...Some flowers in your hair...

1. The first GF had a thing for Austrians. So, in the summer of love, in the city of love, I went to see 'Fahrenheit 451' directed by the great Francois Truffaut with the iconic Julie Christie, and the great Austrian actor, Oscar Werner. I had not read the Bradbury book; I was a heady English major churning out volumes of papers, cutting classes to engage in clandestine sex with the GF, flunking Shakespeare, and inhaling the Height Ashbury rapture. Sci-Fi was Teflon. Nothing ever stuck to your brain. As the lights came up in the theater,I made a mental note to check out Ray Bradbury's novels.
Book burnings, listless societies, and rogue anti-establishment groups hunkered down in the forest literally pulping the words to memory, tweaked my internal chords. Today out and about whether it's in my 'hood,' or other environs, I can't help but notice the virtual disconnect of people around me: the population mesmerized, lost in their hand held devices. Eyes downcast, and squinting. Everyone seems only there, and not really here. The delicious art of cafe sipping and scanning (a serious art form best enjoyed behind a pair of dark reflective glasses) is fading away. In '451,' society is emotionless and complacent. A flat screen at home, the only source of entertainment. I confess I love my ear buds and would never fly without being hitched to my music. And I've got a 'droid. But, the next time you're out, my friends, count the number of people staring not at the magical surroundings, but at their electronic devices. Paper burns at Fahrenheit 451; at the end of Truffaut's film, if I could have chosen one book to memorize, it would have been T.H. White's 'The Once and Future King.' Tempered by the passing of years I'd also include, Marion Zimmer Bradley's, 'The Mists of Avalon.'

2. In the city the other day. Went to my favorite truck, Donna's Tamales. For a visit and a couple of tubs of tapioca which is so good it's criminal! Seriously. Vegan. Made with maple syrup, coconut milk and other killer ingredients. Can't get enough of that. But, alas, no Shirley and Donna. Lemme know when you're back.

3. Is it me? Or is this a lackluster summer blockbuster year. Super 8. Old school entertainment. Harry. A smashing wrap. Uh, but that's a long time between those 2 drinks.

4. Keith Richards, 'Life.' And George F Martin's, 'A Dance with Dragons.' Great summer reads.

Local Style 101

1. If Spam is the King of canned meats in Hawaii, Vienna sausage is the bastard prince. For all you haole's out there who look down your noses and can't quite digest the culinary love affair that the kama'aina have with their canned mystery meats, class is in session...long time ago in the 40's when the islands were the launching point and the r&r base for the military, Spam, unique, in it's compact size, sealed tin, and preservation qualities (the canned meat that would not die) became the ration of choice for the armed forces. Legend has it that Spam then moved it's way along the food chain to shelves of local grocery stores because fresh meat was hard to rustle up. Um, bologna! Truth is that the military boys on leave would trade locals Spam for fresh fruits and vegetables. And the locals especially the plantation workers discovered that Spam mixed with rice and packed in lunch pails did not spoil in the hot Hawaiian sun. Enter the bastard prince, Vienna sausages: different shape, round tin can, same amazing properties. Locals snapped up the tiny canned finger sausages and incorporated them in the Spam recipes. But my friends, Spam was never dethroned. Vienna sausages carved out a loyal following and found it's own niche but always sat a foot below the Spam banner. In my survival kit, I have among other canned items, the royal Spam and it's wannabe, Prince Vienna. Why? Because no need worry about expiration date.

2. Ah, Love's bakery. The tradition continues. Producing the wonder bread of the islands. First baked in 1851 on Nuuanu Street. A survivor of the health food onslaught which frowns on white bread. Long may you reign!

The Babe, and other gems...

1. On deck, The Babe. Not that Babe. But, THE Babe. June 26, 1911. Mildred Ella Didrikson born in Beaumont, Texas, a century ago, and I hear tell just a hop, skip and tall Texas spit away from that other city, Port Arthur, which would later hatch one of the greatest blues and rock legends of the 60's but that my friends is for another blog. A comet hurtling through the sports world, all alone, in an era when there wasn't any encouragement (nada, zippo, zero) for women to excel in sports; Mildred Ella shocked the world. Nicknamed by her mother, the Babe, Mildred grew up foul mouthed and brash, two uh, Texas sized attributes which would serve her well as chauvinistic writers and fans amped up dis on her athletic prowess. And what marvelous stats the Babe reaped: 2 time Olympic track and field gold medalist; all American basketball player; baseball pitcher for the Southern Assoc in 1934; and the winner of 82 golf tournaments, 14 of them trophied in a row. It is said the LPGA was founded because of the Babe. As a teen, I stumbled onto the Babe when my dad tossed me a book, and told me to read the story of one of the greatest athletes who ever lived. My head was spinning when I finished and I remember staring at her photo a long long time. Babe Didrikson Zaharias (George Zaharias was a wrestler she married), who saw no point in playing a game if you didn't win, died at 45 from colon cancer. Of her, the legendary sports writer, Grantland Rice, wrote: "She is beyond all belief until you see her perform...Then you finally understand that you are looking at the most flawless section of muscle harmony, of complete mental and physical coordination, the world of sport has ever seen."

2. MIA. Not. Called upon for an emergency tour of duty...family crisis. And, on flight as my mind wandered through the musical maze of Stones...Out of our Heads, December's Children, Let it Bleed; Beatles Revolver, and White; Cake; Johnny Cash; I savored an amazing moment. During my checkerboard 45 years of aviation flights, I have never had the pleasure of hearing a female voice over the aircraft intercom utter these seven golden words: "Welcome aboard, this is your flight captain," until the other day. It was a swell moment. Props galore. I enjoyed every sweet mile of my journey.

'Stuck a feather in...'

Uh, I wasn't born a 'fortunate son...' no sir, but at the right moments, in tumultuous times the John Fogerty lyrics have resonated. However, today while returning to the bay area, I thought of how the skies will be rearranged, pyro-technisized by dazzling showers, glittering displays of phantom artisans. Grandiose. Flamboyant. And renegade. In most cities fireworks are illegal. But, in every burg across the country today, people are loading up for nightfall. Got no pyro-T's? Locate local Chinatown and slowly do a drive-by. In an evil twist, and in the spirit of the former British landlords, the city of San Francisco has decided to tax it's residents today, not for tea, but for parking. No meter freebies. Lots of pissed citizens. The 1776 divorce perpetuated some of my favorite childhood memories. Fireworks. Legal in Hawaii. Asian holiday? Fire up those works...and chase bad luck down the street. Mother or Grandmother marching through the yard to the royal palm with 2 foot strings of firecrackers, nailing them to the trunk of the tree and lighting the staccato display. Some of the best 4th's in no particular order. 1. Highway 80, stuck in traffic. People standing by the side of their vehicles watching the Marina pyro-T's. 2. On a blanket in Davis. Flat on back, bursting chrysanthemum patterns overhead. 3. Hood of a car outside a stadium pyro-T show. 4. Every year on Manila St. with the kids as the profusion of lights flourish, soliciting their memories.