Have it your way, majesty.

What do animals know about the vacuum that we don't? Why are they in such a hurry to bolt from the room when that sucker comes out? I mean, the 12 year old runs when he sees it too, but its not like I'm gonna tell the cat the he needs to clean up his room with it. Why do they all do that? Why do people think they become royalty when they enter the front door of a restaurant? The same guy that cuts you off in traffic, blows his yard trimmings into your yard, talks during your movie experience and throws his cigarette butt on the ground next to a trash can, somehow becomes The Burger King himself the moment he walks into an establishment that serves food. Using the restroom in a restaurant this week, I could still hear the band loud and clear with the door closed. I imagined myself in a band and thought about a cool name. I decided I would open my eyes and derive a moniker from the first thing I saw. It's official: I will be headlining the 'Urinal Boogers' in my imaginary future. Sitting at a red light in town, I knew that I was going to need to merge into the left lane just after the intersection. I knew that when the light changed I would need to get in front quickly so I could get over. The light changed and I sped up quickly through the interchange. The car next to me must have thought that I wanted to race and sped up too. I gunned it to make the merge and the guy in the car next to me pegged it too. I had to slam on the brakes or force him into oncoming traffic, seeing as how we were both doing 50 mph, I hit the brakes and looked over at him. He was making a face like I was crazy or something. Then he slowed to 30 as soon as I was behind him. I expect him to waltz into my restaurant sometime this week and start calling the staff "Idiots" when his limitless expectations are not met. Renting a video from a local merchant, I was offered the opportunity to pay a monthly fee for unlimited usage. I noticed that there was a $25 surcharge for setting up an automatic transfer. I started to laugh to myself when I saw the fee amount. The teenage girl behind the counter asked what was so funny. I said "No... Nothing..." She persisted and I gave in. "I find it funny how you offer to take money out of people's bank accounts every month, and you charge them for it." She was instantly indignant. "We do that because the bank charges us!" At that moment in time, I got sucked in: "The bank charges you to run a credit or debit card? I mean, over and above the predetermined service fee you pay for any transaction paid for with a card?" She started burning a hole in me through hazel colored contacts. "Don't you have your own computer software that keeps track of each account and automatically sends a payment authorization to the bank on the day you are due? I mean, I have to come in to get the movie no matter what anyway, right? I mean, couldn't you just tell me I need to pay my monthly fee when I check out?" She walked away and a few moments later a woman I assumed to be her mother appeared and completed my transaction. She asked. Why do people do that? I receive numerous phone calls during my radio shows. That are always complimentary, but this past Friday, I got one that was not. The featured artist was Bjork. I tell everyone about her in an introspective I call the 'Moment of Clarity'. It starts with a brief

bio at 8:15 and I play the artist for the remainder of the half hour. It is quite popular and I receive many requests for future shows. This Friday, however, I answered the phone to someone that was curious as to why I had played three Bjork songs in a row. I explained that he tuned into the middle of the 'Moment of Clarity' and the featured artist was Bjork this week. I further explained that it would last until 8:45 and then it would return to Classic Alternative, my usual show. He was incredulous. Speechless in fact. He stuttered for a moment and asked if this was WFCF. "Yup!" I retorted. "88.5? Really?" "Yeah! This is 88.5 WFCF... what can I DO FOR YOU???" I didn't wait for a reply as I hung up. I tip the kid at the movie theater that gets my popcorn. Just a buck - no biggie. I'll tell you, the look on their face is classic. I think I may start trying to tip my Pharmacist. "Thanks for the Synthroid. Here's a little something for your time." If they attempt to refuse it, I will give my best management stare and say "I insist!" Just a buck though. That makes it comical. I'll be the hit of the breakroom that afternoon. Surely. People will squeeze into a tight parking spot between two giant SUV's when there are 85 open spots a few cars down. I heard they don't throw rice at weddings anymore. They say the birds eat it and it's bad for their health. Cigarettes on the other hand, now come in grape and peach. I should go and enjoy the rest of my day off. There will no doubt be an ordination of many kings and queens at work tomorrow.

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A chocolate egg in his wetsuit.

So much happening. So many things to think about. I guess the job leads the pack. My company is selling out. Yup. The place I work has sold out to a competitor and is awaiting approval from the FTC. We were told about this last year, and after the state of shock we were all in about losing (or possibly losing) our jobs, morale fell through the floor. People began to pay less attention, give a substandard performance and those who weren't involved in slipshod ethics decided to just abandon ship. As the manager of this chaos, I was unable to answer the tough questions brought to me everyday. I didn't know what would happen to each individual, when it would take place, what severance would be offered and what positions would need to be staffed. I didn't even know these things for myself, let alone my employees. The rumor mill is up and running every morning at work and I walk into some doozies when I arrive. Fact of the matter is, there is more information abounding on the internet than in my corporate e-mail. I wanted to get my severance package and get out, you know, have some time to decide. The interviews were set up for last week Wednesday. I called my boss and asked her what would happen if I wasn't offered a position. She said I would receive a severance package of a month's pay and a cash equivalent of whatever vacation days I had in the bank. I figured that would be fair and told her that I wasn't interested in getting the job seeing as how the new company runs things differently. (They are open 24 hours and require the management to work hourly positions.) I am not interested in that, so I said I would like to bow out and take the cash. She said "No deal". I must apply, and be denied in order to receive any severance. So I said I would just show up to the interview and say "Don't offer me the job asshole". "That too", she said, would disqualify me. When Wednesday rolled around, I brought a resume and although I considered wearing my boxers on the outside of my pants, I dressed properly. The rest of the management team were in their Sunday best and all were quite anxious. Well, except for me. When the interviewers were late to arrive, the group got nervous. To make a long story short, they never came at all. No phone call, no e-mail, no flaming arrow into the side of our castle wall. Just crickets. To this day, or should I say to this '6th' day later, no word from their side or ours as to why no one showed. Not even an apology for the flake. My motorcycle needs a bit of attention. I have a new speedometer cable, but need to take the wheel off to put it on. I'm not so self assured about removing the wheel from a machine that goes 100 miles an hour. That could be a blameless situation if it decides to come off the next time I am going 100 miles an hour. I need some spark plugs, tires and brakes as well. It'll cost about 600 clams to do it, and at the moment, I am having separation anxiety with my cash. Especially if I don't take the job with the new company. Last time I was out of a job (before this one) I was out for 7 months. I can't do that again. Not with any intention of maintaining some semblance of sanity. The hot sun is back and I couldn't be happier! I love the grueling heat! Screw snow. Screw it dead! Next week is the anniversary of my girlfriend Holly Jean’s death. The week after that is my current girlfriend's birthday. I love them both. Yin and Yang. I did the Easter Egg Hunt for the kids a bit different this year. I always do a scavenger hunt. This year though, I did it with riddles. Here's an excerpt:

If you were in the mood for a song, and your name was Diana,

You’d pull up THIS, and play the piano.

You need to take a shower after the day has gone by,

and you need one of THESE, to get yourself dry

If you want to speak well, you need good grammar,

if you want to fix the roof, look in HERE for the hammer

When he needs to move something heavy, Bruno’s got POWER,

When he needs to get clean, He goes HERE for his SHOWER.

If you sprinkle when you tinkle, do right and clean up,

look behind HERE (it’s where the CATS take a dump)

If you want food fresh do what you’re told,

look in the DRAWER that keeps meat cold.

It’s time for your prize, oh me - oh my,

look IN the place where we get clothes dry

It was too easy I'm afraid. They burned through that shit in no time. Next year? Calculus problems. Better yet: SAW 7 - The HUNT Begins! We went to the beach yesterday, Myself, Diana and the kids. The little one rode her pink bicycle (that says "Slumber Party" down the side) and the rest of us walked. When we traversed the 5 blocks to the sand, we decided to eat. I mean, it was Easter and what else do you do on Easter? Don't they call it a feast day? We put our name on the list and took a walk on the sand for 20 minutes. When we returned, we had to sit for another 10. Then we sat at the outdoor picnic table and ordered. Amber vowed to "hook us up" as we ordered burgers and fish. 15 minutes later, the sun was almost down and the temperature dropped 10 degrees. I was getting cold. I don't do well when I get cold. My close friends know that my body likes to "shut down" when it gets cold. My internal thermostat doesn't work so good. Knowing this was about to go down, I decided to take the bike back to the house and return with the car. That way, I could bring sweatshirts and an alternative to walking home. I jumped on the teeny weeny pink bicycle and peddled my ass off. I looked like a Shriner in one of those little cars at a parade I'm sure. As I pushed through a group of kids coming home from the beach, one of them yelled "What time's the slumber party?" I yelled back "The party's in your mouth... and everyone's coming!" He was about 15 so I feel a bit awkward about that now... Anyway... When I got back, the food still wasn't there. 1/2 an hour later, it wasn't either. I asked Amber to ask the kitchen how long and make good on the "hook up". When she returned, she said the cook laughed at her. 15 more minutes later, she arrived with three of the four orders. Diana's Mahi got legs and walked away. It was cold and dark and we had been there over an hour. We told her not to worry and just divided up the booty. While we ate the two tables next to us and behind us had a drunken conversation going. Table 1 drunk chick: "Hey Andrew!" Table 3 drunk dude: "What?" Table 1 drunk chick: "I heard you shit in your wet suit today!" Table 3 drunk dude: "Ha ha! F-you!" Table 1 drunk chick: "Ha ha! F-you!" The 9 year old eating a cheeseburger across from me gave me a look as if to say "See... everybody talks like that! So why yell at me when I say it?" I looked at Diana as if to say "Should I do this? Dare I get up and bring the Bruno?" Then I thought, well, it is actually kinda funny. I don't wear a wet suit when I surf, but if I did, and I had to go while picking up outside sets, who knows? I have a day of sunshine awaiting me now. I'm out.

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That lady has a sausage.

I was just watching a television commercial. It was an advert for Chronic COPD. The dude was walking around his truck and wiping it off when he said "This gives me the freedom to do the things I really want to do". I sat watching, and thinking I would rather be waxing my car than working all day too! Man! That dude has it made! Then I realized that he is an actor, and HE is actually the one working and I am sitting on my ass watching television. Irony. I went to the carnival on Saturday night. I must admit my love for the midway. It was great to be in the midst of the lights, sounds and smells. One of the greatest smells I know, amongst fresh cut grass, morning surf and my new deodorant is Sausage with Peppers and Onions on the grill. I have two things I go after at the fair: Fried dough and Italian Sausage with O&P. I waited in line for 10 minutes to get my hands on one of those beauties. When I got to the grill, I made small talk with the woman handing out the subs. She asked me how many and my eyes widened. I ordered two. She asked if I wanted sauce. She meant Marinara Sauce and I declined. I love red sauce, but not all red sauces, if you catch my drift. I didn't want anything to interfere with the taste of those sweet onions. I tipped her two dollars and went back to Diana and the table by the band. The random dancin' dude was in full swing up front and the guitarist kept signaling for the drunken rowdies at the closest table to bring him a drink. They didn't get it and neither did he. I understood his sign language just fine, but I wasn't about to leave my tasty goodness to get back into another line. (The band

wasn't that good anyway.) Three quarters of the way into the first one, I felt the texture wasn't right and I looked closely at the sausage inside the roll. The center was raw! The only thing worse than an undercooked piece of meat is finding out it's undercooked after eating 3/4 of it. I brought it back to the booth and waited in line again. When I made it to the front, I showed the woman the sausage and told her, politely, that it was raw in the middle. She looked at the other woman in front of the grill and said "I need another sausage!" I showed her the one on the plate underneath and she quipped "Two!" at the woman. I said "Hold on a second, How do I know that this one is cooked? Are you using thermometers?" She just put one on a bun and shoved it into my hand. "You want sauce?" I said it again "How do I know that this one is cooked? How do YOU know it's cooked?" The other woman looked up from the grill with her inch thick glasses and said "You want sauce?" I smiled and looked at Diana. I looked back at the ladies and tried to dumb it down for them. The money taker put the knife into the bun and cut the sausage in my hand in two. Then she poked it with the tip of her knife and said "See there! It's cooked all the way!" I looked at it and saw that it wasn't. "No. No it's not cooked." I said. She leaned over and squinted... "You're right. It's not cooked!"

She asked if I wanted my money back, and honestly, I just wanted to make sure she wasn't selling any more raw sausages! She gave me the money back anyway and I took it. Sans the two dollar tip of course. I tip the kids at the movies every time I go. Just a buck, but it lets them know there is a plus to being fast, accurate and somewhat obsequious. What movie did I see today? Kick Ass. (I liked it.) I went to the flea market with Quinlan on Sunday. We walked around a bit and looked for some DVDs for him. We found one that he was interested in and brought it to the counter to pay. I opened it up as he was taking the money to the register and I noticed some scratches on the disc. When he returned with my receipt, I mentioned that there were some scratches and then stated that if it didn't play I would like to bring it back. He shook his head at me and said "Nope." "Seriously?" I said. "You wont take it back if it doesn't work?" He eyed the disc again and said "Those seem like minor scratches and it should be fine." Allowing no time for 'dead air' I quickly said "That's a keen observation, but nonetheless, I want to be able to bring it back if it doesn't play." The dude actually went back to the register and took the money back out of the drawer. He dropped it on the counter and took a long draw off of his Pall Mall no filter. Straight trippin' boo. I didn’t get sick from the sausage. I never got a fried dough either. We waited in line, but when we got within a few people, the dude came out and said that both fryers were down. We rode the Ferris wheel and drank a couple of beers. We people watched to our heart's content. The random dancin' dude is probably still dancing.

Lemon in my tea? How about one in my garage?

The people I meet never cease to amaze me. Both in over and underwhelming. I have my foot up in the chair with me. The other one too. The cat looks at me like I owe him fifteen dollars. Come to think of it... Lemons come in many shapes. I bought one last week in the shape of a bicycle. I took it on an inaugural sojourn. About five miles away. No big whoop right? I have spent some time this spring, on the bicycle showroom floor, outfitting new bikes for the summer season. When all the others had new, shiny bikes, I realized that I too wanted one. I drove to the store intent on buying myself a new bicycle - and that’s what I did. I wanted a white mountain bike. Knobby tires, easy shifting and a durable frame. I saw only one in the store, and I jumped on it. I rode it down the isle to feel it under me, you know, take ‘old girl’ around the floor. A few moments after I got on ‘old girl’ an ‘old man’ sternly corrected my behavior. It was the first time someone had actually yelled at me in a store. I was taken aback and actually got off the bike out of sheer confusion. Then he thanked me very loudly and sarcastically for complying. I walked it to the front and paid for. I had no idea how much more it would cost me. When I got it home, I took it down the block and back. Then, the next day, I took it to the radio station. I had left my Sigg bottle in the soundbooth last Friday. It’s about five miles to the station from the beach. I made it no time and actually found my bottle It was in the possession of another DJ, but I got it back nonetheless. Coming back, I crossed back over to the island on the new bridge. When I came down on the other side, coasting up onto the sidewalk, I heard a nice rubbery POP sound. My back tire locked into a skid and I had to fight the inertia from tossing me over the handlebars. I got off and saw the ribbon that used to be my new back tire. On my new bike. It was obviously not repairable. It needed to be replaced. I pushed it down the street and thought about the choice of pushing and walking versus calling someone to come and get me. I pushed a couple of blocks and decided to make the call. The bike was not rolling with any cooperation whatsoever. As I spoke on the phone with my friend, I looked up and hung up. Island Bicycle Shop AND it was OPEN too I pushed the door open and an electronic buzzer let the shop owner know I was there. On a quick side note: I was a bit disappointed when I heard the door buzzer. I know that if I owned a bike shop, when you walked in, the sound of the Schwinn Thumb Bell would serenade my customers. Ching Ching The shop was empty so I made my way toward the back. I heard someone say “What’s up?” from behind the counter and wall. I couldn’t see anybody, so I went behind the counter and peered into the back room. The shop owner did not stop what he was doing nor did he even make eye contact with me. A bit sweaty and a bit obvious, I broke the ice: “I’m on my way home and my back tire just blew out!” He said nothing. “I was really concerned about how I was keep going, and then I looked up and saw your shop!” Still, no reaction from him. “So... if you sell 26" tubes... I sure could use one!” Then he spoke: “What? You want ME to put on?” “Well... That would be the general idea, yeah.” He reverted to silence yet again. “I’m on way home, to the Island ya see...” Just then he looked at me and raised his voice “You’re ON the Island!” (I thought to myself “Whatta ya -MAD at me?”) “I guess what I meant to say was deeper into the island... er something.” I just shrugged my shoulders in a weak defensive posture. “I’m busy doin’ something right now. Then I have somethin’ else to do that’ll take a half hour. So, if you feel like waiting, I’ll do it after that.” “This is like - a ten minute deal right?” I said. He said nothing. I didn’t know what else to say. I just stared at him for a few moments. “Do you sell tubes?” I asked. “Yeah...” He said. Drawing out the word. “I charge 8 bucks. For the labor.” I turned my back on him. Staring blankly out the window at my wounded soldier on the sidewalk. I took a deep breath and exhaled. Now here I stand, assessing the situation. In a bike shop, with a broken bike in front of me. The guy, that has neither people nor people skills in his shop, couldn’t be less interested in helping me. I’m shiny with sweat, iPod still audible from the tiny ear buds now hanging around my neck. My hands are on my hips and I am trying to breathe through my frustration. Like a new mother in childbirth. I was just about to turn around and give him a witty tongue-lashing when I decided against it. I just walked out the front door. The buzzing sound, I found at that moment, was quite appropriate. I pushed the bike about a half mile more when my friend showed up and carted me home. I took the bike to the other shop on the Island a week later. When I walked in, the first words out of my mouth were “Do you have anything to do with the other shop?” The dude behind the counter shook his melon and said “No”. “Good. Then I’ll stay” I said. He laughed. The tube was repaired right away. He said that 4th of July weekend was really busy, but he had no problem taking care of me first. After he fixed the tube, he showed me the bad news. My tire was bent. The handle bars had not been put together properly, the brakes had not been put on correctly and the wheel alignment was quite askew. I made the sign of the cross with my karate chop hand and gave him the ‘dominus ominous’ to do what needed to be done. $53.00 + $10.00 tip = piece of mind. I tried to ride no-handed yesterday and the bike pulled so hard to the left, I felt like I was on a dive bomber pulling out of formation. The bike is still crappy. I blame the old man in the store that yelled at me for trying to ride it first. Hell - I gotta blame somebody right?

Drive! (She said)

It's Saturday morning and the tears in my eyes will not stay away. I have been up for an hour and a half and the yawning has yet to subside. Every stretch of my jaw invites a new wave of water I cannot blink away. It sucks when you go to bed knowing that you can sleep late the next morning, and yet you wake up at the same time as your regular work day. The cat doesn't know it's Saturday and frankly could care less. It only wishes to get it's daily rubbins and then move along to it's regularly scheduled nap. By the time I feel able to lay again, it's time for the rest of the house to rise and play their instruments. My girlfriend complains about her hour long drive to work. She has for a year. I worked here on the beach for that same year and felt none of her pain. It took me six minutes to get to work for ever and ever. Now, I work an hour away too. The first week was magical. Long phone conversations, my favorite CD's over and over. Coffee sipping and toe tapping as the road stretches out in front of me. Then, just like the grand finale of a Vegas lounge act, the magic was gone. It took a month of being cut-off, filling up twice a week and standing in long, expensive coffee lines to become disenchanted. That CD bores me now and my head hurts from the earpiece phone conversations. I wish I could surf to work. Get in one l-o-n-g barrel and get dropped at the front door like a Long John Silver's commercial. This month has been an interesting one to say the least. It would seem I could use a stack of "Get out of jail free" cards in my wallet. Two employees of mine found themselves incarcerated this month. One got out and one is still enjoying the view. These were victimless crimes mind you, but jail-able nonetheless. I needed both of these guys. Like the Beatles needed Ringo. At this point in time, I place my right palm on my forehead. We made cookies last night. I stopped yawning. My eyes are swollen still though. I need some coffee and a shower. I don't need a radio though, the instruments of a happy family are my morning music. Now it's my turn to go wake the cat up.

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.