tales from the year of the snake

I'm just tryin' to get along
without shovin' nobody around.
john steinbeck

exit ram, enter bull
760-768
769-775

Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now.
Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles.
J.D. Salinger

late spring fever in the park
776-780

How can I escape, except through faith, madness, or death?
Natsume Soseki

the june follies
781-782

There is a pleasure sure in being mad which none but madmen know.
Dryden

follow your heart
783-792
793-799

neurontinic nexus
800-807
808-813

serpens augustus
814-816
817-822
823-826

tale end of the fourth
827-834
835-843
844-846

760

Goodbye Aries.

In his message for this week, Cainer wrote: We have to ask: what's the one thing that you're sure of beyond all question? Take another (very) good look at it. Now why, precisely, are you so sure? Don't be afraid to think the unthinkable. You'll make a big breakthrough with an old problem if you do.

I like it when he gives me something like that to chew on for a week, and I've gnawed away at various possibilities although I have no sense whatever of making a "breakthrough", big or small, so maybe I haven't grasped which unthinkable thing it is. But it has been interesting pondering.

Doing the same thing today one did yesterday eventually produces one of those ordinary days so detested by the Steppenwolf. Understandably. Sometimes it seems better to be deeply depressed and miserable or deliriously happy than to be stuck in a state of contentment with a slight edge of boredom because nothing unusual is happening. Such a day was Thursday.

After relishing, but suffering, Grapes of Wrath (lordy, what an ending), I thought some light reading was in order, checked the fifty cent cart and got J.B. Priestley's Salt is Leaving. Entertaining mystery yarn in true British style. Then I went on to the very American An Inconvenient Woman by Dominick Dunne, a writer I've not read before. I turned down, at least for now, Hugo's Les Miserables. Definitely not light reading.

So after the usual drizzly night, it was coffee at McD's, lunchtime in the secluded grove with a Mickey's and sandwiches and my feathered companions, playing awhile in Seventh Circle, getting Gabriella to level 35. Then to the mall for a nightcap which I had to drink in the Orchid Walk since it was drizzling again. A very ordinary day.

Then a minor miracle, a night without falling water. I know, I know, we depend on this little island entirely upon rainwater so all drops of it should be seen as a blessing, especially since this urban civilization wastes so much of the stuff day after day. I hate to think how many gallons must go down the drain every 24 hours just between them washing down the mall every night and the over-irrigation in the park. So I tell myself to don't even think about grumbling when water falls from the sky. Still, it is nice to have a break from it once in awhile.

And twenty-eight years ago I was "introduced to the juice bar hangout in Mohan Singh Place." That was, probably still is, the Delhi equivalent of a mall but, I hasten to add, bearing not much resemblance to the American or English version. The ground floor was occupied mainly by fruit and vegetable hole-in-the-wall places with the most extraordinary mix of aromas I've ever encountered. As I said in the India Notebooks, the first time I went in the place I immediately fled out. A few weeks later, I was there every morning, greeted cheerfully by the happy Sikh owner of a fresh juice bar, drinking either orange juice or the Indian "Coke", Campa-Cola. He kept several tapes of Western rock music to lure in more of us (relatively) high-spending hippies but had so little experience with it that he never noticed when the batteries were running low and one of us had to tell him. He snorted heroin to "see the Guru" and gave me my very first experience of that substance when handing me a little wax-paper packet and telling me to sniff it. "You know what it is," he said. I didn't, but soon found out. Old times, good times.

Looking back at the Tales from this Aries-to-Taurus transition time, I see they were times when everything was going exceptionally smoothly with the Sleeptalker. No doubt about it, if he were around again for this arrival of the Bull, I would not be muttering about "ordinary" days.

761

The sky is getting light by 5:30 and with the warmer weather, it's good to start the day sitting on my bench having a couple of smokes and looking at the ocean and Diamond Head in the distance. It also helps to remember dreams again. Very rare for me to dream of an incident exactly as it happened but that was the case on Saturday night and I woke up chuckling, it was so real. A replay of the night at the hacienda when the Sleeptalker had us all laughing by saying the coral cut he'd got on his foot was the result of a "small shark" biting him. Sweet, funny dream.

"You're so bad," the Cherub said, laughing. I told him I wished I knew what church group the Sleeptalker had gone to since I'd go, too, just to see the look on his face when I walked in. The Cherub came looking for me late on Friday afternoon for a delayed birthday celebration at the Garden. One beer and three Monsters later I was utterly smashed, fell asleep somewhere on campus (don't remember where, just waking up and seeing it was a little after midnight). I went to a more hidden place and collapsed again, too far gone to worry about the consequences. Fortunately, I wasn't discovered.

They keep shifting the Cherub around at his job, I suppose with the idea of letting him get familiar with the different aspects of the place although he tends to see it as punishment. He's in the lumberyard now and hates it. He also hated his father showing up twice unannounced at his workplace, ostensibly to check out the operation since his businesses on Kauai are similar. After the second time, the Cherub had asked his father not to visit again since it increased the "poor little rich boy" jibes he gets from co-workers who are aware of his father's success on Kauai. It must be difficult growing up knowing someday, if you outlive your parents, you'll be a millionaire. I asked the Cherub what else he'd been doing besides working. Working and drinking. It reminded me of the psychologist who said he understood how I'd feel differently about drinking if I were in my twenties than I do now. Indeed.

There was a quite handsome fellow sitting there on his own and at one point the Cherub and I were guessing what his name was. I finally went over and asked. The Cherub won. John. Handsome John.

After that prolonged drinking session I was feeling pretty awful on Saturday morning, downed two cups of coffee and read until the computer lab opened. Two unabashed soap opera novels in a row. In Barbara Delinksy's More Than Friends, a young teenage boy even said he was watching the afternoon soaps because it was just like their life. Yes, a very All My Children or One Life to Live kind of story, but relatively entertaining.

After my lunchtime Colt and sandwiches, I napped for awhile on the secluded grove bench and finally felt halfway human again afterwards although afternoon naps are really not a good idea since it's then more difficult to sleep at night. Having finished the Delinsky book, I'd planned on listening to the radio but NPR is into one of its begging bowl campaigns making it unlistenable so I settled down early and lay there thinking for quite some time before falling asleep. So many sirens during the night ... must have been a troubled Saturday night for ambulance folks and firemen.

Aftermath of the strike: in order to make up the lost days, they are holding classes on Saturdays and Sundays, plan to shorten the pre-finals study period by two days. So no more quiet Sundays on campus for a few weeks. If I were more of a nightowl, I'd be pleased, since the libraries are staying open until midnight and won't have the usual early closing on Saturdays. But unless it's guzzling time at the Garden, I rarely stay on campus past sunset anyway.

Cainer writes about this last week of April: If you're young inside, you'll stay young on the outside. Keep that in mind this week... and you may yet find your own secret of eternal youth. I wonder what he'd think about my favorite theory on that subject.

762

Life can indeed be stranger than fiction or fantasy. No way could I have imagined the scenario which took place on Sunday evening. I had bought my nightcap Mickey's, went to the park to drink it and continue reading Elizabeth George's Missing Joseph which I'd found on the fifty-cent cart earlier. It started to drizzle so I returned to the mall and sat in the Orchid Walk.

A young man, probably early twenties and at least partly Filipino, sat down on the bench beside me and asked for a cigarette. He was happily drunk and on the way to getting moreso, taking slugs from a small brown-bagged vodka bottle. I nodded at the bottle and said, "if you can afford to buy that, you can buy cigarettes." His girlfriend had bought him the bottle, he told me, before she'd gone home to Salt Lake. Then he apologized several times for having asked, said he'd never do it again. "I doubt that," I said and laughed, gave him a cigarette and a light. Profuse thanks. Then he dropped the cigarette. It rolled under the bench and he draped himself over my leg to reach the smoke. He was wearing a black tanktop which nicely displayed fine brown arms and shoulders, reminding me of Rocky. He sat back up, took a couple more drags on the cigarette and then said, "kiss me." [!].

So I did. Lucky girlfriend. Such soft lips and such a sweet, tender kiss. And I was thinking, yikes, if one of the Bad Boys came around the corner and saw that, I'd never hear the end of it. I told the lad it was getting late, looked like being a wet night so he should probably go home. Where was home? Salt Lake, too. If I'd had a home, you can bet he would have been invited to share it for the night. The flames of passion have been quenched by Paxil to a barely-burning pilot light, but that kiss did turn up the heat. He dallied for awhile, I again encouraged him to get on a bus. Finally he said, "give me another kiss and I'll go home." I was happy to oblige. Then he stood up, hesitated again. I said, "go home before I try to take off your pants." A big grin in reply, suggesting I wouldn't have had much trouble with that mission. But he staggered off to the bus stop, by this time having ditched the brown bag, just carrying the vodka bottle in his hand. I hope he made it home okay, a very sweet (if totally puzzling) fellow.

I thought of him again on Monday morning. Another young man was sprawled on the sidewalk, on his back, one arm over his eyes. Before my bus arrived he had gotten up, was on his hands and knees throwing up. There but for the grace ....

I'd told myself it was time to shape up, get myself and my belongings cleaned up, stop this eternal procrastinating. So I had an early shower and went directly to the laundromat. The kind of laundry session I most hate, where the backpack has to be emptied and washed, too, since it had gotten very grubby. After that chore, there was only enough money for one beer. Lunchtime or later? Oh to hell with it, lunchtime. Vienna sausage sandwiches, plenty of bread for the usual companions. So I didn't go online until early afternoon, an unusual variation in habit pattern.

It was a Krishna day, so I left in time to get a heaping plate of rather boring food, much of which went to the birds there. Wisconsin was again dishing out the food from the truck. I was about halfway through the meal when Rossini, Angelo and his "little brother", "Jack" arrived (the brother I was not supposed to be allowed to meet).

Jack's going to be eighteen soon, is a little taller than Angelo and very slim. He looks entirely Filipino. If I didn't know his mother is Japanese, I'd never have guessed it. The only thing that suggests he and Angelo are brothers are their beautiful brown eyes. Jack reminds me a lot of the Sleeptalker, not in appearance but in the way he thinks and the things that he worries about. He's very cute and a bit jumpy, hopped up now and then, pulled his tee shirt up to adjust his low-slung white pants which drooped down from about two inches of exposed boxer shorts. He complained that he had lost too much weight while in the juvenile home, wouldn't take off his shirt if girls were around because he's "too skinny". My admiring look should have consoled him a little. He said that with him and C-One (who is indeed very skinny), girls were only interested if they had "blow". In his usage, "blow" is apparently not heroin but includes either ice or crack. I suggested he hadn't found the right women. He said he has the hots for a Hawaiian woman, several years older than him, and she'd told him they had a future together if he straightened himself out and got a job. So he was determined to try the Job Corps but at the same time was certain if he had a "cah" (which he says like a true Cape Codder) he could get laid every night. Funny fellow, utterly concentrated on "blow", women and "cahs".

Rossini gave me money to buy myself a beer, the sweetheart, and added five dollars to get raw tuna for them. I used my foodstamps and pocketed the five, as he no doubt suspected I would do. So I went to the supermarket to do the shopping and when I returned another Filipino, probably early thirties, had joined the table. I vaguely remember having seen him before. He had both a bottle of Mickey's and a big bottle of vodka which he offered around although I was the only one who accepted, Jack being quite impressed by the amount of my "sips". (Okay, I admit, I took a larger one than I would have the last round, just to amuse him.)

Rossini's mother died. A heart attack, and she was only 47, a great shock for him. That inspired chat about life and death. Jack said he almost agreed with people who thought we were dead and this is hell. Angelo asked how that could be, when there are at least some times when life is good. Rossini disagreed, said he really enjoyed living. The newcomer, by that time slurringly sloshed, got all weepy and encouraged Rossini to let his grief out. Angelo said Rossini's mother wouldn't want him to be sitting around all gloomy. Rossini said he'd been very close to her and he missed her but didn't want to sit around mourning her, an outlook I encouraged. Eventually the newcomer said he had to go look for someone but would be back. Rossini said, "we probably won't be here" and I laughed, said the newcomer wasn't likely to be back either. Man could hardly walk already.

Awhile later the three of them got up to leave. I told Angelo about Jack, "bring him back anytime" and got a big grin in reply. I was actually the one responsible for Jack being there, because I'd found a monthly bus pass and had given it to Angelo for his brother. And I was glad I had since Jack is a most welcome addition to the Bad Boys (and quite possibly the baddest of them all). Earlier he had been protesting his innocence in some past squabbles with both his mother and sister. Angelo said to him, "you're no angel, you know." I told Rossini I didn't know which one was the pot calling the kettle black.

Off to my bench then for a fairly dry, balmy night and a most peculiar dream involved with an exhibition by Stankiewicz, his usual sculpture but some wonderfully bizarre paintings, too, which neither he nor anyone else I know has ever painted.

And waking, both Monday and Tuesday mornings, thinking "oh, these local boys."

763

It's official, the Sleeptalker is the craziest of us all (why am I not surprised?). He qualified for a two-year "disability bus pass". Angelo and I only rate six months. We must strive harder to emulate the Sleeptalker.

The official diagnosis in my case is "alcoholic depressive" and of the multiple choice justifications for the pass, the Doc checked inability, without significant difficulty, to "use the City transit bus due to confusion or disorientation". Ha! Not to mention zoning out on one and surfacing to find myself way out in the country somewhere. It strikes me as somewhat illogical to give someone a cheap bus pass if they are unable to use it due to confusion or disorientation, but then there is very little about this entire system which makes real sense. I am, of course, nonetheless quite grateful for it.

The paxification of albert the panther. I'm going to become a walking bag of Paxil. (The thought inspired the internal jukebox to rev up "Yellow Submarine"). Dosage tripled, to sixty milligrams a day. If that doesn't do it, the Doc will throw an additional chemical into the stew since maybe there are "other receptors" which need oiling. I wish I could persuade him to let me trade alcohol for Valium, but not much chance (and probably even less a chance that I'd really abide by the agreement since the combination of those two substances is so delicious).

We talked a bit about "ice". He was amused to hear that I know some of his other patients and enjoyed the tease I'd made about being paid hush money, said maybe you have a career as a DHSS informant. Heh. I told him I thought ice was the main problem with the street boys and he agreed, said he would not even try it once if anyone offered. "I'll try anything once," I said, and admitted I had tried ice three times, was grateful I didn't really like it that much. He said maybe he should insist upon urine tests for his patients. "I think you'd lose some patients," I replied, and he chuckled. He also said he was aware that he had some patients who were using the stuff but weren't admitting it, but that he could tell. I am not surprised. I'm sure I know at least one of those, too.

He went easier than usual on the alcohol lectures this session, but did talk about me finding something to do to earn money. I said the problem was often more a case of sitting on a bench asking myself "what to do, what to do?", never mind making money at it.

A pleasant enough chat and I'll have a double feature next time, first a half hour with him followed immediately by a half-hour with the psychologist. Sigh.

I walked from his office over to the State Library since I'd finished an inconsequential English haunted manor house yarn not worth mentioning and pockets are too empty now even for the fifty-cent cart. Ken Follett's ambitious historical novel, Pillars of the Earth, is off to a promising start.

Then I spent the rest of the day "hanging out" at the mall. Lousy Quarter Hunt, total score of only $1.04, thanks to two strollers and some dropped pennies. Oh well, I had used the last of the foodstamps for coffee on Wednesday morning, so at least I had two mornings worth of McD's senior coffee in pocket and was happy with it the next morning.

Tuesday night had been very wet, rain throughout the night which mercifully stopped just before dawn although it was a very gray morning. I had no idea rats sit up and "wash" their faces with their front paws like a cat. Amazing what such a bit of behavior can do to change one's perception. In addition to the Cat Lady with her morning bucket of something, there is a Rat Man! He comes later than she does, leaves a bit of dried food for both the cats and the rats. Three of the rats came scurrying, sat there nibbling away and making quick movements to shoo off some ringneck doves, then one of them sat up and washed its face. Sweet.

Despite that amusing interlude, I was in a terrible mood on Wednesday morning, for no reason whatsoever. I'd had a decent sleep despite the rain and an interesting dream, once again about art work but this time my own. Damn, if I could make waking-life pictures as good as those were, I wouldn't have to think about doing something to make money. The mood didn't really lift until after the session with the Doc, so maybe it was partly caused by the anticipation of that and relief to have it over with.

There was so much food abandoned at the mall that I had no need to walk over to the park and eat a Krishna platter. One dish was especially tastey, canelloni and boiled potatoes in a yummy sauce. Strange mixture, though. Spaghetti from Patti's Chinese Kitchen sucks rhino, but their pork or beef concoctions are decent enough. I eat far more when I spend a lengthy time at the mall than I do even when the foodstamps balance is at its peak.

Speaking of peaks, my emotional and physical biocycles are now at the top. Hmmmm. I found it much easier to agree with the picture when they were at the bottom. Just call me a cock-eyed pessimist?

764

Sixty milligrams of Paxil plus forty zones of malt liquor equals manic swing. About time, too. Even without the brew, the triple dosage sharply increases those times when I fall into a trance. Poor Gabriella almost got killed because I was sitting there staring at the computer screen but not seeing it or paying attention. Still, she has made it to level 49 so can't complain if her controller zonks out now and then.

I'm very much surprised that when writing about Jack (who has been much in my thoughts since meeting him) I failed to mention the fact that he has AIDS. Well, that's his way of saying it. I think it's more accurate at this point to say he is HIV-positive. Tragic for such a young man. When he was lamenting the fact that it turned off the girls, Rossini and Angelo both said, almost in chorus, "just use a condom". I suspect it would still turn off most women. Not me, though. Maybe that's why Angelo said I couldn't meet Jack. My guess is, he got it from shared needles, but with these local boys, who knows.

I do wish someone would discover a cure for that wretched disease.

Both Thursday and Friday I was only on campus for a couple of hours in the morning. Thursday I took the long bus ride out to the Transit Center again to get my six-month bus pass. Clever set-up they have. You sit in a chair to have your picture taken by a digital camera, the lady having typed in the info on her computer keyboard, and a few minutes later a machine spits out a laminated card. The place must get very crowded on the last day of a month, but there was only one person in front of me so the procedure took far less time than the trip out there.

Then I returned to the mall and spent the rest of the day alternating between wandering around there and sitting in the park reading, a routine followed on Friday as well. Follett's Pillars of the Earth is a most admirable novel, thoroughly engrossing and making life in 12th century England alive and fascinating.

Sister Mercy walked over to my table at one point and asked if I wanted a sandwich. I said, "no thanks, just say a prayer for me." She beamed. Then a Filipino fellow, probably early thirties, came along and sat down. He is married to a Hawaiian woman, has three children. They're in the Philippines and he wants badly to go back there, too, said he just can't find a way to make money in this town. Nice man, I enjoyed our chat.

Friday dinner was from the Krishna folks, better than the last time. Monday's handout will probably be exceptional since they're having a festival at the temple this weekend with a "special love feast" on Sunday, so we'll no doubt get leftovers from that. I'll even think about going to the feast, but probably won't. I just don't feel comfortable thinking of being with a group of strangers, will have to force myself to see "Faust".

A friend is having the same problem. He says he's never experienced this before and is obviously having trouble with it. For me, it has usually been the reverse, the times when I've enjoyed being in a crowd are the exceptions. Unfortunately, his lady friend doesn't sound very sympathetic about it, complains about going out so rarely and when they do, she wants to extend it beyond the point where he's feeling comfortable. Too bad, because she could probably help him even more than the psychiatrist (yes, the same one I see).

Like me, he has less of a problem with places like the mall, despite the crowds, so it's not plain agoraphobia. He has a particular difficulty with restaurants, though, knowing one has to sit through the time it takes to order and eat a meal. I can sympathize with that, too, although I don't have the problem with friends, just have no desire to do it with people I've not met.

I can well imagine, though, how much more difficult it would be if I had a lover who didn't understand. However, I certainly wouldn't mind trying. Hmmmm ... maybe.

765

"You drink gin?" asked the Old Guitarist. "I drink anything with alcohol in it except after shave," I said. He laughed, pulled out a bottle of Gordon's Dry Gin from his backpack and gave it to me, said he just doesn't like the taste of the stuff. And there I had been thinking Sunday would be only a two-Colt day.

On both Saturday and Sunday I only stayed on campus for a couple of hours in the morning, spent most of the time in the park happily lost in the 12th century. I was sorry when the book ended, wish he'd write a sequel. I did finally get back to my long-ago habit of listening to Lasser's hour of theatre music Saturday evening. In the afternoon I'd tuned in for the final broadcast this season from the Metropolitan Opera, said "oh, no" aloud which made some zebra doves give me "what's up" looks. Mozart would have been divine, Verdi or Puccini fine, too, but Berg's Lulu? No, thanks, once was more than enough for me.

The theatre hour was fun, though, songs about the Big City ... that island in New York, of course. Dunno why he didn't include "I'll take Manhattan, the Bronx, and Staten Island, too ...", but enjoyed almost all of what he did play. I was disappointed in one recording by Bobby Short because I used to like him a lot but in that one (a song I didn't know), he sounded terribly affected. Must have been an off-day in the recording session, but somebody should have told him to try again the next day.

After finishing Follett's fine novel, I went on to Edward Stewart's Privileged Lives, a cops and murderers and lawyers tale set among the high life on that New York island. Some of the characters very much remind me of people I knew, especially the artists and art dealers and rich ladies giving dinner parties.

The sky on Sunday remained almost solid gray but there was surprisingly little rain. After my first (stiff) gin and Coke (bleugh mixture but too broke to buy orange juice), I sprawled on the grass and dozed for awhile, then wandered the mall looking at all the cute young men (and there was an abundant supply of them). I think Amadeus has left permanently, though, haven't seen him for a couple of weeks, after having seen him with what may have been his parents. Perhaps he had just been waiting for them to arrive.

Food was unusually scarce but I couldn't face going to the Krishna temple and resisted the temptation to go to IHS. Finally some weird dish from California Pizza Kitchen was abandoned. It was like sloppy ravioli, very spicey. A little later there was the more common white box from Patti's Chinese Kitchen, half full of fried noodles. Not exactly a feast, but sufficient.

Naturally, with that bottle of gin I was fairly sloshed by sunset and went to the bench relatively early. I've switched back to the West Side after doing so to escape the Friday night band at the marina. It is nice to be further from the path so only the loudest of the motormouth walkers are heard in the pre-dawn hour. Dream filled nights since switching to the triple Paxil dose and no doubt inspired by the hour of theatre music and this murder novel, an unusual number of them set in New York City. But there was a sweet one on Sunday night, dreaming of a long hug with Angelo.

766

I finished off the gin at lunchtime, then left campus in early afternoon to go downtown. When I got off the bus, I looked at my watch and it said 4:30. I was surprised it was so late. Doofus! That was the DATE, not the time. Silly cheap watch. The Fabled Pension Check was awaiting me, happily. So off to Waikiki to cash it. Still not having realized I had seen the date and not the time, I thought it would be too late for Krishna food so had a new "Western Cheeseburger" at Jack. I'm not sure what makes it "Western", maybe the little dab of barbecue sauce, but at ninety-nine cents it certainly beats the cheap McD's cheeseburger by a long shot. I had picked up a bottle of Colt on the way, so sat at one of the tables outside enjoying that with the burger.

The Scarecrow walked by, filthy dirty as always, drinking from a large can of Budweiser in a paper bag! He finished it as he strolled back and forth, then went away for a bit. When he wandered back in, I gave him five dollars and told him to get himself another beer. He just stood there looking at the five in his hand, said not a word, and walked away. I saw him cross the street to the 7-Eleven and come out with another large can of Bud. Silly fellow should learn to drink cheap 40oz bottles of brew. Not to mention at least say thank you.

Back to the mall, getting a second bottle (Mickey's that time because the goofy supermarket has raised the price of Colt to $3, a town record). Crossing to the park, I saw people lined up for the Krishna truck, finally looked at the watch again and saw it was only then just past 4:30. Ha!

I finished the Manhattan murder yarn, was listening to "All Things Considered" on the radio when Angelo and Rossini walked over, accompanied by Mondo. Clang, clang, clang goes the trolley ...

I gave Rossini money to buy us a round of beer, said he and Angelo could have cheap forties but Mondo could have whatever he wanted. Rascal asked for Heineken. S'okay, he's worth it. He stayed with me while the other two went shopping. He's going to be a father again, this time a boy, due in August. Evidently neither he nor the mother-to-be have any interest whatever in getting married and it wasn't even clear whether he still sees her. I don't understand why these young women don't use the pill. Twenty-four years old with two children by different women.

Angelo and Rossini returned with the beer just after Mondo had asked to borrow five dollars. Naturally I gave it to him. It's the first time he's ever asked. Later Rossini asked to borrow twenty. I said no. Then ten, please please please. Funny fellow. So I gave him ten. I'll get that back, but I'll be surprised if Mondo even remembers borrowing five. He is undoubtedly the most spaced-out of the Boys.

At one point he scolded me for making some flirtatious remark, very seriously made it clear he wasn't available. Not more than fifteen minutes later, he was flirting away, pulling up his shirt and rubbing his flat brown belly. Fine body, beautiful smiling eyes. Just slightly mad, that's all.

I told Angelo that Jack could earn twenty from me any time, which got a laugh and Rossini asked if Angelo was jealous. I said, "no, Angelo really doesn't want me to suck his dick." Angelo smiled and said, "we're drinking buddies" and reached out to shake my hand.

Once again the subject of getting an apartment together came up, since Rossini soon has to leave where he was living with his mother which now belongs to his stepfather. I said we'd have to tie Angelo up on the fifth of each month, drag him to an ATM and get the rent money before he spent it all.

Angelo and Rossini went off again to spend the borrowed ten on the glass pipe. Mondo was lamenting his inability to drive, said he really wished he could learn how to do it right. I told him the story could make a film, a great car thief who can't drive. He is still living in one of his inherited apartments, said I could always stay there "for a few days" for which I thanked him even though I don't think I could handle being alone with him overnight inside. The others returned, bringing more beer. By that time I'd had enough so soon said goodnight to them and went off to the West Side bench, happy to have had those delightful hours with them. They may indeed be Bad Boys, but they certainly are sweet ones.

767

Oh yes, life is indeed stranger than fiction. Of all the Boys, Rocky is the one I would not have expected to end up being kept. But so it is, he's living with a UH Professor [!] in an apartment in Makaha. Brave man, picking up Rocky on the street. He looks like such a tough guy (and can certainly be one), not someone I'd dare to cruise. They went for a ride in the professor's car and then he asked Rocky to let him have it. Rocky told him it would cost money, the professor said he didn't like paying for sex, but evidently gave in (Rocky didn't say how much). Consequently Rocky moved in with the professor who has bought him membership in a fitness club and seems to be treating him well.

Rocky's nervous about the sex part of it, especially since the professor tries now and then to get Rocky to reciprocate, and he's worried he'll fly off the handle at some point. I told him if he started to feel uncomfortable or unhappy, just leave, don't make trouble. He said he did leave for two weeks but the professor came looking for him and he went back.

An odd and quite surprising development in the saga of the Bad Boys.

Rossini had told me Rocky was working at the World Cafe, a dance club which used to be near enough the hacienda that its thump-thump music sometimes interfered with getting to sleep. It has now moved out of town on the highway to the airport. Rocky said the job was awful and he didn't stick it very long. Like all these fellows, getting a job means losing the Crazy Money (unless it's an off-the-record job). Then they quit and have to start all over again with the application circus. So right now he has no income and is dependent on the professor. I can well imagine how that suits the professor just fine.

I began May Day with the usual couple of hours on campus, then went downhill to check the fifty-cent cart at the bookshop. Graham Greene's Monsignor Quixote was new to me, totally charming and I was only sorry it was so short. Since the weather was fairly uncertain, I returned to campus only to drink a lunchtime brew and read, shared some bread with the birds, and then went to the mall.

I soon finished the book, sitting in the park, and thought I'd check the radio, see what was on. Hmmph, somehow I managed to lose the headphones, probably when unpacking at night and not noticing them fall. What a nuisance. No more radio until Crazy Money Saturday.

The other find at the bookshop was Grisham's Runaway Jury so I started that. It seems as fantastic as most of his books but still makes for pleasant reading. I'd crossed back to the mall for a brew and was halfway through that when I saw Rocky strutting along a path in the distance. That walk of his is unmistakable. A little later he came up from behind me and knocked my backpack off the bench, one of his usual little jokes. No doubt about it, his story was more amusing than Grisham's.

Rocky doesn't believe the tale of Mondo's second baby. He said he's known Mondo a very long time and Mondo has always made up stories which he then starts to believe himself, can't tell the difference between what's real and what's fantasy. Quite possibly so, I'm not sure. I've never noticed major discrepancies in his stories when he repeats them, so if it is fantasy, then he must indeed believe it.

I gave Rocky a five and told him to buy himself some beer. "You're a good man," he said, very happy with the unexpected handout. I teased that next year when the SocSec starts, I'll outbid his professor. "Get an apartment in Waikiki, though," he said with a grin.

An apartment in Waikiki with Rocky naked in bed. Not a bad dream.

768

An odd fate, a man my age who finds himself with a group of young men who become interwoven in his life for over three years, appearing and disappearing, and this week surely is emphasizing that.

I made my usual trip to campus in the morning, had lunch in the secluded grove. I had planned to listen to the Natalie MacMaster concert from outside Andrews Amphitheatre in the evening, but the afternoon soundcheck and rehearsal changed my mind. An hour of that drummer was more than enough.

John Grisham should be credited, I think, with creating a new literary genre, legal fantasy. I've now read almost all his books and Runaway Jury gets my prize for the most unbelievable. That, of course, doesn't stop it from being amusing entertainment.

After the rehearsal I returned to the mall, got a Colt (which the supermarket marked back down to $1.99 with their discount card) and went to the park to continue the tobacco trial fantasy. The Krishna truck arrived so after the line had dwindled, I went to get a plate. Heaping, as usual, and quite tastey but it did give me severe indigestion later which was possibly a blessing in disguise.

I had just gotten up to go for another bottle when Mondo called me. He walked over to the mall with me and as we were crossing back to the park he said, "I miss you." I was touched, of course.

So we sat for about three hours and he talked. It would be a generous estimate to say I understood about a quarter of what he said but it didn't matter, he obviously just wanted someone who would listen as he rambled, thought aloud. He probably doesn't have much opportunity for that because the other Boys aren't as sympathetic or as patient as I am.

He talked about people, family, school friends, as if I knew who they were, when in fact, only his brother is known to me. And he jumped around in such random chronology that it was difficult to figure out whether he was talking about past, and how distant, or present. I wished I'd had a tape recorder, would have liked to transcribe a bit of his monologue to give the sense of what it was like. It's a kind of "craziness" I've never experienced before and it's much stronger when alone with him, something which really hasn't happened very often in our long friendship.

He's weary of being an object of desire, no matter who is doing the desiring. I told him if he'd been born fat and ugly he wouldn't have the problem, but bad luck, he was born handsome, would just have to live with it. And that's the truth.

Once again he asked me, and several times, to go home with him. I said I'd like very much to but I didn't think it was a good idea, tried to find some way to tell him that I just find him too desireable, that it would be a certain torment to sleep alone with him in a room. But I stopped short of saying that quite so plainly. That was the point when I was almost grateful for the uncomfortable physical feeling from that Krishna pig-out. If it hadn't been for that, I probably would have yielded and gone home with him, then would have had to put on a mental straitjacket to make me behave myself.

He's unhappy with the manageress in his building and is thinking of leaving, return to the IHS shelter. Interesting. If he does, I may well go there for the first time since I'd feel more comfortable in his company ... and wouldn't have the temptations which being alone with him inspire.

One peculiar thing (out of many) that he said puzzles me. He complained about local girls who started a relationship okay but then "turned Japanese". I was tempted to ask what he meant by that but by then it was clear he was not really listening to questions and I had stopped trying, just let him ramble on, making a comment now and then.

A sweet, handsome, so very sexy young man with as muddled and confused a mind as I've ever known. But I'm certainly grateful our paths crossed and sometimes join.

769

The Return of the Bad Boys continued full steam on Thursday. I was sitting in the park just before sunset when Rossini, Angelo and Jack arrived. Rossini gave me the ten dollars he owed me. I gave it back to him and told him to buy us a round of beer. So he and Jack went shopping. While they were gone Angelo said Jack had lied, he's sixteen. Angelo agreed with me when I said in many ways Jack reminds me of the Sleeptalker.

They returned with the beer and the usual tub of raw tuna (I say that rather than ahi poke, since I wouldn't have had the faintest idea what poke is before coming here). Jack kept giving me wary looks. I said, "don't worry, I'm harmless, ask Angelo." He laughed and relaxed, got more and more animated with the beer. Then Plato walked over. First time I've seen him since the hacienda days. I shared my beer with him, was happy to see him. He, like Rossini, is a favorite Boy but not an obscure object of desire.

Jack, like the Sleeptalker, dominated the coversation, often jumping up to emphasize a point. He has decided to continue living with his sister and was going back to Waianae High starting on Friday (an odd bit of timing). He said he had to have some "blow" to get hyped enough to survive the first day back at school. So when the beer was finished, they got up to go fill the pipe. Angelo asked if I was coming along. I said no, I'd had enough to drink and was going to make an early night of it. He said he'd see me on Saturday (very doubtful, given that's Crazy Money day).

He'd said earlier that he was going to buy a watch. I asked what he'd done with the expensive one he bought a few months ago. Returned it to the store for a refund. I told him he should go to one of his pawn shop friends, was sure to get a better watch for less money. "It wouldn't be new," he said. Sigh. He's now toying with the idea of getting a security guard job. I can just imagine how long he'd stick with that.

Jack came over to shake my hand in farewell, then stood back and pulled up his tee-shirt giving me a nice full view of his slim, very desirable body. What rascals these Bad Boys are.

They had only been gone for about fifteen minutes when Rocky arrived. He had come to find me to share a joint. What a sweetie. I told him Mondo had said Rocky was getting "big", gesturing with a bodybuilder pose to indicate Mondo was talking about the arms. Rocky was pleased. Although I'd told the other lads I had seen Rocky, I didn't say anything about his professor friend to them. He'll probably tell them, but I'd rather leave the choice and the version of the story to him.

He only stayed long enough to finish the smoke and had me fearing for his life when he jumped down into the canal and crossed directly through it and over the highway to the mall, cars whizzing by. He gave a big wave when he reached the other side. All I had in my mind was that chicken I saw get run over and Mondo having told me his brother is in a cast after having gotten hit by a car. Whew.

It was a thoroughly wet night but at least not overly windy. When I got to McD's in the morning there was a sign announcing store hours are now 9AM-9PM. Sheez, what idiots. The nearby Subway should open an hour earlier instead of waiting until seven, would no doubt pick up all the early McD's gang. Instead, the supermarket is getting the business. But, alas, it too doesn't open until seven on weekends.

It's always something ...

770

Aside from the magical times with the Sleeptalker, the first Friday and weekend of May was the most delightful time I've yet had with the Bad Boys. It cost me a lot, but there's one thing that I've got, it's my boys ...

I was sitting in the park reading on Friday afternoon, then went over to have a shower. A young Japanese tourist was in the shower and gave me a big smile when I walked in, then promptly got a "throbbing erection". Nicely equipped, too, especially for a Japanese. He must have been in his late teens, had one of those brush haircuts which stand straight up, very cute indeed. I was quite happy to take care of him, but he wanted to reciprocate. Sheez, I never expected to have such things happen in my old age. A rather hunky blonde came in, interrupting our fun. We went out to dry off, but the blonde was obviously wanting to play, too, and the Japanese lad looked longingly at him. I grinned and gestured that he should go back in there. He did and immediately started serving the blonde, who had the same surprised look on his face I'd probably had on mine. He pointed down at the lad and beckoned me in. Wow, first time I've been involved in a threesome in many years. Venus in Aries finally starts to live up to the promise Cainer has been claiming for her.

The blonde interrupted, said he had to go. The Japanese lad didn't want to stop, the blonde laughed and said, "down boy". As he was leaving, I said I don't know what else better you could have to do. After he left, I finished off the lad. Sweet, sweet Fountain of Youth.

I was back at the picnic table feeling somewhat dazed by it all when Angelo walked over. Okay, I promised it would be a "secret" so I won't write about what happened next. At last!

We had returned to the table when Rossini arrived. Angelo said they should get a hotel room in Waikiki when the Crazy Money arrived at midnight, called Jack [who I've re-named rather than using his real initials as I began] and told him to join us, then asked me to as well. A night with Jack!? You better believe it. And I was quite touched by my first invitation to one of Angelo's Crazy Money Hotel Bashes.

Jack arrived, we drank a second round of beer and then headed to Waikiki, waited around until the Crazy Money arrived and got a room on the 28th floor of the Maile Sky Court. Beautiful view, decent room, large bathroom. They left, took a cab to do glass-pipe shopping and I had a luxurious hot shower while they were away. Back they came with the little plastic bags and a twelve-pack of Bud.

Round went the pipe, each of them coaching me how to improve my technique. An ice pipe is very different from a hashish pipe and the best results seem to come from taking a series of gentle, brief puffs until the lungs are filled and then letting it slowly out the nose. Jack said "if you hold it in too long, it will make a hole in your heart" [!], Rossini blamed the sweating on holding it in too long. That may well be, because as the last time, I quickly started dripping sweat.

Rossini paid for a bunch of short porn films on the hotel television network. Really junk stuff, no attempt at a story, just one scene after another of a man and a woman rather frantically going at it. Not a one of the men was in the least bit interesting despite some rather huge equipment and the soundtracks were horrendous. Rossini and Jack had the two beds, I settled on the floor beside the teevee, enjoying the view of shirtless Jack far more than anything on that picture box. He has such a splendid body. Not as cute a face as the Sleeptalker, but a better body, indeed the best of the Bad Boys. Being sixteen doesn't hurt, of course.

In between beers, Rossini went for another twelve-pack and then the pipe was passed again, while women on the teevee kept moaning "yes, yes, oh god, yes" ad infinitum. I finally asked Rossini if he could turn the sound down a bit. Next morning I asked, "tell me, did you once get a hard-on during the movies" and he admitted he hadn't. Ha!.

We finally settled down although I doubt anyone really slept very much. I certainly didn't. The cloud which lingered over the entire adventure was a quite unpleasant physical discomfort, the result of eating the Krishna food in the afternoon. As has happened before, it produced a nasty mix of gas and indigestion. That was bad enough, but by noon on Saturday it had switched to the runs. Never mind Montezuma's Revenge, Krishna's Revenge is fierce.

I was running to the bathroom so often, I called Helen R and told her I just couldn't make it to "Faust I". Ridiculous to eagerly anticipate something for almost a year and then be defeated by body malfunction.

By mid-morning on Saturday, they were ready to go pipe shopping again. First we negotiated over staying another night. I agreed to throw in a twenty and another for smoke. Jack was going to contribute, too, but he wanted to invite some "chicks" from Waianae to the party. Big time negotiating between him and Angelo who unsurprisingly knew I wouldn't be too keen on that notion and I don't think he was either. Rossini was in for the same as me, either way. I said I didn't mind if they wanted the mixed party, but I wouldn't stay. Jack said he wouldn't contribute to the rent if the chicks couldn't come but would go home instead. Angelo, Rossini and I agreed to split the rent three-ways then. They left to shop again, must have taken a cab since they were back so soon.

As I expected, Jack did not go home. I didn't think he'd pass up some more rounds of that pipe (and two more twelve-packs which I picked up while they were gone). The first round of the pipe when they returned was really the first time I've experienced the "high" of ice. It was almost like the acid take-off, rocket zoom. It caught me so by surprise, I was shocked ... delightfully so, but also feeling a bit seasick from the jolt. That quickly passed and they were all chuckling over my reaction.

Sitting there zonked, loving the view of that beautiful brown body, so happy he ditched the shirt each time he came in ... and the shoes. Sweet feet, too. Angelo was enjoying my reaction to little brother, kept grinning at me. I said to Jack, "I'll give you twenty dollars if you let me watch you take a shower." The first reaction was just "no". After another round of the pipe, he grinned and said "does the offer still stand?" I said yes. "You might not like what you see." I said, "then I'll ask for a refund." He laughed and said, "no refunds." Then dropped the subject for a bit.

Another round, then came the conditions. No touching. Heh. The shower was in a bathtub, cabinet with washbasin at the foot. I said I'd sit on that and he could leave the end of the shower curtain open. The door had to stay open, too. Okay. You can't jag-off. Okay. Twenty dollars and a pack of cigarettes. Okay.

How sweet it was. He really thought I am crazy when I told him next morning I'd enjoyed that more than the pipe.

After the shower party, he asked if he could stay after all. I said I didn't mind, but since I'd helped with the rent, I got his bed this time. Rascal punished me by settling on the floor on the other side of Rossini, so I couldn't even see him, but several times during the night got up to sit in a chair, drink more beer and smoke a cigarette, coming over to get my lighter each time and giving me one of his beautiful smiles. What a flirt.

Meanwhile, I was having to get up at least once every half hour to head to the bathroom. I don't think I'll ever eat that Krishna food again. It finally stopped late on Sunday but too late to make it to "Faust II". My mistake, I should not have waited until the final performances.

Sunday morning. Once again, only short naps in lieu of sleep. They wanted to go pipe-shopping yet again since we didn't have to leave the hotel until noon. Sigh. Okay, another twenty contribution. Off they went, returned to pass the pipe. Sheez, what a zoom once again, no matter life was starting to feel a bit ragged around the edges. For them, too, I guess, since at check-out time they decided it was crash-at-home next. I thanked them all for a wonderful time and took the bus to the park, slept a few hours on a bench before getting something to eat (for the first time since Friday afternoon's unfortunate meal).

Alas, Angelo and Jack are leaving this Friday for Kauai. Jack will only be there for the weekend because of school, but Angelo plans to stay until June Crazy Money arrives and it's unlikely Jack will come into town without him. Of course, the last time Angelo left for a month of Kauai he got so bored he returned in a week.

And given how intense an experience it has been with those two delightful brothers recently, a little break is probably not a bad idea at all. Intense and quite exhausting, but I surely am grateful the maps of Karma had us on the same path this lifetime.

771

Sitting in a bar at the airport, sounds from the past on the muzak. Can't buy me love, money can't buy me love ...

"The Beatles?" asked Angelo.
"Yes, about '63 or '64, I think."
Big grin. "But money can buy you sex."
Rascal!
"Money can buy you sex but the Beatles were right, it can't buy you love."

I was in the park late afternoon on Monday when Angelo walked over. He had changed his mind, was leaving for Kauai in the evening. He said he needed some beer so we walked to the mall and I got two forties and a tub of his beloved fish, returned to the park.

Most of the talk was, of course, about the Ice Follies weekend. Angelo said his brother hadn't had much to say about it but he thinks I'm crazy. Join the crowd. If I had met an old man when I was sixteen and he gave me twenty dollars just to watch me shower, I would've thought he was crazy, too.

Angelo wanted me to go to the airport with him. I agreed, if I got a farewell hug. "You'll have to hug me," he said. Heh. He had planned to get an earlier flight than he eventually took because we lingered over the beer. He admitted he was very nervous about going home, seeing his mother, making me remember the last time I was making such a trip. I had too much Valium in me to get nervous but was still dreading it.

Finally we got on the bus, arrived at the airport to discover a flight to Kauai had left a few minutes before so it would be almost an hour before the next one. So I offered to buy him another beer and it was much fun sitting in that bar with him, songs from my life when I was the same age as he is playing in the background. He does have the most beautiful brown eyes.

As flight time approached, I walked with him to the gate and before he boarded, I got that hug. You got to have a dream, if you don't have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true ...

I am going to miss him. He's already planning the June Follies, said he'd bring his brother along. I told him that would be fun but he doesn't have to, I'm quite content with his company. I don't want to get caught in sibling rivalry or have Angelo think I'm only with him so I can be with Jack. But yes, I wouldn't mind at all an encore of that shower show and I have a suspicion somewhere down the road it will be more than that, too. The standard these days seems to be a two-year courtship. Sigh.

Back at the park, someone had taken the West Side bench so I went to the East Side. Damn, they've altered the irrigation system so I was awakened early Tuesday morning by what I thought was heavy rain hitting the tarp. Caught between two sprinklers. I escaped without getting drenched, went to the main park and napped a little longer on a picnic table bench. The population on the lawn has increased again, strange during this week when the police are everywhere.

The "disruption" expected from the Asian Development Bank has all, no surprise, been caused by the police. I've passed the convention center several times and not once have I seen even ONE demonstrator, much less a mob of them. But the police have closed almost half the beach park, using it for their troop gathering, and they hang around there all day waiting for the riot which doesn't seem very likely to happen (nor did it ever). So far at least the police are not hassling the homeless, probably have instructions to lay off this week since the politicians swore the new laws were not aimed at us.

Ice does produce the worst hangover of any drug I know, far worse and longer-lasting than anything alcohol can do, even harder than getting off heroin (at least after a fairly brief time with that substance). Sunday evening I wouldn't have minded at all if I'd just died, anything to escape that horrible feeling. Little wonder people so often yield and light the pipe again. And I was still far from back to "normal" on Tuesday, ended up spending the entire day in the park, sleeping most of the time, not in the least inclined to make my usual trip to campus.

But it isn't as bad this time as it was after that extravaganza with the Sleeptalker because there isn't all the guilt to wrestle with. Angelo doesn't share the Sleeptalker's afterwards-angst, Jack is probably happily boasting to all his buddies about what an easy twenty bucks he picked up, and Rossini just smiles on like a happy Buddha letting folks get on with their own dances.

No, money can't buy you love but it surely can buy you some happy hours and treasured memories.

772

I saw Mondo sitting in the mall on Wednesday but didn't go over to him. I needed more recovery time. Although I can't define the why or how, at least yet, there is the feeling that the weekend marked the transition into some new phase of this adventure. I'm still physically exhausted from the Ice Follies and my mind is in a whirl, not time yet for another dance with the Bad Boys.

But I would have, had it been Angelo. Once I began to collect key excerpts from the Tales about him, as with the Sleeptalker, but I didn't get very far with it. While thoughts of Jack dominated on Tuesday, the mind shifted to Angelo on Wednesday and I realized it has finally happened, despite two years of resisting it. I've loved him all along but have rarely given in to thoughts of desiring him, a process made easier by having been so smitten with the Sleeptalker. But I guess it has happened, Angelo has captured the crown or is at least co-ruler.

He's such a sweet, funny fellow. I miss him badly already.

After a couple of hours on campus I went to the State Library to check the freebie collection, was happy to see another Ken Follett book, The Third Twin, in the batch. No one can accuse Follett of lack of versatility. This book couldn't be more different than Pillars of the Earth. Back at the park, I had a beer and some cheese with rolls. The internal plumbing is still not entirely back to normal so I've been trying to be quite careful with what I eat. By the time the beer was finished I was about to fall off the bench with drowsiness, so lay down and slept awhile, woke up, had another beer, and went back to sleep.

At last, some demonstrators outside the convention center. When I passed by it seemed to be all Hawaiian Sovereignty groups although what the Asian Development Bank has to do with them, I don't know. I guess they decided to take advantage of the assured press coverage. Whether the crowd of protestors grew, I didn't want to see, but out came the police helicopters, making an infernal racket as two of them hovered over the intersections, and then four cops on huge horses went clopping past my table. I'll surely be glad when those bankers pack up on Friday and go away. And I pray the World Bank never thinks of meeting here.

There was an article in the day's paper about the increase in ice and heroin usage on the Big Island. Young people there are using heroin to combat the aftermath of an ice binge. Not a bad idea, although Valium would suffice. Better living through chemistry. Since I don't have either, I have to make do with beer and sleep, which pretty much sums up what Wednesday was like.

And woven through both waking and sleeping moments were thoughts of Angelo, of the times we've had together ... and the hope there will be many more.

773

Beer and sleep, more beer and more sleep ... and a bit of cannabis sativa doesn't hurt, either. Looks to me like I have to accept that one round of that glass pipe equals for me one day of recovery time. So Thursday passed by in cycles of drinking and napping. Then, sitting in the park with my sunset brew, Rocky came to look for me.

He offered me a hit from his smoke but it was so short that I didn't want to deprive him. "Go ahead," he said, "I've got another one." And that soon came out as he handed it to me to light. Nice weed they grow on the Big Island, very nice.

Of course, Rocky wanted to hear all the details of the Ice Follies party and I told him most of them. He would have enjoyed the shower story but I wasn't sure Jack would like me telling the others so didn't mention it, although I did tell him how Jack was so much like the Sleeptalker and admitted to having a heavy crush on him.

Rocky hadn't been "home" in four days, he said, and then laughed, "look, I'm calling it home already."

He was "starving" so I offered to buy him dinner from the supermarket. I do enjoy walking into those places with one of the boys and saying, "you can have anything you want." I got myself another beer and one for him, then we went back to the park. He got up after awhile to take a leak against a tree. I told him, "hey, turn this way." He laughed and when he finished pissing turned around and gave me a look at it before putting it away. Lordy that boy is hung. I tend to think my memory is exaggerating but it isn't. And that little peep show got repeated later. Rocky made it quite clear that he's mine for the asking, just got to put the money in his paw. Maybe next month I'll finally take him up on it.

Most of our talk was, oddly enough, about New York City. He's fascinated by thoughts of the place and asked dozens of questions. I told him if I had the money I'd take him there for a visit, just for the fun of watching his reactions.

He left at about nine o'clock, planning to return to Makaha. I hope he didn't arrive to find the professor had gotten a replacement during his absence. And I went to my bench and settled for the night, surprised to so quickly fall asleep after having napped so much during the day. Not only did I sleep well, but I woke about 5:30, folded up my tarp and put it away, lay back down and promptly fell asleep for another hour. Then I walked over to the main park and parked on a picnic table bench and slept yet another hour. Most unusual.

I had no desire to go to campus so spent the day in the park, another day of beer and sleep. This time it was Rossini who came looking for me in the late afternoon, bringing Plato along. Rossini brought me a beer and gave me the ten dollars he had borrowed from me to pay for his porn movies. I asked him if he'd thought it was worth it. "I don't now," he said, "but I did at the time." His uncle runs a construction company and has signed Rossini on for a two-month job, starting Monday. He'll be making twenty-five an hour so will have a nice little stash if he sticks it out for the two months. Since he'll have to get up at five it will certainly put the damper on his party life, though. I felt selfishly happy about it since it means I'll probably get to spend more time with Angelo on his own. For months now, he has always been with Rossini each time I've seen him.

Rossini and Plato went on their way at sunset. I went to get a sandwich and another brew, went to my night-time bench and watched the late surfers, listened to the radio for awhile. Earlier I had been delighted when they played Rimsky-Korsakov's "Sadko", wished it had been the opera instead of just the orchestral piece but loved hearing it again anyway.

Praise be, it was the last day of the Asian Development Bank conference. The police in their confounded helicopters were hovering overhead for hours making a beastly racket. Someone had discarded the ADB's annual report on India, a handsome quarter-inch volume. I glanced through it, read bits which I thought most likely to include objectionable stuff but didn't see any. I can understand how a leader in India might well be annoyed by strangers taking such a hard look at the country's current status and putting forth solid recommendations. But it's such a small, crowded planet and whatever the seventh largest country with the second largest population does can't help but affect us all. Those who are objecting to the ADB seem misguided, to me. Maybe they make mistakes and maybe it's wrong to use financial power as leverage but it still seems better than doing nothing or letting local politicians do what they will without regard for the global consequences.

But I surely am glad to see them pack up and leave this sleepy town in peace.

As for my own sleepiness, I wouldn't mind at all settling down to sleep and waking up two weeks from now.

774

No celebration of Egbert's birthday this year ? I thought it was around this time of the year. Are you beginning a post-Egbert life ?

Ha! That'll be the day I die, as the song said. The Dutchman's birthday was the sixth and I thought seeing "Faust II" would be the perfect way to celebrate it. I'm sure he'd agree, though, that the Ice Follies was an even more appropriate birthday party, never mind the week-long hangover.

Alas, the second weekend of May wasn't even close to being as delightful as the first. The weather, at least, was fine and I still had beer money on Saturday so after a brief time online in the morning I spent the rest of the day in the park. I listened to the first act of "Rigoletto" done by the Chicago Lyric Opera but found the tenor so annoying I gave it up, later listened to Prairie Home Companion. They've now scheduled an hour of Celtic music between that and Michael Lasser's theatre hour, making for three hours of most enjoyable entertainment. Lasser's theme was songs about immigrants and should have included Dylan's "I Pity the Poor Immigrant", even if it's not a theatre song. It did include two wonderful tracks by Nora Bayes that I've never heard before. I'd be more than happy to hear an entire hour devoted to her.

I slept till almost seven o'clock on Sunday morning so didn't have to repeat Saturday morning's trek to 7-Eleven for coffee since the supermarket was open. Once again there was no desire to get online so I stayed in the park. Empty pockets but I didn't feel like quarter hunting although I returned one cart which happened to be in my path. There were two old guys drinking at lunchtime, one left and the other staggered over to my table, wished me happy Mother's Day. He was incredibly drunk, could barely walk ... or talk. But he did manage to explain that we should all be celebrating Mother's Day because of the Mother of God. Then he got up and wobbled away, leaving half a bottle of vodka behind. I think he was too drunk to even realize he'd left it. I watched until he got on a bus and then went to the supermarket for tomato juice, drank Bloody Mary's for the rest of the day, saluting mothers everywhere, of gods or demons or in between.

A reader asked: I read somewhere yesterday that what is in a backpack besides what's needed for the basic necessities of life (but then what are the basic necessities of life ? I remember your friend in India with toilet paper in his packpack) is the reflection of the person's soul. So, what is it in your case ?.

Well, let's see. It usually has the tarp, a sweatshirt and socks for sleeping. A paperback book or two. Radio, battery razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, rarely-used plastic teeth, assorted pens, bottle opener, cigarette lighters, a plastic bag of so-called vital documents (birth certificate, expired passport, Army service records and welfare junk). Aspirin, Vitamin and Paxil tubs. Little Swiss Army knife. Reading glasses. Right now it still has some vodka but that's unusual, and a couple of "Power Bars".

Hmmmm, my soul's reflection is pretty basic stuff. The book titles would give some indication of its current condition, I guess. Only one at the moment, Rosamunde Pilcher's The Shell Seekers.

... what is it you kept somewhere when you left your home ? (I don't mean in detail, I'm not THAT nosy, believe it or not - just a general idea).

I packed a box with enough office-suitable clothes (and shoes) that I could, if I had changed my mind, get a temporary office job. I tried wearing the shoes after the hospital stay but couldn't stand them; otherwise nothing in the box has been worn in three and a half years except for a pair of trousers I put on while current stuff was in the washing machine.

There are a few "treasures" in the box, too. The India Notebooks, a few objects of sentimental value like the bronze bell from Frances, a little figure of Ganesh, some photographs (including the ones which appear in the Tales), a few computer discs, a photo of Harold Kama in an enameled India frame. Not in the box, but left with Mme. DeCrecy, too, is the set of Dada News, some CDs and cassettes.

Some of those things, especially the photographs, have spent more time in such a "stash box" than they have out of one. Had it not been for the fire at the Chelsea Hotel which destroyed my two trunks, I'd probably be lugging around and stashing even more stuff.

The reader also recently wondered if it would not be possible to live the way I am doing even if I did have an apartment. Yes, theoretically it would physically be possible although I know myself well enough to strongly suspect I would not. The temptation to just stay in bed and read would be too great, I'd never spend days in the park and would thus miss all the "chance" encounters.

But even more importantly, the state of mind would be different and thus the way I relate to my fellow nomads. (And at this point, I'd obviously end up with some roommates, too, especially Angelo.) Well, we shall see if I survive until this time next year just how different life will be, since after a couple of months of outrageous partying, I'll no doubt end up with at least a room somewhere. And a roommate ...

I miss Angelo even more than I thought I would. I might not have seen him for a week even if he was on the island, of course, but at least there was always the chance he might come walking along, looking for me in the park, and the absence of that chance is much missed. I'm a little surprised to find myself missing him more than even the Sleeptalker.

And now the dark side of the Ice Follies method ... two penniless weeks to plod through. Sigh.

775

Angelo is back already, as usual having quickly become bored with life on Kauai. He and Rossini came to the park at sunset on Wednesday. The Ice Cream Lad had stopped to talk just before the others arrived. He gets that title because he carries around a cooler with a huge block of ice cream and sells cones to the tourists. I hadn't seen him in months although he used to play Seventh Circle and wanted to hear all the news. He said he didn't believe Angelo had gone to Kauai so I told him I'd watched as he walked through the boarding gate, but neither of us were much surprised when Angelo appeared.

Angelo was in one of his grumpy moods, no doubt partly because of the two-week drought we both face, but I was happy to see him even so.

I didn't go to campus on Tuesday or Wednesday, stayed in the park instead. There is a definite manic tendency to this high dose of Paxil, making me slightly hyper and little inclined to do much of anything.

I think I need to amend that saying, "when a guru is needed, a guru appears" to "when a Bad Boy is needed, a Bad Boy appears", although perhaps they are gurus, too. A new one on Tuesday, that magic combination of half-Filipino, half-Japanese, born in the Phillipines but raised in Japan although his American English has no trace of an accent. He's seventeen and like Angelo's sweet little brother goes by initials. JD.

And he is quite simply the cutest Bad Boy yet, absolutely adorable. Talk about love at first sight ... I was head over heels within a minute. Alas, I may never see him again because he was planning to enlist in the Army the next day, but it certainly was a most delightful evening. We walked over to the supermarket and I bought him some food since he hadn't eaten all day, then returned to the park and talked until quite late. He even walked out and sprawled beside me on the tarp. I wasn't sure if he was inviting or expecting more, but I just kept my hand on his shoulder. After awhile he jumped up, said he was going to look for his "boy Lewis" and wandered off, saying "thanks for everything." Such a sweetheart.

I fell asleep on Wednesday morning and was consequently a few minutes late for the psychiatrist. I think he's given up on me, didn't even set another appointment. The half hour afterwards with the psychologist was more pleasant and I talked more about the Boys than I have up to now. He said he felt they were failing with the young street people, and I couldn't disagree judged by what I see and hear. But as I told him, they just can't spend the amount of time with these guys, really needed to discover their stories and their concerns. He said, "it's a shame you don't get paid for it." Ha! But I do get paid, just not in cash. "They're the most important thing in my life," I said. He did set an appointment for mid-June so at least the Crazy Money remains whether the psychiatrist has given up or not. I suppose he'll expect me to make an appointment when the Paxil runs out, but I'm not sure I want to go on taking the stuff, am still debating it.

A mixed bag, this week. The joy of meeting JD and the fun of listening to him, the pleasure of having Angelo back on the island certainly the highs, the psychiatrist and empty pockets the lows ... ups and downs, downs and ups. And the painted ponies go round and round.

776

I have been wondering for some time about your relation with Angelo.

Welcome to the club, gentle reader. Me, too, and I am quite sure he does as well. There is much about it which is a complete mystery to me.

Didn't he tell you more things about himself than the Sleeptalker did, so that you felt more useful to him ? Or was it the other way round, the Sleeptalker telling you more ? Not always clear from the Tales.

The Tales are misleading in this case. I know far more about the Sleeptalker. Angelo is very reserved, rarely talks about his childhood or admits to current worries aside from lack of money. The Sleeptalker, though, has told me many things that I felt were too intimate and personal to write about. I would see it as a betrayal of trust. And, of course, some of it really could not be of any great interest to anyone but the two of us.

More precisely, from the time when I read the Tales about the period when the Sleeptalker stayed away two months, being at home. I wondered whether you had a closer relationship with Angelo at that time because the Sleeptalker wasn't here and "you needed someone to need you" or whether it was more Angelo trying to have a closer relationship with you and see if he could hold your interest as much as the Sleeptalker did.

As I've said in the past, all the Boys regard the Sleeptalker as the standard setter, so I think it very likely that Angelo did, consciously or not, try to replace the Sleeptalker. During the time the Sleeptalker was in Waianae and I was spending a great deal of time with Angelo, we went through that very funny phase when he was outrageously flirting with me while at the same time saying it would never happen. I remember the time he said, "I must stop this" and a few minutes later went right back to the flirting. He was so good at it that I began to desire his body even though I hadn't in the beginning. Why he so unexpectedly changed his mind about "never happen" is the greatest mystery of all.

As I've also explained, except for Mondo who is more often than not happy with just his own company, all the Boys strongly prefer to pair up into buddy teams. They tend to drift from one pairing to another. I was the natural replacement for the Sleeptalker in Angelo's case. But when we lost our favorite group sleeping place, Angelo began to spend more time with Rossini. Now he seems to have returned, alas, to RedEye.

Thursday was one of those days when I spoke to no one except for a few words to shopclerks, but I was sitting outside the supermarket with my morning coffee on Friday when Angelo and RedEye arrived. They had spent the night in town, sleeping "in three different places". I was glad Angelo hadn't come looking for me the evening before, that he remembers my refusal to hang out with RedEye. I wouldn't care to go through that dispute again, it having been the closest we've ever come to a real argument. "Everyone needs a friend," as Angelo said, but I'm just not willing to take on RedEye, even to spend time with Angelo.

Angelo wanted to call Rossini, whose job it turns out will not begin until June first. I encouraged him to wait until eight o'clock at least and he did, but Rossini was still sleeping. So Angelo decided he'd go home to shower and eat, said he'd be back in the afternoon. I guess Rossini didn't want to come into town, though, because Angelo hasn't been seen since those morning hours.

Most unusually, Rossini came alone to the park looking for me on Saturday, bringing a beer. It finally gave me the chance to ask about the voices he hears, because I haven't wanted to talk to him about them in front of the others. He doesn't know who the voices belong to but said he hears them very clearly and that they want to kill him! Shudder. So long as he takes whatever drug it is (I didn't ask), they don't bother him, but if he skips even one day they return, particularly if he has been smoking the glass pipe.

Later we were joined by Lord and Lady Moana, as I call them. They've lived in the park for months. Both are in their late 40s or early 50s, I'd guess, at least part Hawaiian and look well battle-scarred and tough but are actually quite gentle despite the appearance and the crudity of their way of talking. She has five children and one of her daughters later came along with a friend I thought was a guy but wasn't. Definitely fooled me. A handsome Japanese fellow, shirtless, then joined us and grumbled at me for staring at his body. Lady Moana thought that very funny and scolded him, asked how he'd feel if every time he stared at a chick's tits he'd have to worry about her punching him out.

Rossini and I walked over to the mall and he gave me cash in exchange for using foodstamps for food, so I got myself another beer as did he. That crazy old drunk had left a quarter bottle of vodka behind again but I was much happier to have beer, gave the vodka to Lord Moana when we returned to the park. A most enjoyable evening, but I surely was sorry to hear from Lady Moana that JD did, indeed, join the Army (even if I had encouraged him to go for it).

This role of Father Confessor is not, however, always such a pleasure. I got stuck with young Chuck on Sunday afternoon. He's a mix of Hawaiian, Filipino and probably a few others, a real poi dog as they call mongrels here. Not at all cute but sweet in the way that C-Two is. Unfortunately he'd had a big punch-up with his lady friend the night before, with her doing all the punching, then telling him to get out of the house. And he rambled on at great length about it, speaking as he always does in heavier pidgin than the other boys use (at least when with me) and not managing to utter a single sentence without "fucking" in it. I was much relieved when Lord Moana came over and joined us, so I could just sit back and let them grumble about women troubles together. (Lord and Lady M sometimes have ferocious verbal fights.)

I'd found enough quarters for a beer, despite heavy competition from the Mongoose, and when I finished that I told the guys I was going back to the quarter hunt since I only needed two more for a sunset brew. After finding them I went to a different part of the park to escape both the gentlemen with the lady problems and the noisey, huge picnic being held by the Carpenters Union.

I've been troubled in the past few days by morning shakiness, so bad on Friday that Angelo was much amused by the difficulty I had even getting a cigarette lit. Delirium tremens I wondered? So when I finally went to campus on Sunday morning, I looked around for references on the Web. Although the symptoms match, it supposedly shouldn't start until after a heavy period of drinking followed by two or three days of none. And I wondered why the psychiatrist has been trying to get me to stop drinking altogether without any suggestion of detox treatment since several sources said there is a 20 percent chance of death from untreated DTs! I think I'll do my best to get at least a beer a day because it sounds like an extremely unpleasant way to go ... and I would have thought the doc might better have suggested a gradual tapering off.

Whatever it is, the shaking stops as soon as a little alcohol is ingested, even a shot's worth of vodka. One article suggested taking magnesium supplements so I got some, started taking them on Sunday and wasn't as badly affected Monday morning. Whether that's because of the magnesium or (more likely) having had only beer and no vodka on Sunday, I don't know.

Back to the subject of the Tales, the reader asks: - why do you index your Tales with numbers and not with dates (as in the Indian notebooks) ? Do you have the dates somewhere, which enables you to read entries from one year back, for example, or do you find them easily enough ?

When I began writing I was thinking in terms of stories, not a day-to-day diary, had in mind the 1001 Tales of the Arabian Nights. And it was also not in any way important to me to place things by exact dates. The titles given to groupings of the Tales often point to the approximate dates, though, and I find it fairly easy to find, let's say, the Tales from a year or two ago from this same time, the end of Taurus.

This May has been quite different, though. I've skipped an unprecedented number of days (aside from the hospital adventure) without writing or even getting online. Whether this is a growing tendency or just late spring fever remains to be seen ...

777

Seven-seven-seven. Wave to Aleister.

One of the things I learned from Little Brother is that current teenage slang for a cop is "popo". A Motorcycle Popo Gang arrived at the park early on Tuesday morning, parked their bikes in a line, three of them riding down to the trees where they made the sleeping people get up (including Lord and Lady Moana). Ah, it was the annual JPO Field Day. Junior Popo Officers. That was an instant reminder of KM2, since he was a JPO. And it was amusing to realize I hadn't thought of him for quite some time although there were months when hardly an hour, certainly never a day, went by without thinking of him. I wonder if I'll reach the point where I can go a week without thinking of the Sleeptalker? Probably not, and certainly not if I keep hanging out with the Boys, who never fail to talk about him.

There may be more to his current story than we've yet heard. I met a fellow named Mark on Monday who has just left the place where the Sleeptalker is. It is indeed a Christian organization but is linked to the parole system and going through their rehab program is a requirement for parole. Mark hated the place, was very happy to be free of it, and is already back to the glass pipe. He offered to share but had so little left that I thanked him and said he should keep it for himself. He's 41, a very handsome fellow, as I told him eventually. Originally from Ohio, he has been here since the mid-80s and evidently has spent a large part of the time in one jail or another. Very nice man, though, another welcome addition to the drinking buddy list.

Less so is Gabby, a grizzled bearded guy who is 58 but looks older. He wobbled over to my table later on Monday, was wearing one shoe and one slipper, asked if I had seen the other shoe anywhere. No, I hadn't. He is a total amateur at Honolulu street life, didn't say exactly how long he has been here but he seems likely to be a fairly recent arrival. I explained about IHS to him, told him he could certainly get foodstamps and probably Crazy Money, but sorry, I know nothing much about what the Veterans Administration would do. And especially in his case because he got a less-than-honorable discharge after killing a Korean woman. He came around again on Tuesday, asked again how to get to IHS. He was planning to walk there, which is quite a hike, especially for someone as drunk and staggering as he was. He has an annoying attitude of know-it-all when in fact he knows almost nothing. I won't mind at all if I never see him again.

Lord Moana is 38, he told me on Tuesday, but he looks at least ten years older. He has been on the street since he was ten. Since that evening with Rossini, him and his lady, he has come over each day to say hello at least once. He's always shirtless, very very dark brown and with quite a nice, muscular body, but such a rough-looking face. He calls me either Smiley or Uncle, and is another welcome addition to the drinking buddy group as well as providing the comforting feeling of knowing he would step in if some loony came around trying to cause trouble.

There is certainly one of those currently living in a toilet/changing room building, although he doesn't seem dangerous despite having an awesome machete on the bench beside him. His upper body, at least, is covered with very colorful tattoos. Although he chattered away to me when I went to use the toilet in the pre-dawn hour, I could understand very little of what he was saying. Fearsome looking fellow, but I think probably harmless.

I stayed in the park all day on Tuesday, deciding to skip online life again. I planned to have an early shower but the Popo Mob made me nervous so I decided to walk to the shower at the other end of the park. As I was about to set out, I ran into Mme. DeCrecy who had just finished her early morning swim. She chided me for caring more about my park buddies than my online friends but of course she knows that's nonsense. Let's face it, being in actual contact with good company is a hell of a lot better than virtual contact. I'm reminded of a sci-fi story set in a society where physical meetings were utterly taboo, all contact was via computer (prophetic, since the story was written long before "internet" existed). Give me the old-fashioned hug or handshake, please.

But a little of the online life, too, of course. Lady Gabriella has climbed to level 58 now and was finally inducted into the Guild of Druids, a process delayed because there has been a still-unresolved squabble over the leadership. I wish more of the Boys who used to frequently play (including Rossini) would return and, oh yes, most of all the Sleeptalker. Any contact with him, in person or electronically, would be more than welcome.

On Tuesday night I dreamed of ice for the first time. If I had a chunk of the stuff in waking life like the one I had in the dream, Angelo's beautiful big brown eyes would get even bigger.

778

That was the week that was and I'd better write about it before I forget everything. And because the times they are a'changing ...

Rossini came alone to the park on Wednesday at about sunset. He called Angelo, trying to get him to join us. I even spoke to Angelo myself, a first via telephone, but he didn't want to make the long trip in, said he'd join us on Thursday. So Rossini and I spent the evening drinking beer and talking. He was born almost three months premature so began life in an incubator. His father died when he was very young and his mother re-married. He didn't say much about that or his stepfather, but I gather from things he's said in the past that they don't get along very well. He's understandably still having some trouble adjusting to his mother's death.

He left around ten but was back again late Thursday morning. Once again he called Angelo and he eventually joined us, as did Rocky. Angelo asked if we could hang out for awhile at Kory K's, much to my surprise. Well, since Kory's ladyfriend has hula lessons on Thursday I was pretty sure he'd be home on his own. The old man and three bad boys and Kory K ... much fun although by then I was so drunk I barely remember what was said. The next day Kory told me he thought they all seem like nice guys. This is true.

When we left and got to the bus stop, they decided to go home and I just sat there for awhile before getting the last bus back to the mall and park.

Then early afternoon on Friday, Angelo and Rossini showed up in the park, having just had lunch at the River of Life soup kitchen ... WITH THE SLEEPTALKER. They both commented on the fact that he has put on weight and has been working out so his arms are more muscular. "He's looking good," said Rossini, getting my standard response, "he always does." Rossini also told me the Sleeptalker had gotten into a fight and evidently received quite a beating, has a scar over his left eye.

Their other big news was that Rossini has gotten Angelo a job on the construction project, too, and they will begin on Tuesday. That means I won't be seeing them except on weekends. It will also mean a major shift in the balance of my relationship with Angelo because he's very different when he has money. They'll be clearing about $700/week so I expect a major difference. It won't change Rossini, but I could already see what's to come when, on Saturday, Angelo did one of his "best buddies until something better comes along" acts. That used to be so common I developed at least some immunity to it. I'll have to harden my shell again.

Making that much money, they will lose all benefits including medical insurance so Rossini is somewhat worried about how much trouble he'll have with his "voices" once he's out of the medication. The other question, of course, is whether Angelo will stick it out for two months. I think he will, mainly because the money is so good but also because he'll be with Rossini. The answer probably won't come until after their first paycheck next Friday no doubt followed by a grand ice party. Rossini is planning to save as much as he can but I'm sure Angelo will spend it as fast as he gets it and will then have to wait until re-application for benefits goes through. But who knows, maybe they'll go on to another job. Changes, in any case.

Lord and Lady Moana joined us for awhile, then went off to the mall. Angelo and Rossini decided to see "Pearl Harbor". So for the second time on Friday, I declined the invitation, having earlier told Helen R thanks for asking but I don't want to see it.

Rossini again came to look for me in the park on Saturday, this time with Plato tagging along. We had been talking about him the day before and they told me Plato is worried that he's never going to find a woman who wants him. I said I didn't know why because he's really quite a cute guy, and I told Plato so. I was astonished to be told he is thirty. He says he still gets carded every time, even for cigarettes. No surprise, I thought he was in his late teens. He's a sweet fellow and for the first time teased me a little in a flirtatious way.

Three other little flirts had walked near my table earlier. Definitely teenagers and one shirtless with a fine body indeed. They instantly clued in on my interest, smiled and kept looking back as they walked on, finally waved, still smiling. When they returned later, I held up a cigarette pack and the beer Rossini had brought me, offering them to the lads, but they just grinned and shook their heads no, again waved to me before crossing over to the mall. Local boys no ka oi, uh-huh.

Rossini tried to find Angelo who was supposedly with some friend I haven't met, planning to pool resources for one round of the glass pipe. Well, he finally got him on the phone and said they'd be down. They did come down, in a white car, and didn't even get out. Rossini walked over, said something to Angelo, got in the car and they drove off. Plato thought they'd go shopping and return, was wondering why they hadn't taken the ten dollars he was going to put in. I didn't expect them to return. If the friend drives that nice a car, he no doubt has bucks in his pocket and he smokes the ice, a combination that is definitely "something better". Sigh.

So I chatted with Plato for awhile, mostly about Seventh Circle, until he finally gave up on the others returning and went on his way. I was so tired I went straight to my bench, fell asleep during the hour of Celtic music and consequently missed the theatre hour.

Heavy shakes on Saturday and Sunday mornings, so bad I had to use both hands to hold my coffee and even then had difficulty. I'm going to stop taking Paxil, see if that has anything to do with it. But yes, even I finally agree that it's time to cut down on the drink. A beer with dawn once in a great while is fine, not two mornings in a row, much less every morning. But both weekend mornings I had almost a full bottle of Mickey's in my backpack, leftover from the previous evening (thanks to Rossini), and finished them off with the sunrise.

So now a new routine begins, two months at least without my favorite Bad Boys except on weekends (if then ... Angelo with all that money in his pocket may vanish for the duration). Paxil withdrawal, still a few days of being flat broke, a growing concern about overdoing the drink.

And not having the faintest idea what to do next.

779

The Panther's Tale, now with enlarged cast of players, sex drugs and rock 'n roll ... and sunburn.

Cody. Such a great name, I can't possibly come up with an alias. Twenty-eight, originally from Ohio but has been here for years. "You're a very handsome man," I eventually told him. "Thank you," he said, "so are you." "Not really, but sweet of you to say so." He stays at the IHS shelter, said it really wasn't so bad. "So if I slept there, I could sleep on the mat next to you?" I teased. "Sure." No, I don't think he's at all gay, just very comfortable and sweet-natured.

We spent Sunday afternoon together, drinking beer and talking. Then I had to leave to meet Helen R who kindly took me to LikeLike Drive-In (which isn't a drive-in, like most of the so-called drive-ins in this town) for dinner. Their hot roast beef sandwich, mashed potatoes and gravy ... delicious.

David. Taking a nightcap beer to my bench, I was sitting there drinking, watching the surf which in summer is higher on the south shore than the north (although not as dramatic as north shore winter surf). A fine looking young man wearing shorts and a tee shirt walked up, introduced himself and shook my hand. He stood there chatting about this and that, mentioned how cool it was getting. True, the days are very very warm but the nights are cooler than usual for this time of year. However, while he was talking about feeling chilly, the bulge in his shorts kept getting larger and larger. "I think part of you is hot enough," I said. He laughed, sat down on the bench beside me. Ah, sweet fountain of youth. He rated me "ten out of ten", too. So are you, my friend, so are you.

Pedro and Inri [!] and Paulo. The Filipino Musketeers. Imagine naming a child Inri. Pedro and Inri are both dishwashers in different Waikiki restaurants, one of which I know well since it was my nephew's favorite. They are both married with children, all in the Philipines. They sleep in the park because they send as much money as they can to their families. I have a strong suspicion I am falling in love again. With Pedro. He's such a teddy bear, warm and huggable. My favorite moment (so far) was Saturday afternoon when he went to lay on the grass near my table to take a nap. A group of yakky people arrived and sat at a table even closer to him. So much for his nap. He looked over at me, shrugged, and invitingly patted the grass beside him. So I walked over and threw myself on top of him. Sigh.

We've been together every day for at least a few hours, in varying combinations. Pedro's parents both suffer from cataracts and he got one, too, at a surprisingly early age, has just had surgery to remove it from his right eye. So he isn't working until June 12th, on doctor's orders, and is very impatient about the delay. Inri, though, has disappeared at various times depending upon his shift, and Paulo doesn't work at all. Neither Pedro nor Inri speak very good English and their language is one I've never heard of. Starts with an "S". I looked at some web sources on the Philippines but couldn't find any mention of it. They've tried to teach me a few phrases. It seems to have the same relationship to Spanish as Cajun does to French and they understand the few things I remember how to say in Spanish. Fine lads, all of them, but Pedro is special.

Pedro offered to sell me his Aiwa radio-cassette player for ten dollars so I bought it, complete with the Madonna "Immaculate Collection" tape. (You will thus assume, correctly, that the Fabled Pension Check arrived). I do like Madonna but I have to admit I don't like most of her music. Still, it's nice to have a tape player again.

Tuesday night was quite a gathering ... Lord and Lady Moana, Crazy MaryJane with her little enameled pipe and her very handsome boyfriend, Pedro and another fellow I'd not met, a friend of Lady Moana's. MJ had some truly splendid weed in that little pipe. I got thoroughly and utterly zonked, even more than with the glass pipe and its contents. There was a remarkable adventure afterwards but I think I'll file that with the very few others that have been deliberately omitted from the Tales. Maybe I should create a collection to be made public only I've departed this ball of dirt.

Rossini came over to the park on Saturday afternoon, one of his co-workers with him, carrying a twelve-pack of Budweiser. He said Angelo might be coming in later but if he did, he probably went to his friend with the car. The work is hard, he said, but the money is too good to bitch about it much. His co-worker reminded me of the Cherub, especially the way he complained about having to do things the way he was told even when he knew there was a better way. Rossini agreed but told him just to go with the flow. He said Angelo was doing okay although he had fallen asleep for two hours on the job one day!

Because of all the company, I've read less this week than in a long time. It took six days for me to wade through Tom Clancey's Rainbow Six. He's not one of my favorite writers but that was a pretty good batch of yarns all interwoven. Then much to my surprise, the State Library's freebie collection had Salinger's Catcher in the Rye which I haven't read in at least twenty years. Brilliant writing, even if I do now and then feel like giving young Holden a slap.

They installed a revised version of the game on Seventh Circle which has some things I like better, some I dislike very much. But I did play a little on the three mornings I went to campus, got Gabriella up to level 61.

But I do feel a definite shift away from on-line interests, as suggested by the thought of making the Tales a weekly endeavor for awhile. Spending so much more time in the park makes a big difference in the social relationship with the others there. It begins to feel like a family in some ways.

A reader asked: Did you ever, or rather do you often, have this feeling of irrelevance when reading messages of the householders' tribe? That brought to mind my friend Michael who, writing from the Warhol-world of Manhattan to me on the India mountaintop, said he'd probably sound like a mosquito buzzing in the distance. Yes, there is that feeling, especially when people talk about cars and high-tech toys and fancy restaurants, etc. Two different worlds, we live in two different worlds ...

Right now, I'm happier than usual with mine.

780

Cainer writes about this first week of June: So here's the big question. If the love and money planet has been in your sign all this time, how come you aren't now a millionaire with gorgeous admirers peeling grapes for you? Oh well, maybe next year's visit of Venus will bring you that. Or, maybe and more likely, this year's visit ain't over yet. I won't promise all the above but it should be a pretty good week.

And since the immediate future promises to provide enough material for a Tale all for itself, I'd better write one on this eve of Crazy Money Day.

My cup ranneth over on Sunday. Angelo, Rocky, Rossini, Pedro, Inri and David. No, I'm not falling in love with Pedro. It only took a couple of hours with the real thing to remind me. If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with, but when one of the two you really do love is around, the rest fade into their proper perspective.

Well, Angelo lasted one week on the job and has decided to quit. He and Rocky came to the park in the late afternoon. Rocky has continued his sessions at the fitness center and, sheez, that boy does look fit indeed. What a splendid body. But Angelo is Numero Uno (or at least shares that title with you-know-who) and it surely was good to see him.

I had seen Pedro earlier, then left to go downtown. Richard Ho'opi'i, a truly classic Hawaiian musician, was playing at the Palace. The notice I'd seen said it was going to be his brother, Sol, but no complaint ... Richard is in a class with Genoa Keawe when it comes to creating an atmosphere of joy and love with his personality, smile and music. And he had his "apprentice", Bobo Miles, with him. Bobo has been studying with Richard for two years under a grant program from the State Foundation and he has one of the most beautiful voices I've yet heard in these islands. A thoroughly delightful hour.

After returning to the park and enjoying Angelo and Rocky's company for a couple of hours, we were joined by Pedro. The Bad Boys headed home to Makaha and about ten minutes later Rossini arrived looking for them. He didn't yet know that Angelo planned to quit, but didn't seem too surprised. He didn't stay long, then Pedro wandered off and returned with a bottle of Mickey's. I don't know how he got it since he supposedly has no money (better not ask is the standard policy). Pedro got a "citation" on Saturday night, his second one. The new way of doing it is to put the amount of the fine on the ticket so you can pay without going to court. His first one was for $15 and the second for $25. Bastids. So much for the law not being targeted at the homeless. They'll have to send me to jail before they get any money out of my pocket.

Pedro and Inri's language is "CEBUANO (Sugbuhanon, Sugbuanon, Visayan, Bisayan, Binisaya, Sebuano). Spoken in Negros, Cebu, Bohol, Visayas and parts of Mindanao, Philippines". Not only have I never heard of it, I also haven't heard of some of those places. They also refer to themselves as Cebuanos, as I noted when Rocky asked Pedro if he was Ilicano.

After sunset I went over to the mall, bought my nightcap and headed out to the bench. Along came David for Round Two. He's a very sexy man but it's strictly a physical pleasure, I can't say I have any great affection for him. Still, at my age I'm always surprised to get it and have no complaints whatever.

I settled down to sleep, had just drifted into an amusing dream when Pedro and Inri came out. They lay on the grass a little distance from my bench. Then it started raining lightly so they got up, woke me again. Sigh. Inri went off on his own and Pedro put his grass mat right by my bench, kept making noise until I finally said, "go to sleep". I guess he couldn't (or he was expecting more attention from me?) because he eventually left, too.

Yes, a very full Sunday, and made even better by some delicious food from a large Filipino picnic in the park. Yummy fried chicken, lobster (!) and the best potato salad I've ever eaten. Most kind of them to share. That happened last weekend, too, but it was the night I'd had dinner with Helen R so I declined with thanks.

And now .... like Cainer said, it ain't over yet. The June Ice Follies are scheduled to begin late Tuesday morning. Me, Angelo and Rocky. Oh my, oh my ....

781

A tale told by an idiot, signifying madness ...

This is one of those Tales which would be told differently by each participant. The basic details might be more or less the same (probably less), but the interpretations would, I am sure, be very very different. Mine would undoubtedly be quite unlike those of Angelo or Rocky. And I cannot even vouch for the accuracy of my own.

Batu, the local term for crystal methamphetamine or "ice", distorts perception. And although I have observed it in others, this was the first time I experienced its ability to induce paranoia. Except for the morphine-inspired paranoid episodes, I've not had such attacks since the Hyde Park days. At least with batu, I am almost always aware when it is paranoia or could be.

It also inspires greed. If I refrain from using the stuff in future (which would no doubt be the most sensible thing I've done in years), it will not be from fear of addiction, damage to the body, or even the wasted money, it will be because I loathe watching the greed.

I said about the May Ice Follies that I did not regret it at all, and I meant it. At no time during those empty pockets weeks did I once think, I wish I hadn't been so stupid, I'd now have a few dollars. The same cannot be said about the June extravaganza. If I could turn back the clock, I'd jump to noon last Tuesday ... and do everything differently. If that's too much to ask, I'd at least change several of the decisions I made along the way.

Angelo and Rocky were supposed to meet me at ten in the morning on Crazy Money Day. So the first decision I'd change would be to make the trip to UH and repay the Banker ... since they didn't show up until a little after noon. By then I had four packs of cigarettes, a little bag of batu, the glass pipe, and four ready-rolled cylinders of pakalolo. (That's the local term for the noble cannibas sativa plant). Oh yes, I have my own sources now, was sitting there grinning at how surprised the lads would be when they found out I already had my own stash (and they were). Now that's the point I'd like to jump back to. The second time around, I'd go into hiding, get stoned all by myself and really investigate this batu stuff.

I admit to an increasing liking for it but I haven't the faintest idea why. It doesn't at all get me high in the way the pharmaceutical version did (and I'm a little grateful for that, because that high of light-speed thinking is truly a delight ... and VERY addictive). No, I just don't know why I like this version at all. But I do.

The lads arrived. The first thing they wanted to do was drink 40's (somewhat to my surprise). But they didn't want to stay in the park. It's obvious they don't approve of the Cebuano Boys ... mere Filipino dishwashers. Fucking little snobs.

If the Bad Boys were publicly-traded corporations, the reports would read "Angelo plunges, Rocky sags".

So we walked over to another park, getting 40's on the way. Then it was dashing around Chinatown (in sweltering heat) shopping. After I refused to pay for a taxi to Waikiki (one of my few smart moves), we took a bus, checked into the Ohana Hobron hotel, picking up beer on the way. I let them buy their own Budweiser and got my usual Colt, another smart move I should have stuck to throughout the adventure.

Around and round went the pipe and the smokes. When the supply was running low, I brought out my stash to surprise and delight. The party went nonstop from about three o'clock on Tuesday until late Wednesday night. By late Tuesday evening I would have bailed out had it not been for the weather. Another decision I'd change. Getting wet would have been easier. But thunder was rumbling away in the heavens (very unusual for here) and it was pouring rain, as much as 3-4 inches an hour as was reported later.

This was, of course, the first time I've been with Rocky and Angelo in a private place. They are utterly different and it was amusing to see how it changed when one or the other went on a shopping trip. Immediately back to the light, flirtatious mode they usually employ. But while we were all together, it seemed they had to go out of their way to prove how macho they were and how hopeless it was for me to even think of wanting their bodies. [!] Believe me, by the time I finally did bail out, I wouldn't have taken their bodies if they'd begged. Yes, it was that bad.

They constantly bitched at me, scolded, warned. It was amusing when they echoed the Sleeptalker, complaining that I was "staring". During one of the few halfway sensible conversations that complaint was made again. I noted that it was a matter of habit, when talking with a couple of people, to look at the one speaking. Whoosh, right over their heads, as went most of my efforts to explain anything. Okay, to hell with you ... I spent at least an hour deliberately not looking at either of them. They complained that I was "being all mad". Sigh.

Same complaint another time. The first batch of pakalolo was very strong and I fell into the chatter trap. I knew it was happening. Most of my remarks were addressed to the television, since neither of them responded to anything. They complained I was talking too much. Okay, I kept my mouth firmly shut. I was "being all mad" again ...

They complained, as did the Sleeptalker, about the weird breathing I get from smoking the batu ... heavy exhaling. I hate it myself but as I tried to explain (again fruitlessly), it's involuntary. In order to stop it, I have to constantly think of my breathing. A nice yogic exercise but hardly compatible with kicking back and partying. The funny thing about this one was that Angelo did the same thing, sharply exhaling before saying anything. I didn't mention it.

Much concern about whether I was going to "misbehave". Okay, I eventually saw the tactical reason. What a nice excuse for drug-hogging. Greed took over right from the start. With the first pipe, Angelo took three big hits before passing it ... and from then on, it was two for him, one for me. On the third day, Rocky added a crack pipe to the arsenal. The two of them went into the bathroom (altho leaving the door open) and smoked it. Considering that infamous episode of buying Rocky the pipe and crack, then not being offered even one hit, I thought that outrageous. Angelo said it was because "you can't handle it". "I managed to handle it okay with the Sleeptalker." Just a handy excuse for drug-hogging.

I told them a little later they had the worst doper-manners of anyone I'd ever known. I guess that sank in because Rocky later apologized for not sharing. That apology is getting pretty thin. (I would have taken only one, just as a matter of comparison to the batu, but I don't want to get involved in that crack stuff).

The Name Game dominated the entire adventure. I've experienced this patter of theirs before but only in small doses. Like teenagers having their first pakalolo high, they sat bouncing one name after another at each other, giggling all the time. They start with old school friends, where it's usually one saying the first name and the other the second. By the third day I knew exactly what was going to follow the name, having heard it so many times. "Ronald Whatever. Never call me by my first name." Giggle hysterically. I said nothing until the third day, then just noted that if I sat there saying one name after another, they'd definitely jump on me. "I'm puzzled by it," I said. "He's complaining again," said Rocky. "I said I was puzzled. That's not complaining." Whoosh, right over the head again.

So there we were, sitting around smoking and watching some extremely boring crap on television when there was a knock on the door. Jump! So far as Rocky and I knew, no one was aware we were there. Ah, but Angelo had told Little Brother. So when someone called saying he was a friend who needed to get in touch with Angelo, Little Brother passed on the info. The arrivee was a "representative" of someone Angelo owed money to. That someone was about to come upstairs, too. Ye gods. Much to my surprise, the "hitman" was the co-worker Rossini had brought along last week. Probably fortunately for Angelo, the Hitman and I had gotten along well and he eased up a little on his attitude when he saw me. The Man arrived, the closest thing to a bona fide gangster I have seen in years. Not a man I'd try to cross. Obviously the Hitman had told the Gangster that Angelo had quit his job, so it was time to collect the debt, and I think they were quite prepared to beat Angelo to a pulp if he didn't pay up. Angelo obviously was, too, and looked quite scared. Even Rocky was clearly nervous. Meanwhile, I had a rather pleasant chat with the Gangster, assured him this was all news to me.

I could only rescue Angelo by including the forty dollars I had tucked away to repay the Banker (and had carefully not mentioned). Angelo solemnly vowed to repay me on Friday when he got his paycheck from that one week of work. Rocky said he would stand guarantor, that if Angelo didn't pay up, he would. Angelo pleaded. Okay, I didn't at all like the idea of sitting watching Angelo get beat up and I was nervous about being in a room with all that stuff and having a neighbor call security or the police if they heard a fight going on. So I yielded. The two tough guys departed. Whew. I must admit, I found the whole thing a little scarey, too.

But I was very irked at having to give up that forty because I had promised the Banker he would get repaid this month (after having welched on half of it the month before, thanks to the May Ice Follies). Again I was assured they would bring the money to the park on Friday afternoon. Was I surprised when neither of them showed up? Silly question.

Another mistake. I should have taken Angelo's cellphone and held it hostage until he paid up.

Something had gone wrong with Rocky's benefits, but he was to get double this month since none came through last month. They arrived, so the party was extended when he offered to get a room (having paid nothing for the first two nights). He knows a cheaper place and I wondered why in hell we hadn't gone there in the first place since I much preferred it. No air conditioning, but there is a lanai (balcony) and a ceiling fan. But ... no porno movies to buy on teevee (answering the 'why the hell' question).

I had been holding tightly onto my last twenty dollar bill, resisting a number of attempts from Angelo to get some of it. I swear that guy looks at me and sees an ATM machine. Since the nonstop barrage of complaints continued, I observed at one point that if I was such an awful companion, they must only put up with me for the money. Instant protests that it wasn't true, from both of them. Hmmmm ...

Later they were sitting together on the lanai and I was flipping channels on the television. I overheard Rocky say "we have to stop scolding him so much." Hmmmm ...

Another shopping expedition. Okay, okay, I'll put in ten for the batu. They get back (that was the trip that added the crack pipe). After he and Rocky had shared that, Angelo prepared the batu pipe, gave me a couple of hits to his three (about as generous as he got the whole time). A little later, I said I wanted another and he refused to give me the pipe, told me to wait! I explained that I prefer smoking several rounds and then waiting awhile, that "sipping" like that did absolutely nothing for me. He refused. Okay, I was finally getting "all mad". There was still half of the bag to go. I asked him to give me my share of that and I would leave. He refused, said we should wait until morning. I didn't want to wait until morning, I wanted to end it that night, I'd had enough of the Follies for this month. He could keep his share for the morning. No.

The two of them settled down to sleep. I knew I wasn't going to sleep at all again (although I had gotten about six hours of sleep the second night). So I took the pipe after Angelo settled down and finished off what was left in it. If I could have found that bag, I would've taken it all.

A crazy night of reviewing the whole adventure. At one point I went onto the lanai and seriously considered jumping. There was an empty parking lot below. But I wasn't sure if ten floors would do the trick and certainly didn't want to end up all broken and battered but still alive. And more importantly, it would have been a very nasty thing to do to the lads. But I did want to jump.

By dawn, I was feeling totally wrecked, couldn't face the idea of them waking up and enduring more bitching and insults, not to mention the damned Name Game, even to get my share of the batu. So I packed up, left a note thanking Rocky, and left.

If there is one thing the Tales prove, it is that speculation about the future is utterly futile. Things have so often turned out completely different from the possibilities I contemplated. But I am determined NEVER to find myself alone with Rocky and Angelo in a hotel room again.

782

I've noted before that beautiful sunsets are commonplace here, but Friday's was truly spectacular. I walked over to a spot near the ocean, sat on the grass and leaned against a palm tree. Nearby a group of people were softly tapping on drums and chanting Hare Krishna. No, not the ISKCON folks, but followers of Chris Butler. Butler is now styling himself Jagad Guru Siddhaswarupananda Paramahamsa, an unfortunate bit of nonsense (as I see it) which prevents me from becoming more involved with his group, as it has for some years even when his alias was less grandiose. My nephew and I faithfully watched Butler's weekly half-hour on television for years, though.

They stopped chanting a little while before the sun finally sank into the ocean. One of them walked to the ocean, passing near me, and when he returned I urged him to pass on a message that they should continue until the sun had set. A few moments later they began again and he returned, handed me a booklet and thanked me, said I had inspired them to continue.

I opened the booklet and my eye fell on: Everyone is suffering. Yet a fool, despite the fact that he keeps getting his teeth kicked in, never thinks twice about the whole thing.

Well, that did it. Very early in the Follies the most treasured moment of all with the Sleeptalker had surfaced in memory. "Follow your heart. I want you to follow your heart." I came very close to bursting into tears, would have had I been alone. That had to wait until the magical sunset, the names of Gods being softly chanted, a message in a booklet and then, once more, the words of the Sleeptalker.

After that cathartic interlude, I gave myself a stern lecture. It is just NOT ON to spend the rest of this month wallowing in regret, crying over spilt milk, thinking of all the things I could be doing if not for ... no, it would be even more stupid than making the mistakes in the first place. And .... upon further reflection, I am not at all convinced mistakes were, in fact, made. No accidents. All's for the best in this best of all possible worlds. And throughout the Follies, even in the worst moments, I had an intensely strong feeling that I was undergoing a series of lessons. Often I had no idea what I was being taught, and still don't, but sometimes I did and I knew, and know, it was worth it.

In Seventh Circle, high magic users such as mages and druids have a "charm" spell. It is very difficult to cast and when successful causes a significant drain on one's magical energy. But when it works, the creature one "charms" becomes a slave, follows the master around and carries out any orders, even to the point of killing. Angelo is a most highly accomplished wielder of this spell in so-called real life. If he encountered a barren fig tree and wanted a snack, he'd merely charm the tree which would burst into leaf, blossom, produce fruit and ripen it for him within minutes.

Amusingly, that spell has been temporarily disabled in the game because it was "being abused". If only it were so easy to disable it in the case of Angelo.

Pedro came over to the park from the mall on Saturday and said "your two friends are outside Foodland". Ahhh. And sure enough, they soon came walking over. Angelo and Rocky. Well, first on the agenda was a wildly implausible story about how Angelo hadn't yet been able to cash the check and thus did not have my money. I said to Rocky, "I guess you'll have to cover it then, as you agreed to do." "I never said that!" Liar, liar, pants on fire. It would have been far more honorable had he just explained his own financial circumstances, as I discovered a little later. He did not get double benefits as expected, just one month's worth, and he is now suspended for three months. Missed the appointment with the doc and didn't re-schedule it. Silly boy. (It was setting a new appointment when missing one of mine that saved me.)

But even sillier, in the long run, to pull the "I never said that" routine. In that "stock market" report, Rocky is no longer being traded on the Panther Exchange. That lie sent it plunging but a little later he finally pushed it over the limit. They were hungry, offered me a dollar each if I'd get a tub of raw fish. I didn't feel like walking over to the mall but agreed to give Rocky my foodstamps card and let him do the shopping (Angelo being still banned from the supermarket). It's something of a brotherhood badge to share use of those cards, although this was the first time I'd let anyone but Rossini use mine.

He goes off. I change my mind, decide I want to get a beer with those two dollars, so go over to the mall. I meet Rocky coming out of the supermarket, he hands me my card and the receipt. I said I was going upstairs to get beer and would meet them back in the park. When I got there, Pedro was alone at the table. I sat down, looked at the receipt and saw Rocky had spent EIGHTEEN DOLLARS in the supermarket. Okay, bad enough, but then for the two of them to go off and eat it all without sharing???!!!

See what I mean about how that "kicked in the teeth" passage touched me?

Eventually they returned, Angelo wielding that charm spell with extraordinary skill. Rocky had, though, slipped into the worst of his Follies mode, probably feeling guilty about ripping off those stamps. I said nothing but eventually got so fed up with his act that I left.

The June Follies. Last Act.

783

"Manu" is Cebuano for "cow". I forget what the word for goat is, but then that's not a word I use very often in any language. (It was interesting, though, that Pedro placed it so high on the list.) The word for horse is very close to the Spanish and "caballero" means horse rider. Most amusing, Cebuano for "penis" sounds like "pokee". Little wonder they get a sniggering look on their faces when we talk of eating ahi poke.

What Cebuano for "quarrel" is, I don't know, but Pedro and Inri apparently had a major one and for two nights, Pedro has slept on the grass by my bench. Both of them have come looking for me individually but only Inri has spoken of their estrangement. His English is so limited it is difficult to carry on much of a conversation but both of them have made it clear they value my friendship even more while cut off from each other. With no knowledge of what caused the argument or their past history and the patterns of their friendship, there is little I can do to play mediator or to bring about a reconciliation. So I wait and watch.

On Sunday, Helen took me to the new Ward 16 complex to see "Evolution". The new theatres, based on the one we were in, are splendid, the best on the island and when the still unfinished complex is completed it seems likely to become a major part of life here. As for the film, I wrote later to a friend: Amusing as it was, pondering "Evolution" later I felt the film really did have a tragic ending. If that life form could advance itself so quickly in such a brief time, it is entirely likely they would have done a better job of taking care of this ball of dirt than we are doing. Mankind should have lost.

Monday was a local holiday in honor of Kamehameha, the chieftain who first united the islands. State government, schools and banks were closed but otherwise it was business as usual. Dame Fortune, perhaps inspired by the holiday, utterly surpassed herself. It was truly a Lucky Day. One of her gifts, though, surely was a loaded one. A little tub of sleeping pills (or so I assume, since the prescription label said they are for "insomnia"). I put them in my empty Paxil bottle but failed to make a note of their name. Maybe I didn't want to check the web and see what a fatal dose would be. The original label had a skull-and-crossbones on it, a warning against using them with alcohol. Rubbish. I tried one of them despite having had a bottle of Colt. Made for a peaceful sleep and was happily free of the morning-after grogginess I've experienced from most sleep aids.

And yet another drug, one I haven't had for about twenty years although it used to be a real favorite: amyl nitrate. Talk about a rush ... batu doesn't come close. A pity it lasts such a brief time, but a delightful exercise in nostalgia, finding that bottle, saying hmmmm, I know what that looks like, can it be? Sniff. Uh-huh. Later I was told by Rocky that the recreational form of the stuff can be bought in sex shops here. Wow. It is banned in some places on the mainland and in England, so it never occurred to me to check it out here.

Yes, Rocky. He was in the mall on Tuesday evening, having just returned from a couple of days on Kauai. He waved me over to the table where he was sitting, asked if I'd seen Angelo. He said Angelo had gotten his money on Monday so he was surprised I still hadn't been repaid. "You'll never smell that money again," he said. Quite possibly, quite possi