Lynn Raye Harris

I haven’t felt like blogging lately. In fact, I’m planning to cut back a bit so I can concentrate on my writing. Blogging is great fun, but it’s almost as tough as writing fiction because you end up thinking about how you can use something in your blog, the best way to convey what you want to convey, etc. And I ain’t getting any younger.

This weekend, Mike and I went to Waikiki and spent time at a hidden bar in the International Market. It was fun, and I listened in to some interesting conversations, but now I don’t really feel like giving it the attention it deserves to be a good entry. There was an older man who’d gone to an Elton John concert in California once. He took his mother, then was embarrassed when Elton had giant phalluses and breasts hanging over the stage. And he’d gotten these $365 each tickets for free from an acquaintance who knew Elton’s bodyguard or some such thing.

Then there was the young guy working hard to make ends meet. He lives in Hawaii on less than $10 an hour. He and his girlfriend rent a crappy apartment and live day to day. No college education, no prospects or desire to get one. Except he’s 20-ish now and that’s okay. What happens when he’s 30 something and still working as a day laborer? How long can he afford Hawaii like that?

And then there was the bartender, a decent guy with a 2 year degree in sociology. He said he had fun tending bar and it was a good sociology study for him. I don’t remember if he planned on going back to school or not, or what else he did for a living.

Mike and I shared giant Heinekens, pouring them into two plastic cups and watching the people go by in the market. Heineken isn’t really beer when you’ve lived in Germany, but what the heck. It was a better choice than Bud. When we got hungry, I went and found a chinese takeout close by. I ordered potstickers and beef cake-noodle. It was yummy.

When we finished the beers and dinner (eaten at the bar), we walked through the market, checking out the gold and silver jewelry, listening to the sales pitches. We crossed the street to the Sheraton Moana Surfrider, which is I believe the oldest hotel in Waikiki. It’s a gorgeous, stately old place with a wide veranda and rocking chairs spanning the front. We sat in the chairs and rocked for a bit, and I wondered if the Queen of Hawaii ever sat there and did the same. Poor lady, had her country taken away from her because she was a woman and because Americans wanted to rule where they’d once been guests. Read Hawaii’s Story by Hawaii’s Queen.

“The worldwide glut of wine has become so huge that for the first time in history, France is distilling some of its higher-rated wines into fuel. It is a painful proposition in a land where winemaking is a labor of love and the fruit of that labor is celebrated as much as any art.”

I’m going to faint. Read the rest here.

I spent too much time, as Miss Snark would say, crafting a post for this morning (and she’s right, too, darn it). But when I hit the publish button, I received a message that my blog wasn’t found. Which of course means the post is gone and hitting the back button does no good. I am too irritated to recreate it right now. Maybe later.

“The editor of a women’s rights magazine in Afghanistan has been arrested after publishing articles deemed blasphemous.”

“Mr Nasab’s magazine had questioned the harsh punishments for adultery and theft demanded by the most conservative interpretation of Islamic law.”

How dare he, eh?

In 1944, a B-24J bomber crashed on a Hawaiian peak during a routine flight. In 2005, I got talked into hiking a 4.5 mile trail through a tropical rain forest with the promise it was a) beautiful and b) wouldn’t rain (in spite of the fact it’d been raining for the past several days, thanks to a former hurricane named Kenneth).

It was indeed beautiful.

And it most definitely rained, turning the trail into a muddy, slick mess in spots. This would be okay, except that parts of the trail are very narrow and feature sheer drops. One wrong foot, and you’d be sliding down a mountain like Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone. In fact, I had visions of the edge of the trail crumbling beneath me, roiling into a torrential mud slide and carrying me with it. Tellingly, the person who suggested the trip (Mark!) had never seen the movie. It’s my intention to rectify this situation.

I can’t blame him entirely, though, because Mike also thought hiking would be fun. Except for the couple of times they nearly left me behind, then turned around and said, “Oh, there you are,” I wasn’t too worried. I could have used a machete in places to hack the growth, but mostly the trail was clear if somewhat narrow and wet. I survived, albeit bedraggled, soaked, and caked in mud from the knee down. I learned two things.

1) Just like the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy says, always carry a towel.

2) You can’t trust a priest.

Saw Aunt Jennifer yesterday at the grocery store. She was 80 if she was a day and hunched over, carrying a great big purse. Her hair was dyed reddish-brown, and she wore a subdued plaid dress with support hose and clunky shoes. Her husband, a big man on the motorized scooter the grocery store provided, rolled up to the self-checkout while AJ pushed the grocery cart slowly behind. When she caught up, he jumped off the scooter (looking very spry) and proceeded to berate AJ.

“Quick, if you go out that door, you can catch her.”

AJ looks slightly confused, her gaze darting between the two exits closest to us.

“She’s right out there, hurry up and you’ll catch her before she goes.”

AJ heads for a door.

“Not that damn door, that door,” Uncle yells, stabbing the air with a beefy finger.

She was back a few minutes later, her quarry caught I suppose because Uncle wasn’t rude to her again. I was so irritated I forgot to scan my twenty cents off butter coupon. The first rule of dealing with others is respect. She may be a horrible shrew who’s ruined his life (I doubt it), but yelling at her in public is just wrong.

I hope she unsheathed her claws when they got in the car and told him not to ever embarass her in public again. I hope she told him he was a rude, insensitive old pig and I hope he felt so bad he apologized profusely.

I hope she doesn’t just embroider tigers; I hope she is one. Mean old Uncle.