Esoteric Bowl

So there I was without internet access. I won’t say that I was experiencing withdrawal pains, but I was really missing the computer. I was literally sitting in the dark and bored out of my mind, and any underlying feelings of loneliness that I might have had were suddenly highlighted.

Over time my reliance on the computer has grown, but it wasn’t until this recent disconnect that I began to understand just how much I rely on it. Like so many others, I use the computer for so many different things. It has become my primary reference in gathering information, a creative outlet, a photo album, my source for news and music, a shopping tool, my communication of choice, and a number of other uses. It’s somewhat startling to think that one piece of technology can provide so much to my life, especially when it was only a handful of years ago when I first began using the computer.

The recent disconnect got me thinking about my life in the “olden days” before computers. These thoughts led me to thoughts about the younger generation, a generation that has always had computer access. I suppose there’s a small amount of prestige that comes with age that allows one to say I was around before something was invented, but mostly it’s just a reminder of how old one is getting and how the world continues to change. While I’m glad that I lived in a time before the internet and personal computers, I’m also glad to be reconnected and out of the darkness.

Due to a recent loss of internet connection, I’m unable to post at this time. My service provider says that they will send a tech out to the house to examine the modem and the connection on the 16th of this month. Until then, I’m absent without computer.

At this very moment I’m writing this post at a Kinko’s. They charge .40 cents per minute, so I want to keep this as short as possible.

Hoping that everyone is doing well and having a great summer.

See you soon (fingers crossed).

The summer heat wakes me from my sleep.
My neck and pillow are locked in a wet kiss.
I turn the pillow over and hope
that the cool side is cool;
It’s not.

I look over my shoulder towards the clock.
One-thirty in the morning.
I sigh and close my eyes,
pushing the blanket further away with hands and feet.

I roll over and look at the clock again.
Three-forty. What happened to the past two hours?
I hate when that happens.

I slide out of bed and walk in the dark,
ignoring every lamp and light switch.
A 100 watt bulb would feel like the sun.

My feet find relief on the kitchen floor.
From one ceramic tile to the next
in search of a cooler square,
I crisscross the darkened room
as if I’m playing tic-tac-toe with myself.

I open the refrigerator and freezer doors anticipating a chill.
It’s not as cool as I had hoped.
Gently I squeeze a bag of frozen vegetables
just to make sure the freezer is working.

I pour guava nectar into a glass.
The juice is chilled,
and I gulp without tasting.
The juice splashes inside my chest
and irrigates the desert within.

I asked Dad if I could borrow his car for the night. I didn’t have any special plans for the evening, but a friend had invited me to come over to her house to hang-out for a while. Dad handed me his keys, then asked when I would be home. By the time my brothers and I were in our teenage years, Dad never told us to be home at a specific time, rather he would ask when we would be home and then expect us to be in the house at that time.

When I arrived at Tammy’s house, she greeted me with that great smile of hers that made her eyes twinkle and shine. I always liked Tammy. She was bright and funny and a bit of a rebel, and she was certain that she was a modern-day witch. We had first met when she was dating a friend of mine, and when that relationship ended we continued our friendship.

The two of us sat outside of her home and talked while her mother peeked out the window at us every so often. Tammy suggested that we go cruising, and soon we were driving around the familiar streets of Kaneohe listening to Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti with no particular destination in mind.

At one point in the drive Tammy pointed to a road, a dirt road, and suggested that we take that path. Unbeknownst to me, the path led into the banana patch. Always willing to please, I took the turn. A few moments after taking that turn, Tammy placed her hand on my thigh. I won’t go as far as to say that it freaked me out, but I never thought of Tammy in that way before. I mean she was beautiful and a friend and a very cool chick, but in my mind she would always be my friend’s ex-girlfriend. The man in me now would know how to handle such a situation, but for the teenage boy that I was, it was all new territory.

I continued to drive. The further I drove, the more we became surrounded by the long stalks of bananas. It was only then that I remembered hearing about The Banana Patch, a secluded place where couples sometimes made out and a place no parent knew about. The music blaring and Tammy’s hand were enough of distraction, but now it was difficult to see on either side of me. Soon I was off the main path and driving over bumpier and bumpier little hills.

And then the car go stuck. The front wheels of the car were slightly in the air while the rear wheels and axle were buried in the soft dirt. Everything that had happened up until this point was quickly forgotten and panic ensued. I had to get this car unstuck. I dug the dirt with my hands. I dug dirt with the tire iron. I pushed the car, I pulled the car. Still, I couldn’t get the car out of the hole that it was in.

The early morning light began to shine and Tammy had to get home. Covered with dirt, I walked her back to town where she called her Dad to pick her up. She suggested that I call my Dad, but I was hopeful that with a little more time I could eventually get the car out. Besides, I certainly didn’t want to face my father and tell him that I got his car stuck in the banana patch.

I walked the long road back to the banana patch and headed towards the car. In the distance I heard a car coming down the old dirt road. Maybe, I thought, the person could help me pull the car out and I could be on my way home. That thought quickly vanished as the car slowly approached and I looked towards the driver and recognized my father’s familiar gaze.

Considering that I had bent the rear axle of his car and that the car had to be towed, Dad was rather cool and understanding about it all. However, for years later whenever I would borrow his car, Dad would always remind me to stay out of the banana patch.

Have a Great Aloha Friday!

Throughout the world there are individuals who feel victimized, who feel that there has been an injustice against them. In many areas of the world there’s no recourse for the individual, and this can magnify into hopelessness. With this hopelessness comes feelings of humiliation, frustration and anger. How individuals respond to their hopelessness often depends on their perspective, and that perspective is largely defined by the individual culture.

Whether we look towards Iraq, Afghanistan, Cuba or any other place in the world, we can see how individuals respond to their hopelessness when justice is not available to them. While this same hopelessness can be found within our own culture, particularly within the inner cities, there still remains a belief that an individual can seek and obtain justice.

Currently on Capitol Hill the US Senate is debating the Protection of Lawful Commerce in Arms Act (S.397), which would provide gun manufacturers and gun dealers with sweeping immunity from lawsuits. Supporters of the gun liability bill claim the law would put a halt to “frivolous lawsuits” against gun manufactures, yet of the 10 million wrongful death/injury suits filed in US courts from 1993-2003, only 57 were against gun manufactures. Damages paid in gun suits each year is $441,800, excluding unreported confidential settlements.

This bill would not only provide the gun industry with unprecedented protections against individual claims, but it would ban state and federal authorities from filing suit as well. Police officers, federal agents, and citizens killed or injured would have no recourse against dealers or manufactures of guns no matter how libel they are.

In essence, supporters of this bill are saying that they don’t trust the law or the courts or the juries or the judicial process, therefore they will provide a shield from the law for gun dealers and gun manufactures. In seeking to appease the gun lobby, some lawmakers are willing to chip away at the individual right to seek legal recourse. It’s quite telling when lawmakers are willing to put the interests of the gun lobby ahead of the rights of the individual. Without the individual right to pursue justice in a court of law, the individual is left with hopelessness and becomes resentful of law itself. It then becomes only a matter of time before individuals take the law into their own hands.

* “THE BIGGEST LIE YET”

* The Brady Center

I’m walking home when I notice a young woman approaching on the sidewalk. Her face looks familiar, but I can’t recall how I know her. My mind automatically switches to speed-dial, trying desperately to place a name with the face. How do I know her? Did we have a class together? Did we work with each other? Did she and I do the nasty? Think, think!

When we get to about ten feet from each other, she looks up and glances my way. While I anticipated for her to recognize me, she doesn’t. We continue walking in opposite directions and in the moment that we pass each other it dawns on me how I know her. I recognized her from a photo that was posted on her blog. I almost turned and called her name, but decided it was best to let her go.

I heard familiar music. I turned off the sound of the tv to make sure the music was coming from outside. Yes, it was from outside. The melody of the tune meant only one thing; the Ice Cream Man was on my street! It’s been such a long time since he has traveled to my neighborhood.

Sure I’ve got ice cream in the freezer, but this is ice cream from the man himself. Besides, the Ice Cream Man doesn’t just sell ice cream, he sells memories and joy and all that good stuff. I grabbed my wallet and stepped outside the door. I walked in the direction of the music and began to turn the corner of the building when all of a sudden I was blasted in the face with a thick stream of water. The water startled me, and in a spontaneous moment the f-word came out of my mouth.

Seconds after swearing, I saw one of the neighborhood boys standing five feet in front of me holding a big water blaster rifle in his hands with a frightened look on his face. I felt so bad for swearing in front of a child who is no more than eleven years old, and I was sorry for obviously scaring him. I told him that I wasn’t swearing at him, but that I swore because he startled me. He told me that he didn’t mean to shoot me, but he thought I was his friend that he was playing with. I told him that he blasted me real good and we both laughed.

I bought popsicles for myself and for the boy and his friend. I apologized again for swearing, and he graciously assured me that it was alright. “It’s okay,” he said. “I hear it at home all the time.”

Have a Great Aloha Friday!