It’s been a while since I’d skipped rocks on any substantial body of water, and it showed as I struggled to get much of anything across Hilo Bay. But as my shoulder flared it occurred to me that rocks can teach you a thing or two about what it means to be an upstanding member of a society.
Getting hit in the head by a rock teaches you to work on your agility, and that standing your ground can be a painful process.
Maybe it’s not that simple…
With little else to do but let my mind roam free in the face of next-to-no-business at the Lomilomi tent for the first annual Hilo Bay BBQ Team Cook Off I tore through an autographed copy of the Bikram guide to yoga which had been left to me as a parting gift from my previous life as a semi-unwilling gigolo.
This was a “Will work for food” engagement in a somewhat tainted sense of the term. There would be a bill attached to my services, but half of the contract stipulated that I be allowed to consume all the grass-fed beef, chicken, pork-butt, rib tips, corn, kalo, uala and lau lau I could pack away for the duration of the event which went down between 9am July 3rd and 4pm on the 4th.
Bay-front Hilo has lost some of its spectator glimmer at least in the eyes of the locals since camping out at the bandstand has been outlawed by the Gestapo, and burning of over-the-counter ordnance in the public parks mercilessly cracked down upon. But the cops left me to myself for the most part after they walked by the tent as I crackle-popped the cervical vertebrae of a dirty redneck refugee of Guam—a victim of a malady I can’t pronounce he blamed on military-based side effects of either nuclear testing or Vietnam—with my bare hands. It was hot and I don’t remember the details.
It’s the rocky and treacherous sound of moving bones and joints that inspires fear and/or awe in the hearts of people. It’s the common dread of personal paralysis I think. Though as always I was there to do a job and as a genuine professional, I was not there to prey on public fear. I was there to prey on pain. Though after this dry run, it seems that bodywork and barbecue may be mutually exclusive as I only worked on four people over the entire event including a huge pregnant haole woman who saw my table and tackled me as I was heading off for the day.
Even the Team, “From Hawai`i,” who had commissioned me in the first place only sent their leader Joe to me. My work—as ever—was flawless, but as I sat there hour after hour, thumbing through the gospel according to Bikram, and a spinnakered galleon fired empty mortar blasts from the bay building up to the 8pm pyrotechnics, I took a minute to wonder if my own negativity was influencing business.
This is a foreign thought process to me for the most part, but I have been depressed. And the Kohala coast was the last know sighting of my dignity which vanished rapidly at the end of one of those long weekends you might see in a romance film where the girl has to make a choice after being told that the boy didn’t put his life on hold, jump on a plane and hitch-hike up the Queen K just to crash her hotel room and sip Tropical Itches poolside.
There is a great deal of rock between Hilo and Kohala. Massive jagged peaks and valleys full, and raging streams of smooth volcanic afterbirth which I hoped—along with the petrifying amount of meat and kalo(and maybe even Bikram) might serve to strengthen me, my head, my heart and whatever else is kicking around my insides these days.
The Lomi deal was contingent on me finding a suitable place to stay as “From Hawai`i” would be camped out at ground zero for the duration; no place for a working journalist trying to maintain top physical health for a grueling schedule of four customers. No mere parking lot would do.
Fortunately for all involved—the four customers, The Team, various onlookers, etc—I had a standing invitation to visit the Enocencio clan, sturdy Hiloians and militant Mormons firmly dug into the landscape like the double fist-sized kalo they farm from the ground 100 pounds at a time amid the goats, chickens, pigs and constant threat of foreign invasion.
They take the kids direct from Alu Like right out of the projects and toss them headlong into the fields, forging a hybrid respect for labor and authority with a god-fearing Latter Day Saint. With the debut of Michael Bay’s spin on Transformers looming on the July 4th horizon, the kids were begging to be released from lo`i duty to which their master “Mr. James” replied with a dismissive grin, “I think you’ll have plenty of fun. You’re going to transform taro into poi!”
This is tough-love Hilo style circa 2007. That awareness of earning every scrap of food, water, clothing, pride and self. And every mixed moment of humor and pitiless resolve that you might not recognize for what it is until much much later that has carved—at least in this case—a family in stone.
While Bikram is preaching his backward bends, these people are perpetually going forward, pulling roots from the soil, harvesting and epitomizing the true heart of “busting ass” and “living off the land.” If the millionaire yoga guru showed up in Hilo, they would calmly listen to his banter, explain to him the error of his thinking and then shoot out his tires if he didn’t leave.
They fully support the visitors, as long as they stay visitors by leaving. And these guys might floss their teeth with Bikram’s ponytail and make a chicken coop with his bones as soon as his welcome wore thin.
As evening faded and the children screamed on subjects as varied as who got to ride who’s bike and why did Makana piss on everyone? a run down hippy woman with a face as creased and worn as the lava flows made her way through the small crowds accompanied by a man dressed hotly in a white full length chicken suit, both of them preaching and clucking animal rights and ecology distributing non-biodegradable fliers which littered the grounds later when the rains came. The clan mentioned that maybe they ought to be up in the mountains protecting the rights of living animals butchered senselessly rather than chatting up a pack of indigenously conscious carnivores devouring chicken long rice next door to a BBQ convention. Their propaganda came down hard on slaughterhouse conditions of course, but fell even harder on the deaf ears of a huge family of 3rd generation farmers with no shame and no compulsion to stop raising three more on anything that moves.
There is a strong sense of a stand taken a long time ago that won’t be changing anytime soon. Like outcomes, or at least paths determined well in advance. Walking in the footprints of ancestors on heels calloused by the land and never stopping to even think about fixing something that isn’t broken.
Those were my stones of wisdom or inspiration from the latest and maybe the last Hawai`i excursion before the Superferry springs from the closet, bringing unity to the islands and opihi pickers to Hilo. Where the Enocencio’s will be on watch with Blue Pit bull determination and Winchester firearms: Strength in muscle and intensity. The land may be changing slowly, but the foundation remains. These old rocks and the ones beneath will always be around in one form or another, long after all there is for us to know doesn’t matter any more. We could learn a good deal from them.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Ocean of Wisdom
It will please you to know that I have recently resigned my commission at the 4 seasons Lana'i due to an overwhelming amount of tyranny.
That being said, I have a belly full of antibiotics addressing my latest bout with what local medical gurus are telling me is in all likelihood the clap (further tests are pending), and am standing by for the 340 flight over to Maui.
I've stopped taking these STDs personally because of the "all business" society I'm locked up like a Hindu prank monkey in. And just in time. The freaks are descending like a plague upon Kahului eagerly anticipating laying eyes twinkling with visions of enlightenment upon the bespectacled visage of the Dalai Lama himself.
For years, Maui has been a hotbed for those international goons on the blind trail to total consciousness and the meaning of life. So it's no wonder, with that much vibe clogging up the spiritual airwaves not to mention the vog steaming in from Volcano, that he'd be making a stop to personally straighten them all out once and for all, Buddhist monk style.
I imagine quite a few heads will roll for this one. All of them, especially upcountry, have been abusing the system for years and the time for compassion may be swiftly coming to an end.
The room mate, a devout Lama groupie and 6 months sinfully pregnant tried to get me to fly over yesterday and walk on as a volunteer, but I'm not dumb enough to stumble into that kind of bees nest. The volunteers will have it worse than any; the first to bear the brunt of his wrath.
I don't know much about this guy, but with the kind of stroke he wields in the physical and metaphysical world, I imagine over the course of 14 lifetimes, he would have had to survive some serious knockdown bar fights with ornery sherpas or otherwise kicked ass in the name of religious tolerance. No one comes by that kind of street cred without getting their knuckles bloody.
I do know that he bears resemblance so striking to the late author Hunter Thompson, that one would be a fool not to trace the genes back to the source before making any wild claims against either. But I'm sure I'm not too far out on the olive branch to speculate that Thomson himself wrestled a few yaks into submission in his day.
Were circumstances different, I might be inclined to challenge His Holiness one on one to either a banana eating match or a battle of wits, no holds barred, but due to the heavy medication and current trade embargos, I think I'll take this one in from the sidelines with cranberry juice and an open mind.
Which is best I'm sure. This will be a three-ring circus of the highest degree. Some will be blessed for the being there alone, while others will scoop up the red dirt he walks on, either keeping it for posterity, selling it to the uninformed masses or devouring it outright on the spot for reasons even the craziest of us will not grasp. Power of any kind is a weird thing, especially out here at the edge of the world and doubtless you are all thankful that the vigilant are always standing by in sickness and in health keeping one paw at all times on the circuit breaker.
That being said, I have a belly full of antibiotics addressing my latest bout with what local medical gurus are telling me is in all likelihood the clap (further tests are pending), and am standing by for the 340 flight over to Maui.
I've stopped taking these STDs personally because of the "all business" society I'm locked up like a Hindu prank monkey in. And just in time. The freaks are descending like a plague upon Kahului eagerly anticipating laying eyes twinkling with visions of enlightenment upon the bespectacled visage of the Dalai Lama himself.
For years, Maui has been a hotbed for those international goons on the blind trail to total consciousness and the meaning of life. So it's no wonder, with that much vibe clogging up the spiritual airwaves not to mention the vog steaming in from Volcano, that he'd be making a stop to personally straighten them all out once and for all, Buddhist monk style.
I imagine quite a few heads will roll for this one. All of them, especially upcountry, have been abusing the system for years and the time for compassion may be swiftly coming to an end.
The room mate, a devout Lama groupie and 6 months sinfully pregnant tried to get me to fly over yesterday and walk on as a volunteer, but I'm not dumb enough to stumble into that kind of bees nest. The volunteers will have it worse than any; the first to bear the brunt of his wrath.
I don't know much about this guy, but with the kind of stroke he wields in the physical and metaphysical world, I imagine over the course of 14 lifetimes, he would have had to survive some serious knockdown bar fights with ornery sherpas or otherwise kicked ass in the name of religious tolerance. No one comes by that kind of street cred without getting their knuckles bloody.
I do know that he bears resemblance so striking to the late author Hunter Thompson, that one would be a fool not to trace the genes back to the source before making any wild claims against either. But I'm sure I'm not too far out on the olive branch to speculate that Thomson himself wrestled a few yaks into submission in his day.
Were circumstances different, I might be inclined to challenge His Holiness one on one to either a banana eating match or a battle of wits, no holds barred, but due to the heavy medication and current trade embargos, I think I'll take this one in from the sidelines with cranberry juice and an open mind.
Which is best I'm sure. This will be a three-ring circus of the highest degree. Some will be blessed for the being there alone, while others will scoop up the red dirt he walks on, either keeping it for posterity, selling it to the uninformed masses or devouring it outright on the spot for reasons even the craziest of us will not grasp. Power of any kind is a weird thing, especially out here at the edge of the world and doubtless you are all thankful that the vigilant are always standing by in sickness and in health keeping one paw at all times on the circuit breaker.
Animal Rights: An Open Letter to Four Seasons Hotels & Resorts
With the Halekulani knocking Four Seasons off the Hawaiian Travel & Leisure throne in 2007, I find myself thinking about drooling dogs.
In 1965 researchers conducting studies based on Pavlovian conditioning hoped to show that when administered an auditory stimulus coupled with an electric shock, the behavior of dogs could be manipulated. This didn’t exactly go as planned. What the studies ultimately showed was that these dogs learned helplessness. When they were left in a small and easily exited cage, the conditioned dogs would not move even after the administration of multiple shocks. Unconditioned dogs leapt quickly from the cage while the rest lay down whimpering under shock after shock, accepting their fate. They had learned that nothing they did mattered.
It’s now 2007 and learned helplessness flourishes at the Four Seasons Resort on the privately owned island of Lana`i.
I was hired as an independent contractor and signed an agreement to earn 40 percent commission plus tips as a massage therapist in the spa. This is great money, especially coming from Oah`u where it’s hard to get that kind of scratch without strong political backing and consecutive happy endings. This was based—I was told—on my “skill” relative to other therapists in the spa who made the same or less. The week before I turned in my uniform the same person told me adamantly that I was in fact a mediocre therapist hired “in hopes that you work your way up to Four Seasons standards.” Other contractors told me repeatedly that this was done “just to get to you.”
And there in both the nervous acceptance of such bipolar reasoning and the source of it is where the dog has its day. Upwards of 30 therapists have exited in the span of the approximately one year tenure of the reigning manager. Begging the question: Where does the problem lie? But this isn’t a psychology tirade or a rant about percentages or money even, though it might seem to be on the surface.
This is for anyone who gets $8 taken from their paycheck for every 25-minute service performed to replace no more than an ounce of oil and to wash a few sheets, and is then “asked” to fold that laundry. For anyone with the balls to question that fiscal logic, told the issue was not to be revisited and later labeled by management reactionary, arrogant and a planter of “ideas.”
For anyone who had to travel—by boat or plane—to work and found that their schedule was changed or that they wouldn’t be needed after all and in lieu of an actual explanation, told to deal with it.
For a wife and son and daughter recklessly threatened with homelessness after their father’s twelve years with the company was dashed in an instant without warning following his termination and consequent expiration of employee housing.
This is for the receptionist 7 months pregnant with incapacitating back pain who limped out of work for emergency care barely able to speak and was told. “If you get finished before 4, come back.”
Dogs do what dogs do and given the right motivation, humans are as predictable as any dog. When you can work three days out of the week and come home with $1500 that makes you motivated. And apparently in the eyes of this hotel, expendable, easily replaced and open to the kind of abuse that if applied to a unionized workforce might result in a fistfight.
This is also not a shot at an old boss by a disgruntled ex-employee. It’s a question to an entity that allows the kind of free form tyranny that traumatizes people on a daily basis to the point that they dread, not only their work environment but also the threat of having to leave it.
The question is: Why are people in 2007 treated like animals were 1965?
In 1965 researchers conducting studies based on Pavlovian conditioning hoped to show that when administered an auditory stimulus coupled with an electric shock, the behavior of dogs could be manipulated. This didn’t exactly go as planned. What the studies ultimately showed was that these dogs learned helplessness. When they were left in a small and easily exited cage, the conditioned dogs would not move even after the administration of multiple shocks. Unconditioned dogs leapt quickly from the cage while the rest lay down whimpering under shock after shock, accepting their fate. They had learned that nothing they did mattered.
It’s now 2007 and learned helplessness flourishes at the Four Seasons Resort on the privately owned island of Lana`i.
I was hired as an independent contractor and signed an agreement to earn 40 percent commission plus tips as a massage therapist in the spa. This is great money, especially coming from Oah`u where it’s hard to get that kind of scratch without strong political backing and consecutive happy endings. This was based—I was told—on my “skill” relative to other therapists in the spa who made the same or less. The week before I turned in my uniform the same person told me adamantly that I was in fact a mediocre therapist hired “in hopes that you work your way up to Four Seasons standards.” Other contractors told me repeatedly that this was done “just to get to you.”
And there in both the nervous acceptance of such bipolar reasoning and the source of it is where the dog has its day. Upwards of 30 therapists have exited in the span of the approximately one year tenure of the reigning manager. Begging the question: Where does the problem lie? But this isn’t a psychology tirade or a rant about percentages or money even, though it might seem to be on the surface.
This is for anyone who gets $8 taken from their paycheck for every 25-minute service performed to replace no more than an ounce of oil and to wash a few sheets, and is then “asked” to fold that laundry. For anyone with the balls to question that fiscal logic, told the issue was not to be revisited and later labeled by management reactionary, arrogant and a planter of “ideas.”
For anyone who had to travel—by boat or plane—to work and found that their schedule was changed or that they wouldn’t be needed after all and in lieu of an actual explanation, told to deal with it.
For a wife and son and daughter recklessly threatened with homelessness after their father’s twelve years with the company was dashed in an instant without warning following his termination and consequent expiration of employee housing.
This is for the receptionist 7 months pregnant with incapacitating back pain who limped out of work for emergency care barely able to speak and was told. “If you get finished before 4, come back.”
Dogs do what dogs do and given the right motivation, humans are as predictable as any dog. When you can work three days out of the week and come home with $1500 that makes you motivated. And apparently in the eyes of this hotel, expendable, easily replaced and open to the kind of abuse that if applied to a unionized workforce might result in a fistfight.
This is also not a shot at an old boss by a disgruntled ex-employee. It’s a question to an entity that allows the kind of free form tyranny that traumatizes people on a daily basis to the point that they dread, not only their work environment but also the threat of having to leave it.
The question is: Why are people in 2007 treated like animals were 1965?
Celebrate With Us
The Wednesday night guided meditation and healing service sounds a little too Fight Club for much of the non church crowd, but being holier than them, I have a high tolerance for both healing and mortal combat.
The man had the worn look of old and poorly maintained leather abused by the trail as he stumbled from his crimson Toyota, wife trailing behind him as he pulled on a Trilogy sailing shirt to cover the uniform sunburn of a broken down first mate. They made their way to the back entrance of the church as the Preacher sat in front of his piano banging out a quiet version of Om Shanti. They sat two pews in front of me.
I like to sit near the back to keep my eye on things. As part of the volunteer agreement the Healing Arts Center practitioners use the last half hour to offer services to anyone who can make their way to the front pews where they all convene patiently throughout the service in their green fuzzy leis waiting to dispense therapy.
But not me. I like to come from the back like a porn star. A grand entrance from the Ti leaf blessing station directly across from the communion wafers. It’s my own personal arrogance hard at work, but at least I don’t come in the middle of a song.
Drunk in church is a sure way to write your way into the collective consciousness of a congregation. And the sailor had plenty of ink. Thinking of drunken churchies, I picture an indigent man stumbling in on an icy night at a church sandwiched uncomfortably between a Persian deli and a methadone clinic on the dirtiest streets of wherever, USA. But this one rolled up stupid in a red flatbed, straight out of Kihei in the heart of Kapahulu.
After the singing comes the prayer requests. When you hear about everyone’s dying relatives or missing children or any manner of the Lords will personified. The sailor wanted none of it. As the deputy pastor walked from person to person, listening and broadcasting their prayers to the group over the wireless microphone, he became increasingly frantic, raising his arms in fury and exasperation each time she picked someone else. At one point, his wife had to pull him down like someone restraining a pit bull.
But his time came.
Just as the woman behind him leaned in telling him to be patient, the pastor spotted him. She walked up and held the mic forward for him to speak and he boldly tore it from her grasp.
He was out of the pew and into the aisle with the grace of a seasoned televangelist, his head cocked backwards and a dramatic drunken sway to his frame. He alternated between a two hand prayer grip on the handle of the microphone and one hand raised for either calming effect or balance.
“I’m going to do it,” he announced to us softly under the soft glow of the high ceiling lights with the grim determination of a plumber. “It’s been my lifelong goal to move to O`ahu. And now. Here! I! Am!”
He paused for emphasis, nodding his head with subtle arrogance. He assessed the unresponsive crowd who had never seen anyone with the mic other than the mikanele. You could almost hear the unison whispers from the gray hairs that this was not the reverend Sky St Jon.
“Today I did it. I finally enrolled at the UH. Just under the deadline with less than 20 minutes to spare. And I’m going to do it!”
At this point all heads were down. He had the feel of a snake that might strike upon eye contact.
“See… I’m here tonight,” he bent his knees to meet the downcast eyes of the congregation as he balled one hand into a fist, “to receive your prayers for my prosperity.”
He let this sink in, standing back up and pointing a thumb into his own chest.
“For the prosperity of me, my wife and our two children as I complete my schooling at UH Manoa which I enrolled in today.”
Just under the deadline. Yes. We were all clear on that one. He flopped his arms out parallel to the floor and dropped the mic. The deputy pastor scurried to grab it as the bounces echoed to the high ceilings and back. He sat down with a piously superior nod. His wife patted his back nervously as the pastor asked for his name to properly invoke the prayer.
“It’s Bryce!” he shouted in disgust without the benefit of the amplifier as if his name had been Jesus or Mohamed or Kamehameha I.
“Let us pray,” she began, “for Bryce and his family embarking upon this new journey and know that god wants us all to prosper in all of our-”
“Celebrate with us!” He was up again, the wife pulling at his shoulders and the gray haired old ladies disabling their hearing aids under the pounding waves of his verbal diarrhea.
We work on the people in the front pews as the group is coming out of guided meditation and some are dropping satchels containing more prayers into a wood chest on the front stage. It’s a relaxing time. There’s a song droning on in the background about healing or love, I can’t remember.
I had my eyes closed and my hands around the back of the neck of a lady from Baltimore, feeling for tension in her cervical vertebrae when Bryce was able to sneak up on stage behind me. His voice boomed across the church and I nearly ripped her head off in alarm.
“Love is the way!” He bellowed with arms up again. “Love!”
And then he was gone. He came in late and he went home early. And I haven’t been back there since. He left his mark like a careless Picasso and now he’s free somewhere up in Manoa terrorizing the business department with drunken theories on capitalism and the global marketplace I assume. Because he’s the kind of thorn-in-your-side hit-and-run artist that you have to give a sort of grudging respect to if for nothing else his calculated sleaziness, which leaves no time for someone to catch up with him in the parking lot and give him the kind of healing he really needs and truly deserves.
The man had the worn look of old and poorly maintained leather abused by the trail as he stumbled from his crimson Toyota, wife trailing behind him as he pulled on a Trilogy sailing shirt to cover the uniform sunburn of a broken down first mate. They made their way to the back entrance of the church as the Preacher sat in front of his piano banging out a quiet version of Om Shanti. They sat two pews in front of me.
I like to sit near the back to keep my eye on things. As part of the volunteer agreement the Healing Arts Center practitioners use the last half hour to offer services to anyone who can make their way to the front pews where they all convene patiently throughout the service in their green fuzzy leis waiting to dispense therapy.
But not me. I like to come from the back like a porn star. A grand entrance from the Ti leaf blessing station directly across from the communion wafers. It’s my own personal arrogance hard at work, but at least I don’t come in the middle of a song.
Drunk in church is a sure way to write your way into the collective consciousness of a congregation. And the sailor had plenty of ink. Thinking of drunken churchies, I picture an indigent man stumbling in on an icy night at a church sandwiched uncomfortably between a Persian deli and a methadone clinic on the dirtiest streets of wherever, USA. But this one rolled up stupid in a red flatbed, straight out of Kihei in the heart of Kapahulu.
After the singing comes the prayer requests. When you hear about everyone’s dying relatives or missing children or any manner of the Lords will personified. The sailor wanted none of it. As the deputy pastor walked from person to person, listening and broadcasting their prayers to the group over the wireless microphone, he became increasingly frantic, raising his arms in fury and exasperation each time she picked someone else. At one point, his wife had to pull him down like someone restraining a pit bull.
But his time came.
Just as the woman behind him leaned in telling him to be patient, the pastor spotted him. She walked up and held the mic forward for him to speak and he boldly tore it from her grasp.
He was out of the pew and into the aisle with the grace of a seasoned televangelist, his head cocked backwards and a dramatic drunken sway to his frame. He alternated between a two hand prayer grip on the handle of the microphone and one hand raised for either calming effect or balance.
“I’m going to do it,” he announced to us softly under the soft glow of the high ceiling lights with the grim determination of a plumber. “It’s been my lifelong goal to move to O`ahu. And now. Here! I! Am!”
He paused for emphasis, nodding his head with subtle arrogance. He assessed the unresponsive crowd who had never seen anyone with the mic other than the mikanele. You could almost hear the unison whispers from the gray hairs that this was not the reverend Sky St Jon.
“Today I did it. I finally enrolled at the UH. Just under the deadline with less than 20 minutes to spare. And I’m going to do it!”
At this point all heads were down. He had the feel of a snake that might strike upon eye contact.
“See… I’m here tonight,” he bent his knees to meet the downcast eyes of the congregation as he balled one hand into a fist, “to receive your prayers for my prosperity.”
He let this sink in, standing back up and pointing a thumb into his own chest.
“For the prosperity of me, my wife and our two children as I complete my schooling at UH Manoa which I enrolled in today.”
Just under the deadline. Yes. We were all clear on that one. He flopped his arms out parallel to the floor and dropped the mic. The deputy pastor scurried to grab it as the bounces echoed to the high ceilings and back. He sat down with a piously superior nod. His wife patted his back nervously as the pastor asked for his name to properly invoke the prayer.
“It’s Bryce!” he shouted in disgust without the benefit of the amplifier as if his name had been Jesus or Mohamed or Kamehameha I.
“Let us pray,” she began, “for Bryce and his family embarking upon this new journey and know that god wants us all to prosper in all of our-”
“Celebrate with us!” He was up again, the wife pulling at his shoulders and the gray haired old ladies disabling their hearing aids under the pounding waves of his verbal diarrhea.
We work on the people in the front pews as the group is coming out of guided meditation and some are dropping satchels containing more prayers into a wood chest on the front stage. It’s a relaxing time. There’s a song droning on in the background about healing or love, I can’t remember.
I had my eyes closed and my hands around the back of the neck of a lady from Baltimore, feeling for tension in her cervical vertebrae when Bryce was able to sneak up on stage behind me. His voice boomed across the church and I nearly ripped her head off in alarm.
“Love is the way!” He bellowed with arms up again. “Love!”
And then he was gone. He came in late and he went home early. And I haven’t been back there since. He left his mark like a careless Picasso and now he’s free somewhere up in Manoa terrorizing the business department with drunken theories on capitalism and the global marketplace I assume. Because he’s the kind of thorn-in-your-side hit-and-run artist that you have to give a sort of grudging respect to if for nothing else his calculated sleaziness, which leaves no time for someone to catch up with him in the parking lot and give him the kind of healing he really needs and truly deserves.
Dumbing Down
Michael Vick Buys Place in Florida -- Bankruptcy Coming Next? Michael David Smith sports.aol.com/fanhouse
Look to who benefits most. Who benefits from the fall of the high and mighty poster boy black male? Definitely this society in its racial rainbow of deluded hegemony. To paraphrase the immortal words of Tony Montana, we need someone to point the finger at and say "that's the bad guy." But do we need that? The finger. The guy. The horror. The revulsion. The hate, lies, truth and redemption.
Do we need the distraction? Over what? Dogs?
Pile a high profile human drama along side or on top of a million trivial others for what? So we can ignore real issues like CFCs, the ongoing US genocide against indigenous cultures, and of course how the latest terror threat to the homeland is being dealt with by Jack Bauer.
You love your dog? So what? The thing barks all 10 hours of the day it's neglected, in a language few can take the time to hope to understand. This is not a security measure. That one is a line born and bred, most likely by dogfighters. Because what criminal worth his weight in Iams Original Biscuits is afraid of a dog? Angry dogs are nothing more than ignorant bullies, their teeth sharpened on charging meeker targets their whole life with no built in response for what happens the day something stands its ground with a harsh command, sledge hammer or a piece of poisoned meat.
Subscribing to any other point of view is simply grazing with the herd. Or in this case running with the pack. Who let the dogs out?
When Vick is released, I plan to have a guaranteed and unrestricted contract good for the remainder of his life to act as a new symbol for PETA. We will call him the Black Falcon of Doggie Death and he will be the canine equivalent of the boogeyman; the first face of fear for all dogs and dog owners with animals chained up in bondage and barking at the slightest breeze. We're regulating noise pollution here for one. Keep your dog locked up, muzzled or otherwise sedated or the BFODD will descend from the heavens with a burlap sack full of nooses, bats and shovels. He'll kick in your front door as the children scream and take your gnashing bag of teeth, hair, ticks and fleas straight to doggie hell.
Now that we’ve settled that: Forget about down to earth when you talk about cruelty to animals and the culture of sport. The deified goliaths of gridiron navigate a completely different level. This is a fact that media fed mortals will probably never grasp. But it remains. Why hold them to a higher standard? If anything you should hold them to a lower one. These are your gods. The will of gods is not questioned. You have given them the keys to your stolen kingdom. You and your children emblazon your bodies with their names and worship at the limitless altars made readily available 24 hours a day by your blatant need to believe in something larger than you. You support war, and savagery and the capitalistic acquisition and abuse of land and these, your heroes personify the spoken and unspoken desires of your pagan hearts.
You've given away your right to judge these people. They make you millions. They make you believe. They help you to conform to what passes for culture in what is at its best a borrowed society. Where the only true culture is McDonalds, limitless debt and slavery. And you ask them to lead a dual life.
Yes yes. But to the point already. The benefit lies in the black hearts of white men who count on these cultural tragedies to illustrate how a hundred billion dollar franchise like Las Vegas or online gaming is tame by comparison. Casino owners. The college campus bookie. The sportbook snake oilers and of course networks like ESPN who pimp them out to you the people. The degenerates in their garages hunched over a screen, ignoring the call of collectors. The wife who squandered the college fund on the first three Notre Dame games. The list is endless and filthy and ripe for a natural disaster. Or a reality show. We’ll put them all on an island with nothing but coconuts and machetes and a tribe of Maori nationalists and see who comes out with perspective.
The benefit lies in the plausible deniability of the savagery that fuels the collective hopelessness in the cultureless wasteland. In the end we’re all dumber for participating. For listening. For taking the time to judge. For giving a damn and being distracted by it all. I’m still going to pay Vick that money, not because it’s the right thing to do but because it’s revolutionary. And it’s time to complete the circle
Look to who benefits most. Who benefits from the fall of the high and mighty poster boy black male? Definitely this society in its racial rainbow of deluded hegemony. To paraphrase the immortal words of Tony Montana, we need someone to point the finger at and say "that's the bad guy." But do we need that? The finger. The guy. The horror. The revulsion. The hate, lies, truth and redemption.
Do we need the distraction? Over what? Dogs?
Pile a high profile human drama along side or on top of a million trivial others for what? So we can ignore real issues like CFCs, the ongoing US genocide against indigenous cultures, and of course how the latest terror threat to the homeland is being dealt with by Jack Bauer.
You love your dog? So what? The thing barks all 10 hours of the day it's neglected, in a language few can take the time to hope to understand. This is not a security measure. That one is a line born and bred, most likely by dogfighters. Because what criminal worth his weight in Iams Original Biscuits is afraid of a dog? Angry dogs are nothing more than ignorant bullies, their teeth sharpened on charging meeker targets their whole life with no built in response for what happens the day something stands its ground with a harsh command, sledge hammer or a piece of poisoned meat.
Subscribing to any other point of view is simply grazing with the herd. Or in this case running with the pack. Who let the dogs out?
When Vick is released, I plan to have a guaranteed and unrestricted contract good for the remainder of his life to act as a new symbol for PETA. We will call him the Black Falcon of Doggie Death and he will be the canine equivalent of the boogeyman; the first face of fear for all dogs and dog owners with animals chained up in bondage and barking at the slightest breeze. We're regulating noise pollution here for one. Keep your dog locked up, muzzled or otherwise sedated or the BFODD will descend from the heavens with a burlap sack full of nooses, bats and shovels. He'll kick in your front door as the children scream and take your gnashing bag of teeth, hair, ticks and fleas straight to doggie hell.
Now that we’ve settled that: Forget about down to earth when you talk about cruelty to animals and the culture of sport. The deified goliaths of gridiron navigate a completely different level. This is a fact that media fed mortals will probably never grasp. But it remains. Why hold them to a higher standard? If anything you should hold them to a lower one. These are your gods. The will of gods is not questioned. You have given them the keys to your stolen kingdom. You and your children emblazon your bodies with their names and worship at the limitless altars made readily available 24 hours a day by your blatant need to believe in something larger than you. You support war, and savagery and the capitalistic acquisition and abuse of land and these, your heroes personify the spoken and unspoken desires of your pagan hearts.
You've given away your right to judge these people. They make you millions. They make you believe. They help you to conform to what passes for culture in what is at its best a borrowed society. Where the only true culture is McDonalds, limitless debt and slavery. And you ask them to lead a dual life.
Yes yes. But to the point already. The benefit lies in the black hearts of white men who count on these cultural tragedies to illustrate how a hundred billion dollar franchise like Las Vegas or online gaming is tame by comparison. Casino owners. The college campus bookie. The sportbook snake oilers and of course networks like ESPN who pimp them out to you the people. The degenerates in their garages hunched over a screen, ignoring the call of collectors. The wife who squandered the college fund on the first three Notre Dame games. The list is endless and filthy and ripe for a natural disaster. Or a reality show. We’ll put them all on an island with nothing but coconuts and machetes and a tribe of Maori nationalists and see who comes out with perspective.
The benefit lies in the plausible deniability of the savagery that fuels the collective hopelessness in the cultureless wasteland. In the end we’re all dumber for participating. For listening. For taking the time to judge. For giving a damn and being distracted by it all. I’m still going to pay Vick that money, not because it’s the right thing to do but because it’s revolutionary. And it’s time to complete the circle
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Domestic Tranquility & Equestrian Logic
With the rampant psychosis stinking up the spa and the island of Lana`i as a whole like fertilizer, I have taken to disappearing to mainland Maui on my day off. The ferry ride is generally smooth unless we smash into one of the many humpbacked menaces currently inhabiting the channel like fat koi in a barrel. We need to start eating these whales, but that is a discussion for another day.
I had generously accepted the invitation for beer in Pa`ia and horse whispering from Sera, the former outside center for the WAZZU Women's Rugby team. I still have no photos for you but as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words and that in itself is far too much talk.
I'm back on Lana`i now, suffering from no sleep and perched on a dock, I can feel the earth rotating on its axis. This is an unnerving and painfully nauseous experience that is complimented nicely by the pork sandwiches I've been eating all day. But I cannot vomit or these carp will go crazy, riding the steam of puke like lightning into my mouth and down my gullet where they will spawn until my intestines rupture with their foul offspring.
The horsing about proved to be fine. I had never personally been atop one of these beasts, but have since cultivated a somewhat more profound respect for Zorro and other pertinent swashbucklers. The animals are not to be trusted. It tried repeatedly to buck me into the pineapple fields and I sustained superficial back wounds from the multitude of low bridges it attempted to peel me out of the saddle under. In the end it all came down to kicking the brute in the side and making that clicking sound between the teeth that gets large animals moving.
The dancing in Pa`ia was sub par. Unrecognizable tunes and samples and DJs growling into rotten microphones about god only knows what. The two $14 double Jager shots were the final straw.
We fled back to her studio where she smoked a hand rolled joint of pure nicotine venom the proceeded to do crotchless hanging ab lifts from the 3 in 1 tower of power. She then hung upside down on inversion boots until I lost interest and started tearing apart her stuffed animals.
It was all a whirlwind 24 hour period and I had to be back in Lahina for the 6:45 boat. So we pawed at each other until 5am when her ex boyfriend walked through the door in direct violation of his restraining order.
Right away I could hear the teeth start to grind. This would obviously not go as he had planned it and being a thuggish Brit he would be an improvisational cripple outside of anything more cerebral than a duel in the yard.
He had some kind of eerie red light and I figured he must have rode his 10 speed in and snaked the tail light off at the last minute as a symbolic gesture that perhaps the red light express was making its 5am stop in Makawao.
The light did nothing more than illuminate him, blinding him as she yelled at the light repeatedly to leave. He muttered pathetically, fumbling at the light switch.
The 80 watt halogen at the top of the high ceiling was like an awful premature sunrise, illuminating her draped over me in her PJs as I yawned casually in a borrowed pair of women's underwear. I stretched lazily looking at him with one eye, taking time to flex the biceps.
A cheap parlor gag, but it was early and I didn't have time for yard brawling. It worked as effectively though as a punch to the nuts. He backed slowly out over the threshold like a freshly buggered British gelding as I made that clicking sound between my teeth that gets large animals moving.
I had generously accepted the invitation for beer in Pa`ia and horse whispering from Sera, the former outside center for the WAZZU Women's Rugby team. I still have no photos for you but as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words and that in itself is far too much talk.
I'm back on Lana`i now, suffering from no sleep and perched on a dock, I can feel the earth rotating on its axis. This is an unnerving and painfully nauseous experience that is complimented nicely by the pork sandwiches I've been eating all day. But I cannot vomit or these carp will go crazy, riding the steam of puke like lightning into my mouth and down my gullet where they will spawn until my intestines rupture with their foul offspring.
The horsing about proved to be fine. I had never personally been atop one of these beasts, but have since cultivated a somewhat more profound respect for Zorro and other pertinent swashbucklers. The animals are not to be trusted. It tried repeatedly to buck me into the pineapple fields and I sustained superficial back wounds from the multitude of low bridges it attempted to peel me out of the saddle under. In the end it all came down to kicking the brute in the side and making that clicking sound between the teeth that gets large animals moving.
The dancing in Pa`ia was sub par. Unrecognizable tunes and samples and DJs growling into rotten microphones about god only knows what. The two $14 double Jager shots were the final straw.
We fled back to her studio where she smoked a hand rolled joint of pure nicotine venom the proceeded to do crotchless hanging ab lifts from the 3 in 1 tower of power. She then hung upside down on inversion boots until I lost interest and started tearing apart her stuffed animals.
It was all a whirlwind 24 hour period and I had to be back in Lahina for the 6:45 boat. So we pawed at each other until 5am when her ex boyfriend walked through the door in direct violation of his restraining order.
Right away I could hear the teeth start to grind. This would obviously not go as he had planned it and being a thuggish Brit he would be an improvisational cripple outside of anything more cerebral than a duel in the yard.
He had some kind of eerie red light and I figured he must have rode his 10 speed in and snaked the tail light off at the last minute as a symbolic gesture that perhaps the red light express was making its 5am stop in Makawao.
The light did nothing more than illuminate him, blinding him as she yelled at the light repeatedly to leave. He muttered pathetically, fumbling at the light switch.
The 80 watt halogen at the top of the high ceiling was like an awful premature sunrise, illuminating her draped over me in her PJs as I yawned casually in a borrowed pair of women's underwear. I stretched lazily looking at him with one eye, taking time to flex the biceps.
A cheap parlor gag, but it was early and I didn't have time for yard brawling. It worked as effectively though as a punch to the nuts. He backed slowly out over the threshold like a freshly buggered British gelding as I made that clicking sound between my teeth that gets large animals moving.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
