Tuesday, May 27, 2003

I went on a long motorcycle ride with the “boyz” yesterday and as I am the whitest of white I remembered my sunscreen and avoided solar related skin issues except for the top of my hands which are burnt to shite. We’re not talking 3rd degree blistering or anything but they’re red, at least as red as sitting bull’s ass, which I’ve never seen, so don’t get me going down that road, Mr. & Mrs. Literal society, but in any event I’ve heard through legend and racial kine stereotypical kind stuph of which I would never subscribe that sitting bull had a red ass, red even for an Indian. I mean native American. I mean Atlanta brave. No I don’t.

I remember that back in the latent days of the new wave of ultra sensitive political correctivism that I thought most of it was a load of hogshit except for the part of that they shouldn’t name sports teams after Indians. I still believe that. I think it’s pretty fucked up that we have a Washington redskins and a Cleveland Indians with a big red faced big nosed Indian with a feather in his hat, especially after we raped these people’s lands and gave them token reservations and casinos which only like 2% of them get any useful amount of money from. Are we supposed to feel better about ourselves now that 75 Indians are millionaires? “well Barbara, you know, we did all we could for those people, I mean, we can’t start casinos, now can we? So what do they have to complain about?”

A lot of people don’t know that being a white persona in Hawaii means you are a minority. The problem with being a white minority is you can’t complain. Black people can complain. The white man loaded them on boats, enslaved them, only after wars and other kine insane shit finally assimilated them into society, and even then forced them to endure jim crow and the fucked up restoration and whatever they call it. blacks have lots of things of validity by which to bitch about. They did not as a race initiate the actions that led to a large chunk of Africans being uprooted from their land and culture and transplanted into a new geographical & sociological framework, one in which they were seen as objects and tools by which to make white men shitloads of money by selling tobacco and getting people hooked on ciggies. Indians have lots of legitimate concerns as well. We landed at Plymouth rock, sat down to a Thanksgiving feast, gave them big phat smiles and shook their hands, and woke up with full bellies the next morning & proceeded to rape & pillage & wipe out all the buffalo.

But here in Hawaii, I can be at the gym working out, let’s say working on my lats, which are huge, and these two local guys can be working out next to me, and talk shit about haoles with me sitting right there, and I can’t say shit. This is comparable to hanging out & dropping n-bombs right next to a black guy. But as described, different situation. And n-bombs are, yes, much more harsh and fuked up then haole-bombs, but shit, haole is not a nice word, m’kay? Haole is not a comliment. But fuk, I am a haole, so I will just sit there & realize I am in a ‘nother land than my forefathers. I have to endure racism, but shit, my people came & took over a native people, but we didn’t wipe them off the face of the land like we did the Indians. We left enough of them around and due to other factors like racial assimilation & local customs of mixing & mashing the races and hapa culture etcetera, there are a large population of mixed race people that identify much more with Hawaiian culture & ideas of sovereignty & yearnings for the old monarchy & kick the fukn haole invaders out than they would with any white ideal of imperialism and or European kine progenetical dogma. I can’t bitch, because I am the invader. They’re still pissed off. I’m not the beaten down, I’m the conqueror. Except if I’m at a nightclub and there’s a drunk local guy, I might have to hear about how I’m a “fukn haole” and I can’t say shit.

I gotta do work but I’m gonna leave this document open for editing & plus I’m not done. Actually I doubt I’ll edit it maybe just add to it, but you’ll never know unless I tell you and/or unless you’re spying on me. In that case watch me flick this booger at you. oh and yes I edited it. but only for the promotion of grammatical crankmatical delirium. Yes, it’s like that.

So now that I’ve emptied out my white imperialistic skull regarding racial whatevas to you, let me tell you about the phat motorcycle ride I went on yesterday. We basically rode around the whole frikken island. Starting in Kaneohe, we went up the east-side (yay-yay) and I was pushing rhymes like weight, except I wasn’t. we rode on through kahaluu and through Kaaawa and Hauula and then stopped for break time at Kahuku sugar mill, long abandoned and now a tourist trap with a little lunch stand & 7-11 type dillio. Tourist trap may be a strong word cause it’s pretty desolate. Anyway, continued on through sunset beach, Waimea, through Haleiwa, well actually not through, because we banked a right at the park and cruised through Wailua and by mokuleia beach and rode down the airstrip & watched the skydivers do their thing at the Hawaii jump out of da airplane kine place. Some lady there asked me, while we were on our bike-break, if I was gonna jump today. I said, uh, no. I’ve never jumped out of a plane, not that I’m adverse the idea, but it just hasn’t come up. These guys land pretty fast, almost as fast as fastman, in that, shit, they’re coming down, and they like to fly through the air & wait (like white lion) for the last minute to pull their little strings which slow the parachute down. Anyway it was an education. We also rode by all the hangars with their little planes in them & I’d never been around there so it was, um, pretty cool.

Ok new paragraph, that one was becoming a monster, as is this post, but bah that’s your problem. If you don’t have the attention span to read it go watch fukn MTV. So then we continued on into Wahiawa and ate lunch at Dot’s, some plate lunch place kine diner and I ate baked chicken with gravy even though they had all you could eat sweet & sour spareribs. The waitress was kind enough to give us a sample, and they were good, but so was the chicken, and it tasted like frog legs. No, that’s a joke, based on social norms from 1887. Seriously folks, I’m here all day, and yes I’ve used that line, check the files. So long story long we went through on down and into pearl city & aiea, and cut through nimitz by the airport & enjoyed the shade of the overpass and on into town & Waikiki where we broke again & checked out the scenery and/or freaks of nature. As we were mounting up again, a she/he/we never quite figured it out rode by on his/her scooter. He/she had a dress on and a beard, so I was confused, and I’ve seen a lot of gender swirling, but this one had me for a loop. Plus we saw this really fucked up looking lady that the ugly tree fell on her and then the roots rose up from the dead and bashed in her cranium for good measure. And no that’s not nice, but neither was her face. Unkind words from an unkind man on an unkind morning. Deal with it America and/or Canada and/or mexico and/or Antarctica.

So onward to sandies via Hawaii kai & kahala, and beautiful scenery, nice twisties and views of the ocean, and shmall kine drama involving wood-dog revving his engine & blowing sand all over some people’s car, and some tough guy Hawaiian acting like he wanted beef, but then getting in his car & driving away. I had the shittiest bike of everyone, most of who have PHAT harley fat boys & soft tail heritages, and one pretty nice Suzuki, and I’ve got a beat up Honda rebel, but it’s free and it runs & it keeps up so I’m not complaining, except on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and well wouldn’t you know? Look at the calendar.

Ok that’s it for today, or at least right now. Aloha. Hope you had half the chronic weekend I did. Eace-pay for all you latin pigs. And just so I don’t get hate-mail from the Hispanic contingent, that’s a play on words in that eace-pay is pig latin for peace. I don’t think latin people are pigs even though latin is a dead language and kalua pig tastes good with cabbage and lomi-lomi salmon & poi. And you know what? I think I DO push rhymes like weight. Just a little. Seriously.