146-151
152-158
159-165
life after paxil
166-173
something's happening here
174-176
maybe tuesday will be my good news day
177-186
these are the good old days
187-190
191-194
195-199
another moon of the tiger: don't think twice
200-209
on the threshold of the anniversary
210-214
130
Sharing food with the birds is more noble than offering food to the gods.130a
I decided I didn't like the original Tale 130 so took it down after a couple of hours for some re-arranging and editing, put up the aphorism which is now Tale 130 instead. Is it really an aphorism? A new section for the Tales? Probably not the latter, anyway, because if you start to think in aphoristic form, the mind gets very silly quite soon.The off-line weekend, the short library hours during the week, and the even longer off-line weekend ahead, plus the comparatively deserted campus, makes for a time quite unlike anything in these almost-eight months of nomadic life. And writing about the events of several days instead of the usual daily commentary changes the nature of writing the Tales.
So amidst the strangeness of the time, it was comforting to have Rocky sleeping on the bench beside me on Monday and Tuesday nights, after a longer absence than usual, and it was an interesting experiment spending all day on Saturday in the mall, encountering so many people I knew that it made Honolulu seem like a very small town indeed.
Viktor and Bobby, from McDonald's, were the first people I ran into, outside the restaurant; then I spotted another Bobby, from the group Kolea, and shortly afterwards saw Jake Shimabukuro. I went upstairs over Center Stage for the Ilona Irvine set, saw Mamaloa get up and dance, so went downstairs to say hello to her and sat beside her on the floor at one side of the stage. Bruce Howard came over and joined us and we both got fed Famous Amos cookies (after I declined the offer of a full plate lunch which they'd given Mamaloa at Patti's Chinese Kitchen). Kory K turned up for the Pure Heart gig and after chatting with him and Bruce afterwards, then going on my way, I ran into Myra. Panther the Mall Rat.
Someone brought a box of food from 7-Eleven and left it outside McDonald's. It was mostly sandwiches that were dated the last day of sale, but there was also a beef bowl concoction which was mostly rice, and some pastries. I grabbed the beef bowl, two sandwiches and two pieces of cake just in time before some of the other nomads spotted the box and quickly emptied it out. Very kind of someone to have dropped it off there. Then I found a bag with a can of corned beef, tuna fish and a can which is probably sardines but was missing the label, so I put the tuna in my backpack with the 7-Eleven goodies and stashed the other two cans away in a hiding place which has come in handy several times before.
Cigarettes were in short supply ... it seemed there was always a cleaning person a few steps ahead of me. So I ended up walking down to Ward Centre and Warehouse to get the evening supply of tobacco, picking up a bottle of Mickey's at the new 7-Eleven, and then finding a huge salad with chunks of chicken abandoned at the Centre. It seemed as if I'd spent the entire day eating, and was still feeling hungry. Maybe the body wants the two pounds back it lost last week, because appetite has been unusually strong. That's not very good timing, considering the scarcity of abandoned plate lunch boxes on campus this week.
Sunday morning I decided to go to Waikiki for a change, did a tobacco run through the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center and then sat outside the Zoo for awhile, trying to spot someone who might buy the two free passes I have or else someone I wanted to just give them to. Didn't see likely candidates for either, so crossed over to use the lua and ran into a long-time friend and/or enemy, depending on the circumstances, and had a cup of coffee with him and a chat about health problems and on-line madness.
Monday morning I had gone, as usual, to get a cup of senior coffee from the Ward Avenue Jack-in-the-Box and crossed the street to sit at the sheltered bus-stop. A white pick-up pulled over nearby and a man got out carrying two white bags. It looked like he was going to dump them in the wastebasket which seemed rather odd. Instead, it turned out to be a notable webmaster who was kindly stopping to bring me breakfast. Breakfast Jack, hash browns and another cup of coffee, delivered! A most excellent start to the strange week of no school.
The bonanza of discarded books continued on campus and Monday morning I found a very large paperback volume which is an overall survey of world religions, giving a fairly detailed history of all the major ones with chapters discussing off-shoots and less orthodox varieties. It is a special edition, with a chapter on Hawaiian religion added. The book was far too heavy to lug around, so I broke it into chapters, put three in my bag and stashed the rest for later, then sat in the grove, read the Hawaiian material and began the chapter on Hinduism, with its pre-Vedic and Vedic forerunners. The book takes a very neutral, unbiased stance and is well-written, a welcome discovery. I don't feel at all touched by Hawaiian mythology or religion, at least not via any sources I've encountered yet, and this one is no exception.
The chapter on Hinduism was the inspiration for that aphorism. Finishing that, I went on to the chapter on Christianity which is particularly interesting in its tracing of the earliest developments and the possible paths that religion might have taken. Some cleaning person got too thorough and the chapters I had stashed were gone on Tuesday, so I'm left with just Hinduism, Christianity and Buddhism. More than enough religion for any one person, any one life.
130b
Tuesday evening I was walking along Ward Warehouse, passed one of the Japanese trolley stops where a trolley was parked and the driver standing beside it. There was a dollar bill laying in the grass near the sidewalk, so I picked it up. The driver said with a grin, "I suppose you won't believe it if I told you I just dropped that." "Nope, I sure wouldn't."That unexpected bonus to my rather empty pockets, plus three dimes found earlier in the walk, revived the old Free Mickey's game on Wednesday morning when, after a senior coffee, I was only missing twenty cents. The Angel of the Coins provided the missing links so Wednesday was off to a fine start as a Lucky Day. But then, despite the rationed on-line time and the relatively deserted campus, it has been very much a Lucky Week. One of the few real worries I've had recently was over my too-overdue bill from LavaNet and a mainland friend and admirer of the Tales astonished and delighted me by eliminating that worry. As I said, it is a bit crazy that I can walk around feeling hungry and neither worry much about it nor consider appealing to anyone for assistance, but the thought of losing access to panther@lava.net was definitely a worry.
Hunger hasn't played the role I thought it might this week, either, although it has been unprecedented to have actually spent more money on food than on beer. As I was leaving campus on Wednesday, after a day spent mostly playing MUD, I found an abandoned plate lunch container which hadn't been eaten at all ... broccoli and beef, roast chicken, noodles and bits of chicken, and brown rice. As if that weren't huge enough a meal, I ran into Helen R. whom I was supposed to meet later at the Varsity Theatre and we went to Sushi No Ka Oi for my second encounter with sushi. (The first such adventure was a couple of years ago when K.M. introduced me to that odd culinary custom, at a sushi bar where a man stood behind the counter and prepared each item). Sushi No Ka Oi is more of a variation on the Manhattan automats, except the dishes move around the counter on a long narrow conveyor belt providing an endless spectacle (and puzzle) while sampling the more interesting specimens. Having only just finished that huge plate lunch, I didn't sample many things but it was interesting nonetheless and made even more enjoyable when the owner left the restaurant briefly and returned with a large complimentary can of Budweiser.
By then thoroughly stuffed, we joined another friend and went to see "Mrs. Dalloway", a charming and elegant film based on Virginia Woolf's admirable novel, with a splendid performance by Vanessa Redgrave in the title role. I was grateful Honolulu is at least cosmopolitan enough to offer the chance to see such a film in a cinema; undoubtedly many mainland residents will have to wait until it arrives on television via "Masterpiece Theatre". My favorite moments of the film, aside from greatly enjoying familiar scenes in London, were those when we overheard Mrs. Dalloway's thoughts, especially when greeting guests at the party which is the centerpiece of the novel and film. All of us walk around talking in our heads like that. How fortunate it is people cannot, consciously at least, hear what we are saying.
Rocky didn't come home, but Curly did and took the bench behind mine. Someone really annoyed the Big Local Dude at one point. No idea what the fellow did, because the B.L.D. is generally very quiet and polite, but he was well riled up and the offender quickly left the premises. "This is Hawai`i and I am Hawaiian," said the B.L.D. amidst more strongly worded phrases directed at the departing offender. That's the first such disturbance I've seen at the hacienda. The B.L.D. definitely adds much to the feeling of security at that sanctuary.
Lucky day, lucky week, lucky panther ... and the Moon moved into Aries.
131
One of my favorite ladies in the world told Kory and me on Thursday evening that she had stopped reading my Tales and his journal because they were too "depressing". Can't blame her for that. The week before at the Clinic, the psychiatrist mentioned that one component of the study was something called the Hamilton Scale of Depression (giving me an instant inner grin from the synchronicity with my main hangout, Hamilton Library). He said my score on the scale was lower that week than it had been the week before, lower meaning less depressed. I told a friend I'd have to work on getting a higher score. Hey, I was just joking! But without trying at all and, in fact, quite surprising me, I had the highest score yet on Thursday. That's a more subtle measuring tool than I had thought.He partly answered my earlier ponderings about letting truly depressed people (I don't think of myself as one, you see) continue with a program which might just be sugar pills by offering to let me switch to another study. Sugar pills or not, he said they were seeing no significant results in any of the participants. Maybe it's just a dud drug. (He didn't say that, but did say "I don't know what that says for the company making it"). I said I might as well carry on with this study, having gotten this far. And I've reached the point where it goes two weeks without a visit to the Clinic. Very bad timing from the financial viewpoint. A double payment in the first week of the month will come at a time when least needed. Oh well ...
Myra told me that since her birthday was the next day, she really hoped I'd be at the Regent for Genoa on Thursday evening. Given that the $15 blood money has to be stretched until the pension check arrives, I certainly wouldn't have considered spending $2.50 on the weekly special, but only 12oz, beer at the Regent, knowing, too, that I'd be buying one for her as well. But after thinking about it, I decided I wanted to do what I could to make her evening special even if I ended up spending it all. It's only money.
Leaving campus, I saw I had just missed both a #4 and a #6 bus, so I hopped on an express bus even though I had no idea where I'd end up. Minutes later, after a quick zoom down the highway, I was at Kahala Mall. First time I'd been there in many months, but hardly closer to my destination. The timing was right, though, because a Waikiki-bound bus came along fairly soon. There are some incredibly tacky, ostentatious houses along that road on the "backside" of Diamond Head. I'd not noticed before a few adorned in truly amazing bad taste. I was surprised by how brown and dry everything is on that side of Diamond Head. With the amount of rain we've had in recent weeks, it's a puzzle.
Spending time with Genoa Keawe and her crew is always a pleasure and this week's was especially so. Kory K generously helped with the festivities for Myra and she was one very happy lady by the end of the evening. I told Alan Akaka about it being her birthday, so she even got the traditional serenade and danced to several songs. No one deserves the good time more ... Myra is truly one sweet lady.
After I left and headed off to the bench I was feeling very annoyed with myself, though. I thought my own performance was lousy. And that's the key word: "performance". All my life, I've felt like that about almost everything. It isn't real, I'm not really living it but am just an actor playing a role. Sometimes the performance is passably okay, other times it stinks. And there ain't no critic in this world who is as tough on me as I am on myself.
132
One of the questions on that Hamilton Scale of Depression asks if one has had "paranoid feelings". Despite joking to friends about saying "yes, the cleaning people at Ala Moana Shopping Center are out to get me", I've always answered "no" to that question. There was a time when I simply didn't believe at all in "paranoia", subscribing to the idea that "you're not paranoid, they really are out to get you", and I still believe that to an extent. But I have met people who were genuinely, even pathologically paranoid, so have to admit it is a state of mind which exists and, in cases where it is genuinely paranoia as I understand the term, does involve an unrealistic perception that one is the object of unjust persecution, or may be. Even so, no, I have not had "paranoid feelings", so can't boost my score on the Scale without lying about it. What some might see as paranoid feelings in my case is merely the perception that some people do wildly misinterpret me and misunderstand not only my past history but my current existence and motives for doing things and attempt to use that against me and to persuade others that their views are a reflection of the truth. The more unconventional one's life is, the more one no doubt attracts such interpreters. So be it.I've actually led a very conservative life and continue to do so. I'm probably one of the most conservative "homeless people" in Honolulu.
That's partly why the start of the Summer Session at the University is a mixed blessing. It's wonderful to have the students back again after the week's break (and the unprecedented three-day off-line weekend). There are more abandoned plate lunches, more lengthy cigarette butts in the ashtrays, more delightfully charming young men to enjoy watching. But there are also students lingering by every tempting ashtray. So I left campus at mid-day to replenish my empty cigarette box from the ever-abundant supply at Ala Moana. A bolder nomad would just have filled his box from the campus ashtrays and ignored those who noticed.
The Summer Session isn't quite like the "real" school year. Both libraries will be closed on Saturday and both operate with shorter hours, as do all the food establishments on campus. Compared to the break, it seems like there are a lot of people around, but it is a smaller population than in the fall and spring (even if they all sometimes seem to hang around promising ashtrays).
In any case, I'm increasingly fed-up with the smoking problem and wish I could just stop. Perhaps I'll change my going-on-nine-year wish to "star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight" and wish to stop smoking tobacco instead of wishing for "peace and happiness in Honolulu".
132a
Someday he'll come along, the man I love. And he'll be walking dog, the man I love ...Indication of what a silly mood I woke up in on Wednesday morning, a welcome change from recent times when I woke feeling mentally bleak and physically weary.
I don't really want to quit smoking, I enjoy tobacco too much. But I would like to reduce its importance to that of other (oddly, even more desirable) substances which I enjoy when I can get them and don't fret over when I can't. (Of course, if campus ashtrays were as loaded with marijuana as they are with tobacco, wouldn't matter how many students were standing around, I'd be pushing them aside to get to that ashtray).
The highlights of the long weekend ...
Mornings on the beach, enjoying the sun and the early beach-goers before the large crowds arrived, splashing in the ocean. I forgot about eating on Saturday, had a Mickey's outside the Shell while listening to the Makaha Bash (Pure Heart were very good, as always), then had another Mickey's for a nightcap and consequently, on empty stomach, got fairly drunk. So much for Saturday.
After another few hours on the beach Sunday morning, went to see "Godzilla". Big-monster movies have never been one of my favorite genres but since this was done by the ID4 team, I was expecting better than usual and it was. I think they made a fundamental mistake by allowing the monster to have such prolific powers of reproduction, even if "ultimate threat to mankind's existence" seems to be one of their favorite themes. It made any sympathy for the monster quite impossible and that would have added another layer to the story's impact. They went a little overboard with the totally implausible, as well, but there was no shortage of that in ID4 either. In any case, an entertaining film.
That was followed by "Shear Madness" at the Manoa Valley Theatre, also quite entertaining and amusing. Then back to the totally implausible with "Deep Space Nine" on television and a story which thoroughly violated not only quantum physics but the generally established traditions of sci-fi "science".
Monday morning it was back to the beach until early afternoon when Kory K gave me an in-depth education on the subject of "South Park". It's better than I thought, Monty Python continued with an American flavor reminiscent more of MAD magazine than Beavis and Butthead. Easy to see why it has become so major a current pop-culture icon.
Radio on Sunday morning provided an amusing hour in tribute to Bob Dylan's birthday by playing all the worst Dylan covers, including the truly classic horror with William Shatner doing "Tambourine Man". Monday evening the 25th anniversary of the release of the Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" rated a special broadcast which included all the original tracks, interviews and background information.
And when Tuesday morning finally rolled around, I found I hadn't really missed being on-line as much as I had expected. But it's a major see-saw of a time, up-down, up-down from one minute to the next as we moved into the Fifth Moon of the Tiger and the ever-dreaded days before the Fabled Pension Check arrives.
132b
Such a strange day, the first Wednesday of the Fifth Moon of the Tiger. Starting with that silly mood, encountering that extraordinarily handsome young man walking his dog on Kapiolani Boulevard ... finding a box of odd "vegetable rolls" (chopped veggies in a tortilla) but no beer ... finding what Kory K later identified as a Chinese coin with "100" on it and then later a piece of paper looking like Chinese money with "One Hundred Dollars" and "Hell Bank Note" the only English on it (later identified by Nathan as Chinese funeral money) ... speaking, at last, to the famous Cat Man of the UH Manoa campus to let him know about the new family of kittens at Krauss Hall ... listening to Kory K chat with a bona fide BMOC, another Hilo lad, and enjoying every moment of it ... reading the current Honolulu Weekly in the secluded grove while consuming a bottle of Mickey's and a couple of those vegetable rolls ... stopping in Manoa Garden and having a totally delightful time with Bryant the Bartender, learning he, too, was born in Hilo ... going to Kory's to see "South Park".Who would've thought, after all these years, anyone would still remember Ayn Rand at all, much less take the trouble to so wittily flame her. My sincere compliments to the creators of "South Park".
Going off to the bench with my flask full of Heineken as a nightcap, being greeted by a cute young newcomer ... watching the Big Local Dude and his lady arrive, then the Snorer. The clouds and stars, the warm air making it possible to stash the sweatshirt, hopefully until autumn.
Life goes on, within and without you ...
133
"This weekend is one of those rare times to put aside some of your worries and appreciate the friends you have. And treasures they are."Thus spake the lady filling in for Jonathan Cainer while he took a week's vacation. I kept her advice in mind all weekend and did my best to put aside not just some but ALL of my worries. Friends, most accurately described above, helped considerably with that effort even if it was not totally successful.
What? Me worry?
In front of him in the middle of a vast clearing, enormous white pierrots were jumping about like rabbits in the moonlight.
I decided I needed to vary my reading material and settled upon a plan of acquiring, from time to time, any volumes of potentially (or known) interesting material available at Rainbow Books for under one dollar. The first expedition based on this new strategy yielded Against Nature [A Rebours] by Joris-Karl Huysmans and Time Must Have a Stop by Aldous Huxley. The Huysmans I have not read in four decades; the Huxley I discovered for the first time moldering in an old book cabinet at a YWCA in an India hill-station and was particularly delighted to see again.
But I began with the Huysmans and was immediately reminded that a book (or long story?) I have been writing in my head for several weeks is more closely related to this outrageous book than I had remembered; the connection had not even occurred to me. I wonder if Huysmans spent as long a time mulling over the details of his secluded sanctuary as I have spent on my fantasized one? His is far too heavy for my tastes and I would never burden a tortoise with gilded shell adorned with precious gems to set off a splendid, if too untrodden, oriental carpet. Better to pluck from a rift in the fabric of time a floor covering properly aged and worn. But then Huysmans was less ambitious and far more determined to imagine himself as truly decadent.
Huysmans, though, was a man after my own heart, as they say. No one, but no one, has ever flamed the British as delicately and as successfully as he did in his account of his aborted expedition to that magic island. No one has more absurdly chronicled the existence of an over-educated man drowning in ennui (and he was wayyyyyyyyyyy out beyond me on that score). Already he has made me laugh aloud twice.
That patriarchal legend of the San Jose on-line community, N.B, arrived in Honolulu on Friday so I went down to Waikiki at noon to meet him in Duke's. I've really tried very hard to break my addiction to that bar but almost instantly realized that sometimes paying four times as much to drink beer is worth it and returned again on my own Saturday afternoon, confirming that notion. Those were the days, those months of spending almost every afternoon sitting at the bar at Duke's, meeting people from every corner of the world, enjoying the ocean vista, the ever delightful staff, and a beer or six or seven. On Friday I also enjoyed a strangely yuppie roast turkey and avocado sandwich, ridiculously overpriced (as is most of the food at that still-admired establishment), and a long, thoroughly interesting conversation with one of the most intelligent men it has been my honor to meet.
N.B. is a difficult person, though, for me. He's not only unusually intelligent, he has managed to plan and live his life, or at least these latter years of it, with perceptive sensitivity and an emphasis on not only his own welfare but that of a number of people who have earned his consideration. He'd probably like for me to be one of those people, but I've never found the way to earn it, not to my satisfaction or to his. There is much in common between the way I think of N.B. and K.M., especially when it concerns "living up to". They are two men I have simply not been able to decently justify knowing; that is to say, out of my league. This doesn't stop me from immensely enjoying their company even while thinking I haven't done a damned thing to deserve it and no doubt never shall.
After a few hours at Duke's, we wandered on down to the Shorebird and then finally to the new Starbucks at the Discovery Bay complex where I had what they oddly call "Iced Chai Tea Latte". Since "chai" means "tea", I'm not sure who dreamed up that title or why, but it was delicious.
I was only slightly drunk, but very tired, so went on to the bench for an early night, tuned in to the less-classical NPR station just in time for an hour profile of Billie Holiday. Bring out the bottle of wine ... or in this case, Mickey's. Whatta dame ...
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
The beer gardens were overflowing on Saturday morning (although not until Monday did it get totally outrageous when a twelve-pack of Bud Ice was abandoned with only four cans missing) and, as mentioned, I set out to Duke's in the late afternoon for a delightful couple of hours in the company of the always-amusing Jackson the Bartender and a very large black Marine as the main drinking buddy. Jackson and I encouraged him to try a shot of Jagermeister, which he'd never tasted before, and the poor fellow not long after vanished to the men's room, never returning. Then I crossed the street headed for the Food Court at the International Marketplace and encountered N.B. just inside the entrance, bound for the same destination. Dennis and Kawika Kamakahi with BB Shawn were as enjoyable as they always are, and it was sad to learn it was Ellen's last night as booking agent for the venue. She has done a great job with a limited budget to provide interesting local music there on Friday and Saturday evenings.
I was already fairly stewed after my hours at Duke's, got even more so and then N.B. and I went on to see Olomana at the Hilton. Haunani, alas, wasn't making one of her frequent Saturday night appearances and Jerry Santos seemed to be in one of his sometimes almost "automatic drive" moods (can hardly blame the man after all these years of playing in that strange lounge), but it was fun to be there after a too-long absence and one of the bartenders gave me a cigarette lighter, a faux Zippo engraved with "you've got Merit". Lousy cigarettes, cute lighter.
Somehow I managed to stagger to the bench ...
On Sunday I made a brief visit to campus, then went with friends on my first visit to the Signature Theatre complex and Warren Beatty's "Bulworth". Amusing film. I was a little dubious when I'd read about him writing, directing and starring in a film based on politics, but he pulled it off well. Always have liked Shirley's cute brother, no reason to change.
That was followed with a KFC-provided dinner while finally seeing the film "Shine", thanks to the modern-day miracle of videotape. An earnest film, indeed.
I was tired, I am still tired and would love to have a quiet secluded place where I could sleep for three days without interruption. So I wandered off to the bench again. And then I woke up, found the Bud Ice, and went back to wondering why my life is so plagued by Filipino cleaning persons and enjoying the completely delicious, if ludicrous, passages by Huysmans about aromas ...
134
The internal jukebox went whacko on Tuesday morning and kept insisting upon playing Sousa's Washington Post March. I'd forcibly push its button and make it change to something else but it kept sneaking back to Sousa the moment I let my attention lapse.Thinking about Tale 133, it occurred to me that I've always had something of a problem with people who are ambitious for me, starting with my father. That dread phrase "living up to your potential" evokes the response, "what difference does it make", and that is not an attitude well-meaning people find acceptable or attractive.
Friday-through-Monday was a time when alcohol consumption remained consistently high, even by my standards. My long-time puritanical rule of not drinking before noon, except on very special occasions, sensibly fell by the wayside. There's much to be said for the pleasure of a decent beer with sunrise, perhaps even more than the soothing nightcap. I wouldn't mind at all staying a little drunk in every waking moment; the problem, of course, with such a primitive drug is the difficulty in staying at the "little" stage. By early evening on Monday I'd slipped well past it so went off to an early night after Bryant sensibly and pleasantly told me I'd had enough. That's my kind of bartender ...
The beer gardens yielded, unusually, a large can of Guinness on Tuesday morning, so the dawn was greeted with that dark brew in the secluded grove, a perfect set and setting for reading Huysmans. In the late morning I went to Waikiki to meet N.B. and guided him back to campus for lunch at Manoa Garden. Kory K joined us and N.B.'s presence seemed to inspire Bryant the Bartender who regaled us with some hilarious stories I'd not heard before, with a diverse scope ranging from tales of the Halekulani to farming in the Hilo area.
After a rather long "lunch hour", Kory finally had to leave us. N.B. had decided to prepare dinner for his host, so after some discussion about the best places to acquire the supplies he needed (including salt and pepper, the host not being an avid cook, to say the least), and despite the obvious but far less convenient fact that suburban supermarkets are probably the best option, N.B. settled for Foodland at Ala Moana, so I had the pleasure of accompanying him on the foraging expedition. That task completed, he decided he had time for another bar visit before beginning dinner, so we went on to Waikiki, stopped up to his host's condo to drop off the food (way cool view across the Marina), and then spent some time in a little bar in the nether regions of the Ilikai Marina.
Leaving N.B. to go play chef, I went on to Ala Moana, acquired a much-needed squirt bottle of "Off Deep Woods" disgusting liquid to combat this season's incredibly voracious mosquitos, a tube of toothpaste and a bottle of Mickey's Malt Liquor, and comfy in the security of the noxious liquid, enjoyed the consumable one before settling on my bench at the hacienda for a long, late Spring's rest.
Was not to be ...
It appears the "Authorities" are on a new campaign to make life difficult for the Urban Nomad. For the first time in all these months, at a little past one in the morning, two persons in white shirts waving big flashlights arrived, woke everyone (including me, Rocky, and the Big Local Dude) and told us to clear out. White shirts suggested they weren't from the Honolulu Police Department; Feds of some kind perhaps? In any case, I certainly wasn't going to question their authority and went on my way to Ala Moana Beach Park. That this must be some coordinated campaign occurred to me when, at about nine in the morning, an HPD sedan and scooter team swept through the park waking everyone who was sleeping on a bench or picnic table (although oddly leaving alone those on the ground and even one fellow who has been pitching a small tent there for several weeks, and is a late sleeper).
End of an era, or temporary aberration? A pre-election "clean-up"? Who knows? Stay tuned to this station ...
134a
The Tibetan monk, Khenpo Thrangu Rinpoche, is in town and is giving a number of public talks. Cheapest admission for any in the series is $20, not even as a "suggested donation". I'd have had warmer feelings about his visit if he had included at least one free event. Wednesday evening's meeting was at the Church of the Crossroads and I sat outside but couldn't hear any details of what was said, saw the Rinpoche and his entourage leave afterwards, and smiled over the flock of Mystic Ladies who then exited. Serves him right for charging so much per hour. Since he and the ladies will be at the Church every evening until the weekend, I might as well find somewhere else to spend the time between leaving campus and sleeping.An American middle-aged man wearing Buddhist monk robes swept past me at one point. He wore the costume with a certain arrogance that, had it included an ounce of style, would have suggested a Roman emperor.
The great disadvantage to spending the night in Manoa is the absence of resources, aside from on campus. There's not even a senior coffee establishment readily available. I felt sufficiently deprived I took the first bus that came along on Thursday morning and walked down Ward Avenue to have my usual Jack-in-the-Box senior coffee at the sheltered bus stop, going on to check the beer gardens along Kapiolani but still missing the usual stroll through deserted Kakaako and the rooster crowing. There is a rooster near Hot Lava Cafe in Manoa, too, but it must have been still sleeping on Thursday morning. The Kakaako one is a very early riser, begins greeting the dawn long before any sign of it has appeared in the sky.
Never mind, I told myself, too settled a routine of habits just isn't appropriate for a Nomad. And all things must pass ...
135
On Sunday evening, when I settled down to enjoy "Blues Before Sunrise" on NPR, I thought it would be perfect if they played that delightful Pearl Bailey song about just feeling so tired. It's the ideal theme song for the last week of the seventh month of nomadic life. They didn't; but did delight by playing the Jimmy Rushing/Count Basie tracks that always get my feet tapping no matter how tired I'm feeling.Life was back to "normal". N.B. had flown off to California in the morning, I'd returned to on-line life for the first time since midday on Friday, and then to the hacienda where Rocky, the Big Local Dude and the Snorer were all present, the Snorer giving me a Whopper. One line of speculation is that last week's "raid" at the hacienda came about because they were looking for a specific person. Whatever the reason, I returned there on Saturday night and the only disturbance was the drone of the Snorer. So it was again on Sunday night. The varied sanctuaries of the intervening nights made the hacienda seem even more of a treasure, not so much for the physical aspects of the place, grand though it is, but more because of the comfort and security of familiar benchmates.
Despite many delightful hours in bars during his visit, I think for me the highlight of the time with N.B. came on Saturday afternoon when we took a bus to the other side of Diamond Head and then walked through a quiet, older residential area of Kaimuki which he knew from many years ago. There was very little traffic on the narrow "avenues" of the area, no quarrelsome dogs to protest strangers walking past and, even though the house N.B. once knew has been replaced by two new houses, much of the area must look the same as it did decades ago. When we reached the business district after our walk in the very warm sun, we were both ready for a cool place to quench our thirst and wandered into the first bar we came across, oddly called the Family Lounge. After a barcrawl on Thursday evening when we visited quite a collection of such establishments in Waikiki, I'd jokingly said to N.B. that about the only thing left would be a tour of Korean bars, so it was amusing to end up in one in so unexpected a location. The young lady at the bar was very kind, even giving N.B. a moistened napkin to wipe the sweat from his brow, and after a week of paying Waikiki prices, he couldn't believe the change he got back from a ten dollar bill.
There were quite a few hours spent in Duke's during his visit and I finally discovered an item on their bar menu which I thoroughly enjoyed eating, a roast beef and cheddar sandwich which was almost as delicious as the hot roast beef sandwich at Moose's. The entire week was loaded with far more to drink and to eat than is my usual habit, more time in Duke's than I've spent for many months ... a delightful revisit, in a way, of what my life was like in the year after leaving the world of office drones. June first was a double anniversary, the second since the end of the insurance broker, the first since the end of playing "consultant". I certainly couldn't complain if the anniversary is celebrated as well in the future as it was this time around.
And all through it I kept feeling so tired, on Friday night so much so that I went to the cloisters, lay down on a bench and was fast asleep within minutes despite several meetings going on, and I didn't even wake when the meetings ended and people left. Part of that was no doubt the intellectual challenge of being in N.B.'s company. He never makes it necessary to defend a position (or to defend having no position, which is often more the case with me) but it is as though he stands there holding open a door and one is welcome to walk through it into a brighter and better place but it is necessary to know what one WANTS to find on the other side. There is the feeling that whatever it is, odds are it would be there.
Talking about his (relatively new) acquisition of a beard, I said at one point that at least he doesn't look like Santa Claus, no matter how many people may look upon him as that gentleman. The young lady at the Family Lounge also raised the topic of Santa Claus. And there is a certain parallel with memories of childhood, trying desperately to decide what was most wanted from Santa, suspecting that if the request were reduced to one, basically reasonable, wish and all the energy concentrated on asking for that, it would be received. So it often seems when talking with N.B.
I, of course, don't know what I want. And that dilemma often leads to just wanting to be dead so as maybe no longer having to be concerned with the idea. That makes reading Time Must Have a Stop even more strange, since it is surely quite unique in modern literature in having as one of its continuing central characters a man who is dead and who, horror of horrors, continues to find his thoughts occupied with the same rubbish which filled them in life.
I read the book rather quickly the first time through and then began again taking it more slowly, spending more time savoring the elegance of the language and the precision of the descriptions and reported conversations. I think it's my favorite of Aldous Huxley's books, a feeling I also had when I first discovered it twenty-five years ago. Reading it again was an appropriate interweaving in the fugue of N.B.'s visit. Fugue? Symphony, more like.
Several evenings after leaving N.B., I'd get a bottle of Mickey's and go up to campus and sit in Manoa Garden reading. And on one of those evenings I discovered a poem written on one of the table tops:
As I drink
And want to shout
I have to think
What's it all about
Why do I force
Things that'll come
What's my course
And where am I from
You know less than do I
So don't bother to ask why
Your life is but a simple lie
In the end, we all shall fry
And time, indeed, must have a stop. But not yet.
136
An unhappy dust of nothingness, a poor little harmless clot of mere privation, crushed from without, scattered from within, but still resisting, still refusing, in spite of the anguish, to give up its right to a separate existence.As in life, so in death, Uncle Eustace.
How much to tell in tales, how much, for a myriad reasons, to leave untold or only alluded to? Last week's visit to the clinic is a case in point. I had the feeling they must have scheduled too many people in too short a time that day and the result was somewhat like being put on a conveyor belt and trundled through an assembly line of medical factory workers. That may sound like a complaint, but it isn't, nor is noting the fact that we all now regard this experiment as either being part of the placebo control group or testing a dud drug. But having come this far even they have switched to "stick it out and we'll try something else next, if you're willing". Maybe they get a bonus for each completed series? (It wouldn't be a bad idea if they offered one to the guinea pigs).
Time for those fool moon's eyes to shine again, always a signal (or an excuse) for the Underworld Dude to demand his portion of the timeshare those guys have arranged for my body and soul. Maybe it's because he isn't very greedy or maybe it's longer-term reasons like karma and all that, but however it comes about, he seems to have incredibly good luck. I just wouldn't have expected it at this time in life.
I can't remember exactly when my fascination with young Japanese men began. Certainly it didn't exist at all before I came to Hawai`i. All experiences since then suggest it is a well-placed enthusiasm, whether on the basis of friendship alone or more intimate encounters. The most recent of the latter variety brightened the threshold of the Full Moon even more than that shining ball could manage.
The arrangement of the area makes it possible to stay utterly discreet and anonymous or to allow full identification and I always let the other person make that decision. Since he chose the more revealing path, there was the pleasure of knowing my neighbor was a young, decidedly cute Japanese fellow with gelled spiked hair. At first it seemed he only wanted to be watched, as is often the case with young Asian lads. Then someone else came in on the other side of him, someone who wouldn't make use of the convenient hole-in-the-wall despite a gesture of invitation but instead wanted only a hand under the partition. My neighbor provided the service, occasionally looking back over his shoulder to see if I was watching. It was thoroughly amusing, brought to mind an image of a milkmaid on a stool, bending over to reach the cow's udder. Once the deed was done, the cow quickly departed, leaving the two of us alone. That scenario seemed to have my companion in a state of high excitement and I was offered the opportunity to complete his adventure. This time the mental image conjured was the old commercial about the cereal shot from cannons. I've never known anyone to erupt with such force. He gave me a dazzling smile and went on his way, as the Underworld Dude was humming hymns of thanksgiving and the knees went quite rubbery.
Vampirism or primitive religious ritual, the essence of young manhood as the sacrament ... it's a concept I've long equated with the legendary Fountain of Youth. The Japanese make such beautiful fountains.
136a
"Not greedy." I tried to flatter him, to assuage him. No such luck. he wants it again, and this time he wants that particular one again."... it was precisely on the exceptional and important occasions that it was most necessary to keep other people in ignorance of what one was really feeling."
No doubt. But it is too late for me to start listening to Aldous Huxley now, even when he puts his pearls in the mouths of swine.
I knew instantly it would be one of those moments which would never leave the memory of this life. The collection is a small one, but so potent, and too many, one part of me says, of that collection has to do with the absolutely, mysteriously bizarre thing called sex.
I was born loving men. I've no doubt of that, despite some by-ways which tried to convince me that exclusivity is not only unnecessary but quite stupid. I never wanted to be a woman ... menstruation alone would have dissuaded me from that notion, no matter how many desirable men a woman's body might have gained me. But my desires and my closest attempts to attain what is called "love" for another human being were, from as early as I can remember, directed at men.
The entire universe of "sexual urges" is "unfair". To be born into such a strange sidetrack of it is even more "unfair". Where do I file my complaint?
With "God"?
But all the trifling which once enchanted him was now not only profoundly wearisome, but also, in some negative way, profoundly evil. And yet it had to be persisted in; for the alternative was a total self-knowledge and self-abandonment, a total attention and exposure to the light.
What a sweetheart, that Aldous.
137
Stupid internal jukebox. Nothing at all wrong with getting stuck on a Gershwin tune, but "I Got Rhythm"? As with its recent fascination with Sousa, I tried to switch the music, even tried tricking it with "Lady Be Good", but the moment my attention wandered, back it went to "I got my man, who could ask for anything more."Well, I haven't got. And I've told the Underworld Dude to just forget about it, enjoy the memory, because we're not making any special effort to bring about a repeat encounter. I may not know exactly what I want, but I'm very sure falling in love with a young Japanese fellow shouldn't be on the list.
After the luxurious opening to the month of June, I'm not at all looking forward to the return of empty pockets but they're almost here and I'm not doing much to postpone their arrival. I did refrain from buying a burger on Tuesday, even though I wanted one, but I didn't stop myself from spending sixty-five cents on a Butterfinger bar when the Chocolate Craving Monster struck, almost surrendered to a second one. Drowned the Monster with Mickey's, instead, hoping for a nice quiet read in the secluded grove but was driven to shelter by persistent drizzle. The trip downhill to get the bottle did yield an extra treat, running into Mikey V., one of my all-time favorite bartenders and someone it's always a pleasure to see.
I forgot I have a free Deluxe sandwich voucher for Mac so ended up with just another bottle of Mickey's for dinner. A Butterfinger bar and two bottles of Mickey's, what a Nutritious Daily Diet.
The hacienda suffers from a population explosion including, alas, another couple. I've nothing against them when, like the Big Local Dude and his lady, they keep the chat to a minimum. The new ones not only yak before sleeping, they picked the floor in the corner right by my bench for their bed and woke me up a couple of times with more yakking during the night. Not much, but enough to wake me. I hope they don't become regulars.
Sleep was interrupted just after four by some kind of major road accident right in front of the building. I didn't stir until the place was full of flashing blue light, looked out to see about half a dozen police cars, an ambulance and, eventually, a fire truck. I couldn't see what had actually happened but there was a car on the sidewalk on the wrong side of the street for the direction it was heading. Since it looked very unlikely further sleep was possible, I departed discreetly via the exit most distant from the scene of the action and was rewarded by finding a quarter in the street.
Except for one almost-full bottle of Heineken, the beer gardens were empty but I did come across a very large, ripe mango which got Wednesday's Nutritious Daily Diet off to a somewhat healthier start, supplemented later with an abandoned Breakfast Burrito from Mac. Looks like someone bought two of the things, ate one and left the other in the bag on a bench. I don't much blame them.
Jeff, my barback buddy at Duke's, is planning to move to San Jose. Jay T is moving to San Francisco. Maybe it's abandoning a sinking ship, but I can't help feeling they're taking refuge on the Titanic.
138
Musical bench game at the hacienda. On Wednesday evening, I moved to the bench behind my usual one in case that new couple returned. They didn't. Rocky took my former place, with the same pattern repeated on Thursday. Sleeping close together again, but I can only see him through the slats of the bench-back. No doubt just as well.Thursday was Kamehameha Day, all libraries closed. So I stayed on Magic Island for much of the morning until it started to get too crowded. The shopping center was jam packed, too, so I fled to campus which was almost totally deserted. I was sitting in the grove reading Time Must Have a Stop and then fell into an extended daydream about what I'd do if I had lots and lots of money, following the unwinding thread of individual fantasies with so much detail it was almost as though I had suddenly become rich and had many things to do, to work out. A few times I had the thought that it's fortunate I'm not likely to become suddenly rich. It would be a lot of work.
It would, though, be quite fortunate to be not so utterly poor, especially on a day when the campus is empty and there's nothing to eat. And at a time when one of my few remaining teeth is finally suggesting the time has come for it to become past history and, as they all have done, is delivering its message in a thoroughly uncomfortable manner. I should have gone to the Quest office on Friday morning but I felt too lousy to tackle it at the required hour of 7:45 a.m., so if the pain from the tooth worsens, I'll have to find another way to research how a penniless man finds someone who will pull a tooth pro bono.
Sometimes they have been painful for a few days and then have settled down again for months, repeating the process until finally pain turns to agony and the thing has to go. It's an unpleasant cycle I've been through again and again all through this life and a thoroughly unwelcome one now, as always.
I stopped down in mid-afternoon to see Kory K and met his sister for the first time. They were watching wrestling on television. My mother was an avid wrestling fan and during the Korean war, we'd go to matches once or twice a week. She always believed it was real, I never did. Today's version is even more blatantly unreal, terrible acting and lousy choreography, but the crowd seemed to be full of believers.
Leaving Kory's, I took a bus, got off near Daiea and thought I'd see if Helen was home. She was, and kindly suggested a trip to Kentucky Fried Chicken so I didn't have to send myself off to bed, or bench, hungry. On the way there, I found a copy of the afternoon newspaper and, since it was still a little too early for the hacienda, I sat and read the paper which suggested there is much in this world as unreal as WWF wrestling but still with crowds of believers. Reading a newspaper every day must surely be hazardous to anyone's mental health.
Earlier, sitting at a bus-stop, sipping on a cup of beer I'd carried with me from Kory's place, I scribbled on an envelope:
subaru hubcap interlaced, gaelic illumination
brown boy spits in canal
turquoise shirt with plastic bag
life on oahu
little brown boy hits tree with stick
slams metal lamp post
bored at ten, and who can blame him
life on oahu
white pickup truck, boombox blaring
stops for red light
bored at twenty, and who can blame him
life on oahu
old man sitting at avenue bus stop
watching life pass round him
bored at sixty, who can blame him
life on oahu
138a
I found one of those silly ball-heads from Jack-in-the-Box so went to add it to the cooperative sculpture in the art building courtyard on campus. Someone had added a one dollar bill, neatly folded into a little triangle. Jack's head in exchange for a Jumbo Jack, seems a fair trade.The beer gardens were empty of brew on Friday morning, but in one an abandoned bag contained a fragment of a bacon cheeseburger from McDonald's and an unwrapped, untouched one with about half a portion of large fries. I love people who get drunk, get hungry, and order twice what they end up eating, especially when they leave it on a ledge outside my favorite beer garden.
Every month I seem to forget or neglect one item which that fabled pension check should have provided. Last month it was the mosquito repellent, an oversight corrected this month while failing to replenish the suppy of boullion cubes. I hadn't been using them for awhile so didn't notice how low the supply is running. Something is always running out ...
138b
Japanese couple in their fifties. Most obviously local Japanese, since he said to her "whatcha gonna do brah." That thing in Athens with maidens as pillars, strange echo of it in a double roofed add-on to the Pekingesque Neiman-Marcus. "Where's it start?" asked a lady, seeking the parade. Downtown. Cue up Petula Clark.Crazy haole in gray faux camouflage pants, walked through giving middle finger to all Japanese. Dude was sick, not old enough to have known the War. Unless his father was killed in it.
Found a bottle of Boone Farms "apple wine" with dashes of raspberry and cranberry juice. Nice breakfast beverage with a bit of a punch. Flask already full of found Heineken, couldn't use it. And then half a Mickey's outside Sears, under those elegant fern-like palms. Into Jack's coffee cup in installments, a chaser for the Boone's.
Sitting on the ledge of a planter with a small umbrella tree plant I tried so hard to grown in London.
Sit in one place all day. Is this the time and place?
It may have been the place, but it wasn't the time.
138c
Friday night's Ho'olaule'a (translates "block party") in Waikiki was fun, although it was too bad it coincided with the opening festivities for the Convention Center. Joining the Pan-Pacific Festival with the Kamehameha Day celebration seems a good idea though (I'm not sure why they call it "Pan-Pacific" since it's only Japan and Hawai'i participating, so far as I've seen). I wandered from the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center down to the Regent where the stage was featuring Hawaiian music. The Opihi Pickers were just starting as I got there. Cute kids but, as with their CD, the musical selections were all over the place. They remind me of that whacko internal jukebox of mine. They were followed by Ledward Kaapana and I Kona.All the food being offered up and down the avenue would have driven me crazy, but I had a lucky break and found a large plate lunch container with beef stir fry and noodles, oddly enough abandoned in the Regent Hotel lobby, and that more than took care of any hunger for the rest of the evening.
Ran into Nathan and Dave, but didn't see anyone else I knew, and wandered off to the bench just after nine, tired of the crowd.
As I wrote, there was an ample supply in the beer gardens on Saturday morning, and again on Sunday morning, always most welcome when the days come to count pennies for that first coffee of the morning. And it's definitely that time until Wednesday's visit to the clinic.
There's an article in the current Weekly lamenting the stereotyping of Polynesians by Hollywood, but they do it themselves, too, and perhaps in an even more hokey way sometimes. A few of the floats in the Kamehameha parade were classics of the genre. Otherwise the parade was the standard island model, the princesses and ladies from each island on horseback, the usual military bands and marching units, the usual high school bands, the convertibles with Miss So-and-So and Such-and-Such.
Before it was over, I wandered along the parade route from Ala Moana to Ward Center and watched the very end of the parade from there. Then I got a bus downtown and went to the Hawai'i State Library, my first visit there in a very long time. They use an even more weird method of classifying books than the one at Hamilton Library and I gave up trying to find the volume by Mary Butts they supposedly have, went on-line briefly, browsed through a hefty biography of Tennessee Williams, glanced at some Gertrude Stein, and scanned the titles of the hodgepodge of "fiction in English" section. Hamilton is certainly a far more impressive library.
Took a bus back to Ala Moana and watched some of the Pan-Pacific Festival offerings at Center Stage, including a very amusing ukelele group from Japan. Then I found an abandoned bowl of soup in the Food Court and after enjoying that, ran into Tomita-san. The rascal decided not to take any courses at all during the summer sessions, so it's not likely he'll be on campus again until the fall. Rats.
Back to Waikiki in the evening and, after watching the sunset from the beach, a walk down to Kapiolani Park where the large gathering was just getting ready to start the Bon Dance. I found two quite beautiful orchid leis, probably leftovers from the parade. They were very loosely strung, so I spent some time pushing the blossoms closer together and then joined the two, making one much plusher, longer lei which I wore while watching the dancers. I love the Bon Dance. Even when the music is sometimes far too flavored by trashy Western musical styles, there's something mystic about people dancing in a great circle, all making simultaneous gestures and movements.
I wasn't so lucky with the food, though. Some greedy black man was just finishing cleaning out the more remote trash barrels, had a plastic bag stuffed full of plate-lunch containers and was busy pigging one down as he wandered. Sheez, the greed! The containers near the dancers were all chock full of stuff, but I didn't want to explore those in the midst of the festivities.
When I left to head off to the bench, I walked over to the Gandhi statue and draped my lei over his arm, pleased it was the prettiest and biggest one in the collection already there.
It was the Rocky Horror Social Club again. His school chums who visited once before walked in with him and they were still yakking when I blocked them out with earplugs and went to sleep. The chums left during the night, and Rocky took the bench behind my new spot instead of my traditional one.
The theatre show on NPR had been doing an hour profile on Bobby Short and I was sorry to catch only the last fifteen minutes of it. Even that small dose of him was enough to strongly evoke memories of the time in Atlanta after my army duty and the early years in New York City, and after the show I drifted off to sleep in a happy haze of memories and, barring unforeseen events, the mellow glow from the last Mickey's nightcap for a few days.
139
Zippy's macaroni salad, like their chili, is a good base for building a decent version. Add some chopped, very lightly braised celery, some chopped stuffed green olives and a dollop of mustard to start making macaroni salad. Oh well, a kitchen-less person must make do with the basics, so it was a pleasure to find an enormous tub of the stuff in one of the beer gardens. There were also two full plate-lunch containers of what appeared to be beef and broccoli, but a taste of it didn't have the appeal it might have had if not for the bucket. I filled my casserole container with the macaroni, and a large ziplock bag, and ate as much of the rest as I could manage. Macaroni Salad Monday.Cainer wrote about Monday: "SOMETHING will give way today. A key factor in your life has been getting progressively more tense and stressful. You're fed up; with a situation, a person, a syndrome or a silly state of mind."
That could apply to a great many things, including the hacienda which seems to have entered a phase of one deterring factor after another. This time it's Rocky's Social Horror Club, accelerated no doubt by school break and more young people out and about with time to kill. On Sunday evening two of Rocky's youngest chums arrived first, settled down, but then began a lengthy chat. The earplugs are wonderfully effective in blocking traffic noise but seem to be totally useless with certain frequency ranges including, alas, that of adolescent male voices.
Then Rocky arrived with another one of his lads, the first two sat up, and it felt like I'd suddenly found myself at a teenage slumber party where the likelihood of much slumber seemed fairly remote. So I went on my way and spent the night at the cloisters in relative peace and quiet, with the bonus of finding half a large bottle of Miller Lite at the bus stop on the way.
But Cainer continued: "You have had enough of whatever it is... but so far, you have been unable to make a decisive gesture for fear of creating too much trouble." That doesn't sound like the hacienda is the subject of his message because there's nothing to do about that situation but take it or leave it. Because of its proximity to clubs that stay open after the last buses have departed, it will always be subject to occasional casual visitors, stranded for the night and less attuned to the usual nomad etiquette. With Rocky as their apparent heroic role model, it now appears likely it will be a haven for teenage kids too hyper to worry much about getting any sleep. But there's no "decisive gesture" to be made about it.
"Saturn's sharp link to Mars speaks of a turning point. There may be a brief moment when it seems things are turning the wrong way... but fear not. They are turning the RIGHT way."
A turning point would be most welcome because my thinking has fallen into a rut.
I spent much of Sunday afternoon reading. Huxley's short story, "The Rest Cure", was disappointing, particularly since it comes from the latter part of his writing career. Maybe it was an earlier work he dusted off and completed with an uncharacteristic little twist at the end which did nothing to rescue it from insignificance. Then I started his strange novel, Ape and Essence, which isn't easy reading but held my attention for an hour and staked a claim on whatever hours are needed to complete it.
Although the library was open until six, I left early to catch the bus to Waikiki for the parade which ended the Pan-Pacific Festival. The Japanese are even worse than the Hawaiians when it comes to staging parades, both in determining the arrangement of the participating groups and in working out the timing. Several of the local high school bands, Mililani especially, were far too close to floats with those wonderful Japanese dummers. Mililani's band had to cope with two truckloads of drummers; their own drummers could have just stayed home. And there was such a long gap between about the first half of the parade and the second half that many people thought the parade had ended. That first part had moved far too quickly, not pausing often enough for the dance groups to perform, while the second half paused perhaps too often and for too long. Still, it was a delightful parade and a fine way to spend the sunset hours on the beach in Waikiki.
And such a day of discipline! I saved a can of Bud Light, found in the predawn hours, all through the day to have as a nightcap. For such a feat of self-control, the reward really should have been a more decent beer. And a more interesting setting than a teenage slumber party.
140
Thanks to the Angel of the Coins, there was an unexpected bottle of Mickey's on Monday. That put Wednesday morning's senior coffee in jeopardy by a missing fourteen cents (it was twenty-four, but as happens with uncanny regularity, a dime was found immediately after leaving the Angel of the Coins). A little later, I passed a payphone. Ordinarily I don't bother to see if there's anything in the refund box, although I often see nomads checking out each one they pass. This time, though, the dowser nudge came, I checked it, and sure enough, there was a quarter. So down the hill I went for the bottle of Mickey's, happy with the knowledge that the financing for Tuesday and Wednesday senior coffees was in place. No Wall Street financier could have felt more pleased with the state of things.I filled my flask with Mickey's, put it away for a nightcap and enjoyed the rest while beginning again the volume of Hesse short stories which I'd retrieved from storage. Thus far, only Hesse's books have been tucked away in the storage drawer or left with a friend so as to be available for re-reading. I particularly wanted to read again the story called "Augustus". A reader recently suggested a scheme for clarifying in my mind what it may be that I really want, and part of the plan is to think of five things I want before going to sleep each night ... just think of them, no more. The reader suggested it was possible to make some or all of those things wishes for other people, and that brought to mind "Augustus", one of the best fables I know on the subject of the danger in wishing things for others. I don't think I want to risk wishing for anything on behalf of someone else. Even so simple a thing as wishing "happiness" for someone might have untold consequences.
For my own part, I haven't been able to come up with five such thoughts. One would do it. I'd like to have fifty dollars a week income, in addition to the pension check which could then be used for "capital expenses" like new slippers, or mosquito repellent, or toothpaste. Fifty a week would provide the daily luxuries of basic food, drink and smoke, without all the temptations and diversions that a larger amount would make possible. A modest "want", methinks.
Perhaps a second would be a ticket to Delhi and Kathmandu, both of which would be very pleasant on a fifty-dollar-a-week income.
Social Security will, of course, grant those wishes, if I survive four more years of wishing for them.
My passport expires on Friday, so I could add a wish for a renewed passport to the list, especially if that ticket is on it. Since it's my only "photo id", it will need to be replaced, either with a new passport (the more expensive option) or a State ID card. As Roseanne Roseannadanna so aptly said, it's always something ...
Thoughts of the passport expiring led to remembering that awful evening at Gaylord's in New Delhi where my nephew and I had gone, as usual for dinner, sitting on the red velvet banquette which lines the wall of that elegant establishment. If I'd had any sense, I'd have kept my bag between me and my nephew instead of on the other side, and then those wretched Hong Kong ladies sitting next to me wouldn't have managed to slip my wallet out of it ... but who thought of such things when sitting in the supposed secure comfort of Gaylord's. Passports, cash, traveller's checks vanished into the Hong Kong underground ten years ago on Friday. Since only the cash was a permanent loss, there was little penalty for my carelessness except a couple of days of crazy running to and fro from American Express to the American Embassy to the British Embassy ... and Mastercard refusing to provide a replacement card until my return to the UK! I vowed I'd get even with them for that, and I did, letting them pay my first six months rent in Honolulu.
A much more remote memory was evoked on Tuesday morning. I was curled up on "my" bench at the cloisters, gradually emerging from sleep, a pair of shorts draped over my face to block the ever-present lights. Someone said "hey buddy" a few times. I wasn't sure if he was speaking to me or my nearest neighbor, but decided to ignore him because I didn't like the tone or that particular phrase. After a few minutes, I sat up, no one was around, but a bottle of Coors had been left by my bench. I suppose the owner of the voice had left it and was seeking thanks. No style in that method of giving, but a welcome gift (even if a lousy beer).
And the memory it evoked is one of the clearest from my childhood. I was seven or eight years old, we were living in a two-storey house in Utah and it was New Year's Eve. We weren't allowed to stay up for midnight, so I was in bed determined to secretly stay awake until the magic hour. Every year I did that, and most of the time finally yielded to sleep without reaching the goal. That year I had succeeded and just before midnight my father came to the bedroom door and softly called my name. I pretended I was asleep and didn't answer. Later I heard him and my mother talking at the bottom of the stairs and when he told her I was sound asleep, she said that was too bad, it would have been fun for me to taste my first "highball" to celebrate. Of course, I had long since secretly tasted Seagrams Seven and Coke, her version of a "highball", but still kicked myself for having missed out on such an adult treat.
I'm glad Tuesday's donor left the gift even without my response, and I tucked the bottle away in the nightcap slot.
The cloisters is full up, all benches taken and even the best floor spots are usually occupied. There is one bench shorter than the others, too short to fully stretch out on without letting the lower legs hang over the armrest, but I don't mind sleeping partly curled up and have managed to get that bench on both of the first two nights of my return to that sanctuary. Earplugs block the traffic noise and the post-midnight departure of nearby club patrons. The refugees are all single men, no kids and no couples (yet), so it actually is a better haven than the hacienda despite being so far from the morning hunting grounds.
The buses don't run until nearly six o'clock and since I was awake by five on Tuesday, I walked down to Ala Moana, found a half bottle of some banana-raspberry-white wine concoction, a bottle of apple juice, and a bottle of Absolut vodka with about a shot left in it. Mixed it all in my flask, went over to the park, showered and washed my UH polo shirt and drank the strange "cocktail" while enjoying the sun and waiting for the shirt to dry. The internal jukebox was playing "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" (which it was) and the phrase "a bright golden haze on the meadow" reminded me of old Mr. Cowmmeaddoww, manager of the YMCA Tourist Hostel in New Delhi during my first visit there. One morning I heard his wife giving the room boy a real tongue-lashing because she'd found dust in my room and I intervened, explaining that I'd not been feeling well (euphemism for it has been so damned hot I've stayed stoned in my room) and hadn't been out, thus had asked him to postpone more thorough cleaning. She was offended by my interruption and was fairly rude, evidently complained to her husband who came to see me and apologized for her behavior! He turned out to be quite an interesting old geezer, deeply interested in handwriting analysis, and I was sorry to learn he was no longer alive when my nephew and I arrived at the Tourist Hostel.
Sunny, penniless days filled with small events and old memories ...
141
There was a time when the moon moving into Aries was justification for rolling an extra big one and puffing in celebration. It still would be that time if there were anything available to roll, but since there isn't, Mickey's will have to do. A toast to the Moon in Aries!I created a new character in MUD called Pollux but he turned out to have terrible stats, was quite a wimp at swordsman level, so I let him get killed off by a nasty Fiend who is one of those only-sometimes critters in the Land, and created Castor instead, played him to Hero. Then I thought it was time for some different playing, so visited the Playroom. A strange young black man was dominating the place, having taken possession of the center booth. When I entered, he immediately covered the hole with toilet paper, then slowly uncovered it a bit at a time. Hmmm, a tease. Then he passed a piece of paper and a pen under the partition. It was a note asking me to loan him five dollars. All those young dudes eager to give it away and he expected to get paid?! I sent the note back merely saying, "No. Sorry." After a couple of minutes, he uncovered more of the hole but only enough to give me a glimpse of what he had to offer when he moved into a particular spot. Yes, a definite tease. Next he passed me the pen and another note which asked "what is so special about a black cock?" I refrained from saying "nothing, it's not worth five dollars" but just said "color doesn't matter", and sent the note back. He returned it, without the pen, writing "I just told someone else that."
I kept the note, but he motioned that he wanted it back, so I gave it to him. He uncovered a bit more of the hole. I was getting slightly bored with the routine by that time, so uncovered the rest of the hole myself and he didn't object but went to work displaying his very long, slender "black cock". I had to think it was quite special but that, indeed, color didn't matter, and much enjoyed the show, then left. It was certainly one of the more strange interludes in the Playroom.
It was one of those afternoons when I very much wanted a beer but refrained from drinking the bottle I'd been carrying around since early morning, determined to save that for a nightcap. Some abandoned "cajun" chicken wings turned up for dinner. Cajun seems to be the latest buzz word in local take-outs, but there was nothing remotely Cajun about those chicken wings, welcome though they were, as were some grilled pieces of hot-dog like sausage which were with them. I had stashed a bag of the macaroni salad in Hamilton Library, figuring the cooler temperature there might keep it from spoiling overnight. A shelf of books by a Major American Author [tm] provided a perfect stash spot, probably the most useful thing his books have ever done (and I suspect he'd agree with me if he were still around). It worked, the stash wasn't discovered and it hadn't spoiled, so the chicken and sausage were backed-up with the last of the macaroni salad and the beer, a fine dinner.
Then it was off, fairly early, to the cloisters where, fortunately, no meetings were going on and I was asleep before ten. About six hours of solid sleep is quite sufficient for me, so I was awake at four on Wednesday morning. With nothing particular to do, and no where particular to go, at that hour, I walked slowly down to the Jack-in-the-Box at Ward, taking about an hour to get there. Checking one beer garden on the way, I found a plate lunch box with chunks of meat in a thick sauce and a large helping of fried rice with vegetables, but there was no beer there or the other gardens and I got to the Ala Moana garage beer garden too late, the cleaners had already struck. Since it was clinic day, no big deal.
And the Clinic ...
"How was your libido, your sex drive?"
"Chile, when with you it's in Warp 2."
No, I didn't say that. I've tried, earnestly tried, to be honest with the well-meaning folks at that research clinic, but I just didn't have the nerve to say that, even if it would have been true and even if it is "Gay Pride Week". I didn't know that until today. Rats. Wednesday already, so I missed half of it. Just as well. I really don't see any reason to feel "proud" about one's sexual orientation, whatever it may be.
The psychiatrist was detained by a "crisis at the hospital", so the young doctor did the interview part of my visit, after the most thorough physical examination yet. He is such a sweetheart. Not only is he the most sexually attractive human being I have met in decades (I know what I am saying), he's a truly sweet man and I'd love to have him as a friend.
We diverted for awhile and had a most interesting conversation on the subject of paranoia, since I was prepared, honestly, to elevate my Hamilton Scale of Depression score by answering yes to the question about "have you had feelings of paranoia". Alas, as he said, there truly are people out there with "uhhhh... not your best interest in mind", a gentle way of phrasing "they really are out to get you", so I'm not sure if I ended up scoring on that one or not, but much enjoyed the discussion.
Next week will mark the end of this study. I told him the fifteen dollars was far more effective as an "anti-depressant" than the junk drug, and this week there will be no drug, just fifteen dollars. A most excellent program.
Then I finally had a campus revelation. What I need to do is cultivate an image as a campus eccentric. Every campus has them. At UH, the Cat Man is the ideal role model. What is needed is to find the right balance so that students either don't mind you or feel sorry for you or even secretly admire you for your eccentricity, and you do nothing which alarms the security folk. Then you can wander around picking out long butts from the ashtrays with impunity and, who knows, there may even be kind Japanese students who will offer you a virgin cigarette ... or their body. Ooops, scratch the latter, I never said that.
142
After the clinic, I went directly to the McCully 7-Eleven for a bottle of Mickey's, hopped on a bus and returned to campus to enjoy it and the rest of the Hesse short story collection. After a short time on-line, it was then to Manoa Garden where I spent four times as much as I should have (i.e., four Mickey's worth). The next morning one inner voice was bitching away about it and I told it to shut up, we had a great time at the Garden, and that was true. Like I said recently, sometimes it's definitely worth spending a little more for beer.Then it was off to Waikiki and the Pure Heart concert at the Zoo. I was able to find a spot right in front by the stage. The crowd was large and enthusiastic so I could yell a few times without even being noticed, and certainly did when they amazed me by breaking into "Hi'ilawe". It's the first time I've heard them do it and was so unexpected it took a bit for it to register ... wow, they're doing "Hi'ilawe"! Those guys are far and away the best thing to happen on the local scene since Harold Kama started doing solo gigs. After the gig I spotted Matt Swalinkavich even though he looked as if he was trying to be incognito, as I accused him. He agreed, he was trying. Didn't work. He's a sweetheart. I walked around to say hello to Lopaka and asked whose idea it was to do "Hi'ilawe". The culprit was unnamed but he said they decided to do it "just for the heck of it."
Thanks to the gig, the internal jukebox was stuck on "Hi'ilawe" Thursday morning, but at some point switched to "When You Wish Upon a Star". I'd gotten to the cloisters a little earlier than usual and there was still a meeting going on so a bearded young nomad who usually sleeps on a bench outside that meeting room was sitting on my little bench, but moved over to the next one when I arrived. Everyone there is puzzled by my taking that little bench and several of them have encouraged me to take one of the longer benches instead. I explained, again, to him that my preference is to take whatever spot is least in demand, whether it's a bench or a computer terminal. I'd seen him in Hamilton occasionally, so that remark led to a bit of chat about computers, a more comfortable territory than his opening conversation which explained how he sees himself as an informal watchman for the place and proudly boasted about the people he'd driven off since they hadn't lived up to his standard (pissing in the bushes is one capital crime, in his book). He should move to the hacienda for awhile, straighten out Rocky and his teenagers.
The fellow who usually sleeps on that bench then arrived, so the bearded fellow wandered off to wait for the meeting to end, and I settled down to sleep. On Thursday night, there were two meetings still going on, even though it was a little after nine when I got there, and one was being held in the room by my bench. Fortunately it ended after a few minutes.
I was up just after four on Thursday morning so repeated the new custom of walking casually down to Ala Moana, taking a slightly different route. There was a bottle of one of those wine cooler concoctions in a beer garden, so I filled the flask with that and it made a pleasant mid-morning refreshment, although I'd never actually buy that stuff. After awhile on-line, including some time in MUD, I went down for a Mickey's and sat in the grove enjoying it and starting again Time Must Have a Stop, since I can't add to the $1 book collection until pension check time. Back on-line for awhile and then I got the urge to see "The Truman Show", so caught a bus out to Kahala Mall.
That's a great place for cigarette "shopping", even though it does have the drawback of people almost always sitting by the ashtrays. I had almost an hour to kill before the film started, and had a pack and a half of lengthy butts stashed away before it was time to enter the theatre.
I probably wouldn't have seen the film had it not been directed by Peter Weir, but I'm glad I did. It's a real horror story, made even more so by some parallels with my own life, especially the aspect of never being alone, always subject to someone watching. But I thought it was very well done and would only have added one small visual touch by placing somewhere in the film that classic woodcut of a man crawling through the dome from earth into a starry heaven.
It's surprising how much cooler it is in Kahala compared to Manoa, despite the short distance between them, and I was happy to get back to Manoa and discover that, even though cooler than it has been lately, it was noticeably warmer than it had been outside the Mall. Even though I shouldn't have, I bought a Mickey's and went to the Garden to drink it (not willing to impose upon the hospitality of the cloisters with drink, with or without the "watchman", who would strenuously object, I'm sure, since he doesn't approve of cigarettes, either).
Friday morning there was at last treasure in the beer garden right by the cloisters. A younger crowd hangs out there and rarely leaves anything unemptied, but there were two large bottles of Asahi with sufficient contents to fill the flask to the litre mark. In another beer garden, I found a one-pound packet of Kraft American Cheese slices ... odd thing to abandon. A pity they didn't leave some bread or crackers with it. Urban hunting can sometimes be a very amusing, but puzzling, game.
Two tee shirts also turned up, one with a T&C Surf design and the other from a "Torch Run" with the Bank of Hawai'i logo on the front. Even though the run was a couple of years ago, the shirt seems to have been worn very little, is like new. The surfer one is nicely faded but in prime shape. Both are green.
Beer, cheese, and tee shirts ... like I said, an amusing but puzzling game.
143
Memo to Supply Angel:Thanks very much for Saturday morning's flask of (mixed) beer, the can of Budweiser, the tube of Pringle's potato chips, the revival of the Free Mickey's Game with forty-six cents worth of coins, and the new tee shirt.
A pair of shorts would be cool, preferably the T&C surfer kine design on sale at Ala Moana for $32.95.
Three new tee shirts in one week. Weird. I did abandon one of the green ones, the T&C one, because it was only a medium. Extra large is best, but they have to be at least large to feel comfortable. The newest one is a bright blue extra-large Hanes with a colorful Sierra Nevada Ale design.
I managed to get fairly drunk on Friday evening, the first time since N.B.'s departure. Since that excellent condition was reached via a combination of wine and beer, a hangover was definitely expected on Saturday morning but didn't happen. Maybe it was the KFC chicken and mashed potato dinner which offset the hangover? It couldn't be winning two games of Scrabble, surely.
And I returned to the hacienda, getting there much later than usual. Rocky was sound asleep in his pretty flowery shorts, and none of his teenybopper friends were on the premises. The Big Local Dude wasn't there, nor was the Snorer, and it was so quiet I didn't even bother with the earplugs (being drunk helps a lot in that respect, too, of course). A most excellent sleep, stretched out fully for the first time in a week, continued until almost five-thirty. Rocky was still sound asleep when I left and it was light enough to get one of my rare opportunities to closely look at him. Cute guy, no doubt about it.
The Eve of the Summer Solstice of the Year of the Tiger, the end of the time with Castor and Pollux. The internal jukebox starting with Richard Rodger's "Carousel Waltz", getting sidetracked in the shower when a local fellow came in humming Brahms' Lullaby. Sitting at a picnic table after the shower and being rained on from a clear blue sky.
Not a bad start to the last day of Spring.
143a
The Supply Angel certainly was listening. A pair of flowery shorts turned up on Sunday morning. They weren't quite the right kind, too short, but worse than that, some auto mechanic had been using them as a grease rag and it didn't seem likely they'd ever be clean again. But it was still a grin to come across them, so soon after the hint.A much more rapid response came when I thought how nice it would be to find one of those bottles of berry-flavored concoctions, either the wine cooler version or the malt liquor type. Not ten minutes later, an almost full bottle of the malt liquor materialized, "Wild Berry". As I wrote, I certainly wouldn't buy the stuff, but it does make a refreshing late morning beverage, more interesting than Coke or Pepsi, less dozey than beer.
The last day of spring did turn out to be quite pleasant, as its start had suggested it would be. A bottle of Mickey's for lunch was later supplemented by a can of Budweiser, a rare find on campus. There was the usual weekend shortage of food, but I wasn't feeling particularly hungry anyway and was satisfied with a KFC biscuit leftover from the night before and the rest of that cheese I'd found, fed a second biscuit to the birds who seemed to like it so much it inspired several squabbles, especially amongst the Zebra doves.
Because it drizzled on and off all day, I went over to Krauss Hall and sat under shelter by the lily pond to listen to a broadcast of Puccini's "Madama Butterfly". It has been more than ten years since I last heard it and was a fine performance from the Chicago Lyric Opera, most enjoyable.
I had been delighted the evening before by the very vocal toads who reside in and around that pond, and was amazed at the number of tadpoles swimming around in it. I assume a great many of them won't make it, otherwise there's going to be a population explosion at Krauss Hall.
Then it was off to Waikiki to join some friends in seeing "X Files". I've only once seen the television show and wasn't inspired to make any effort to see it again, so no doubt lacked much of the background which might have contributed to enjoyment of the film. It was certainly a handsome production, but I must confess I didn't understand an awful lot of what went on and it definitely doesn't make my list of favorite films of 1998.
I stayed in Waikiki after the film, walked around a bit and then went on to Ala Moana. I thought I'd try the hacienda again, and there's not much point in arriving too early, especially on Saturdays. When I did get there, my traditional bench was empty, but the other three benches in that group were occupied, happily by adults who had already settled down to sleep. Two of Rocky's social horrors walked up a bit later but one of them settled down immediately. The other one, a really cute fellow, polite and softly spoken, asked me for a cigarette. I told him I just had a collection of butts and he was happy with one of those. I don't know what's happening with Rocky, though. He used to be such a model of nomad etiquette, but he's definitely changed. I was woken up just after one by his arrival and he also woke up one of his social horrors and they sat and talked quite loudly for almost half an hour. Since it wasn't raining, it would have been far more considerate to have moved to an outside bench, as Rocky used to do when he wasn't ready to sleep yet. Strange fellow.
Partly due to the interrupted sleep, I woke up later than usual on Sunday morning, went off on the hunt for supplies which were more sparse than ordinarily happens. People seem to have had a less boisterous Saturday night this week. Still, there was a flask's worth of beer, the bottle of berry flavored malt liquor, and half a Mounds bar. And the filthy flowery shorts.
143b
Helen gave me a voucher for a free breakfast sandwich at McD's, so I started Summer by having a Sausage McMuffin with Egg and then went, for the first time in months, way out to the end of Magic Island. There were elaborate preparations going on for welcoming the U.S.S. Missouri, including a mobile ATM from Bankoh with a "Big Mo Souvenirs" tent next to it. I can't say I'm particularly excited about the ship coming to Pearl Harbor, although it makes perfect sense for it to be there, and I was out there more to enjoy the ocean crashing against the boulders than with any hope the ship would come into view. It was hazily cloudy and occasionally drizzling lightly, but I filled my McD's coffee cup several times with the Wild Berry malt liquor and lingered until I ran out of tobacco.After replenishing the tobacco supply, I stopped to listen to Kanilau on Center Stage and watch the young hula dancers. Kanilau is, I think, an underrated group on the local scene. Their mellow style with local songs brings to mind Peter, Paul and Mary, but in Hawaiian. Once again I felt sorry for the kumu hula because some of those young boys are just incredibly stiff, so concentrated on trying to remember the arm and hand movements that they forget about their legs.
There was an unusually long wait, even by ordinary Sunday standards, for a bus to campus and by the time I got there it was almost time to leave for Kahala Mall to see Willie K and Amy. So after a brief on-line interlude, I switched into my (Harold's) Willie K tee shirt and headed off to Kahala.
Confounded cleaning people had been very busy and most of the ashtrays were recently emptied. I settled into a spot on the floor near the stage as Willie and Amy were on the other side getting ready to start the gig. "How you doing, Albert?" Willie asked as he went on stage. Nothing to do but grin, and nod. I was doing just fine, very happy to see him again after an unusually long time. Amy prodded him into doing a solo. I'm not sure of the name of the song, a Spanish-flavored rock tune which he often does, and it was so good it had me sighing for the days when he and the band made Thursdays so special at the Pier Bar.
The gig was far too short but completely delightful. I'd considered seeing "Mulan" afterwards, but there was such a crowd at the Mall I thought it would be wiser to wait until a weekday afternoon and got back on a bus to return to campus. The weather, which had been dubious all day, got worse with heavy gray clouds and more than light drizzle.
"It's always something ..." and now it's a foot again. The one major drawback to Hawaiian-style "slippers" is the callus which tends to form around the edge of the heel from wearing them all the time. On the right foot, the callus has become so thick on one side that it has split and is quite uncomfortable. It's a condition I see on many slipper-wearing nomads. I shall have to do some research to find out how to deal with the problem.
But a slightly sore heel and what may well be a developing cold in the head, oddly enough, and throughly dreary weather still didn't manage to lower my spirits on the first day of the Summer of the Tiger.
144
Monday morning is ordinarily one of the worst days of the week for urban nomad hunters, especially when the weather has been as vile as it was on the first Sunday of Summer. But the first Monday of Summer turned out to be an exception. The weather was still vile, solid gray sky with frequent drizzle, often heavy, but the beer gardens nonetheless turned up a full flask and so much beyond that it was necessary to search for a plastic bottle for the excess. The breadbasket had saved me from going to bed hungry on Sunday evening and came to the rescue again on Monday morning with three baked potatoes and half a loaf of that delicious wheat bread.I think at least part of the reason for the unusual variation in fortune was Sunday's festivities to celebrate the arrival of the U.S.S. Missouri, and I was happy to catch a glimpse of that famous vessel on Sunday evening and enjoyed the fireworks display in its honor at Magic Island.
But on both Sunday evening and Monday morning there was a severe shortage of tobacco. This, too, turned out to be fortunate since I made an unusual early morning visit to Waikiki hoping to increase the supply of that noble weed. Continuing the recent series of wardrobe additions, I found a gray-white-and-blue striped tanktop which I liked so much I stayed in Waikiki to wash it and let it dry in the sun which eventually, and intermittently, appeared. I decided to dump the Sedona polo shirt I'd found (why would they want a shirt made of such heavy fabric in Arizona?) and the too-gaudy ale tee shirt, so someone else could enjoy the good fortune of finding them in Kapiolani Park.
Once the tanktop had dried, I walked over to the Zoo entrance and, conquering my timidity, asked a haole tourist couple who approached if they intended to pay cash. They did. I offered them two free passes for five dollars, instead of the twelve they would've had to pay. He was very suspicious, so I assured him I would remain there until I saw if the passes really worked and, if they didn't, I'd return his five dollars. The passes worked, I was five dollars richer and he'd saved seven, and was quite pleased with the arrangement. Me, too. I assume the Zoo made some kind of deal with McDonald's and also got some income from it.
That, plus some coins found during the earlier hunt, ensured the availability of three bottles of Mickey's, enough to get me through the hours before the next clinic visit. Oh happy day ...
Give me a kiss to build a dream on, and my imagination will make that moment live, give me what you alone can give, a kiss to build a dream on ...
That was the internal jukebox's morning selection. Heaven knows what distant memory bank it dredged that one up from. The night before, when I settled on the bench and turned on the radio, NPR was just starting "Summertime" ... that wonderful Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong version. Put another nickel in, in the nickelodeon ...
I think I know what Rocky is up to. He's trying to get rid of some of the hacienda regulars, the Snorer especially and perhaps me as well. Once again he and one of his social horrors turned up after midnight and sat very loudly chatting (about nothing at all interesting) and laughing. It seemed a very deliberate performance. They were on the other side of the area, so after having been awakened, I adjusted the earplugs and was no longer bothered by their antics, went back to sleep. Alas, the Snorer had taken the bench next to me and when he started going full force just after four in the morning, no earplugs could block it. I left.
That absurd waste of time, Usenet, occupied too many of my thoughts on the weekend and too much of my time on Monday.
And I do have a cold, the first real one I've had since this nomadic trip began. There have been a couple of mild sniffles, but this is the Real Thing, aggravating the apparently chronic bronchitis and going through a substantial supply of McDonald's napkins during the day. I've no idea how I got it, but it's not exceptionally unpleasant so shall just be endured until it goes away. Far more irksome is the return of that wretched chest pain which was so bad on Sunday morning I had to sit on benches and rest three times between Ward Avenue and Ala Moana Center, and was almost as bad on Monday morning. No amount of slowing down, conscious attempts to relax or "meditation" have any effect on it. There's nothing to do but sit very, very still until it subsides. I am not pleased at all with such nonsense.
But otherwise, Summer's definitely off to a fine start.
145
The unprecedented severe tobacco shortage continued through Monday and into Tuesday morning, and the disposable lighter I'd recently found on a bus ran out. Is there a message here? Yes, use some of the last blood money to buy a pack of cigarettes and a new lighter. (I'm not giving up that easily).I stopped by the Garden about half an hour before closing on Monday, so was able to enjoy a light nightcap of Budweiser after filling my flask before draining the glass. But even with the nightcap and the calm, quiet atmosphere at the cloisters, I still woke up several times during the night thanks to the wretched head cold. Such congestion I had to breathe through my mouth which then got so dry it woke me up. But despite the gray damp weather, the cold seemed over its worst on Tuesday morning. Outdoor living appears to be a sensible treatment for head colds.
It was so wet and nasty on Tuesday morning that I only checked the two main sheltered beer gardens, both empty which was no surprise. But I did find a dollar bill laying on the sidewalk outside Bert's Cafe on McCully. Thanks, careless patron of Bert's!
The jukebox woke up with "La Traviata" which was fun at first, but after an hour of libiamo, libiamo ... I suggested it might be time to change the record. It didn't listen.
The flare-up on Usenet continued on Tuesday morning. It's puzzling to me why some people so deeply resent the Tales, constantly make public references to them and do it as if they are "exposing" me. Weird, considering it's all here for anyone to read. And they can't see the distinction between Usenet and the Web, between writing a review of a gig for alt.music.hawaiian or writing about the gig in the Tales. In the Tales, what was important to me is relevant; often it isn't relevant at all in a newsgroup. But of course I knew they'd jump on my recent reference to Willie saying hello and I mentioned it, I confess, with mischievous intent. Willie always says hello to me. So? Why wouldn't he, I'm one of his most devoted fans.
Some folks recommend giving up Usenet altogether but I think the better answer is to frequently remind myself there are only a very few people conducting the attacks on me and others, no one who means anything to me pays much attention to them (or even reads them), and there's fun to be had by participating in the newsgroups despite their petty potshots.
I was sitting in the covered walk of the building near Hamilton (the name of which I never remember). The sun had finally broken through the clouds and was shining on a pool of water, creating a reflection on the wall behind it. Drops of water occasionally fell into the pool, making a psychedelic light show of the reflection. If the jukebox had knocked it off with Traviata and geared up a little Floyd, it could have been major flashback time.
145a
Ahhh, the delicious joy of a virgin Pall Mall. With the insatiable greed which has plagued my life, probably from the moment I was born if not before, I smoked three right in a row. I was reminded of Eustace in Time Must Have a Stop who, after a delightful evening with his beautiful nephew Sebastian, lit one of his treasured Romeo and Juliet cigars, went into the bathroom for some bicarbonate to ease the aftermath of a luxurious dinner, and fell face down on the floor, dead.I wouldn't have minded in the least if I'd shared his fate after the third Pall Mall, even without the luxury of a Florentine villa bathroom to do it in.
You reach the peak of a mountain and you look down at the plains, swamps and jungles you've walked, or crawled, through to get there and you know you've reached an apex, it can't get any better, so you'd be happy just to let the silly saga end.
I can remember exactly the last time I felt that happy. K.M. and I were at the Club OB and were having a long conversation about all and everything. He diagrammed some of what we were talking about on a napkin. I kept it, framed it and had it on my wall for as long as I had a wall. I should have looked at it more often.
After an enjoyable visit to Kory K's office, the first in some time, and another round of the Usenet squabbles which have finally reached the point of being completely amusing rather than irksome, mainly because the opponents in this "war" have become so inept, I spent several hours in the company of one of my favorite bartenders who stuffed me with food. I must be looking thinner than usual.
We watched a bizarre Italian-made film called "Army of Darkness" which I'd not seen before and was more fun to watch in his company than it would have been on my own.
Then I rushed, rather tardily, to the clinic and a totally delightful conversation with the young doctor who has been one of the bright points in my life for these past few months. I told him about the Tales. If he does find them (I didn't give him the address and he's not highly net literate), he'll be the first person to discover from the Tales how much I like and admire him. As an "anti-depressant", he's superb, just being in his company makes me feel instantly better. A natural born doctor.
Later, of course, I thought omygawd, should I go back and edit anything, make any changes knowing he might read them, and decided that would be stupid as well as unnecessary. I only have one more visit to the clinic and then, alas, probably shall never see him again. What difference does it make if he discovers he has a major fan, and a grateful patient?
At this stage in life I really don't expect to have moments as happy as those with him. A grateful patient, indeed.
145b
If I used young journal-keeper Erick's method of rating days on a 1-10 scale, the First Tuesday of Summer definitely rated a nine, maybe even 9.5 during the chat with the young doctor at the clinic, the highest in a very long time. So I expected to wake up Wednesday morning feeling gawdawful, but the glow remained.After the clinic, I'd picked up the pack of Pall Malls, a new cigarette lighter and a bottle of Mickey's, and returned to campus. When it neared time for the library to close, I went over to the Garden where I happily had the place to myself and could enjoy an hour with Hesse and a beer before heading off to the cloisters.
I retrieved my copy of Glass Bead Game yesterday, time to read it again. It's wonderful that a writer as great as Hesse could create such a masterwork as the capstone of his career.
... just a photograph to tell my troubles to.
The jukebox really had to dig into deep caves of memory to find that one, and I don't remember all the words. Still, it's a great song and I didn't mind at all starting off Wednesday morning with it. The unprecedented tobacco famine continued. Kory K suggested it might be a side-effect of the Japanese economic woes, and he may be right. They are still walking around laden with Chanel and Vuitton and Armani shopping bags, but they are definitely smoking their cigarettes longer and may be smoking less. Both N.B. and Florida Mark have expressed concern over the Asian financial woes. N.B. was surprised so little attention was being paid in the local press, but that was the week before it made front page headlines. Odd to think that such a global matter could filter down and directly affect the life of an old geezer living on the streets of Honolulu, but it may be so.
I made a new, bold wish on the first star of Tuesday evening, ignoring Cainer's recent advice to want only something I can get. What's the fun in that kind of wishing? This wish I won't get, but it was fun thinking about it ... and still is. Wishing for a $50 a week income is no fun, either. I know I could get that, just don't know exactly what to do to earn it that would be sufficiently interesting or amusing to justify the expenditure of time.
One reader had the interesting idea that since I've experienced life as a householder with a job, life as a householder without a job, and life as a nomad without a job, I should add life as a nomad with a job to my list of experiences. Maybe so, but I think not until October comes and the one-year mark is reached.
I never thought I'd make it, am still not at all sure I will, and I don't really care. "9" days with 9.5 moments just don't come along often enough.
146
Like all mornings this week, Kory K's birthday started with dreary gray skies and, in Manoa at least, frequent drizzle. Fortunately the wetness held off until after my stroll from the cloisters to Ala Moana. That hour between four and five in the morning is quite special. Very few people are on the move, it's quiet and there's just a hint of the coming dawn. There's nothing as reliable, alas, as the breadbasket on the cloisters route and it also omits two of the more promising beergardens from the morning hunt for provisions, but it's an interesting walk with many possible variations.Thursday morning produced an avocado, half a pint of Heineken and, at last, an abundance of tobacco. The cleaners on the second level at Ala Moana seem to have stopped work early on Wednesday evening. I wish they'd do it more often.
I'd gone down to get a Mickey's for lunchtime on Wednesday and enjoyed it in the secluded grove until it started to drizzle when I had to relocate to a sheltered spot. I was appalled to read an editorial in the campus newspaper suggesting those trees should be chopped down and replaced with something that is a less prolific producer of seeds/fruit. As I said in soc.culture.hawaii, just leave a big broom down there. I'd be happy to sweep the walkways, spent some time kicking those berry-like seeds off them during the time of heaviest production.
Then it was to the clinic for the final follow-up visit in the experimental study. The young doctor had kindly given me the payment already, so it was just a matter of giving one more blood sample and chatting with the psychiatrist. They won't know until the entire study is completed which of their participants actually got the drug, and that could be some time. We agreed that I had either been in the placebo control group or it's a very ineffective drug. He suggested that I might like to try a drug called Paxil. I said sure, willing to try anything, so he gave me a three-week supply to start with and asked me to stop by again toward the end of that time. I'd never heard of the drug but found a lot of information, including a detailed fact sheet, on the Web. Evidently it will be at least two weeks before any effect is felt.
I thanked him for having allowed me to participate in the study and told him that for me, the visits to the clinic and the staff there had been most enjoyable, as they were. As I was leaving, the young doctor again vowed to look for the Tales.
Then I got another bottle of Mickey's and returned to campus to drink it. Greed again, reducing my bankroll to just over five dollars. I did save a flask of it for a nightcap, but wanted the rest of it in preparation for the Willie K gig at the Zoo. Seeing Willie without a beer in me? Blasphemous thought! It's bad enough to be at the gigs without beer. Judging by his expression when he picked up the water bottle they'd provided, he might have felt the same way.
It was a wonderful gig, a thoroughly enjoyable hour-and-a-bit, and I wished it had gone on all evening. Except for a few drops at one point, it stayed dry and there was a large and enthusiastic audience. Didn't see anyone I knew in the audience except BJ, and she didn't spot me. I was very surprised Mamaloa didn't show up, and hope she's okay.
After the gig I went back to campus but decided not to go on-line, just sat in the Garden and finished off the beer while reading Hesse. When I got to the cloisters, the bearded fellow was sitting on the shorter bench again, but got up and let me have it. I wished him pleasant dreams, took the first Paxil pill (the smallest pills I've seen since Purple Haze), and settled down to sleep.
Strange, strange dreams. I remember especially a goat who had a dog's mouth with large teeth and made an almost barking sound. Then there was a scene in an apartment with another person I can't identify. We had one cat but had both just found another kitten we wanted, and I was feeling unhappy about the idea of living with three cats in so small a space. Then we noticed people running by outside, only a few at first but then quite a crowd of them, all running past our windows. Someone explained there was a riot going on in South Los Angeles and the rioters were headed our way. To Honolulu??? Like I said, strange dreams.
There was the feeling that something was also strange about Thursday morning's walk and it took me almost an hour to realize it was because the internal jukebox was silent.
147
All the clinical material suggests there will be no effect from Paxil for at least a week. I think it ain't necessarily so, and have sympathy with other personal reports on the web which report almost instantaneous, and not always pleasant, reactions. I don't know how else to account for moments, mercifully brief, of seasick-like nausea, extraordinarily vivid and strange dreams, a greatly intensified manic swing, and a constant meteor swarm of thoughts tumbling through my head. Little wonder the internal jukebox has been so silent, it can't catch an open moment to start up a tune.I rarely resort to formal meditation, a no doubt foolish attitude, but I grew so weary of the racing thoughts that I did try, and then had a moment of genuine panic when it didn't work. Finally I said, oh to hell with it, took the pill and settled down on the bench, oddly enough almost instantly falling asleep. I dreamed I was driving a car, very fast, and was entering a tunnel. A strange steel-beam-grid vehicle suddenly appeared ahead of me, filling the entire tunnel. I wasn't sure I could squeeze under it, but had little alternative but to try. Halfway under the thing, the car changed into a motorcycle. It's the first time in my long life I ever dreamed of being on a motorcycle. The night was full of strange, sometimes disturbing dreams.
Late Thursday morning I ran into Greg, whom I hadn't seen in several months. He's the young man who always thanks me, and did again, for encouraging him to quit his former job. That advice was given during a drinking session at the Garden which I don't remember at all. This wouldn't greatly bother me if the fellow had gotten another job, but instead he took the unemployed, homeless route. Too many incidents like that and I'd quit drinking, at least in other people's company. When Hesse, in what undoubtedly has autobiographic echoes, has Joseph Knecht ponder the way in which younger men naturally tend to look at him as a role model and for advice, I share Knecht's misgivings on the subject. My life is no decent role model for myself, much less for anyone else, and I would never encourage anyone to take the path I've taken. In vino veritas notwithstanding, I don't like the idea of handing out advice when in a less than sober state of mind.
The conversation wandered onto the subject of films and he was lamenting the fact that he couldn't afford to see "X Files", being a devoted fan of the television series. I gave him one of my GMT's and he happily rushed off to see that film while I went to see "Mulan". Later I felt a little badly about giving him the GMT, since it had after all been a gift to me. If I'd had the money and had given it to him, it wouldn't have been cause for second thoughts, even if the money, too, had been a gift. A strange thing, the mind.
Perhaps I've become totally immune to the charm of Disney animated films. The only one I've really enjoyed in decades was "Little Mermaid" and that was mainly because of the music, the weakest element in this new one. I didn't dislike the film, there was much that was beautiful, charming and amusing. But it seemed to have so little to do with China, aside from blatantly obvious visual touches. Of course, it was not intended to be serious history, even though many young people will no doubt think of it as such. An old friend of mine literally hated Disney for what he saw as the way his films, animated and especially "nature" epics, corrupted the thinking of children. There may be some truth in his way of seeing it.
I returned to campus, picking up the last bottle of Mickey's the budget currently permits, and sat in the grove reading and enjoying the beer, although my concentration on the book was frequently interrupted by more meteors of thought, none passing slowly enough to form a thread. Perhaps it is because of my light diet, perhaps because of my acute (too acute!) awareness of my inner life, but I do think Paxil is already functioning and I can understand how someone less experienced with psychoactive drugs could view its effects with discomfort and even alarm.
My only genuine concern is the manic swing. I've been there. I don't have many friends left, and don't want to lose the ones I still have. But there is always, of course, the option of going into isolation until I adjust to this trip, or decide it isn't worth being on.
147a
My favorite kind of people are those who make you feel good when you see them, spend some time in their company, whether there's any direct contact with them or not. I was reminded of that on Saturday morning after exchanging smiles with Bobby at McD's and sitting near the meditative workman I've mentioned before. Both of them just make me feel happier, even from only a few minutes near them. People who do that don't have to be physically attractive or an object of desire, indeed the latter often produce just the opposite effect. But whatever it is they have that makes them such "uppers", I surely do appreciate it and envy them a little their inherent ability to have that effect on others.Did I say "light diet"? Friday went well beyond that. The constant drizzle meant that everyone ate their lunches inside so abandoned plate lunch boxes were almost non-existent and it seemed from the few that did appear, the drizzle was making everyone unusually hungry. One slightly stale bread roll was the sum of Friday's Nutritious Daily Diet until the evening when I was fortunately invited to join in a Southern dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, cole slaw and watermelon. Then, ironically, on Saturday morning when, because of the afternoon's cyber picnic, availability of food was not particularly a concern, there was an abundance of it. The Snorer gave me a large chicken salad, two plate lunch boxes of bacon, Spam, and fried rice were left on a table, and a half-full container of nachos with cheese and chili was left at a bus stop. Sometimes I have to wish for a little refrigerator, or at least that Dame Fortune would spread her gifts out more evenly.
That all day drizzle on Friday was really a case of, not the little white cloud that cried but, the little gray cloud who decided to spend the day on Oahu. On, not over. It brought to mind days in the Himalayan foothills during the monsoon when a cloud could be seen approaching across the plains but never lifted elevation, just moved right into the dining room with us. But we're at sea level! Clouds shouldn't park themselves here all day like that. Happily, and especially since it's picnic day, Saturday morning at last brought the chance to make the morning hunt for provisions, go to Ala Moana for a shower, and sit for awhile enjoying the beach without once being drizzled on.
A reader with some experience of Paxil suggests the symptoms I've mentioned are only the side-effects which can, indeed, be felt before the presumed beneficial aspects of the drug begin. The only one which particularly bothers me are the little bouts of nausea. One hit about 2:30 on Saturday morning, after I had awakened and couldn't immediately return to sleep. Someone get me off this rocking ship. Like all of them, it didn't last very long at all, so someone listened.
The manic aspects are less troublesome. I've had a lot of experience handling that and know when it's time to withdraw and at least spare other people, the only part of manic existence which has caused me real problems in the past (aside from the scars on my wrist, etc.). And the frantic shower of thoughts has already calmed a little, enough for the internal jukebox to play Harold's "Sweet Island Woman" several times on Saturday morning, inspired by having listened to his CD on Friday evening while losing one game of Scrabble and just barely winning a second.
They have rearranged the benches at the hacienda, turning them all to face in the same direction and moving them very much closer together. They're so close to each now it would be possible to reach over and touch one's sleeping partner, although I have no intention of doing so. My partner on Friday night was a fellow I'll call Romeo. I am not sure what his ethnic origin is, but he's quite a handsome young man who looks more Mexican than anything else. He has been an off-and-on regular who had only recently begun taking the bench nearest me. Nearest is now intimate. No problem, he's a quiet and attractive sleeping partner. And since they left lights on all night, it was nice to have someone handsome that near instead of some of the other occupants who benefit from darkness. The Snorer slept on an outside bench, something I'm sure we all wish he'd make a habit, and neither Rocky nor any of his social horrors were in residence. My guess is, they won't like the lights being left on or the new bench arrangement. That's okay by me, although I do miss "the old Rocky".
Paxil vobiscum. Yep, that's a good theme for these first Tales under its influence.
148
It was like a dream, a surreal fantasy. I was sitting on the bench outside McDonald's at Ala Moana, enjoying my morning senior coffee. On the distant horizon of the concrete plain of the parking lot I saw what looked like a blue ball headed directly toward me, moving slowly. As it drew nearer I saw it was a balloon, trailing a long ribbon behind it. It had lost its ability to be airborne, but occasionally lifted a few inches above the surface, always maintaining its slow, steady progress in my direction. It continued until it reached the curb at my feet. I wished it a good morning, and it went on its way, headed toward Liberty House.Although based on purely subjective evidence, it seems to me the homeless population in Honolulu is dramatically increasing. Most of the recent additions are local people with no inkling of nomadic etiquette and totally lacking in street smarts. It is to everyone's advantage for us to appear as inconspicuous as possible and, especially in areas with high concentrations of affluent tourists, to be virtually invisible. After all, it is those areas which are of greatest benefit to us, where there's not only such a thing as a free lunch, but free breakfast and dinner, too. I saw a group of Japanese tourists standing by the trashcan/ashtray outside Louis Vuitton, thought ah, must be five or six nice long butts coming up soon, so sat on a nearby planter ledge and waited for them to finish. A newbie nomad arrogantly walked up, picked up butts already in the ashtray and then rummaged through the trash, taking out a soda cup, drinking it, throwing it back in and continuing to look for more. The tourists were visibly appalled and a security man nearby was equally visibly displeased. Behavior like that is such an abuse of the hospitality offered by the management of Ala Moana and the generally hassle-free attitude of the security personnel there. The idea occurred to me once that I could traitorously write a guide for business owners outlining legal, gentle methods to discourage the homeless from using their premises. Perhaps more useful would be "Homelessness for Dummies".
I walked through the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center on my way to the picnic Saturday, just in time to catch the start of the little promo show the Polynesian Culture Center puts on. At last! They finally have some cute male dancers, one with a beautiful slim body and delightfully graceful movements. I stayed until their part of the show was finished and so was later getting to the picnic than I had planned. I was sorry to have missed Ryan and Jen but enjoyed the folks still there and the ones who arrived later, and pigged out big time on malasadas. Although it was windy, the pleasant weather of the morning continued through the afternoon.
Then it was off to see "Gone With the Wind" at Cinerama. It's the first time I've ever seen a film here which started without any promotional stuff and previews before it, just a brief orchestral excerpt of music from the film and right into it. Since it was supposed to be a restored and "digitally remastered" print, that part was a disappointment. The visual quality of the print seemed to me not as good as the last time I saw it in a theatre (twenty years ago, perhaps) and while the soundtrack did seem improved, there were still moments of noticeable distortion. But technical quibbles aside, I loved that film when I first saw it at the age of nine, and I still do. In many ways, this time was more enjoyable than it had been in a long time, partly I think because I hadn't seen it in so long.
During the intermission I went out on the sidewalk in front of the theatre to have a cigarette. A lady dropped a number of pennies and a friend started picking them up for her. "I never pick up pennies," the dropper said, "leave them for some little kid to find and let them feel it's a special day." Her friend didn't listen, picked them all up. I doubt little kids these days would be much impressed by finding pennies, although quarters for the arcades would no doubt do it. I, on the other hand, am always happy to find even a penny, and was especially happy with the quarter that turned up later, ensuring senior coffee on Sunday morning, and with the three quarters "earned" later in the day by returning shopping carts.
It was, yet again, drizzling rain after the film. So much for plans to go see Willie K at the Pier Bar. Instead it was off to a post-movie supper with my theatre companions and a game of Scrabble which I lost by a considerable margin.
The Big Local Dude and his lady were at the hacienda, but he hadn't rearranged the benches to face each other. I settled down on the one next to Romeo with a young lad I think of as Plato (ref: the Sal Mineo character in "Rebel Without a Cause") on the one in line with mine. Romeo was already asleep, but Plato was reading. He, at least, must be happy with the lights being left on upstairs, making our area bright enough for books. Plato must be 17 or 18, not sure of ethnic origin. Although I've seen Rocky say hello to him, he doesn't seem to be part of the Social Horror Club. Rocky didn't show up again. I had almost a full flask of Mickey's so enjoyed that, then settled down on the bench and went immediately to sleep. Since I began taking the Paxil, I've done that every night ... once my head hits the pillow of the backpack, sleep comes within moments.
Sunday was one of those Lost Days which turn up now and then. I didn't particularly feel like doing anything, being on-line, reading, hunting for provisions. I would probably have just stayed in the sun on the beach, but there was little sun available most of the day. In fact, it stayed so drearily gray and damp in Manoa that I left the campus disgusted in the early afternoon and went to Waikiki where it had looked like blue skies at least once in awhile appeared.
I was strolling along the sidewalk by the Zoo when two local lads appeared and came running toward me. They were probably 15 or 16, one of them such a sweet little cherub of a fellow I wished I could pat him on the head. They asked eagerly if I could spare a minute or two to answer some questions. That happens a lot on campus, students being given surveys as class projects, so it didn't occur to me to wonder what the purpose was and I agreed to participate, quite happy to share their company for "a minute or two". The first question asked what I thought the greatest challenge was to the youth of today, and it turned out to be multiple choice, fortunately in that case with an "other" option, since I didn't think it was drugs or gangs but the future, and what they are going to do with it. The cherub was especially pleased with my reply and greeted each further answer with great enthusiasm. It wasn't until we got to a question asking me if I thought it possible to have "a personal relationship with God" that I realized I was dealing with budding evangelists. When I said, yes, I thought it was possible, but answered "not particularly" after then being asked if I had one, I became a possible convert and, the questionnaire completed, was asked if I'd say a short prayer with them. I suggested that they simply say it for me, but that wasn't enough, so I repeated it along with the fellow and the cherub cheered after the amen and gave me a high five. They went happily on their way, after profuse thanks, and I was greatly cheered by the time in their company, touched by and perhaps even a little envious of their youthful innocence and faith.
The gray skies and drizzle which had dampened the day in Manoa finally settled in over Waikiki as well, so I went on to the mall at Ala Moana to refresh my supply of tobacco and wait for sunset when I could head to the bench at the hacienda. I was sitting on a bench there when a young lady emerged from a shop with two of those telltale plain white plastic bags in her hand, which she left on a nearby bench. As soon as she departed, I went over to investigate. One bag contained two bentos, barely touched, and the other contained one totally unopened. The roast chicken was delicious. Since the label said "2:30 pm" as the cut-off time for consumption, I left the fish in an area frequented by cats and was a little surprised to see two mynahs enthusiastically start eating it. I put one piece of roast chicken, an egg-roll type thing and some rice in my casserole and left the rest for another wanderer.
The bench next to Romeo was occupied by a st