Punchbowl crater

In high school, the loose kids always joked about making that mid-night caravan up Tantalus drive to do some 'scuba or submarine diving.' Exploring it by day, because I was not yet a fallen Catholic girl, I discovered some amazing look-outs on Tantalus...one of the more spectacular views being Punchbowl crater, the national cemetery of the Pacific dedicated to the soldiers who had fallen in the Pacific campaign. I thought of Punchbowl while watching the HBO series, The Pacific. Raised by parents who heard the bombs exploding at Pearl Harbor, and growing up an islander with very little knowledge of the war in the Pacific theater except for Iwo Jima and Guadalcanal (and really what exactly did I know besides the flag raising), my interest was piqued by the production. Unlike the ground war fought in Europe, with recognizable land marks, and European allies, the campaign in the Pacific fell primarily to the Navy and the US Marines. The series based on 2 Marine memoirs, 'With the old breed at Peleliu and Okinawa' by Eugene Sledge and 'Helmet for my Pillow,' by Robert Leckie follows the 5th Marine regiment, 1st Marine division. Battles on Peleliu, and Cape Gloucester, Okinawa, and Guadalcanal, most of them tiny atolls, fingerlings of death, rift with unbearable heat, unrelenting tropical rain, mud, blood suckers, poisoned water ponds, landscape so terrifyingly unfamiliar, barren, and twisted that it consumed the bravest of men, began in the summer of 1944 against an empire who had dug in and was willing to die in unconventional military fashion. Watching those episodes, I remembered one of my best friend's brother. Don enlisted in the Marines during Vietnam because he wanted to prove to his father that he was tough enough to make it in the corp. He made it, and died on a jungle reconnaissance mission in 1966. Yeah, war is always hell. But, my island or chain of islands survived not because the guys were 'somewhere over there,' but because they were in flotillas bobbing on Pacific waters waiting to disembark, or slogging through some godforsaken atoll up to their Marine asses in mud and guts. The first internment of the remains of thousands of soldiers who had died in the Pacific theater was made at Punchbowl on Jan. 4, 1949. Punchbowl is located in the 'Puowaina' Crater; in Old Hawaii it was known as the 'hill of sacrifice.'

'Live together, die alone'

The initial draw of 'Lost' for me was that it was 98% filmed on location in Hawaii. With the exception of 4 scenes the entire 6 year series was shot primarily on the North Shore of Oahu and in different locales of Honolulu. Thailand, Beirut, Australia, LA, hey, brother, they were all cleverly disguised island locations. 'Lost' did not have the brilliance of a cable production; the series fell below the prominence of 'The Wire,' Six Feet Under,' 'Deadwood,' and even 'BSG,' into a niche however, that was elevated, void of the medical, the jurisprudence, or the CSI populated worlds; 'Lost' was thinking man/woman's 'Lord of the Flies,' vs smoke monster vs ram dass. There was the light and there was the dark. The international cast was immense; each one of them with a compelling story intertwining past, present, future, and even an ambitious visionary 'sideways.' 'Lost' was that piece of mythical tapestry in the Odyssey. The weekly unravelling challenged sensibility. The series was not an easy mid-season, or mid-year pickup. If you inadvertently turned on, tuned in, you probably had to drop out. Story lines arced and collided. This may have been Jack's story. But it was every one's journey. The island's venue served as the backdrop for subcultures, crumbling civilities, and emotional discovery. In the end, the questions far outnumbered the answers. The writers, Lindelof and Cuse respected the characters, and presented closure for many of them in a zig-zag, back and forth story line. The last offering may have been purgatory or death, but in this final emotional film vignette, along with Jack we discover that memories facilitate letting go; that the most important time of his life was spent with this unlikely collection of people: his band, their tribe, a posse. In a quasi philosophical (and why not, the series had characters named Hume, Locke, and Rousseau) context, one accepts death in a place created with loved ones, and then moves onto the next resolution. White light filling the screen. Jack's eye closes. Nice. Perhaps, more philosophical than religious. The opening and closing shot of the final episode, the white sculpted Christ figure, arms akimbo...the church parking lot: my old high school. Past karma. I had the shives, or what kamaiana's call 'chicken skin' running down my arms.

Scatter shots

Wow, what a wealth, a veritable treasure trove, of news this morning. I gulped my tea and wolfed down 2 donuts from my secret supplier as I scanned the lap. Have I mentioned these buttermilk nuggets are the best deep fried diabetic (stole the word from Justified) carbs in Oakland?

Floyd Landis. In 2006 when Landis was accused of testosterone doping in the Tour de France, I asked a couple of my world class cyclist pals if they thought he was clean. They both laughed at my naivety. They said 98% of the tour was dirty. The first man to be stripped of the Tour de France title, Landis spent two million dollars defending himself against the accusations. Today, the disgraced Landis purged himself publicly in a Wall St Journal article and admitted to doping since 2002 when he was a member of the US Postal service team. He also pointed the finger at Lance Armstrong (who has always been under heavy doping suspicion), and other members of the team. Testosterone, human growth hormone, and blood transfusions were on the list of performance enhancing drugs of choice. A long time ago, I remember hearing that Armstrong had a residence in Spain. A friend pointed out that Spain is the chemistry mecca, the mother lode of illegal sports substances. Uh-huh.

Mothers. In long black robes, heads covered, the mothers of imprisoned Sarah Shourd, Shane Bauer, and Josh Fattal after petitioning Tehran for months were granted visitation rights as an Islamic humanitarian gesture. Sarah Shourd was quoted as saying conditions were decent but that she was isolated and lonely. Unofficially charged with espionage, the three young Americans, while hiking wandered into Iranian territory and have been held as political pawns since last July. Sarah Shourd worked as a student in the Main Library of UCB. The whole world is watching, Sarah, especially the blue and gold.

Meg Whitman. 64 million pumped into the campaign trail. I watched the latest 30 second ad, referred to as the 'Plan,' (not to be confused with the brilliant BSG plan) at least 10 times. Using a fade to black and white, Meg swore to secure the border, and continue the war on immigration. She invoked the use of the National Guard, and a litany of no driver's license, no amnesty, and no sanctuary cities. War? Really. Not finished, Meg attacked the unions and state pensions. Whoa. Can and deliver those 30 seconds to SNL. Whitman, stripped of 'sista' and void of hood, joins Carly Fiorina, and Condi Rice in the Gender Pantheon Hall of Shame.

We like to watch

24 is about to wrap. The legend of 24, as anyone who has been chasing the dragon since season 1 knows, is it's ability to go retro 50's on us. Remember how you felt during those Saturday matinees when Buck Rodgers was about to 'eat it' on some wretched creature infested planet and you were sitting there in a pile of candy wrappers, a vast sea of popcorn, Popsicle sticks strewn across the floor, your tiny mind running around in hysterical circles, when those 3 slimy words crawled across the screen: 'to be continued.' Bastards! Someone on the 24 production team was watching. Have the plots on 24 been good? No. Have they been credible? No. Do they resonate with familiarity? Uh, barely. The leading man, Jack Bauer is as friendly as a door knob. I know 7 year old children who are smarter than Kim Bauer, Jack's daughter. Over the past 8 seasons all of Jack's girlfriends were card carrying members of anorexia anon. We did have our 1st Black president on 24. Futuristic reality check. We learned all about torture. Even before we learned the term, 'water boarding.' Another check mark for reality. We had Middle Eastern, Asian, African, and Russian bad guys. 24 knew how to spread the wealth and share the joy. And fantasy. For the last two seasons there has been a woman President. Certain things I learned from the show: I learned how to use the mute button on my remote as Jack was pile driving some poor schmuck, or getting his own high tech battery encrusted nipple piercing. I learned what everyone else learned by watching, that we were all prime voyeurism candidates (hey, it was free...we didn't have to pay) and that we had to look. 24 was loser boy friend or loser girl friend you couldn't turn away from. Call it addiction. Immaturity. Whatever. We liked Jack kicking ass, having his ass kicked, and then Jack resurrecting and kicking more ass. We were enablers chained to the shark pool. Season after season we couldn't wait to jump the shark again with Jack. So long Chloe, the greatest side-kick and shtick woman since...sliced bread. God knows the show needed your scowling face (Jack never emoted) and comedic relief. Does Jack die in the last episode, or does he go riding off (Jack, come back, Jack) into the Malibu sunset on a pair of water skis looking for the next great white? Rest assured. In the end whatever it is that befalls Jack on that final Monday night, the screen will not fade to HBO black.

Scatter shots

Oakland police today snuffed out Bambi right under the confused gaze of excited 'hood children. In East Oakland, where gun shots can resonate at any time of the day, the police cornered a dazed and confused fawn who had wandered through back yards and city streets and gunned it down like it was a rabid pit bull. Having no procedure in place, the officer drew his glock and fired 7 rounds into Thumper's best friend. WTF? It doesn't take the sharpest pencil in the box to suggest a tranquilizing dart. Hmmm. Let's all close our eyes and play the race card for a sec. Same scenario in wealthy white mansioned Piedmont? I think not.

Last week the colorful and business savvy Franklin Mieuli died. He was 89. Franklin was the majority partner of the NBA Warriors in 1975 when they won the only championship in their history. Over the years he also held different percentages of the SF Giants, and the 49ers. That is, the SF 49ers, when they were owned by the Morabito brothers, Tony and Vic, the original franchise owners. Those were the glory days of post game steaks at the Leopard Cafe and radio broadcasts sponsored in part by Burgermeister beer. One of my memories from the 50's, was a party at Franklin's house. We were tethered to the team because my father, and Godfather worked for the 49ers. It was a warm day; the barbecue was winding down when we all heard yelling and screaming. Running around the edge of the pool like a train about to jump tracks, was my little sister with a cream puff in hand, followed closely in hot pursuit by Franklin's salivating white terrier. Carmel remembers 2 great danes. But, that's probably the damaged version. Tears streaming down her face, it was the memory she and I took away from that party. One other Franklin Mieuli nugget. He loved fireworks. My dad often procured them for him probably from the trunk of a shady car in Chinatown.

Whatever it is that the citizens of South Okinawa are ingesting, I want. The oldest living woman, Kama Chinen died today. She was going to be 115 next week. With a diet rich in complex carbs, and high in fiber, the Okinawans strive to eat 7 servings of vegetables, fruit, and several servings of soy legumes, with a preference for fish over meat, and a high consumption of sweet potatoes. This particular area has the lowest rate of strokes, cancer and heart disease in the world. It should be noted that one of the key's to longevity might be the practice of eating only to 80% fullness, hara hachi bu. Ah. Super sizing doesn't live there.