To that don’t want to hear about his yuck tooth…double sorry.

And, lastly, to those that don’t particularly want to hear about him and his periodontal situation and sure as hell don’t want to see the pictures…well, look away. And sorry.

That stated, around Christmas time I was prying something out of Dozer’s mouth (and to anyone who ever dines at my house: I am not above fishing a stolen stick of butter out of his throat and continuing to use it after a quick rinse off. Butter is expensive. Consider yourself warned.) and noticed a broken yuck tooth. At the time, I completely overreacted and immediately called the vet.

I was expecting a very expensive problem and maybe an extraction while under anesthesia and was relieved (elated even) to learn that what I thought was horrible rot was actually tartar. He’s such an enthusiastic bone eater that all his six-and-a-half year old teeth are white and perfect. He had stopped chewing with the broken one, so tartar had built up.

Anyway, she gave me this tube of (what I considered at the time to be) wildly overpriced enzymatic toothpaste and said to apply it with my finger. I’ve been doing this once or twice a week or whenever I remember since that time. I always rub it in good since he likes the flavor and immediately starts working his tongue around trying to gobble it up.

So anyway, yesterday morning I was putting the toothpaste on and felt a couple weird, hard objects under my finger. I fished them out and had a look: they reminded me of pieces of thin concrete. While wondering what he’d eaten to have concrete in his mouth, it suddenly occurred to me that they also looked an awful lot like the surface of his yuck tooth…and that’s because it was!

That toothpaste is the shiznit!

It turns out a perfectly normal-looking tooth is hanging out under the yuck. Check it out.

Crazy, right!?
And also super cool.

I’m like an archeologist uncovering treasure beneath layers of rock. I want to buy one of those scrapey tools the dentist uses and go to town on that tooth. I’m applying the toothpaste hourly and rubbing in a fevered excitement. I’m photographing it. I’m writing blog posts about it. I’m stopping strangers in the street and spreading the word. I’m freaking out, really. And all of that’s great except I’m also having to fight hard – successfully so far – an urge to use it on my own teeth.
Who cares that it says “for veterinary use only”!
Who cares that it’s $15 a tube!
Who cares that it’s poultry flavored!
(Well, maybe I care a little about that last one…)

Check out the progress from this morning. Admittedly, it’s not all the toothpaste’s doing at this point, but still…

I know, I know. And I am the last person to get excited about dentistry. I hate the dentist. And my guy – despite a really weird robotic bedside manner. He’s Japanese. I think maybe it’s that. Domo arigato, Dr. Roboto. – is a great dentist. Doesn’t matter. On principle, I am required to hate him.

Seriously, the last time I went to the dentist, I left feeling like I’d been to war. I had a funny feeling in my tooth whenever I used this one mouthwash. Although common logic would dictate ‘just don’t use that mouthwash,’ I had a gut instinct that I should get it checked out. So I go and see him at 11am. He takes an X-ray, pokes around, and tells me to get some lunch and be back at 1pm. Ummmmm… What? Why?

Well, because this is apparently a gargantuan cavity that eluded him and looked like “noise” on the film he took in December and there’s no time like the present to dish up some dental hell.

I will say he didn’t hurt me once, but that still didn’t mitigate the fact that it was a nerve wracking hour and a half experience during which time Dr. Roboto maybe spoke three sentences to me. He’s an artist though, the tooth feels smooth and happy and like it never happened.

I also gained the honor of presenting him with the “weirdest thing he’s seen in 22 years of dentistry” (words you never want to hear your doctor say: trust me on that one) and having a good excuse to drink tequila straight from the bottle and in my car.

So sufficed to say, I am not a fan of the dentist and I’m thinking this dog toothpaste could be my ticket to dental perfection. Sorry about my breath: I just brushed my teeth.

The house I rent has a separate small downstairs unit. There is a little boy who lives down there with his mother and sister. His mother has never once taken our shared trash can to the curb even though the trash comes twice a week. Not once. And it’s a long driveway and steep as well. Her trash makes it into the bin: I’ve seen it in there. I guess she figures magic elves are doing the rest. Kind, helpful, embittered, magic elves that live upstairs and have nothing better to do but shlep your trash up and down steep hills twice a week. Maybe they could come over and wash your dishes while they’re at it? Elves live to serve you!

Anywho, the little boy’s name is Luca, and our interactions – all three of them – have pretty much gone like this.

Him: “Who are you!?”
Me: “I’m Vanessa. I live upstairs.”
Him: “oh.”

Never once has he asked about the magic elves, but I have to suspect he wonders where I’m hiding them or whether they could come over and do his homework for him. Apple. Tree. You can fill in the blanks.

So anyway, from what I’ve pieced together, my entry way shares a wall with his living room. The other night I heard Luca screaming bloody murder through the wall, and then I heard a woman pleading with him to “stop hitting yourself!”

Just like that – almost like magic – I came up with a song. I’m kind of stunned at how it materialized so easily in my head. It’s just a first draft, and I’m a little shy about sharing something unworked like this, but I think it has potential.

Be gentle:

My name is Luca.
I live on the first floor.
I live downstairs from you
But I don’t think I’ve seen you before.

If you hear something late at night
Some kind of trouble. some kind of fight
Just don’t ask me what it was
Just don’t ask me what it was
Just don’t ask me to help with the trash

Thoughts?
Feedback?
Am I getting ahead of myself if I already started working on my Grammy acceptance speech?

Kanye had better not interrupt me. I’m not nearly so sweet as that Taylor Swift…

Well, I should have been grateful, because at least I wasn’t dealing with this:

Frozen cows in cabin spur warnings at hot springs

ASPEN, Colo. (AP) — Federal forest officials want visitors of a Colorado hot springs to be very careful about what’s lurking inside a remote cabin nearby: Frozen cows.

Rangers believe the cows wandered into the cabin near the popular Conundrum Hot Springs during a snowstorm but couldn’t find their way out. Air Force Academy cadets found their frozen carcasses while snowshoeing in late March.

U.S. Forest Service spokesman Bill Kight said Tuesday that water samples have been taken to determine if the hot springs was contaminated by the dead animals.

Rangers want the carcasses gone before they thaw. Removal options include explosives or burning down the cabin.

In the meantime, officials have posted warning signs about the cows around the hot springs near Aspen in the Colorado Rocky Mountains.

Yeah. Right.

Cows wandering into cabins.

Does this add up??

Big Foot is notoriously camera shy.

No. Really. I’ve never owned a cow.

Does this add up?

Sure, the place is called “Conundrum Hot Springs” but unless there was shrimp on the barbie or some leftover McDonalds on the counter, I can’t even imagine my super domesticated dog wandering into a random cabin. And who leaves the doors of a US Forest Service cabin left open anyway?

I’m not liking this one bit.

It reeks all suspicious and stinks of involvement like Greys and Reptilians and Pegasus and stuff.

In fact…has El Chupacabra shown up in Conundrum Hot Springs? Maybe that explains the weird, hairy bugger you saw chewing on a lamb leg at the other end of the tub last month?? Utilize the hot springs at your own risk, indeed…

How about a Sasquatch? I bet it’s within Big Foot’s power to herd a bunch of cattle into a U.S. Forestry service cabin and certain (?), accidental (?) inexplicable death. You can hardly blame him: I bet he’s lonely. Or hungry. or both.

Happily, this is not an imminent danger in my world. You’re about as likely to find me on the moon as you are in Aspen. Nope. I prefer to sit here in my Maui home, with these sofas and comfy beds and absolutely no livestock, thawed or otherwise. My need to freeze is zero.

As for what to do about the crystallized cattle conundrum in Conundrum Springs? Well, I cast my vote all for fireworks: bring on the explosives and stand back!

p.s.

Whatever you do, DO NOT GOOGLE “FROZEN COW IMAGES.” Oh lordy, that makes a girl sad…

“If it doesn’t light you up, don’t do it…or find another way to do it.”

As much as I love this idea, it is a hell of a lot harder to put into practice than one might think.

Most of us – present company included – are burdened by what we might call responsibility or accountability or family or duty or being a grown-up or offspring or social contracts or just life itself. We do what we have to do because (we fear) the shit would hit the fan otherwise.

Sub in a Malamute for the Golden and me for the Pit bull and you pretty much have my worst nightmare.

I am as guilty as the next guy: although the sight of an Alaskan Malamute, a Himalayan cat, and a forlorn white woman on a homemade raft to nowhere might be charming in a “Homeward Bound” kind of way, it’s not exactly a scene I’m hoping to live through.

It probably goes without saying that for far too many people (again, note the lifted arm of present company) many of the seeming duties of life fall a pretty far cry from lighting us up.

In my own little world, the last few months have seen a number of things fall through or not turn out as so very much hoped for…and this includes the financial front. When it rains, it pours.

So things went wrong.

Such is life.

Yet I got freaked out about the rent and the bills and the $72 bags of Blue Buffalo dog food and all that responsibility/accountability/grown-up/Malamute running out of Blue Buffalo and chewing me down to a pile of bones whilst I sleep-type fears.

Fear and I moved in together. Hell, I signed a contract with fear, handed over my soul, and didn’t look back. Thus, I went out and found a j-o-b that was pretty far out of character with respect to my life path and my personal sense of self and the goals that I truly want to spend time on. “A means to an end” I called it. I put a happy spin on things. I considered having a few shots of hard liquor for breakfast: I envied Keith Richards and Courtney Love their joie de vive and incoherence. I showed up to work painfully sober and tried really hard not to be bitter.

In the spirit of honesty, let me now tell you that I spent three weeks in nine-hour-a-day training for minimum wage (that’s $7.25/hour to those who aren’t 17)…to be a waitress.

Yep. A waitress. For a really nice, brand new restaurant started by a celebrity chef, but still…a waitress.

Let it sink in: A WAITRESS.

Not that there is anything wrong with being a waitress, mind you…unless that waitress is me.

I don’t mean to be a snob…but some kind of terrible snobbery came over me. Although the celebrity chef was delightfully humble and charming and really seemed to be a lovely human being, it was not lighting me up. NOT AT ALL. It was all darkness, all day long.

For starters, the menu was insanity. There were nearly seventy food items, almost two dozen specialty cocktails, ten limited edition coffees, a similar variety of teas and sakes and desserts and wines. I felt like Forrest Gump with a concussion.

And the ingredients…bubu what?

I resorted to making flash cards. FLASH CARDS! I haven’t made flash cards since high school. And that didn’t even help. I couldn’t get started on the menu because I couldn’t even comprehend the ingredients… Bubu arare? Cuckoo a choo? What’s that? What’s my name? Where am I? What year is this?

HUH?

DUH.

This is Li Hing Mui. It's been explained to me. I've even tried it. I don't have a clue. I think MSG is involved. ENJOY!

Li Hing Mui? Chung Choi? Bacalao? Kecap Manis? WTF? Kinome? Pohole? Ogo? Mamaki? Pipikaula? Yukari? Itogaki? Kamikaze?!?!

KILL. ME. NOW.

The final blow came when we were informed they would fire us if we brought our cell phones into the restaurant. My poor cell phone spent three whole days in a locker a mile away. I’m addicted to my iPhone, and I like to think it feels the same about me. How am I supposed to know what time it is or what’s going on with my friends or what bubu arare is again or what the weather is in Hong Kong or what just showed up on Craigslist that I might need to buy without my iPhone!? You can’t just wrench us apart like that. We need a 12-step program or something.

And the other thing of it is – let’s get real – I have a master’s degree. I’m a licensed hypnotherapist with a small practice here on the island. A lot of my clients are very wealthy…the exact kind of people who would come and dine at this restaurant. I kept imagining the horrible moment when someone declares, “Hey! Our waitress is my therapist!” and wondering if I could swap name tags with someone else and pretend to be my own (evil?) twin sister.  ***cringe***

So…

I quit.

Despite the fact that it was likely to be a lovely and successful restaurant…

I quit.

With all regards to the cacophony of “winners never quit and quitters never win” admonishments in my head…

I quit.

I had to. I know in my gut that the adage is true. The job didn’t light me up. In fact, it was pretty spectacularly lights out.

And when you’re not chasing your own dreams, you are just place holding in someone else’s. There is another person who would love to be at that restaurant, and by staying there I was taking their spot. I needed to get out of the way and chase my own joy.

So now I just turn myself over to fate. I go back to editing a book I should have tackled a year ago…and starting a new one. I pursue only the things that have a spark, if not a full-on Fourth of July fireworks blaze. I trust that the universe will step in where I stepped out…or at least drop a bag of Blue Buffalo (Natural Fish and Oatmeal Recipe, please) on the doorstep if nothing else.

It’s a bold experiment in real time.

And I’ll keep you posted as to how it unfolds…

That stated, get comfy and gather round the campfire, ‘cause it’s story time, kids.

When last we left off, I had spent a cold night sleeping on a diner booth in a fishbowl of a cabin on Helleakalā, one of two shield volcanoes that make up Maui. The other is the much-eroded West Maui Mountains, which contains the equally beautiful (but in a totally opposite, lush way) and equally dangerous, if you believe the folklore and ghost stories, Iao Valley.

Anyway, check out time is noon, and by 11am we’d had enough of the bursting through the doors and half asking/half demanding “can I come in and stare at you awkwardly in your pajamas?” parade of hikers, so we started back. My ankle, as I mentioned, was twisted because I am an idiot, and for all their curiosity and vigor, none of the hikers had an Ace bandage. Since the walk itself is on wobbly lava rocks and slippery surfaces, I was worried about re-twisting it, so we secured it as best we could with orange marking ribbon (that fluorescent stuff you use to mark trees) and duct tape: very professional looking.

It was raining lightly when we started…and it only got worse with each step. I was wearing a good Marmot raincoat on top and yoga pants on the bottom. About 15 minutes in and I was deeply regretting the now-20-pound yoga pants as they were DRENCHED. And by drenched I mean water was actually dripping from them and into my boots as they could hold no more DRENCHED.

We started out quietly with the occasional “this sucks” muttered between us. As the sky darkened and the rains worsened, I found myself pleading – by name and out loud – with Pele. Being the goddess of fire, lightening, wind, and volcanoes, I figured we were dabbling in a solid 75% of her territory. Who knew? Perhaps a giant fire would lie ahead as well? At the rate we were going, it wouldn’t have surprised me.

In response to my pleas, and in sharp contrast to my miraculous losing my eyeglasses story, Pele did zilch. Well, maybe not zilch, as another half an hour later found me hallucinating that the sun was out. This scared the crap out of my fellow traveler, especially because to my left was a sheer cliff edge and the day was dark and foreboding, yet I would exclaim, “Yay! The sun!” every fifteen minutes. It was the weirdest thing ever, and it went on throughout the whole hike, but it would honestly look to me like the sun had come out and the day was now bright. Go figure.

Sadly, this was no more than a mirage of my mind, and as my eyes adjusted and I realized that I was hallucinating, I also suddenly caught a glimpse of the HORRIFYING scene that is that hike.

Alive!!!

I am not a daredevil. I don’t jump out of planes or snowboard or even jet ski. I rarely, if ever, take my life in my own hands if I can help it, but this hike forced me into just that. As I was slowly realizing this, I was also getting extremely terrified. Much of the trail finds you on a two-foot wide area of (what was now) quick moving water and slippery mud. To the right of you is the volcano and to the left is a drop of a couple thousand feet. Slip to the left and you won’t ever be coming down off the mountain unless it’s in a body bag.

I don’t think this would be “so” bad on a sunny day, but as the four miles dragged on and on, the water started to rush down the path at us like a small waterfall. I honestly began wondering if this could turn into an extreme emergency situation when, Yay! The sun came out! But it didn’t really, and once I realized that, I also knew there was no real choice but to keep putting one wobbly foot in front of the other and hope for the best.

Obviously I’m alive and writing this post, so safe to say that two and a half hours later we made it to the car. Another hour and a half later we were back in sunny Kihei. The diversity on this island never ceases to amaze me.

Admittedly, I won’t be rushing up there again anytime soon, but my memory is just bad enough and my general personality just insane enough, that I wouldn’t rule out an encore visit some day. Next time, however, I’m staying at one of the other, more remote, cabins and bringing an Ace bandage and some newspaper to cover the windows. And maybe thinking twice if the weather starts off as foreboding as it did this time…

Which is why I just slapped down the money for a service called “Securi” and will let them do the honors. I may have to write Google to explain I’ve done this and get myself off the watch list, but for $89.00 a year (Beer? Securi fee help? Support? Pity? Anyone? Anyone?) it should ensure we are business as usual. Business as usual being…a post every couple weeks.

***cringe***

Dude try to fuck up a girl's blog. Not cool.

Sorry about that. You never know, perhaps shelling out further for the blog will encourage me to actually write it. It’s not that I don’t want to write it, mind you, it’s just that I have  been absurdly – even painfully – busy lately and then there’s the overriding complication that I have built all these rules about what I won’t or don’t want to write about like:

1) My personal life (when I don’t tell you the good stuff then I [thank God] don’t have to fill in the blanks when it all goes to hell.)

2) Details regarding people (friends, family, etc.) who have no voice/can’t defend themselves

3) Make fun of people (I can’t help it. I’m kind of a nice person. I’d feel awful if anyone ever discovered I’d mocked them.)

4) Lose clients or my job (I kinda hate my new job. But I don’t want to lose it just yet.)

5) Share too many secrets about the cult I recently joined

6) Use the word “cult” to describe the awesome group of new friends I’ve made!

7) Reveal that my awesome new friends require me to be naked and perform incredibly grueling physical labor for twelve to fourteen hours each day and provide me with only some watery broth and bread crusts as nourishment.

8} ……………………….help me…………………………..

So anywho, I’m feeling much better now that I (think/believe/hope/paid $90 I don’t really have) got the situation covered by pros. And from that perspective, let me warn you: DON’T BE HACKING MY BLOG, BITCHES!

I may not be able to circumvent your crafty asses myself, but I am willing to throw money at the problem to shut you down. Besides, promoting “personalized cancer drugs” ain’t cool when (obviously…seeing as you have to hack blogs to sell them) they aren’t real. Think of all the poor cancer patients who want personalized drugs or, worse yet, all the people with Munchhausens who will REALLY want them just because the word “cancer” is in the link and that’s their really hard to comprehend mental problem. Anyway, fake cancer drugs are crappy. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s a straight ticket to hell or a venal sin or at least worthy of a lengthy purgatory (God’s detention) to think about what you did wrong and why.

Word to your mother.

(I don’t actually know what that means. I just thought it would be funny.)

p.s.? ?

Did any of you see that movie “Young Adult”? Was that supposed to be funny? What WAS that? I found the Charlize Theron character utterly self-important and kind of painful to watch. How is that entertaining???

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

There is nothing I hate more than problems with the blog, especially because:

a) I super dooper suck at all this internet stuff. I am a straight up, bonafide, short bus riding Internets idiot.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

b) I don’t know anyone who is good at WordPress and the like…even people I can hire. I am a straight up etc. idiot and so is everyone I know. (Sorry everyone I know, but unless you’re holding out on me, you know it’s true. You can’t fix this “site may be compromised” crap any better than I can. And if you can….my god, CALL ME!!!)

c) I am FINALLY – for the first time in four years – making a little money on the blog…and now this!!!! Nooooooooooo!!!

Karma, I am a good person. I have supported a kid in Burkina Faso for over four years and she doesn’t even answer my letters. And all things being equal, I’m too broke to send $50 a month to that ungrateful little…  (Oops. Maybe that’s part of why this is happening?) I remember people’s birthdays. I write thank you letters. I give to the Salvation Army at Christmas time.  I am friends with (almost) all my exes. I stop at crosswalks. I have only killed only one animal (recently. Again, maybe why this is happening. If it’s any consolation, I was mortified when I saw the spray of feathers blow out from behind my Jeep) with my car and that was entirely the animal’s (a myna bird) fault. I mean, who sleeps in the middle of the Hana Highway and expects to live!?!?!

So anyway, I’m being punished and that’s all I’ve got.

Meanwhile, totally panicked, I Googled this scenario (what else is there to do when you’re a total idiot?) and see things about how hard it can be for non-techie people (um. me.) to fix this stuff.

GODDAMMIT!!!!!!!!

(***Short pause while I lay on the floor and throw a full kicking and screaming tantrum a la a toddler.***)

So here’s the question I have for all of you: how the hell do I figure out if phishing or spamming pharmaceutical sites have added “invisible” links out to themselves? If they are invisible, how do I see them????

This could be a new Buddhist koan:

• If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
• What is the sound of one hand clapping?
• How do you see an invisible spam link to a pharmaceutical site?

For me, this is my worst internet nightmare raised to the power of a root canal and multiplied by watching paint dry. I HATE this stuff. I don’t understand it. I get panicky. I cry and semi-hyperventilate. I see dead people. I may get hives. Perhaps I’ll run down my street screaming in the middle of the night hoping someone will come out of their house and come help me find these invisible links.

***short pause again while I Googled the question I pose above. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK all over again.***

The worst part?

I’ve learned enough to be dangerous.

It was suggested I go to a site called “Bad Neighborhood” and have it scan this here wideawakeinwonderland.com for suspicious links and it found TWO. To the following:

Now to go drink something alcohol-based. And a lot of it. And hope the sunrise brings with it some good news or at least the name of someone (way) smarter than me…

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

What I’ve never done is spend a night at 10,000 feet…until recently.

The Haleakalā silversword. A threatened species that almost went extinct thanks to some hungry ass goats.

Now let me preface by saying I was sold a load of goods on this one. I was told it was a magical place (not that it isn’t. I had some weird ass Braco-esque experiences, as you will soon hear, but I don’t know that that wasn’t the elevation talking) where the native Hawaiians would go on visions quests and walkabouts. I’m all about vision quests and walkabouts…at least in theory.

One thing about Helleakalā – as I have renamed it – is that it is COLD. 40’s at night cold. Snows every few years cold. COLD! On Maui. Who leaves the beach to go and be cold? Well, me, for one, apparently.

So minus the cold and some pretty intense fog/mist business (which it turns out is a good thing if you’re flipped out by the sight of sheer rock edges promising deadly 1000-foot falls), the hike in wasn’t half bad. It was long as hell, mind you, the fours miles to the cabin took TWO HOURS, but we had things slowing us down like backpacks and the fact that it was rainy at times. Also,  I did stop quite a bit near the end to take some pictures…and thank god, ‘cause I was too terrified to do any picture-taking on the way back.

At any rate, we got to the cabin around 5pm. Neither of us had ever stayed in them before, but we’d read the information provided by the national park service and knew to expect to find a wood burning stove and firewood, a propane cook top, non-potable water, an outhouse, and beds for twelve. Somehow – quite stupidly in hindsight – we made the mutual assumption that “beds for twelve” meant 12 bunk beds with mattresses that could pulled off and stacked on the floor.

Ummmm….  Hahahahaha

Have you ever slept on a diner booth? Well, if you’ve rented a cabin on Helleakalā, you have! Yep. I suppose I should have predicted as much, but the “bedding” consists of twelve thin sections of cotton or maybe hay covered with vinyl and stacked as bunk beds. Luxurious and/or comfortable, it is not. There was also a gigantic but extremely beat up and carved upon wood table hogging up the entire room. Too bad there aren’t any businesses like Funky Furniture Hire here on Maui where they could spruce the place up a bit.

At any rate, after swearing off the heinous port-o-potty in favor peeing in the wild amongst the Nene, the night was more or less uneventful. Well, minus the part where I was urged to go look at the moon, stepped out the front door of the cabin and forgot entirely about the three steps down to the ground. Ouch. With a fresh twisted ankle and a four-mile uphill hike ahead of me the next day, I fell soundly asleep on my diner booth.

Always the optimist. The scene behind me should have clued me in as to the events about to unfold...

We had heard that campers (there’s a camp ground about a half mile away from the cabin. God help you if you decide to camp.) often show up at the cabin in the middle of the night begging to come inside because they’re cold and/or hungry, but happily that didn’t happen. HOWEVER, at roughly 8:00am, I awoke to the sound of an entire family standing outside and peering in the uncovered windows of the cabin to see what was going on. The door was unlocked and another family even barged inside. People come to watch the sunrise and (apparently) follow that up with a hike down to the cabin. As it was raining and misting, most of these people wanted to hang out and be fed, which I guess I understand, although it does feel super awkward to have paid $75 for a place for the night and suddenly having to host a bunch of strangers when you just woke up.

That stated, it was soon time to bust a move and get a dose of the wrath of Pele’s former home. It may not be erupting anymore, but it still can provide a brutal beat down. Who says you need lava to really suffer??? Helleakalā has other tricks up her sleeve…

***to be continued***

That stated, let’s talk about hitchhiking. Once a semi- acceptable form of travel – my dad has stories about picking people up with his cousin in their youth. It was summertime, but they would crank the heat up full bore (and this is probably where I get my love of practical jokes) and act like nothing was wrong, just to see how the hapless hitchhiker would react – it’s more or less a sure fire way to get abducted by a serial killer…except here in Maui.

Somehow in Maui it’s downright common. I wouldn’t do it – people are freaks and I (to quote my ex) “bring out the crazy in men.” This is a baaaaaad combination on the hitchhiking front. ***say hello to a shallow grave.*** Thus, I neither beg rides nor provide them, but I’m starting to reconsider that for a damn good reason…as follows.

Once upon a time, my friend picked up a hitchhiker here on Maui. As he tells it, the guy – heavily tanned, super skinny, stinky white guy in his late 30s, rocking a self-done “freestyle” haircut – was right outside Paia (but of course). He had in tow a large red and white 25 gallon cooler that he dragged to the back of the car. My friend gave him a hand in lifting the 50-pound treasure into the trunk. Speculation is that the cooler was filled with Bibles (his guess) or rocks (mine).

The hitchhiker was en route to Hana, and my friend was going about halfway. En route, however, the hitchhiker, let’s call him Bonkers, explained that he had had a vision that he needed to go to Hana to find something – but he didn’t know what. Moreover, Bonkers had been specially chosen by God to transport the Ark of the Covenant and that what was in the trunk was actually the Holy Grail.

Although one of the bravest – if not the bravest – person I’ve ever known in my life, my friend tells me he blanked out during some of the story because he was “scared for his life.” Ultimately he dropped him off in Haiku in the hopes someone else would help him and totally faked him out (driving through town to continue on his way).

Moral of the story?
Hitchhikers are scary.

Other moral?
Hitchhikers – potentially! – make amazing blog fodder. I am equal parts afraid and intrigued…and intrigue may very well win. Now to get a concealed weapon’s license, a can of bear mace, and a tranquilizer gun, and pick up the next post’s subject.

Vaya con Dios…

Meanwhile, in  my experience, ALL Brits are funny. I don’t know how you do it. It’s almost suspicious. HOW CAN AN ENTIRE NATION BE WITTY??? WHAT ARE YOU UP TO AND WHERE CAN I GET SOME???????

With that in mind, I’m starting to develop a theory that it’s because you’re also crazy. (And I already have multiple sources of that in my life, so no need to share yours.)

Granted, some of you are probably crazy in a ‘fun’ way, like drinking too much and deciding to swim the Channel in a ballgown and Scream mask, or maybe more in the vein of that eccentric and erratic behavior you seem so unilaterally prone to in your later years, but some of you are just straight up crazy.

You know who you are.

In case you'd like a photo to go with your loco.

For those who aren’t now squirming a little, as a case in point, and Exhibit B (right after Exhibit A: Braco) as to why I can’t – despite the plethora, if not downright landslide, of material available here on Maui – go down the road of mocking New Age/”healer” insanity as fodder for the blog is a man named David Icke.

If you haven’t ever heard of him, he’s:

a) speaking from 10am to 10pm here on Maui in a couple days. It’s a budget $39 for the event, billed as “Remember Who You Are.” I’m pretty sure I know who I am or at least can recall most of the time when/if prompted, but I thought maybe I could slog through 12 hours in exchange for (hopefully) days of hilarious post material until I learned…

b) this guy apparently believes we are lizards. As in actually lizards. At least some of us. Let me back up and serve it to you slow: David Icke proclaims that a reptilian race from outer space have genetically manipulated humans (and not just any humans: all the Queens of England. Ever. Barack Obama. The George Bushes Junior and Senior. Probably Oprah, although I haven’t read that specifically.) and are dominating earth. Oh, and they live in the moon, which is actually hollow and their space lab.

Didn’t I see this in a movie called Men in Black?

For those of you that are thinking “Finally! The truth comes out!” but can’t make it to Maui by Saturday, you’ll be happy to hear he’s also booked Wembley Stadium in October.

Of course he has, because…

c) He’s British.

Now before I get too far into slam dunking my sneakily revealed and not quite the title  “Brits Be Crazy” point, and in what may seem like a bit of an unnatural juxtaposition, let me tell you that I’ve got a new opportunity with respect to including links in the occasional post, and I could not for the life of me find a truly seamless way to do this. Thus, and in the simplest of terms,  if you are a funny (duh), non-insane (or insane. I doubt they’ll judge if you’ve got the cash) Brit in need of a new dining set or bureau, here I found some oak furniture, click on the link that just happened ten words back and they will give you the hookup.

In other news, maybe it isn’t fair to conclude that y’all are ALL crazy just because David Icke is one of your homegrown products, but when have I ever been all that fair in my conclusions?

Seriously though: lizard people? Really?

This goes hand in hand with my cardinal New Age rule: the minute someone mentions Atlantis or Lemuria/Mu to me as if these were actual places, I stop listening. I will consider a wide array of wackiness like astral travel, past lives, ghosts, poltergeists, and ESP. However, and I don’t know why exactly, but I draw a hard line at ancient lost (fictional) continents.

Now I have two hard lines: ancient lost (fictional) continents and reptilian alien world leaders.

Thus, I will not be anteing up $39 to listen to what are no doubt twelve excruciating hours of inane babble, but happily I don’t have to in order to mock the crap out of this. The internet and mauitime have graciously handed me a few choice wackadoo quotes, such as this one about his new book, REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE: “The key is in the title. To breach the perceptual walls of the Saturn-Moon Matrix and bring an end to mass human enslavement, we need to awaken to our true identity.”

Saturn-Moon huh???

Does this have to do with choosing the red pill or the blue pill?

Then there’s this: “In the Atlantean period there were many energies being used and information and knowledge being used which were, for particular reasons of safety, withdrawn, shall we say, to prevent complete catastrophe, to prevent total destruction of your planet,” which I honestly stopped reading when I got to the words “Atlantean period.” He had me at Atlantis. You know the cardinal rule. Let me know if you think I missed something useful…

And lastly – and I  cannot bring myself to quote any further having read this gem in its entirety – “Hitler’s Europe Yes, welcome to Hitler’s Europe… Come on, human race – for our children’s sake if not our own. This is wakey, wakey time.”

Out of context, this is obviously a weak quote. I’m not picking on him for that. Where I am flinching at is “wakey, wakey.” Obviously I am a woman of many pet peeves, one of them being adults talking baby talk to other adults. Nothing sends nauseated chills down my spine like a man talking to me like I’m an infant. And, sadly, they do it more than you would honestly believe. It must be something about my smallness. Although 5’6″, I am often described as “tiny,” “little” and most recently “child-sized.” The last was in reference to a child’s ukulele, and it may not be as off as I wish it were, as it turns out this child’s ukulele is an appropriate size for me.

But I digress… (as I do in almost every post)

My point is that I am still in semi-desperate need of regular blog fodder, but as I keep insisting – despite my apparent actions – mocking gurus and New Age zealots and freaks on the street isn’t it. First off, I don’t have twelve hours to spare in order to learn about how lizards are ruling the world, and that kind of stuff gives me nightmares anyway. Secondarily, I really do hate to be mean. I do. Even in the spirit of humor, I always feel like kind of a jerk and I pray that they never find the post and get their feelings hurt.

I don’t do much praying – that part is a lie – but I will confess it’s a lot of work to sort out whether or not I can tell someone about the blog because I may or may not have mocked them in it. This is a lot of pressure on my short term memory and runs me the risk of getting beaten up in a bar. And did I mention I’m child-sized???

It’s better if I just find something where I can fly under the radar. The last thing I need is some kind of reptilian heat on my ass. I’ve got enough trouble with the Grays to last me all month…