Sere, tawdry, virid, obdurate, vacuous

There he stood, vacuously obdurate, all proud of the sere hunk of tawdry metal that hadn't run in years, barely visible in the virid tangles of twisted Kudzu, swearing like he had for years that he was going to fix it up, make it run again.

It could be suggested, I suppose, that his old metallic blue Corvette is tawdry. It certainly is in the flashy part of the meaning of the word. But, I must say that although it might look it, given all its cracks (fiberglass doesn't dent, it cracks and breaks off), this sports car is anything but cheap.

The hot rod purist and especially the old car restorers would find it nothing short of an obdurate sin that he 'glassed over the original headlights and stuck 'em in the grille. But most obdurate of all is the secret that I reveal here. It might say it on the hood scoop, but there isn't really a 427 in it.

Putting 427 tags on a car that has a 350 in it is the most vacuous thing you could do. The numbers mean nothing. I'm not saying it's not still a fast, scary car to drive. But, you'd have to be plenty vacuous yourself to even think of doing that. 'Real' car aficionados are more inclined to the 'Sleeper' mode. That's the exact opposite. You stick the biggest damn engine you can get under the hood without having to put a scoop on. You keep the car completely stock or only tastefully and subtly customized. You leave the original engine cubic inches tags on the car. So, it might say 289 on your Mustang, a decent enough power plant, but you have a 351 c.i. Cleveland shoehorned into the engine compartment. You might even do the inverse of the 'Vette. It says 350, but you are barely hiding a monster 427 under the hood. Chrysler is an excellent one to go Sleeper with. You get some old Le Mans or even an early Goat, pull the 283 and drop in a fully blown Hemi.

Sometimes the most Sleeper of all is the unfinished project. A sere, grey patched, jacked up but not quite right classic, caught somewhere between decline and delight, love of some teen aged boy's life screaming anonymously around country roads is often the fastest thing out there. If for no other reason than that the kid behind the wheel is fearless and free for the first time in his life. The first time a person feels freedom, all they want to do is run around. At the speeds he prefers, the rural landscape goes virid with all the subtle greens of woods, fields, and lawns blurring.

I don't know if a 'sere' hunk can also be 'tawdry'. What a great exercise. I've been meaning to do this for a while.

I luv' You all. Steve

Silly Gringos

My biggest hope is that they thought we were actually snorkeling recreationally there.

We were the only white people on the beach. Although I was pink. There were other people. Locals. They were shuttling back and forth off loading a fishing boat. There were refrigerated trucks on the beach and as soon as one was full it departed for La Paz about ten dusty miles away. The brown wives were busying themselves erecting tarps for shade to cook in. Men were zooming out and back to the big boat. Some of them were taking a break and drinking beer in the new shade. The kids, ranging in age from all the ranges available, toddler to teen were playing around in the water and messing around in our kayak. Bridget, Rachel and I were playing too. We were having an especially fun splashing festival.

It never did fit quite right. My knuckles are all fat from a childhood spent being a boy. It was beautiful and platinum. We had been married less than a year. It never had actually come off before. It just rocked around on my finger between the joints like an restless captive. We were going to get it refitted, someday. Never had to. Suddenly I froze and yelled for Bridget to do the same. The ring had gotten free. I'm sure it was sinking into the murk before we even stopped moving. I thought though that my only reference point would be Bridget. That's why I asked her not to move. Rachel brought me the snorkel and mask. I decided I didn't need the fins. I proceeded to look for the ring. We were in about two feet of water basically at the shore.

Maybe we were five feet out. The bottom was perfectly suited to never seeing a wedding ring again. Silty moving sand created little underwater dunes that were constantly changing with the rocking shoreline. Ugly little shore fish didn't even dart away, they just moved with the current, in and out, also. I went for quite a while. It was my less than year old wedding band after all. And my buoy of reference was my bride. You know, the person that picked and paid for it. I would have spent a long time anyway, but this inspired me to a greater time frame. I was snorkeling for a half hour to forty five minutes while the Mexican kids frolicked nearby. I didn't go further than I thought my ring could have. So, I snorkeled for three quarters of an hour in two feet of water, five feet from shore in a tight circumference around Bridget. I was quite oblivious to what was going on around me. Bridget stood there patient as a pier piling.

Eventually though I surrendered to the eventuality that was basically obvious after five minutes. That's the kind of thing that you either come up with the ring in the first minute or not at all. Ask me about Halsey's wedding ring story at Trevor's wedding sometime. We gave it up. We decided then and there not to let it ruin the day or the trip. We went up to the lone beach-side restaurant, the Giggling Marlin, and had a good lunch. Rachel hung me upside down from one of those things that fisherman hang their marlin from on the dock. Bridget took the picture. Jose motorboated us back down to the house.

We went into Los Barriles later that day. Like all tourist towns, there were hippies and locals making and selling jewelry on the streets. We looked for a temporary replacement. We perused a lot of people's work. We were about to give up and come away empty handed when we saw one we both liked. Tried it on. Fit better than my real ring ever did. We forked over seven big ones and I went home with a wedding ring. I'm still wearing it. Lots of people notice it and mention it. I get to tell this story. It's silver and it has two separate rings that are woven together in a really cool design. I say really cool design because I have no idea what kind of knot it is. We think it represents marriage well. That was five years ago.

Bridget remembers the place being called the 'Bahia de los Suenos, meaning Bay of Dreams and I remember it as the Bahia de los Muertos, Bay of the Dead. She's right. Like I said, I've been married five years now. It's the Bahia de los Suenos. and I just hope those kids thought we were snorkeling there 'cause we thought that's where you would snorkel.

Silly Gringos.

Picture Credit

I should have known

Well, of course, I should have known.

But I never do and yet I am never surprised.

Robin and Laurie are out of town for a couple weeks. It didn't occur to me to remember the exact date that they would be returning. I remember that they will be back before Bridget and Rachel leave. Thought that was enough information.

After all, Christine generously offered for them to stay at Puamana. Christine will be here "the whole time." So yesterday, Saturday, Danny finally casually told me exactly when Christine will be here. He may very well not have known before then. Maybe Christine didn't even know till then. That variable should have been communicated to us.

Bridget and Rachel arrive on Thursday, the 18th. Oh, well, Christine arrives Sunday. Yawn. Dan suggested, Bridget and Rachel will have to rough it with us here at 303 till then. Negative. No way, they would cry. And rightly so. Most people would, male or female. 3o3 is kinda rough. I've been lucky or unlucky enough to have been around trying housing situations enough that I'm somewhat impervious. I mean I actually like the third world.

I took the news in stride because I knew they could stay with Robin. It then dawned on me that Robin and Laurie will still be in Costa Rica, I think. There's the rub. Even with Robin and Laurie out of town, it would have been no problem for Bridget and Rachel to stay there. If we had known the actual dates that Puamana would be available. Of course, with Robin and Laurie in Costa Rica . . . actually, I will call Robin's cell. I'll e-mail him also if I can find his address. You never know in this communication age. I wasn't overly concerned about their return date. Now, it's scramble time.

I thought maybe Bridget and Rachel should change their tickets and arrive on Sunday. And they could change their return also. That, of course, would involve two ticket change charges each. A couple hundred bucks. Plus, that would have them here longer into another friend/family/fellow-freak member's visit. Not optimal.

Bridget and Rachel are getting to stay at Puamana for free, a place that rents for several hundred a night, so how to complain? It's just a pain that will cost money. Everything is so 'general' with Dan. Often time when the specifics are finally revealed, they don't correlate. Or, some bullshit unnecessary complication arises that would have been a non-issue had the details been presented originally.

I want this trip to be really good for them. Staying at 303 for three nights would not facilitate this desire. It would taint the rest of their trip and maybe ever scar them for life! God knows I've got scars from my friends.

So, I should have known. I'm sorry, Bridget. I'll find a place for you two.

Plus, the seventh floor is expected to finally open for us on Wednesday. Usually it takes a day, more like two till we can get in. Making that day Friday. We'll see. It'll all work out. I'll do what ever I have to to assure that. I remembered why I was so willing to work epic shifts last year. It was because I know I can do epics. That knowledge was learned from biking.

Yesterday was an epic. I may have mistakenly exaggerated though. After reconsulting the map, it appears that it was about seventy five miles total with twenty miles of brutal head winds from mile thirty five to sixty five. And I had (comparatively) medium head winds for all but five to ten of the other miles. So, if I need to pull some twelve to fourteen hour shifts at Constructionland, I happily will.

Lots of rainbows

She has a brand new baby girl. That changes things. She smiles when she has her in her arms. So does the babe. With an infant rubbing up against her heavily tattooed chest, she looks less intimidating. When she smiles, well, she has good teeth. I've never seen them before. I've never seen her smile before. It almost seems that beyond a certain number of tattoos, bad teeth would become a prerequisite. She has plenty (of tattoos that is).

Tattoos are different here, figuratively, culturally and actually. The designs are different. A lot of awesome shapes and designs dominate. Suns, birds, wings and anatomically enhancing or influenced patterns are much more prevalent than the more typically mainland trailer-park motor-head, biker, ex-con type hearts, skull and crossbones, (x)girlfriend names, Moms and homemade jailhouse tattoos screaming for attention in the dives and blighted bars back in Cali.

A great book and surf cult classic is Tapping the Source by author Kem Nunn. The title proclaims it 'The all time great surfing novel' and many agree. Like many great works, the acclaimed subject, in this case surfing, is only a small part of the story.

Everything that happens is because of surfing but it's not a, 'Dude, I caught the biggest wave, I hung ten in the longest tube . . .' book. It's about the culture. It's about surfing the way Fargo is about Fargo. The movie, Point Break, was loosely based on this book. I mention it here because the protagonist, in a furious bout of anger and drunkenness, gets a tattoo. It's big, graphic, highly visible and influences things to come. That's all. The interested reader will read it.

And let's not forget gang tattoos. Apparently that is big and getting bigger on the mainland. I don't know about Oahu. I have read a trilogy of novels set in the underworld, underbelly, drug fueled side streets of Honolulu and beyond. The author is Chris McKinney. The books are The Tattoo, Queen of Tears and Bolohead Road. I recommend them in that order to anyone inclined and curious about the real world in the shadows beyond any so called paradise where tourists run amok spilling cash and rushing frantic in the name of vacation.

Heaven forbid that the last tender departs for the mother cruise ship before they have spent today's cash. And the locals run amok, rushing frantic to work in the name of vocation. It's not all Tiki torches, leis and zany tee shirt shops. It never is. In that harsh, extra-dark, moving shadow cast by the Tiki torch lies dangers as contrasting as the flame to the shadow itself. A shadow so dark, it tints ink blue and hints at the truths beyond. The rainbow on the license plates is accurate enough. There are rainbows practically daily. There are pots 'o gold too. But like any rainbow, most of it is an illusion, a trick of the light. The pot 'o gold being but a small percentage of the whole and mostly carted away 'off island' as they say.

It's also typically stacked, as in any robust economy, that as little money as possible goes to the hardest workers. The poor cashiers at the ubiquitous ABC stores are pulling down minimum wage. The bartenders and wait staffs do better and are curiously mostly whites or at least non-local. The tribes by oil fields and diamond mines come to mind. Different continent, same shit. If there is a gang presence in Hawaii, it's primarily confined to Oahu. Maui doesn't seem to be affected by them. But I know that just because I haven't seen it, it doesn't mean that there isn't a gang presence here. It may be just fledgling or small or both. Maybe it's over in Wailuku or Kahalui.

I'm in Lahaina. LalaLahainaland. It's always sunny. It's always busy. Too busy. It's always the perfect temperature. Lot's of rainbows. I know there is a drug problem here. It's not 'Maui Wowie' or 'dakine bud' either. Contrary to propaganda, marijuana is rarely a problem drug. It makes people funny, stupid, think they are funny, inspired, creative, lazy, silly, maybe even serious but not violent. In fact it mellows violence. I've seen it. But there is 'Ice' here. I think Ice is a form of crack. Or it might be meth. Yeah, it's meth. Luckily I don't know. But I have been blatantly 'stalked' by a craze-eyed teenager near the Banyan Tree. At first I was thinking all like, 'fuck you man, I can walk here if I want.' Then I wised up. Teens are potentially the most unpredictable and dangerous, thinking that they are bulletproof and all. It wasn't about my rights. This kid was high and menacing. A harbinger of trouble if ever there was one. I swallowed my pride and ego and departed the scene. I've learned a few things as I've gotten older. It's supposed to be violently addicting, cheap and easy to get.

This, all in a society that already proudly publicly proclaims its ethnicity and/or racism on tee shirts and in attitude. There is also 'tagging' here. Graffiti. That can be a sign of gangs or at least menacing, gang imitating wannabes. Tattoos are as ubiquitous as the ABC stores. But they more closely resemble the original source, being of course, Polynesia. I think the traditional tattoos are pretty amazing. I'm almost thinking I wouldn't mind getting one. As it is, I proclaim my individuality by being one of the few not sporting a single one. If I were to get one, it would have to be a design I draw. Being an artist and everything. I could see it being heavily influenced by the historically significant ones.

I do have a brand new scar prominently displayed on the back of my right hand. I managed to rip a gash in it responding to the jolt I took at work one day. Unfortunately my hand was in a light fixture when I instinctively pulled it out. The scar is curiously very Hawaii shaped. If you look at a map of the islands, you will notice that they are lined up in a distinct arc. I've got that arc. I can tell people that tattoos don't hurt enough and that I am more into body decoration by mutilation. Much like the above mentioned tribes by the oil and diamond mines in Africa. The scar really is Hawaii. Lemonade I know, the glass is half full. But, I do wear gloves at work now. And I make sure the power is off.

If I get a tattoo, it will also be influenced by the symbol for hazardous materials. It's kinda' funny, hopefully not too true, but mostly, I think it's a really cool symbol. Danny used to say that if he ever got a tattoo it would be the Underwriters Laboratories symbol. U.L. listed. I might go do some designs to see what I get. Bridget and Rachel will be here next week for a ten day visit. We'll see.

Oh yeah, one more thing, my Steven Wright type comment; 'I have tattoos, my whole body is covered in them, but I used skin colored ink'.

Read the books.

At least I think it's her baby. Another regular at this Internet cafe just left with the infant in a stroller. Babysitter, Mom, Auntie? I don't know but I'll find out.

And ice melts fast here

But, as you know, I'm no nature freak.

You know, the hemp-wearing, dread-locked, sleepy-eyed, mellow-man types, playing prophet and strolling the streets of Telluride or Marquette playing lazy flutes breathlessly and whisper-like or softly tapping a homemade drum. In public and among each other, they only eat organic tofu cooked over fertilizer fires.

You know. They are full Vegan, militantly pedestrian (except when they drive their hidden cars), flowing robed phonies being all in tune with nature and wearing burning incense in their hair while looking upon the masses with a combination of contempt and benevolent superiority. They rest (actually they never 'rest', they contemplate, they do yoga, they even trance, but they never 'rest'. It's all about the vernacular.) like Buddha's cross-legged, palms held high and clasped together, slowly rocking like a Weeble that wobbles but won't fall down. They play the penniless mystic and shun the occasional unsolicited handout.

They are playing 'prophet', not profit. That's easier to do when you have Dad's platinum secretly ensconced in your Jesus sandals. Furtively glancing at the world with a slightly bowed head, they expertly fumble nonchalantly with the alms they carry. The worry beads are getting worn down for no reason.

It's all an act. They look at the earth as if they are not of this world or they are more of this world than anyone else. They love twigs and flowers. They would never cut/kill grass. But, they will happily justify cutting philosophy class or art theory to go to (actually they never 'go to', they journey, they wander, they even seek, but they never 'go to'. It's all about the vernacular) a Rainbow gathering or Burning Man. Although they prefer lesser known gatherings, Rainbow gatherings are so main-stream, Burning Man is too commercial.

Usually it's a journey of self discovery or self imposed suffering of some kind. They repeat to themselves, "Seriously, no Twinkies till I get out past Green River somewhere." It's their secret mantra. They carry evidence of their secrets on their sleeve. The ones that they want regular people to think they have, that is. They keep the actual secrets secret, but, they desperately need to know that everyone knows they have secrets.

Hoping that normal people care about them, notice them and even envy them is a big motivator. They imagine mere mortals having long conversations about them, trying to unravel their secrets. They hope that the mortals think their secrets are religious and ritual based, passed down or more likely recently discovered in some Fertile Crescent cave full of skulls and scrolls. But, of course, the mortals don't.

The real secret is that they are total poseurs that are more concerned about their looks than an aspiring model is. They cravenly hold to their clandestine stash of money and cards. Without the trust-fund, they would never play this role. Another of their secrets is that they actually loathe the rare, penniless true believers they encounter. There are intuitive ways to communicate to the perceptive contemporary that you are not actually poor. This too is important.

Like all seekers, on their journeys they are looking for evidence of God. The natural beauty is an inspiration. Sometimes they really do believe that they believe in what they do. Really. But that's an infrequent occurrence. It's almost an annoyance. It passes for a fleeting epiphany. Ultimately they are hoping to discover not some sacred burial ground or a spot where the shadow falls perfectly on the pinnacle of rock during solstice. They are dreaming of and searching for . . . the most inconvenient convenience store.

The Hole-in-the-Rock gas station in Utah or Roy's Cafe in California are a couple of excellent examples. Find them on a map. Go there. Then you will know just how inconvenient they are. You will more deeply understand the dedication and commitment these wanderers have. You only truly know how big a mountain is after you climb it. When these shrines to everything they
publicly scorn are discovered, and, if their fellow traveler is as shallow and trustworthy as they, in they go. Hypocritical heretics all.

Genuflecting in gratitude and exclaiming decidedly unreligiously, they run the gamut filling their hemp bags in half crazed ecstasy. Candy bars fall to the curling filthy red and formerly white linoleum tiles. The only witness to these blasphemous acts, acts that would assuredly get them excommunicated from their public image and cohorts, is the lone proprietor. This sole witness is at the cash register. A necessary evil, an unwitting accomplice that could care less and doesn't flinch at the sight of these vagabonds for junk food's extroverted frenzy. He's changing channels and smoking the same way he does whether someone is in the store or not.

He doesn't live here to make new friends. The great irony of living in the middle of nowhere is that ultimately you see it all. It doesn't faze the attendant when some tripping river guide walks in, buys a disposable razor and shaves a river in his hair right there at the counter. The completely bedazzled lost tourists in rental cars sporting branches of sage, dirt and tumbleweed in the grill and wheel-wells rolling slowly in on fumes or actually pushing the car up to the pump, out of gas for who knows how many scorched desert miles, bore him. Inevitably the electric convertible top was down when the car died. Their skin is as red as the Mustang with heat exhaustion mixing it up with sunburn, glowing like a sun of its own. Their skin does not resemble the tan of the sandstone cliff that someone decided would be the perfect spot for a store.

But this is no natural indentation. Some wind and water gouged arch in the making it is not. No, it was decided that this blank face was such an ideal spot that they dynamited their way into the base of the thousand foot palisade and built a store in the newly created cool and shaded concavity. The looks on the tourists' faces are the same as the devout who discover the likeness of the Madonna on the toast, in the chocolate, or in the water of the seeping tunnel wall. They fill their tanks. Gas and stomach. They always want more water and ice than there is to sell. They about clear the shelves as if Katrina's coming. They thought they were going to die. They saw vultures. The cashier's watching game shows. And after all this chaos, they want to pay with traveler's checks. The resident attendant has seen trucks drive by at night, on fire and not stopping. He has seen cars go by, driving only by the light of the full moon. The bikers that show up are usually bleeding and showing off drunken broken bones.

The cashier has had people want to trade their luggage for food and water and gas. It's cool, you've got to be a barterer out here. You should see the back room/home of this place. Talk about eclectic. Consequently, the sight of these tree-hugger, incense-haired, secret candy freaks that parade around as mystics couldn't be more normal. They grab the only sliver of shade, still over a hundred degrees, and fruit pie filling erupts from rents in their sugary crust as the faithful carelessly cram it all in. Snowballs, pink and white coconut sprinkles shedding, cue up for their mouths. The Twinkies, always the first casualty because they are so easy to eat in one bite, are gone before the ice even melts in their Cokes. And ice melts fast here. Like the river headed river guide, they carve a sinuous line of Ho Ho's and Hostess Cup Cakes. The wrappers grow into a cellophane cairn marking a superheated trail to nowhere.

Satiated with eternal, yet temporal satisfaction, they eventually depart. The self flagellations begin immediately. It hurts and they flinch dangerously behind the wheel. But they self importantly lash themselves mercilessly for each outlaw snack. The theater is back on, the curtain is up and if they die because they missed a Canyon Country turn while whipping themselves with hemp rope well, that's God's will. Of course, they never do miss that turn. They clean the van the way Boy Scouts are trained to clean campsites. With it thoroughly inspected and policed for wrappers and any other evidence, they are ready to rejoin their compatriots.

They are even 'clever' enough to drop a random piece of incense here and a little hemp fabric there. Maybe a brochure printed on recycled paper with soy ink will be crumpled and stuffed in a crack in the seat. And you know what kind of brochure it is. It's a protest planner, a tree planting, a covert demolition or a festival of civil disobedience. You know. Whatever. Zinging out of their minds on Coke and snacks like a real druggie on coke, they accost their brethren as they find some lost fringe festival. They insist that their enthusiasm is because of the weepingly beautiful country they had been driving through these last days.

But, lots of understanding, unacknowledged smirks and knowing nods sweep the listeners. They have all been at that inconvenient convenience store. Or, another even more inconvenient one. There is always one more inconvenient somewhere. The mystery is in the search.

You know.

Don't know where that story came from . . .

She couldn't not do it

The girl in the gown was as happy as you get. Wedding days are supposed to be that way. Even the most normally shy person is the center of everything that day. She may or may not be normally shy but it didn't matter this day.

She glowed like the perfect glowing autumn day she got for her outdoor wedding. Her face was as exhilarating as the cold arcing crystalline waters dancing before her for her. And she knew. And they knew.

She couldn't not do it.

She was arguably the most alive she had ever been, in that fountain. The gown twirled her jovially and the glancing waters giggled. She kicked off her shoes.

It was just her and the fountain. She changed her dance with every new pulsation. It went on for but an instant. That's what photography is for.

It took a hard right and left

"Or meet us at the Gemini. It beaches at six."

I rode the five mile commute at five. I got home quick to take a quicker shower. Borrowed the Beamer and sped back to the beach. I didn't know exactly where the Gemini landed but I'd seen other tourist Catamarans come up on the sands of Ka'anapali.

Actually found a place to park and threaded through buildings and obesity to the beach. There it was. Still on the water up by Black Rock. I made my way north all happy with myself for actually getting home, getting clean and getting back before the Gemini landed. Took several minutes to hustle up the beach to it. It was still a couple hundred yards out.

The torch bearer silhouetted himself nicely against the crepuscular daily backdrop. He theatrically lit torch to torch till he was at the highest and furthest point out. After lighting the last one, he thrust his tiki once each to the four directions and flamboyantly threw it in the sea. Kissing a lea and bowing, he also released this offering to the Kai (sea). He did what can be best described as a slow motion jumping-jack with no jumping and lots of body language forcing a transcendent mysticism on the performance.

I know for a fact that Hawaiians never twirled tiki sticks of fire. But they do now, at least during on-season. So, my jaded non-tourist self suspected farce in this show. But, who's to say and ultimately, who cares? It looked really cool and was a big crowd pleaser. After the half speed calisthenics, he gracefully did the arc of the diver and left nary a splash when he hit the sea as the sun fell down.

I looked back out to the Gemini and expected it to come ashore now. It started moving. It was aimed at the beach. It took a hard right and left. So, it was going to come ashore back where the other cats did. I walked rapidly along the beautiful slanted sands. Then I ran. The cat was getting away from me. It would easily disgorge all its passengers to quickly disperse in the rapidly gathering darkness before I could get there if I didn't run.

I ran. I made it. The first two people were coming down the steps as I arrived on the scene. With my camera out and on and sweating again, my phone rang. I was about to get a picture of them coming off the boat, a shot that they obviously could not get.

It was Kevin. "Hey there, we're at the room ready to go out. Where are 'ya?"

"I'm right in front of the Gemini waiting to take a picture of you two disembarking."

"Oh, yeah, sorry man, we actually went on the Terelani."

Sweat dropped the gap off my upper lip as my mouth broke open to laugh. We caught up a few minutes later. Kevin meeting me on the beach with two of his new favorite beers, Bikini Blonde from Maui Brewing Co. I told him about shooting home, getting clean, driving back, only to get sweaty again chasing a boat.

I don't recommend chasing catamarans, especially ones that your friends aren't even on.

Clever Cookies

He was gruff enough. I'd seen him at The 'Goose. That tiny shit-hole-in-the-wall of a bar in the industrial park. Pretty much blue collar only. No tourists ever find it. That's why it's the 'Sly' Mongoose. I'd noticed him around town.

We were up and carrying heavy things around. We were cutting pallets apart with Skillsaws. That's what you do at Danny's house. My friend Danny. Best man at my wedding. Friends for going on thirty years. Travel partner in the old days. Bonded for life.

So we lugged plastic garbage cans full of two by fours cut into six inch studs. We were dragging the giant antique daybed that Christine bought in Bali through the half remodeled red-tagged house. It was an especially manly morning there on Front Street. The sun was just starting to do its morning lighting up Lanai like a halo thing. All was quiet . . . except at Danny's.

I was already sweating the way only a Hawaii morning can make you sweat when suddenly there he was again. He was walking right at us. His scarred lips told of busted teeth beyond. The mandatory tattoos did their old fading ripple across the muscles jig. He had the compact robust body of a guy that lifts a lot and has lifted more than you ever will. Maybe youth on a farm throwing bales and calves around. He walked straight up to me. We happily set the daybed down.

Speaking of lifting. Danny says that everything Christine bought in Bali is made out of 'Lead'wood. Not Deadwood, Redwood Lakewood or Headword as spell check suggested. After carrying the six Coconut tree posts out to the Point I would have to agree. All the limestone statuary and birdbaths weren't exactly light either. Of course, we had to put the daybed on the Point. We wrestled the Leadwood Coconut posts to another locale.

So, even in the stupid poop brown shorts and matching short sleeve collared button-down shirt, he still looked like trouble. He said in a loud and mildly sniggering voice, "Clever Cookies. We got Clever Cookies here for, Steve Williams?"

I had no idea. Thought it was another sympathy present for cutting my hand the other day. The day after that manly bleeding at ConstructionLand incident, a kid that looked like a local that would just as soon kick my Haole ass, showed up at the house with three . . . get well balloons! I was afriad he was going to break out in a sing-o-gram. Luckily Bridget hadn't thought of that too. I was already embarrassed enough for me and him.

Something about a honky-tonk lookin' probably bowling alley frequenting, tattooed tough guy in shorts saying Clever Cookies, is, in a word, disconcerting.

He left to lift all day. We went back to our daybed lifting. I'm sure to see him again at the 'Goose one of these nights.