R Blog

North Shore in the News

The New York Times (registration required) has quite a  long article on the North Shore and they get most things right. The photo accompanying the story is the view of Waimea that we get through binoculars. Can’t quite figure out where David Skull, photographer for the NY Times was standing. We didn’t see him in the yard.

Oprah’s Liar

Thursday Oprah, swollen with righteous indignation, dragged into her studio James Frey, an author she had made famous and Nan Talese a publisher not used to visiting the woodshed. Frey had written a memoir called  A Million Little Pieces (#4 on Amazon sales) Talese’s company Doubleday published. The book, purported to be a memoir of addiction, was an Oprah Book Club selection. The book topped the Best Seller Lists and Frey and Doubleday made a fortune on it. Then, the Smoking Gun, a web site owned by Court TV, decided to investigate some of Mr. Frey’s claims regarding his time in jail. He claimed to have been incarcerated three months. Turned out to be three hours. More lies were exposed and the liar’s memoir became a cause celebre. Frey appeared on Larry King to defend himself and Oprah in a surprise call to King’s show offered her support. But the scandal continued to unravel as more and more details of the book were exposed as not true. At some point Oprah decided she had made a huge mistake to endorse the book. She was embarrassed and thus we had Thursday’s remarkable TV tableau with a darkly dressed Oprah dressing down James Frey who looked like a broken man, a school boy dragged in front of the principal. Oprah drafted columnists Richard Cohen of the WaPo and star cultural columnist Frank Rich of the NY Times onto the show to help her with her butt kickin’. They appeared as ordered apparently on short notice. (I’m sure it would have been entertaining to hangout in Harpo Studios last week watching the fur fly as Oprah decided she needed to take a dramatic step to reclaim her reputation and by God James Frey and his publisher had better get their shiny asses on an airplane for Chicago). Oprah tried to metaphorically slap Nan Talese up side the head for not properly vetting Frey’s material; for not fact checking. Ms.Talese made a spirited, but polite and deferential, defense pointing out that the book was a memoir and that different standards apply. A memoir, she said, is not an autobiography but a recollection, the author’s own impression of life events. She did allow that the next reprint of A Million Little Pieces will include a disclaimer. But Oprah was having none of it and steaming with outrage made Frey admit, made him say out loud, that he was a liar, and then apologized to her viewers for her “mistake” thus saving the credibility of the Oprah Book Club for future authors’ recollections. During the proceedings Talese’s cell phone actually rang and my guess is it was her marketing director reporting that sales had taken another spike.
I watched this show with some degree of wonder. Oprah Winfrey, using her enormous power and influence not to expose a liar, really, but to redeem a sag in her reputation. Frey lied in a book that millions of readers endorsed as valuable. At dinner last night a very bright friend said, “I don’t care if he lied. It was a great book.”
kkThe guy was an addict. Addicts are liars. Who did he hurt? Besides Oprah, I mean? If we read a memoir or hear a story  we know it comes through the filter of the individual writing or telling. It is our job to evaluate it for what it is. A memoir isn’t a history. It is a remembrance. Reader beware. Frey is a con and the cost to any one individual was $21.95. Many felt the message was worth being lied to.
It would be great if Oprah had spent the hour focussing on prominent, public liars who cause measurable physical, financial and emotional harm to the citizens of the world. Concentrate on lies that kill; lies that cost trillions. Now that would be good TV.

Hangin’ Out in Hawaii

It’s been raining on Oahu. Cloud bursting noisy downpours in the middle of the night that overflow gutters and make splattering noises on the roof. The Waimea River, fed by even heavier rains in the mountains, bursts through the dunes at Waimea Bay and clouds the ocean with a brown stain that spreads for several hundred yards. Everyone hides out in their houses waiting for a break in the sun and when it appears, make their way to the beach. The surf is down and the surfers disappointed. Last evening, while picking up shells at Keiki, I watched a young guy snorkel his way through the waves and up onto the beach holding a spear gun and dragging a big fish behind him tied to a red buoy. In an Aussie accent he told a pretty girl who stopped to admire him that he trailed the fish thirty feet behind in case there were sharks. They had a long discussion about sharks while I lurked about eavesdropping bent at a 90 degree angle scanning the beach for the distinctive spiral pattern of the puka. The fish was an amber jack, weighing about fifteen pounds, and the man from Oz was going to have it for supper. I was working the surf line looking for “fresh” shells and had a bit of a conversation with a trim middle aged gal in a green bikini. She was shelling as well and we compared notes on our pickings. Everyone on the beach is pretty friendly. Of course, many are visitors. Most are visitors is my guess. But there is a cordiality among those hanging out. Hawaii is relaxing. More relaxing, I must admit, since I gave up wearing underpants. Underpants just are not required here. They are binding, restrictive, uncomfortable and hot. For several years I wore bathing suits with the built-in web underwear. Then I discovered the comfort of board shorts, long loose trunks that hang to the knee and allow one to flop about without fear of embarrassment. The best board shorts have no elastic but tie with a string at the top of a zipper or Velcro fly. They open wide so that after a swim you can drop them to your ankles while wrapped in a beach towel and pull on another pair without fear of arrest (or ridicule). No undies to tie you up or catch sand. These big baggy shorts of quick drying material are suitable even for short hikes. I think this would be a good slogan for the Hawaii Travel Bureau. “When you come to Hawaii, leave your underpants at home.”

Beach Walks

We are trying to cover as much of the North Shore as we can with morning beach walks usually starting at 7 am so we can finish before the sun hits the beach. There are perhaps nine miles of sandy beach on the North Shore of Oahu. We’ve done about four miles so far. Many are surfing spots so as you walk, looking for shells, you can watch surfers and boogie boarders and body surfers or just swimmers struggling with waves. The sand has an amazing consistency. Most places it is quite soft and after a few minutes calves start to burn as you sink several inches into the sand with each step. Some places, walking close to the wave lap, the sand is firm and you can move at a brisker pace keeping an eye out for bigger sets of waves. The North Shore has been surprisingly calm this last week. Folks are swimming at beaches not normally swimmable in winter. One of those North Pacific storms is sure to come, though, and the life guards will post more signs and put up yellow tape to discourage people from getting swept away. Today we walked from Turtle Beach (where the tourist buses and white limos stop to show their tours a turtle who is often basking near the beach) down towards Police Beach where  the TV show Lost is filmed. Not today. They must be in town. Then it’s back to Starbucks, a small outlet in Foodland that sells an amazing number of cups of coffee each day, for some chai and an oatcake and some people watching. Linda’s observation: many tall girls on the North Shore.

Zonk, We’ll Miss Ya’

Poor old Zonk, our well-loved grand dog, had to be put down this week. He demonstrated the aggressive behavior to a child that everyone had long feared. With Zonk it wasn’t meanness, just his erratic, reactive nature. Zonk was like Pavlov’s original dog. Stimulus and response. He wasn’t exactly the brightest penny in the jar. But, he was deeper than anyone expected as evidenced by the unusual diary he left behind.  Unusual, of course, because a dog wrote it. (I will note here that the diary was written many years ago at a time when Zonk was at the heighth of his powers, not the elderly fellow you see in the photo. It is worth noting also that, at the time, he was an “only dog.”)
The diary is, unfortunately, fragmentary. Unfortunate because although the Zonk Diaries provide a clear window into the mind of this particular dog affirming much of what we believed to be true about him; the writing, at the same time, leaves tantalizing questions unanswered. Zonk kept this diary during a short period when Noble and Kendra took a European vacation. During this time he was forced to stay at the North Star Kennels in Ashland. Every other day Linda and I would drive out to North Star in our old diesel Suburban to pick him up and take him for a romp in the hills. We had a good time and our hikes were normally without incident except for the scary scene, the simultaneous near death and out-of-body experience that Zonk relates in the diaries I found hidden in a rent in his dog bed when I picked him up to take him home. If you are interested in what a dog like Zonk is really thinking then you can click here to read the Zonk Diaries. 
FAIR WARNING: It turns out that Zonk had a  foul mouth; cursed like a sailor, if fact. If you are offended by bad language and a purient interest in poop, don’t go there.

Kaena Point

Mythically, Kaena Point is the jump off place for souls leaving Oahu. We have walked halfway to Kaena Point several times. We go to a little cove that has a great collection of shells—pukas, cowries, turbans. But yesterday we decided to go all the way to the Point, a roadless area on the northwest tip of Oahu. It is a famous spot for big waves, whales, and albatross watching. We saw two out of the three Kaena Point attractions.  The albatross is, of course, a legendary bird associated with bad luck. They are magnificent fliers and we did get to see one skimming the surface of the water with its huge wingspan. But, mostly, the albatrosses, clumsy on land were waddling about, protecting nests or wandering. There was a group of six who were having some sort of meeting, squeaking and bobbing their heads. They had the look of a volunteer committee. Whales did blow in the distance but the waves  were modest.  The most surprising thing about the hike was that it was dry. Usually in winter there are mud holes galore made worse by four wheel drivers who rodeo around, often getting stuck, tearing up the terrain and marring the landscape. They are blocked from the wildlife refuge at Kaena Point by a gate and large rocks. Dogs are forbidden at the Point but recently there’s been a problem with dogs destroying the albatross nests. The trail is a railroad right of way from the sugar cane days. At the Point it curves through a man-made chasm. We were led through this pass by a lonely bird. Suddenly, dramatically, the view opens up with a great look south down the roadless coastline. The only vehicles we saw this day were fishermen who cast out into the big surf with long poles. We did stop for twenty minutes at our secret beach. A skinny old man, a lonely walker, wearing flip-flops crossed the beach behind us. We later passed him sort of staggering along on the highway near Dillingham Field where skydivers were dropping out of the sky.
We stopped for a swim at quiet Mokuleia next to where the “Lost” crew has a base camp. Later in the day we saw the old guy in flip-flops in Wailua, some twelve miles from where we had first seen him. Had he walked all that way? If so, I need to find out what kind of flip-flops he wears.

Wi Fi Blues

Lots of blues here in Hawaii. You may have heard about Linda actually turning blue (see previous post). Since we’ve arrived I’ve had the Wi-Fi Blues. There’s something wrong with the Airport Card in my Powerbook. It has no range. After about twenty feet I Iose the signal. I’ve tried changing channels; I’ve tried “Interference Robustness.” I’ve moved the laptop to every possible location on the second floor. But, the only place I can get a signal is sitting on the roof almost directly above the base station. I don’t mind this in the mornings when it’s still in shade even though climbing over the parapet requires a degree of agility and athleticism that has nearly been drained from my body. I need an assistant to hold, then hand, me the computer. It is pleasant sittlng there listening to the trade winds blow through the avacado tree and watch the swaying branches of the giant alapsea. Wi-Fi Blues could be a blessing in a way. I’ve cut down on my internet addiction significantly. I walk downstairs occasionally trying to be unobtrusive, check email, download a couple of news sites then scoot back up the stairs before the battery gives out. I don’t really need to read all the stuff I’ve been reading. Dubbya seems far away (because he is). Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe I’ll buy  a paper.

Blue Hawaii

Yesterday was kind of scary and is a demonstration of the power of the mind to make one feel worse than one really is. After a walk from Ekuhai Beach Park on the bike path to Sunset and back again on the beach, I noticed that Linda’s feet were blue. I immediately assumed that her socks had bled dye onto her feet. But when I pointed it out and she pulled up her pant legs, her legs were blue as well. Then we discovered blue arms. Linda felt a bit faint. She lay down on a low wall and I ran over to Bart’s pickup where he was waiting to tell him that Linda had turned blue! He drove over and picked her up. At home she felt headachy. The blue did not fade. Then she felt dizzy for a moment. After that she felt fine. But she was still blue. I wasn’t blue but I was getting concerned. I raced to the computer to Google “Blue Skin.” I came up with “cyanosis”, blueness of the extremities, a symptom found in thirty three separate diseases or ailments like heart attack, drowning, pulmonary thrombosis and other lung related diseases. None of them seemed to fit. Bart hadn’t seen anything like it. I called our medico Aran and described the symptoms. He was baffled because the blueness was even on both sides. Yet she had no other symptoms. He thought it might be a reaction to something on the beach; something involving the circulatory system. I mentioned it to the big wave surfer who lives in the cottage at Bart’s place. He’d never seen that symptom. But he allowed that the sand in the morning is a lot colder than you might think and perhaps she had gotten cold. The blue parts of her skin did seem cooler. I emailed my friend Jim who is knowledgeable in natural health. His wife Susan immediately suspected that Linda was becoming a Goddess like Inanna, the ancient Sumerian Queen of Heaven and Earth, who was blue. Susan mentioned  Hindu goddesses who are various shades of blue as well. Linda has been into the Goddess thing lately so that, of course, was considered as a possibility. Our son Noble had recently finished a novel about a blue demi-God and I wondered if there could be some kind of transference taking place. Jim suggested the blueness was a classic case of what is known as  "regressive vicariation," or some sort of cleansing event.
Linda took a hot bath, and seemed less blue. She felt fine. The blue was going away...mostly. But, at the same time, it was depressing. We’d been through a long, mysterious illness with her before and I was flashing back in post traumatic stress fashion. We didn’t feel like doing anything. No energy. I wondered what we would do if we had to attempt to seek medical attention, to get blood pressure or heart or lungs checked. We sat around an listened to music and later watched American Idol.
This morning we were up at 6 a.m. to begin another walk but Linda said she was tired, didn’t want to go. I argued that we had agreed we would walk every day. She got up and went into the bathroom. She was blue again. Noticeably blue. We turned on all the lights and took a closer look. Definitely blue. I tested her fingernails and toenails squeezing them the way Aran had suggested to see how long it took the blood to flow back. The nails turned pink right away—under the blue. She decided to run in place for three minutes to see what would happen. The blue seemed to fade a bit. She felt fine, though. Then I noticed what I thought was blue on the surface of her toenails. We no longer needed an internist. We needed an externist. “Let’s check those sheets,” I  said. Linda grabbed a white wash rag and swiped it across the blue plaid flannel sheets. We had automatically ruled these out because I wasn’t blue. But blue dye rubbed off onto the wash rag. I showed Bart the rag. “I washed those sheets,” he exclaimed. That was another reason we had not considered the sheets. We knew they had been washed.
Mystery solved. We were quite elated. Felt better instantly. No circulation problems, heart fine, lungs working properly. Linda got back in the tub and scrubbed off the blue. It took some work. Then we went for a walk and a swim, stupid but pleased not to be blue, happy to have avoided death by sheets.

* Painting of Blue Woman by STEPHEN PITLIUK

Big Wave at Pipeline

This photo was taken at 8 a.m. today (Jan 17).— a collection of boogie boarders and surfers sitting at the break at the famous Pipeline on Oahu’s North Shore. I don’t understand the mechanics of surfing or wave picking at all. But it appeared to me that the wave was breaking a bit early. These guys seem unconcerned. They ride them up and down the other side like little ducks and every so often, when they decided the time is right, paddle like hell and ride laterally through the tube of water created by the break. Once a year or so someone gets killed. More often a surfer is bloodied. Young guys sleep on the beach so they can get an early start.
At Pipeline it seems like there is always one photographer for each surfer. And there are also dogs, often of the Labrador variety who play in the water, race with birds, chase lifeguards on their ATVs or just hang out. The show is great and it’s free. Last evening we sat at the bottom of the yard and with binoculars watched more surfers catching the wave at Waimea. That’s a different wave, bigger, deeper, with not much curl. At Pipeline the rider moves diagonally to the shore; the longer, usually higher Waimea wave pushes the board toward the beach. They were surfing when the sun went down and will be again before the sun comes up.

Dancing With the Stars

I’ve got a major bitch about  Dancing With the Stars
It could be with the excessive repetition or the unbelieveable number of commercials. But since I TiVO the show, that’s not a problem. My problem is with the director, someone named Alex Rudzinski. In the olden days, my children, before MTV, TV directors just showed you what was going on. The contemporary director feels it necessary to dominate the proceedings by changing cameras and angles every second. It's like some kind of Tourette’s Syndrome. There’s plenty of movement already with dance. We don’t need the director to create it artificially by switching cameras all the time. For example, during the quick step dance of former boy band star Drew Lachey and his partner, Director Rudzinski gave us 28 different camera shots. (Yes, I played it back and counted them). It was like watching a slide show. He was changing camera angles so often, zooming and dissolving, that once Drew and his partner Cheryl Burke were able to dance right out of the frame. On another change he missed Drew’s only mistake. On this week’s show the men did a quick step while the ladies did a rhumba. Rhumba is a slow dance. Too slow for Rudzinski, apparently.
On the winning dancer’s performance (that would be the amazingly long-legged Stacy Keibler who works in the pro wrestling business) we had 26 camera changes. It is very annoying to have someone constantly changing your point of view and I look forward to the day that technology will allow me to direct my own show picking the cameras I want to use. By the way the changes I mentioned don’t count panning, circling the camera around the dancers, or booming it up and down again. These MTV directors have even moved into sports and can ruin a football game with their frequent cuts to fan reactions, sideline shots and closeups of the linemen. Back to Dancing With the Stars, if we could get rid of Rudzinski or calm him down with appropriate pharmaceuticals Dancing With the Stars would be even more fun to watch. Maybe we can get Stacy to wrastle those cameras away from him.