out tricker-treating?"
I retrieved the empty can still sitting on the counter (try that at home with Phoenix and Diablo) and opened the screen door. I expected her to take off, but she merely moved allowing me to place the can on the walkway.
As the parade of little kids and moms came to my door I forgot all about the cat until I cleaned up the kitchen. I went to get the can and the damn cat had not eaten a thing. Phoenix and Diablo would have had the inside of the can so clean an ant would not have bothered with it.
The cat was gone. Was that a trick or a treat?
My first tricker-treater was a total surprise. It was a white cat. She came to the door and meowed.
“Well, well, well. What are you doing here?” I asked her. She sat down in front of the screened door.
The cat hangs out on the rock wall between two other buildings across the way. I figured she belongs to someone even though animals are not suppose to run free. No dogs are allowed in the complex.
I usual ask her what she has been doing to which she never answers. I guess it is none of my business. A few weeks ago, she was sitting underneath cousin David’s truck. I stopped to greet her, sticking my index finger out from my close fist. Cats greet each other nose to nose and this will bring a house cat closer. She almost acknowledged me. Honestly, I don’t remember seeing her since, but I thought of her when I found the dead cat near the complex’s entrance.
"You smell my salmon?" She blinked. "Out tricker-treating?"
I retrieved the empty can still sitting on the counter (try that at home with Phoenix and Diablo) and opened the screen door. I expected her to take off, but she merely moved allowing me to place the can on the walkway.
As the parade of little kids and moms came to my door I forgot all about the cat until I cleaned up the kitchen. I went to get the can and the damn cat had not eaten a thing. Phoenix and Diablo would have had the inside of the can so clean an ant would not have bothered with it.
The cat was gone. Was that a trick or a treat?
Friday, October 31, 2008
An American Creed
For Halloween I intended to write about being scared, but this morning I found this on Dave Ramsey's site. Lots of junk floating around the Internet at the moment. How about spreading this around?
I Do Not Choose to Be a Common Man. It is my right to be uncommon—if I can. I seek opportunity—not security. I do not wish to be a kept citizen, humbled and dulled by having the state look after me. I want to take the calculated risk; to dream and to build, to fail and to succeed.I refuse to barter incentive for a dole. I prefer the challenges of life to the guaranteed existence; the thrill of fulfillment to the stale calm of utopia.I will not trade freedom for beneficence nor my dignity for a handout. I will never cower before any master nor bend to any threat. It is my heritage to stand erect, proud and unafraid; to think and act for myself, enjoy the benefit of my creations and to face the world boldly and say, “This I have done.”
By Dean Alfange
Originally published in This Week Magazine.Later printed in The Reader’s Digest, October 1952 and January 1954.The Honorable Dean Alfange was an American statesman born December 2, 1899, in Constantinople (now Istanbul). He was raised in upstate New York. He served in the U.S. Army during World War I and attended Hamilton College, graduating in the class of 1922.
I Do Not Choose to Be a Common Man. It is my right to be uncommon—if I can. I seek opportunity—not security. I do not wish to be a kept citizen, humbled and dulled by having the state look after me. I want to take the calculated risk; to dream and to build, to fail and to succeed.I refuse to barter incentive for a dole. I prefer the challenges of life to the guaranteed existence; the thrill of fulfillment to the stale calm of utopia.I will not trade freedom for beneficence nor my dignity for a handout. I will never cower before any master nor bend to any threat. It is my heritage to stand erect, proud and unafraid; to think and act for myself, enjoy the benefit of my creations and to face the world boldly and say, “This I have done.”
By Dean Alfange
Originally published in This Week Magazine.Later printed in The Reader’s Digest, October 1952 and January 1954.The Honorable Dean Alfange was an American statesman born December 2, 1899, in Constantinople (now Istanbul). He was raised in upstate New York. He served in the U.S. Army during World War I and attended Hamilton College, graduating in the class of 1922.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Dead Cat
It's difficult to dig a hole in Hawaii, even the simplest of holes. The earth composed of bits of lava, doesn’t yield easily to the bite of a shovel. The blade grinds into the rock, scarping metal against once molten earth. Digging is as slow and unrewarding as chewing a piece of gristle at a dinner party.
In my back yard, my piece of real estate is a tiny concrete slab encircled with a narrow strip of dirt where the areca palms and ti plants push their roots into the mixture of lava shards and course dirt. Roots are shallow. There is no place for a grave, even if I could manage to dig one. And surprisingly in these conditions, I own a shovel.
This morning I found a dead cat at the entrance of the condo complex. Someone hit it as it crossed the street. I assume that some else removed the calico from the asphalt and laid it near the complex's entrance sign. It looked like it was sleeping, stretched out in the sun like a cat would do.
I knew the cat, a mother of four surviving young cats. The feral colony lives across the street in a vacant lot, near the ocean. In the evening when I go to see the sunset, the cats are out on the rocks eating what someone has put out for them. I found all four perched on the rock in anticipation of their dinner. Mother, a bit more guarded, crouched under a papaya tree.
When I see these cats I think of Phoenix and Diablo and how much I miss them. My heart sank when I saw her this morning. I don’t know why she left the protection of the bushes in a place where no dogs run loose, no hawks cruise the sky and her only competitor for rats is a mongoose.
When I got back to my condo, the sprinkler system was watering my plants. I called the office to inform them of the dead cat.
In my back yard, my piece of real estate is a tiny concrete slab encircled with a narrow strip of dirt where the areca palms and ti plants push their roots into the mixture of lava shards and course dirt. Roots are shallow. There is no place for a grave, even if I could manage to dig one. And surprisingly in these conditions, I own a shovel.
This morning I found a dead cat at the entrance of the condo complex. Someone hit it as it crossed the street. I assume that some else removed the calico from the asphalt and laid it near the complex's entrance sign. It looked like it was sleeping, stretched out in the sun like a cat would do.
I knew the cat, a mother of four surviving young cats. The feral colony lives across the street in a vacant lot, near the ocean. In the evening when I go to see the sunset, the cats are out on the rocks eating what someone has put out for them. I found all four perched on the rock in anticipation of their dinner. Mother, a bit more guarded, crouched under a papaya tree.
When I see these cats I think of Phoenix and Diablo and how much I miss them. My heart sank when I saw her this morning. I don’t know why she left the protection of the bushes in a place where no dogs run loose, no hawks cruise the sky and her only competitor for rats is a mongoose.
When I got back to my condo, the sprinkler system was watering my plants. I called the office to inform them of the dead cat.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Thought Of The Week
Whenever I meet a panhandler, or see one standing at an intersection with that ubiquitous sign “homeless Vet - God Bless You” I rarely give any money. If I got it, I’ll give them food. Why is that? The handout will be used for a specific purpose. I control what I give so the donation is not unwisely used. Alcohol or drugs come to mind.
One would think if you had the gall to ask for $700 billion under the pretense of saving the economy from epic disaster that you would have a concrete plan, beside given tax breaks to wooden arrow makers. And if you had to have the $700 billion by "the end of the week" to divert such a disaster, one would think that three weeks later some money would have been “spent”.
Nope. To date, nothing spent. The original plan was to buy toxic mortgages, but then the plan changed to buy stock in banks. And now we find out that those banks may 1. sit on the money or 2. pay out bonuses or 3. buy other banks.
Brother, can you give me a plan or shoot me with a wooden arrow?
One would think if you had the gall to ask for $700 billion under the pretense of saving the economy from epic disaster that you would have a concrete plan, beside given tax breaks to wooden arrow makers. And if you had to have the $700 billion by "the end of the week" to divert such a disaster, one would think that three weeks later some money would have been “spent”.
Nope. To date, nothing spent. The original plan was to buy toxic mortgages, but then the plan changed to buy stock in banks. And now we find out that those banks may 1. sit on the money or 2. pay out bonuses or 3. buy other banks.
Brother, can you give me a plan or shoot me with a wooden arrow?
Manta Ray
Just after sundown I entered the waters of Keauhou Bay. It was not the first time I had been in the water after dark fell across the ocean. I remembered the nights under a full moon. I dove off the Cosmic Muffin into the blackness of the lagoon at Nukuoro, a tiny atoll in the middle of nowhere. For a person who doesn’t like to swim in the ocean, it was a big deal. Last night, like a fish in a school, I felt insecurely protected. More isn’t necessarily merrier, but if that bigger fish was going to get me, he’d have forty other tasty snacks to chose. Odds were in my favor, I insanely reasoned.Related to the shark, the manta ray is a fish that cruises the waters with the grace of angels descended from heaven. I had occasion to go belly to belly with one that made me look awfully small and feel very vulnerable. The giant rose from the depths, mouth gaped so I could look into the wide hatch, big enough to swallow me. I clutched the floating ring and bobbed in the choppy waves, spread eagle on the surface. Just before the manta reached me, in slow motion he rolled over exposing five pairs of gills on the white underside. His belly splattered with a pattern of black marks as distinctive to him as my figure prints are to me was less than three feet away from my belly. An experience almost too surreal.
Such a large fish, a harmless fish. I’ve seen them before. My first encounter with a ray was on Maui, back in the ‘70’s. The huge winged animal flew slowly below me. At the time, I didn’t know they ate plankton and saw me as nothing more than a sea turtle without a shell. I saw him as a prehistoric creature the Land Before Time left behind. Since then I’ve encountered hundreds of rays, mostly in Florida. Those pesky types with barbs lurk in the sand waiting for the unsuspecting tourist's misstep.
Four mantas came to the lights that attracted the food source, a cloud of plankton. The manta fed while people from all over the world floated on the surface. For close to an hour I watched a slow ballet, as the manta swam beneath me. Despite forty other people clutching the flotation ring, it was easy to be absorbed in the watery environment. The mask’s field of vision kept the arms and legs of the other humans out of my site. Except for the Sheraton’s night club music blasting Love Shak the world thirty feet on shore might have disappeared.But I am a warm blooded animal and my wet suit can only keep me warm for so long. I hoped to be one of the last ones back on the boat. It mercilessly tossed in the swells. The familiar queasiness came to my head. I sucked down two cups of hot vegetable broth and two plain rolls, choosing blandness as my source of warmth. Why on earth I have this desire to sail to the South Pacific is a mystery, one as mysterious as the naked beauty of the manta ray.
Manta photo by Stephen Wong-stephenwong.com
Saturday, October 25, 2008
America's Past
I had to get the pain over with and was surprised to see others doing the same, but couldn’t tell if they were experiencing the same emotions. Probably not. This is Obama Country where we ask what can the country do for you? Eliminate your "no taxes paid anyway"? Give you some of the other guy’s money? Spread with wealth around? Or how about assign you a doctor? Or just make sure your neighbor doesn’t get ahead? After all, his progress must come from the sacrifices you made, not his blood sweat and tears. That wouldn’t be right now, would it?
Sign me up Karl… Oh, I mean Barack.
Yes, I voted early. Maybe I can vote often. I heard Acorn is signing people up.
Now let’s focus on the real concerns. World Series! Except, we wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, so let's just say both teams win. Yeah.
Sign me up Karl… Oh, I mean Barack.
Yes, I voted early. Maybe I can vote often. I heard Acorn is signing people up.
Now let’s focus on the real concerns. World Series! Except, we wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, so let's just say both teams win. Yeah.
Bad Investment?
At 6 am, the rain woke me instead of the singing forest frogs on my cell phone’s alarm. It poured. I went to check on my bike. I wasn’t sure if the front tire was under the cover of the lanai. I was glad I had turned my cell phone off. My normal 5 am grogginess might not have alerted me to the heavy clouds before I set out for my run. I would have gotten drenched.
Instead, I noticed the pulled ham string. I can’t figure out how I did that. Too much running, biking and swimming. I can’t afford to abuse the body too much, as it is the only motor I got to get around town.
I left the water heater on this morning and took a long shower massaging the back of my leg.
Low on papayas, I rode off to the farmer’s market. After church tomorrow I’ll grind up the hill to Safeway to restock the refrigerator with dairy. The hill is getting easier.
It’s been almost three weeks since I’ve been on island and I have yet hit Lava Java. I figured the money I’m saving can be put to better use. Like buying ice cream from the deli across the street. One latte from the coffee shop is worth a pint of Häagen Dazs, which I could down in one sitting, but I’ve restrained my consumption. Pint can last two day. At least so far.
Now that I’m biking everywhere, gas prices on the island are sinking faster than a dead body tossed over board. The fall has actually shocked me. Poor OPEC dudes. When I arrived the price on the street in downtown Kona was $4.27. (It was $4.10 in May and I have no idea how high it got this summer.) Everyday the prices change. Reminds me of when Katrina struck, only in reverse. I thought the prices would hit $4.00 back then. Yesterday I actually saw the guy change the price. He was out in the middle of the afternoon with that long pole changing $3.87 to $3.77. And this morning the price was $3.65. Crap, that was what I paid in New York just before I came out here. Makes me wonder if I didn’t accidentally buy oil stock a few weeks ago.
Instead, I noticed the pulled ham string. I can’t figure out how I did that. Too much running, biking and swimming. I can’t afford to abuse the body too much, as it is the only motor I got to get around town.
I left the water heater on this morning and took a long shower massaging the back of my leg.
Low on papayas, I rode off to the farmer’s market. After church tomorrow I’ll grind up the hill to Safeway to restock the refrigerator with dairy. The hill is getting easier.
It’s been almost three weeks since I’ve been on island and I have yet hit Lava Java. I figured the money I’m saving can be put to better use. Like buying ice cream from the deli across the street. One latte from the coffee shop is worth a pint of Häagen Dazs, which I could down in one sitting, but I’ve restrained my consumption. Pint can last two day. At least so far.
Now that I’m biking everywhere, gas prices on the island are sinking faster than a dead body tossed over board. The fall has actually shocked me. Poor OPEC dudes. When I arrived the price on the street in downtown Kona was $4.27. (It was $4.10 in May and I have no idea how high it got this summer.) Everyday the prices change. Reminds me of when Katrina struck, only in reverse. I thought the prices would hit $4.00 back then. Yesterday I actually saw the guy change the price. He was out in the middle of the afternoon with that long pole changing $3.87 to $3.77. And this morning the price was $3.65. Crap, that was what I paid in New York just before I came out here. Makes me wonder if I didn’t accidentally buy oil stock a few weeks ago.
Friday, October 24, 2008
PuffBall
I don't know what happened to this monster spore maker. About a month ago it grew just down the road from Dad's house. We were on our way to church when I spotted it. I backed the car up to take a second look at what I first thought was a lost soccerball. "Dad, look at the size of that thing."I later came back to take a photo. From this picture you can't fully appreciate the size of this mushroom. Actually, larger than a soccerball.
I haven't seen one this large since I was a kid. They were all over Grey's backyard. When Mike mowed the yard he'd go around them until they died. Then he'd run over the mushrooms sending thick clouds of spores into the sky. No wonder the yard was full of them.
Makes me cough just thinking about it.
Flat Tire
I’m better than most when it comes to wasting a good day. I’ve avoided the computer even though I have an idea for another chapter in The Kayak. My timeline in the book needs work and last night at the sun down, I might have put an idea in place. This might make you think I’m writing. Not really, but at least I’m thinking.
Since I wasn’t pecking away, the void needed to be filled. The room screen got my attention. I began construction last week. Not having a square turned the project into a tedious exercise of measure, measure and measure again. And without a third hand, things slipped around just enough. After more success on the second of the three screens I decided to disassemble the first. It drifted off to one side, just a hair. I bought a square, but it remained lopsided. To eyeball it, without a reference, it didn’t look off, but aligned with the other two… well, if the accuracy involved getting a man on the moon, the poor guy would end up in deep space. This discouraged me enough to let the frames lie on the office floor until I needed a good distraction from writing.
There went the day, sanding and staining and yep, that first one now with a few extra holes is still not right.
I found a writers group and considered attending. It was in south Kona, but I wasn’t up to the nine mile mostly uphill ride to the book store. Sure the ride would have been good for me, leaving me sweaty, tired and fretting about the ride back down the mountain. I'd never enjoy the session. I even considered taking a taxi to the meeting and then riding back. They will be there next week. After all, I haven’t been pushed by a fellow writer since February. Why now when I’ll be back off island in a month. Just another way of wasting time.
But as I fooled around with the stain I noticed a huge thorn sticking out of my rear bike tire. When I yanked it out I heard the tiniest whoosh sound. The tire a little softer than the front got even softer as the afternoon wore on. Good thing I didn't go trudging off to the meeting.
This was good news. When I purchased the tools to change a tire on the road, I imagined the mishap would occur around high noon out on some lava field and I wouldn’t have a drop of water on me. Stinking hot with not a bit of shade, the vultures would soon gather to watch me I labor with the flat tire.
On several occasions I have had flats. Very memorable experiences. All left me stranded. Don Haney rescued me twice. But now I’m riding alone and have not cultivated a network of those who might come chasing after me.
Lucky me, I “practiced” changing and fixing a flat tire in the comforts of my own lanai. It went well. Today’s self-adhesive patches sure beat those thick, rubber, cut-to-size patches and that noxious glue of the old days. Okay, now you know how long it has been since I personally repaired a flat tire. Despite being easier than I expected, I don’t look forward to the day I have to fix one on the side of the road, hunched over the wheel, sweat rolling down my face, and the sun pounding on my back. It’s a good reason to get to know some people in Kona.
Since I wasn’t pecking away, the void needed to be filled. The room screen got my attention. I began construction last week. Not having a square turned the project into a tedious exercise of measure, measure and measure again. And without a third hand, things slipped around just enough. After more success on the second of the three screens I decided to disassemble the first. It drifted off to one side, just a hair. I bought a square, but it remained lopsided. To eyeball it, without a reference, it didn’t look off, but aligned with the other two… well, if the accuracy involved getting a man on the moon, the poor guy would end up in deep space. This discouraged me enough to let the frames lie on the office floor until I needed a good distraction from writing.
There went the day, sanding and staining and yep, that first one now with a few extra holes is still not right.
I found a writers group and considered attending. It was in south Kona, but I wasn’t up to the nine mile mostly uphill ride to the book store. Sure the ride would have been good for me, leaving me sweaty, tired and fretting about the ride back down the mountain. I'd never enjoy the session. I even considered taking a taxi to the meeting and then riding back. They will be there next week. After all, I haven’t been pushed by a fellow writer since February. Why now when I’ll be back off island in a month. Just another way of wasting time.
But as I fooled around with the stain I noticed a huge thorn sticking out of my rear bike tire. When I yanked it out I heard the tiniest whoosh sound. The tire a little softer than the front got even softer as the afternoon wore on. Good thing I didn't go trudging off to the meeting.
This was good news. When I purchased the tools to change a tire on the road, I imagined the mishap would occur around high noon out on some lava field and I wouldn’t have a drop of water on me. Stinking hot with not a bit of shade, the vultures would soon gather to watch me I labor with the flat tire.
On several occasions I have had flats. Very memorable experiences. All left me stranded. Don Haney rescued me twice. But now I’m riding alone and have not cultivated a network of those who might come chasing after me.
Lucky me, I “practiced” changing and fixing a flat tire in the comforts of my own lanai. It went well. Today’s self-adhesive patches sure beat those thick, rubber, cut-to-size patches and that noxious glue of the old days. Okay, now you know how long it has been since I personally repaired a flat tire. Despite being easier than I expected, I don’t look forward to the day I have to fix one on the side of the road, hunched over the wheel, sweat rolling down my face, and the sun pounding on my back. It’s a good reason to get to know some people in Kona.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Collapsing World
The other evening I was across the street waiting for the sun to go down. It isn’t quite the same thing as watching the sun set because more times than not the clouds on the horizon obscure the red ball’s plunge into the Pacific Ocean. It looked promising this particular night as the day had been unusually clear of clouds and the volcano’s vog.
I’ve been coming to this place which is on private property every night. I did the same thing back in April and May. I figured it’d be just a matter of time before someone would approach me, suspecting me of trespassing. This was the night.
Because of his clean pressed shorts and Hawaiian patterned shirt, I assumed he belonged with the lady who had two precocious children who stood on the sea wall yelling at the breakers as the surf roared over the rocks. I didn’t invest more than the two seconds to make that assumption when he sat down three lawn chairs away. He said nothing and since I didn’t want to get involved in any conversations with anyone who lived there, I didn’t acknowledge his presence. But he caught my eye when I looked down the rocky shore line at the three local fisherman casting their lines into the waves.
“Where are you visiting from?” He asked.
“I live here.” Oh, God, I’m going to get into a conversation. I looked around for the lady with the two kids. No where.
He looked surprised. “I thought I had seen you before, but not in awhile.”
I guessed it begged for an explanation. “I spent the summer in New York. Actually, I’m poaching. I live across the street.”
He laughed. “Well, if anyone ever tries to chase you out of here and they will, tell them you are with me. I’m Robert and I am the president of the property association.”
Busted. I apologized for any problems my presence had caused. “I use to go over there.” I pointed to the group of seedy characters gathered on the other side of the property wall, near the fishermen. It was a public access point to the ocean were local color hung out. When they weren’t busy tossing around a football, they were tossing each other into a sea pool. “But they are a little too sketchy for me.”
We engaged in some additional small talk. I figured I had to be polite now that I have permission to be there. Robert wanted to know where in NY I spent the summer.
“Saratoga.”
“Saratoga Springs," Robert corrected.
“That’s right. You know it?” I waited for him to tell me he had been to the race track.
“Nice place. I use to live on Loughberry Road. Remember when the Vichy bottling plant burned down?"
“You are kidding me. Small world.”
“Yeah. My father worked for the paper before taking a Gannett job in Newburg.
“Your father worked at the paper?” I asked. This was unbelievable.
“The Saratogian.”
“My Dad did too. A printer for 33 years.” I looked out across the ocean expecting to see the small world collapse. Maybe someone planted a Candid Camera in a palm tree.
It turned out Robert had also spent twenty years in Santa Cruz. I was tempted to ask if he knew the captain of the Cosmic Muffin. But that seemed too weird. Instead I asked, “Um. You’re not a sailor, are you?”
“No, Powerboats.” He said.
Thank God.
I’ve been coming to this place which is on private property every night. I did the same thing back in April and May. I figured it’d be just a matter of time before someone would approach me, suspecting me of trespassing. This was the night.
Because of his clean pressed shorts and Hawaiian patterned shirt, I assumed he belonged with the lady who had two precocious children who stood on the sea wall yelling at the breakers as the surf roared over the rocks. I didn’t invest more than the two seconds to make that assumption when he sat down three lawn chairs away. He said nothing and since I didn’t want to get involved in any conversations with anyone who lived there, I didn’t acknowledge his presence. But he caught my eye when I looked down the rocky shore line at the three local fisherman casting their lines into the waves.
“Where are you visiting from?” He asked.
“I live here.” Oh, God, I’m going to get into a conversation. I looked around for the lady with the two kids. No where.
He looked surprised. “I thought I had seen you before, but not in awhile.”
I guessed it begged for an explanation. “I spent the summer in New York. Actually, I’m poaching. I live across the street.”
He laughed. “Well, if anyone ever tries to chase you out of here and they will, tell them you are with me. I’m Robert and I am the president of the property association.”
Busted. I apologized for any problems my presence had caused. “I use to go over there.” I pointed to the group of seedy characters gathered on the other side of the property wall, near the fishermen. It was a public access point to the ocean were local color hung out. When they weren’t busy tossing around a football, they were tossing each other into a sea pool. “But they are a little too sketchy for me.”
We engaged in some additional small talk. I figured I had to be polite now that I have permission to be there. Robert wanted to know where in NY I spent the summer.
“Saratoga.”
“Saratoga Springs," Robert corrected.
“That’s right. You know it?” I waited for him to tell me he had been to the race track.
“Nice place. I use to live on Loughberry Road. Remember when the Vichy bottling plant burned down?"
“You are kidding me. Small world.”
“Yeah. My father worked for the paper before taking a Gannett job in Newburg.
“Your father worked at the paper?” I asked. This was unbelievable.
“The Saratogian.”
“My Dad did too. A printer for 33 years.” I looked out across the ocean expecting to see the small world collapse. Maybe someone planted a Candid Camera in a palm tree.
It turned out Robert had also spent twenty years in Santa Cruz. I was tempted to ask if he knew the captain of the Cosmic Muffin. But that seemed too weird. Instead I asked, “Um. You’re not a sailor, are you?”
“No, Powerboats.” He said.
Thank God.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Library Card
Yes, I got it, but the librarian wasn't there. Rats. Or maybe that was good, because the assistant at the front desk said she wasn't going to charge me for a replacement card. Saved ten dollars. But she told me not to lose this one.
At some point I'll change my cell phone's area code, but that means a lot of documentation has to change and I'm not ready to embark on that project. Besides, I have too many books for sale that have the Tennessee Vols 865 area code.
At some point I'll change my cell phone's area code, but that means a lot of documentation has to change and I'm not ready to embark on that project. Besides, I have too many books for sale that have the Tennessee Vols 865 area code.
Monday, October 20, 2008
I’m Kama'aina
I didn’t want a Hawaiian driver’s license. I hated to depart with the one from Tennessee. It was still good for another nine months. When I renewed that one, I was headed to the Peace Corps. But I want a Hawaiian library card and without proof of residency in the form of a license, state ID or local bank statement, I’m unable to get one. I’ve already been through this with the librarian. It doesn’t matter that I am registered to vote in Hawaii. Strange how I can vote here in the national election, but damned if I can’t check out a book.
I took a cursory look in the mirror before I left my condo. That photo is something I got to live with until 2015. I fussed with my hair just a little. I don’t have a hair drier. I need a cut. There’s no make up in the bathroom and the best I thing I can wear is a clean blue t-shirt. I arrived a little after 8 AM and already there were several people in line. Back in April when I tried to get a license but didn’t have my Social Security card, I procured an application so that was already completed. In the tiny office, manned with just two clerks, the line efficiently moved along.
“Are those the glasses you use for driving?”
“Oh yes.”
Pointing to the machine that looks like a microscope, she said, “Okay, look in there and identity any three of the twelve signs.”
I took the first three. “A speed limit sign 35MPH, a pedestrian crossing and a divided highway ahead.”
“What about number nine?”
“The familiar eight-sided stop sign.” I peered over the lenses of the machine and smirked at the teller. She smiled back. I should've said octagon.
I adequately read out loud the numbers on line six and passed my vision test. The clerk handed me a 30 question test, with an answer sheet and told me I could miss six out of the thirty questions. The first question was about the number of days I had to notify the department of an address change and whether I inform them by mail, in person or by phone. I tried not to panic. Maybe I should have studied, thinking of that time I spent with my best friend Barbara on the beach in North Carolina cramming for the test. When was that? 1987? Let’s use a little logic here. Once done, I refused to check my work and almost paid for it. I pass the test by the skin of my teeth.
She gave me my corrected test and asked me to review it. Good move Hawaii. I would have argued one question, the pedestrian crossing sign I identified in the eye exam. It really is a school crossing sign. Aren’t these little kids pedestrians? Oh well. If I go for the motorcycle license I definitely will study.
My photo came out very nicely. How can anyone not have a good photo when you are asked to look at Stitch, the stuffed alien of the Lilo and Stitch movie? Too make matters even better by the time it's transferred onto the license, the image is softened to a nice blur which erases all those wrinkles. I look twenty years younger. I recommend any time you are in Hawaii, get yourself a drivers license.
“If everything is correct, you can take it and go.” After putting my license into my wallet, Iwent outside, jumped on my bike and rode home.
Library is tomorrow. Place is closed on Mondays.
I took a cursory look in the mirror before I left my condo. That photo is something I got to live with until 2015. I fussed with my hair just a little. I don’t have a hair drier. I need a cut. There’s no make up in the bathroom and the best I thing I can wear is a clean blue t-shirt. I arrived a little after 8 AM and already there were several people in line. Back in April when I tried to get a license but didn’t have my Social Security card, I procured an application so that was already completed. In the tiny office, manned with just two clerks, the line efficiently moved along.
“Are those the glasses you use for driving?”
“Oh yes.”
Pointing to the machine that looks like a microscope, she said, “Okay, look in there and identity any three of the twelve signs.”
I took the first three. “A speed limit sign 35MPH, a pedestrian crossing and a divided highway ahead.”
“What about number nine?”
“The familiar eight-sided stop sign.” I peered over the lenses of the machine and smirked at the teller. She smiled back. I should've said octagon.
I adequately read out loud the numbers on line six and passed my vision test. The clerk handed me a 30 question test, with an answer sheet and told me I could miss six out of the thirty questions. The first question was about the number of days I had to notify the department of an address change and whether I inform them by mail, in person or by phone. I tried not to panic. Maybe I should have studied, thinking of that time I spent with my best friend Barbara on the beach in North Carolina cramming for the test. When was that? 1987? Let’s use a little logic here. Once done, I refused to check my work and almost paid for it. I pass the test by the skin of my teeth.
She gave me my corrected test and asked me to review it. Good move Hawaii. I would have argued one question, the pedestrian crossing sign I identified in the eye exam. It really is a school crossing sign. Aren’t these little kids pedestrians? Oh well. If I go for the motorcycle license I definitely will study.
My photo came out very nicely. How can anyone not have a good photo when you are asked to look at Stitch, the stuffed alien of the Lilo and Stitch movie? Too make matters even better by the time it's transferred onto the license, the image is softened to a nice blur which erases all those wrinkles. I look twenty years younger. I recommend any time you are in Hawaii, get yourself a drivers license.
“If everything is correct, you can take it and go.” After putting my license into my wallet, Iwent outside, jumped on my bike and rode home.
Library is tomorrow. Place is closed on Mondays.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Succineas
The sprinkler system, left unattended for the past six months, occasionally if not mysteriously falls asleep on the job. What it has been doing in my absence, I can’t say. Without any reasonable explanation, (yeah I have replaced the batteries), the LED face disappears and the whole system become dysfunctional. I’ve yet to hear the little jets squirt any water on my Areca Palms and Ti plants. Fortunately, it has rained a couple of days and I have taken the hose to the plants.I’ve reset the timer while the display had been visible, only to discover the display vanished some time later. A few wraps upside the box yielded no results. This morning, finding a visible readout, I reset the clock, which was never correct after the gismo had its nap, and programmed the watering to being ten minutes later at 9 AM, under my watchful eye. This was a more reasonable hour than 5 AM, when I am either sleeping, experiencing a hot flash or running down Alii Drive.
The system obediently responded to the programming. For ten minutes my little hedge row of palms and ti, and the unrelenting herd of snails showered in the tiny spray that encircles the slab of concrete outside of my lanai.
Yes, herd of snails. I’ve done a little research and I am pretty sure they are not the endangered singing tree snail of Hawaii. I found a half pound of the slugs nested together like snakes in a tomb of an Indiana Jones movie. Okay there was no hissing. When I find one or two I unceremoniously fling them over the fence into the road where the stubby little creatures meet their demise. But on this occasion, I was staring at the equivalent meal-size portion of a Burger King Whopper. Thinking the volume of snail goo would cause an accident, I put them in a bag and threw them in the rubbish, as we call it here in Hawaii.Are these things edible? I thought about the snails I was bullied into eating in Paris. I was glad no one else wanted to sample my appetizers, for they were so delicious that now whenever I’m in Paris I order them.
It is one thing to say you like a juicy Filet Mignon and quite another to stand in the pasture next to a cow and contemplate the chore of obtaining that piece of flesh to slap on the back yard barbeque. Snails on the plate that came from behind a double swinging door to some French kitchen, are not the same thing as an entangled mass of Snot with Hats plucked from the damp ground.
Photos: my arecas and ti, taken six months apart. Maybe next year I'll have the fence covered.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Who Cares About Joe?
Let's not get distracted from the issue. Joe the Plumber is not the issue. The issue is not what Joe does, what taxes he didn’t pay, what union he didn’t join, what license he doesn’t have. The scrutiny of politics has gotten so bad that any good and competent person must be crazy to run for office. Let's look at Sarah Palin. Now an ordinary citizen can't ask a simple question. Why, because the answer is scary.
The issue is that Joe makes more than $250,000. Left-wing liberalism (Obama) thinks you make too much money. Obama don’t want you to make that much money. (How much money is too much?)
Obama says he doesn't want to punish Joe, but he must. That's his religion to take your wealth away from you. So he is going to take that money you earned (higher taxes) and spread it around by inefficiently siphoning it through the government system. Thanks Joe.
If you don’t believe this, then vote Obama. And I’ll wait for the check in the mail, because as a writer, I have earned far, far less than $250,000. Or easier yet, just send me your money. Meanwhile, ask yourself why the media focuses on Joe the Plumber? Maybe because they don't want you to know what Obama said to Joe. Swish, swish, brush it away.
The beautiful thing is that we should all be poor. It's not about trickle down economics. It’s bubble up poverty. There isn’t a policy on the left that will aid the much distressed economy to turn around. Have you heard any of them say as much? Of course not. It's always about wealth rearrangement.
Send your big fat checks ASAP. I got a property tax bill due this month. If you believe what I said, you should tell me to get off my butt and get a job.
The issue is that Joe makes more than $250,000. Left-wing liberalism (Obama) thinks you make too much money. Obama don’t want you to make that much money. (How much money is too much?)
Obama says he doesn't want to punish Joe, but he must. That's his religion to take your wealth away from you. So he is going to take that money you earned (higher taxes) and spread it around by inefficiently siphoning it through the government system. Thanks Joe.
If you don’t believe this, then vote Obama. And I’ll wait for the check in the mail, because as a writer, I have earned far, far less than $250,000. Or easier yet, just send me your money. Meanwhile, ask yourself why the media focuses on Joe the Plumber? Maybe because they don't want you to know what Obama said to Joe. Swish, swish, brush it away.
The beautiful thing is that we should all be poor. It's not about trickle down economics. It’s bubble up poverty. There isn’t a policy on the left that will aid the much distressed economy to turn around. Have you heard any of them say as much? Of course not. It's always about wealth rearrangement.
Send your big fat checks ASAP. I got a property tax bill due this month. If you believe what I said, you should tell me to get off my butt and get a job.
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