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Tiny Maui Bubbles
BY A. BODOYA & MR. C. HONEY
Oh well, another day in Paradise. Waken to the birds enterprising territorially on the telephone wires outside my window, followed by the usual consideration of what they did before S.F.B. Morse came along, these original wire tappers. Then a shave and a shower, not noticing that the sun was once again involved in its tropical labor. A sigh, a stretch, and a papaya before a delicate switch of the ignition anticipates a billowy Honoapiilani jaunt to the silently warming stretch of golden berm that Amfac surrounds, but by God didn't build. Ahh! Simplicity! On the towel lays my Lahaina karma kit: a pack of cabbage cigarettes, some raisins, rose-lavender bifocals, and, to allow me to have something in common with my fellow islanders, a copy of the Hobbit. Or was it Frank Herbert? Or Herman Hesse? Sandy drowsiness derails the train of thought that perhaps the arrest of the Washington 10,000 had something to do with the earthquakes in Turkey, when all of a suden, in the blink of an eye, a helicopter passes me by. The sand waxed eloquent. All over my body. The once windless air shredded by belching, ever insistent technological chaos. The helicopter plops harshly in the mauka field and delivers its bundle by Ceaserian section. Off it flies, and, to make a short story terse, back it comes, off it flies, back it comes. I need a drink. To the Rusty Harpoon to sip a bit and watch the gentle blockade of the Lanaiscape by the erection of Chuck's Steakhouse. No problem, just a bad day. Tomorrow I think I'll go snort diesel fumes at the Pioneer Inn, or maybe dodge the submarine tenders in the harbor, unless my staph confines me to bed. Sons and daughters of America, there are no virgins after a cattle drive, and we're damn near Wichita.
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