If you lived in Thunderdome... you'd be home by now.

I worked for a friend of mine last summer on the mainland. He had an Ice Cream shop. It was on the corner of SummerTeeth and HopintheTruck road, Cleveland, Ohio. It was a fun job and the owner made his share of loot. I got the chance to see America with a cross-country drive. The other part of the agreement was that I would have unbridled use of his new motorcycle. A Kawasaki ZR1000. I was very stoked. I spent plenty of time taking the early morning drives. We drove ten miles for coffee and muffins at our favorite spot. The newspaper was already waiting when we pulled up, as we were on a first name basis with the owner and staff. The ride back had me daydreaming and I often found myself lost on back roads. It isn't hard to get lost when you don't know where you are anyway! The bike rides were awesome and the towns were great to drive through. Even if I was pushing 100 through most of them. When it came time to come home, my friend asked if I would like to keep it and take over payments. I had no way of getting it from B.F. Ohio to Cali, and then had no way to get it on the ship. I declined, but she shore was purty. And purty fast! My other friend sold my bike that I left here for the summer. Then he wrecked on his and almost lost his life. He just moved back to Big Island after taking a year to heal. So my piece of crap was gone when I got back. It was a needy machine, yes, this is true. But I loved it. Now there would be no piece of crap motorcycle for Bruno. For now. I needed to drive my car and was not happy about the Regal. I knew she needed attention when I pulled up after 6 months and found a cat skeleton in the back seat. I always felt like I was being watched in that car. Like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. At least I know I wasn't paranoid for real. Good kitty. Play dead. Deader! I looked for a job right away that had nothing to do with the restaurant business. I found a car dealership that offered free cars to managers. I jumped in. Then I found out everything and more about cars and the drama behind the scenes that goes along with it. But I got the job and the car. I loaned my kitty car to a friend that lost hers. She subsequently stole it and totaled it. No Christmas card for her this year. I was happy with the new car every week, but I longed for the freedom of a motorcycle. The closest I could get was going topless in the Wrangler. A product of Jeep©. I like driving the Jeeps so much that I wrote "Bruno's Sweet Wheels" on the driver's window, in china marker of course, to deter others from moving it on the lot. An employee showed up on his *new* bike and so did Shardae, a former Miss Kona Coffee. "Does everyone have a bike but me?" Camera pulls back from Helicopter and hands are outstretched... and... end scene. Miss Kona Coffee is driving a Ninja and I don't even have my old piece of crap. I wanted a new bike. But I didn't want payments. So I wait. I had to be out from work for two months. (I was checked-in to the hospital in Oahu) and when I was able to work again, I opted to take it easy in the stress department and help my friend fix his restaurant up instead. But I lost the company car. So I decided it was time to get a bike. Finally. I went to look at them and found the prices quite high. Add a thousand dollars to anything shipped from somewhere else. The bike I wanted was 20,000 clams. The bike I could afford was the one they do a drawing for on the Fourth of July. *Must be present to win.* My search in the paper netted only 6 and 7 thousand dollar offers. What happened to the thousand dollar motorcycle? Where did it go? There was always a bike in the ads for a grand. I guess too much bike gets too high a payment and the buyer was too high when he thought he could afford two vehicle payments a month. FOR SALE HONDA CBR 750. ONLY 600 MILES. DROPPED ONLY ONCE. COMES W/ ALL THE EXTRA CRAP I THOUGHT WOULD BE COOL. $8000/ OFFER. I stopped at my favorite shop for coffee here in Kona, and saw a new Honda parked at the pump. I walked over to it like it was a puppy and I was waiting for it to notice me and let me pet it. The owner introduced himself as "Red". We talked story for a while and then I moved on. A week later I was at the cycle shop and looking at bikes when I thought to ask if they have a board that people could advertise on. The guy pointed me to the wall in front. All the bikes on it were in the thousands with the lowest being 3,200. I am going to Florida in a month and have no need to spend that kind of money. Then in the corner, I saw a white card. It read: VT 500 1983 $400.00 Red. Could it be? So I snatched it off of the board and pocketed it like Criss Angel. I called for two days. He answered on the third day and said I could come look. And yes, same guy, not the color. I looked at the gas dripping from the tank and a seat that looked like a vultures nest. Make that an abandoned vultures nest. It was covered in grease and the paint was missing from everything. The gas leak took care of most of the paint on the crotchety end of the tank. The rest of the tank looked like the Sea of Tranquility. It looked like it had been fished off the bottom at Kailua Pier. He had to push start it because it had a bad ignition. He needed a runway for speed and asked us to back up. I folded my arms and watched. The seat was wet like a stinky sponge you wouldn't want to wash a dump truck with. When he ran with it fast enough, he threw a leg over and plopped down on the seat with what I can only describe as a "Squish". All but one of the lights was dangling. Brakes??? We don't need no stinking brakes! It was straight out of Mad Max. I aptly named it Thunderdome. I have yet to hug her/him/it. It leaves an autograph in 10w30 everywhere it goes. The drips look like constellations in an alternate universe of asphalt and liquid planets. Each side of it looks like a Bomb Squad nightmare. Wires that appear and disappear through a forest of gook covered metal. Every time I park it (on a hilltop of course) I think the bike will either crush the kick-stand or drive it into the ground. If I ride Thunderdome for more than 20 minutes... in a row... It starts smoking. If it were a dog at the pound... it's name would be "Lucky". It would have been euthanized already too. My DC's have a greasy toe from shifting gears. They match my paint-laden shorts. I wonder how long before the last light accepts its fate and droops with the rest? It looks like the underneath of a carnival ride with handlebars. Thunderdome! Voted most flammable! So I take Thunderdome out and she growls her way down Alii Drive. Don't let her looks fool ya, that sucka makes up in speed for what it lacks in beauty. It even sounds like thunder. Coincidence? I love my piece of crap. I am Mad Max when I go through town. And when I'm parked... I'm King of the Hill! By the way... I took a china marker from Alex's pocket and wrote "Bruno's Sweet Wheels" on the dented tank.

so what if it tastes like chicken?

Snakes. In Hawaii, we have no snakes. We have no seagulls, no rabies and most importantly... NO SNAKES. I am a big fan of none of these things anyway, so I am content to go without. In my eclectic group of years on this planet, I have seen the occasional snake. The majority of them have been in pet shops on the mainland, but my most common experience has been on television. To be more precise, The Croc Hunter has been gracious enough to let me live my snake experiences vicariously through him. God rest his soul. Coming to my girlfriend's house in Florida has been nothing short of visual overload. The trees, plants, people and surf are all different. The biggest thing I have had to deal with is not the traffic, kids or weather. It's the snake. She has a Corn Snake, in a fish tank, right outside the bedroom door. I took a finger and held it up to the glass. I pulled a muscle in my shoulder yanking it back as it struck the glass like a Cobra. I feel Indiana Jones's pain when it comes to "hating snakes". Well, I don't "hate" anything that lives its life without interfering with mine, but ignorance breeds fear. I am ignorant of the snake but wonder why I would be so uncomfortable with it around. I don't think it is going to escape from its cage and attack me in my sleep or anything, I just don't like looking at it in the glass display box every time I cruise by. Like window shopping for creepy. I know it has no ears to hear me with, so "Hello little Buddy" falls not on deaf ears, but NO ears. I guess that means there is no way to convince a snake verbally that it would be better off biting something other than me. I have an overly healthy appreciation for life. Very Taoist in its nature, it is my "way of life" this go-around. I don't even like to paint over ants. I am an intuit that feels a little too much at times. You can go on and on about the chicken and beef that I ingest on a daily basis. You can tell me that plants are the way to go. Plants are living things too... they're just easier to catch. I know that the world revolves around the hierarchy of the food chain. I know fish get eaten by bigger fish and cats eat geckos. I just don't find any pleasure out of watching anything die. The Hippo. When I went on a first date with an old girlfriend, we thought it would be cool to smoke one and go to the Zoo in Hilo. I was happy to see all the cool animals in the park. I was amazed at the peacocks just cruising the sidewalks like elegantly dressed tourists. The monkeys were of course the coolest. Not because they do things that mimic humans, but because the area around the whole cage was covered in landmines of monkey poop. They seem to have the ability to hurl that shit with deadly accuracy. Like a game of Poo Bocci Ball. Everyone in the vicinity is a player, like it or lump it. I remember walking over to a group of open-air cages where I saw a giant bird. It was an Emu. I had never seen an Emu. I was amazed at its overall size. The neck on that sucka was as long as I was tall. I stared at it, as it stared back, and I heard its raspy breathing. I realized that it had a long way to pull that air from its mouth into its lungs and stood daydreaming for a moment as it decided weather or not to lean that ten-foot pole with a head on it over the wall and peck me. Just then I heard some woman standing at the cage next to me scream. I looked over at what she was looking at, and I needed a moment. What I was seeing, but not believing, was a goat. It was just standing at the wall looking at the woman trying to coax it over. I thought to myself, that woman is being ridiculous. No goat is going to come to you without food. Then I looked up at the rest of the cage. There was a Hippo in the same cage. There was a Hippo in the same cage? Dat can't be! I have no degree in Animal Husbandry, but I know when one plus one equals "There can be only one!" About the same time I saw the hippo, the hippo saw the goat. That was the beginning of a nature show I had no interest in watching, but couldn't unglue my eyes from the cage. The hippo charged at the goat (that had jumped into the hippo cage from the back "goat" area) making a strange guttural sound. The goat barely escaped the initial charge and ran around the cement pool and up the hill to the hippo's feeding area. The hippo charged up and cornered the goat in the chain-link, fenced-in area. The hippo lunged and sank its teeth into the fence, the goat narrowly escaping its fate. The hippos teeth were lodged into the mesh of metal and it began to squeal. The goat hauled ass back down by the pool, and the crowd went wild with screams for the goat. It was like a Superbowl game. The Hilo Goats vs. The Zimbabwe Hippos. When the hippo dislodged himself from the fence, he headed straight back down the hill for the goat. The goat was looking at all the people when the hippo came up from behind and lunged. It zigged and zagged and beat out the grey terror once again. The crowd sighed in unison. Then it tried to go back up the hill again, but the hippo had a running start and cut him off. The goat, this time, attempted to jump the pool. It missed by half its body. That was the part the hippo decided to bite. With one snap of its powerful jaws, the hippo opened up that goat like it was a pinata. After the initial attack, the hippo went into stealth mode and dropped down in the water, leaving only its eyes and ears above the surface. My eyes were bigger than saucers. Pili had her face buried in my shirt. The crowd moaned loudly and the kids all started to cry. I stood motionless. The goat was facing me where I stood in the corner. I was the only thing in its line of sight. With all of its internal gerkins floating around it in a red and white tangle, it began to die. It was trying to keep its head above the water, but with the loss of blood being so rapid, it was bound to drown first. What an amazingly shitty way to go. To be bitten in two and yet drown before you can die from your wound? Double whammy. Lord a merzy! As its head drooped lower and it kept trying to raise it, it was looking directly at me. It stared at me, crying out. I could do nothing. I wasn't about to jump the rock wall and pull a Steve Irwin. So I watched the life drain out of that goat as it kept eye contact with me. It finally gave in to the Almighty Goat Sandman and slipped underwater, once and for all. The cries from the goat were so human sounding that I hear them still in my nightmares today. Nothing could duplicate that sound. I never want to hear that again. I have been unfortunate enough to hear it more than once. That is more than enough. I bought a plastic Hippo at the gift shop that day. I also bought a little plastic goat. Those are the only things I will ever need to see to relive that day. Not that I would ever want to. Back to the Snake... So my girlfriend has a snake. She doesn't play with it per se, but she does need to feed it. What do snakes eat? Fuck if I know. But I found out pretty quick. Mice and rats. Now here is my thing. Working for years in the restaurant business, I have had only one stipulation. I will not put a live lobster into a pot of boiling water. I do not have the stomach for it. I have it in writing with all my previous employers. Now, before you go calling me a pussy, know this. I have been a cop and seen some pretty horrendous stuff. I have been first on the scene more times than I can count. I have seen death up-close and personal. I have seen more gore than people should ever see in a lifetime. I have no problem with it. I was wide awake for two of my surgeries and commented on the doctors work as he was knee deep in my flesh. I have seen a man get his arm blown off and delivered a baby in the back of a car. (That was some seriously nasty shit!) I have held pressure on gaping head wounds and pulled someone out of a burning car. I have pointed a gun at the head of a perp and had someone hold one to mine. I am by no means a wuss, I just have a weak spot when it comes to watching something die. I choose to stay away from it if I can. My Achilles heel. So when Diana said she needed to get some mice for her snake to eat, all I could think about was the... well... all of it. I asked if that could be the one thing that had nothing to do with me. "May I please be excused?" She obliged. Great girl. Creepy snake. But as fate would have it, I was with her as we went to get a mouse for it. The mainland has a plethora of pet stores. I figured it was time to stand up and be counted, so I decided to ask for the manager to explain my situation. I looked for the oldest person in the store, hoping that the manager would have more under his belt than acne and a killer ring-tone. I saw a man in the bird cage area and asked if he could direct me to the manager. He said "You're looking at him." I waited for him to finish with his customers and then he approached me. "What do you want?" He said. Nice opening line Shakespear... "I was wondering if you could help me with a slight situation I'm having with a snake? I need to feed it, but don't want to feed it anything that is alive. I have a problem with watching something get eaten alive... you know?" "How big is it?" he asked, seemingly unmoved and uninterested. "How you mean?" I said. "Long or wide?" He turned his back and started to walk away. I guess he thought I was being a smart-ass, but I truly didn't know. "I live in Hawaii and we have no snakes there, so..." "What kind of snake is it?" He asked with frustration in his tone. "I don't know." I replied. "Well... how big is it?" He asked again. "What are you, mad at me?" I said. (God I love that one.) Just then Diana came around the corner and I pointed at her. "It's a corn snake." She said. "We have frozen." He said. "But he ain't gonna eat it!" Diana looked at me and I turned to pass the stink eye to someone else. No takers. I said I would wait outside for her to buy the live ones. So she bought a couple of them and judging by the color, the snake likes white meat. Then we left. We got home and I stayed downstairs while the gladiators fought to the death in their glass coliseum cage-match. I may not have my motorcycle over here, but I have found a new name for the snake tank. Thunderdome.

I'm shakin' over here...

What a day. As you know, or at least will in the next few seconds, I live in Kailua-Kona Hawaii. I know that most wish they could live here, and for good reason. It is beautiful. And I am aware of it and am grateful for every morning I wake up and feel it's warm sunshine and every time I jump into the crystal clear water of any of our beaches. I feel it from balls to bone. "To blave." (inside joke). Today my love was put to the test. We had an earthquake at 7:07 am this morning. I must say that I am glad no one died. I mean, how often is there an earthquake in a city and nobody dies? Like... never. That just shows how laidback Hawaiians really are! "Eh... We need one new set dishes!" It all started last week. I was at my friend Brian's house in Town. We 'Henry the 8th'd' it and after the feast Brian made coffee. The only cream he had was the newest version of the crayola creamers in your grocer's dairy isle. This one was Chai. I don't think I have ever smelled Chai and thought "Ummm". It has always seemed like someone stirred my coffee with an incense stick. "Can I get a double half-caf nag chompa and a grande super-hit please?" But I tried it and liked it. I was amazed. That was Wednesday. I drove home and passed the Safeway on my way back to Palisades. Thursday I surfed and friday I passed the market again. On Saturday, last night, I stopped and walked to the back. I hit dairy and followed the colors behind the glass. Eggs are grey and yellow, milk is white, OJ is white and orange and then the multitude of colored creamers. I quickly scanned the lables and spotted the chai. I couldn't beieve I wanted it enough to stop and go in for that and nothing else. So I bought a breastmilk pump too. Seriously though, I grabbed a bottle and then I grabbed another. I put them both in my Little-Red-Riding-Hood gay basket. Then I wondered, "Why do I need TWO?" I can stop by and get a fresh one next week or so. In fact, I thought I should get another flavor and then I could switch on and off. But I couldn't put it back. I stood there, wondering what on earth I needed two of these big sucka's for? I took them anyway. I went to the counter with my breast pump and my creamers. The lady at the register looked at me with that "look" and I quickly commented "They're in case I can't get jump-started with the pump." She didn't understand. I drove home last night with dreams of creamy Chai shit in my morning java. When the alarm went off in my head at 5 something AM, I insisted on keeping my eyes shut. No light means I am still asleep dammit! I opened them again at 6:14. I unplugged my phone from its charger and called Diana. It was already noon-thirty over there and she was well on her way to a serious drunk. Just kidding, she had the kids at the costume shop and was trying on all kine stuff. I hung up a few moments later and made my way to the kitchen. Man was I stoked to have coffee this fine morning. I was the guy in every commercial you have ever seen for a smooth cup of joe. Jellin' like Magellan. I cleaned the machine and poured the beans. I wiped the counter and tidied up. I went in my room and fired up the computer. I read my emails and waited for the Java. I got up at 7:05 and went back for my reward. I opened the cupboard and took out my favorite mug. Oversized. I poured a cup of 100% Kona and was pleased with my bean to color ratio. I opened the fridge door and took out one of the bottles of Chai creamer. I unscrewed the red cap and was trying to peel off the foil layer. I couldn't get it off right away so I picked at the "pull here" tab and got something to give. As I began to remove the top, the strangest noise came from under the house. Like a washing machine spinning with the tub off balance. Klung klung klung klung KLUNG KLUNG NG NG NG NG NG NG. And that's when I looked up at the fridge. It seemed like something was pulling my hips down to the ground. I grabbed the counter as the kitchen began to shake violently. Glass seemed to break where it stood. Everything was trying to get to the floor as fast as possible. Smashing and shaking all around me. I tried to steady myself and shield my eyes from the debris that seemed to be flying everywhere. I was being painted into a corner with knives of porceline and glass needles with food exploding like bombs. The floor quickly filled with liquid of all types. I may have peed in there somewhere too. The dishwasher screamed as the big door flew open and it vomited it's contents onto the kitchen tile. After about 4 seconds, I realized it was not going to stop anytime soon. I turned and tried to open the door behind me. I was making noise, but I don't remember yelling "Earthquake"! How could someone sleep though a plane landing in their living-room? I turned the knob but the door didn't open. The house had shifted and the door was not going to open. I pulled like a guy that pulls A-Lot. It finally ripped open and with my hands over my head, I bolted into the drive. My roommate was right behind and his girlfriend was right in stride. It lasted for what was calculated as 15 seconds, but felt like 3 minutes. I thought North Korea launced a nuke at Honolulu for a moment. I was covered with coffee and Chai cream. So was everything else. The radio in the car supplied only one station and that was an AM from Hilo side. It seemed they were the only station that had power. They also had no connection to anyone. No phones, no planes, no power, no camera crews, no reporters. The world had no idea what happened to us and neither did we! Except the fact that we were hit by a 6.6 magnitude quake. The epicenter was 6 miles from my house. Besides the airport, we were closest to the button. A quick recon of the neighbors and I went back in the house. Shit all over the place. My computer desk was the main casualty in my room. Thank God the hard drive was safe on the floor, buried under all the other stuff. I began to clean it up when a 5.8 slapped us. What didn't fall the first time, made an attempt then. I was out the door quick the second time. I cleaned for about ten minutes with one hand shaking. Then I grabbed my camera and snapped a couple shots. It looks half clean because it was. I like the kitchen shot because it shows where I got trapped in the corner. I cleaned for a long while and then saw that the coffee pot was not molested. Like, the ONLY thing that didn't fall somewhere. So I poured a cup after I rewashed my old favorite. It had hit the floor flat and didn't even chip! I looked for the cream and saw the bottle in the sink. Empty with glass chardes all over it. Then I smiled and opened the door to the fridge to get the second bottle. The next 20 aftershocks were dealt with accordingly. After I had my Java, of course. The roads are filled with rocks big as a house. Kealekekua is changed forever. I saw a photo of it on the news 6 hours later. Roof collapses, roads out and the hospital evacuated. Not to mention the entire island has been reported to have sunk a full inch into the ocean. That is supposed to take 10 years. What does that mean? I guess we will all find out in the near future. Below are three shots of where I live. The epicenter was 6 miles west of the Island, in the ocean. That's about a pinky-nail from the airport at the bottom of the volcano we live on. Luckily, no virgin sacrifices were planned for that day.