Sometimes when things get as sticky wicket as they are today, the only thing to do is pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and take yourself out to lunch. Well, I had to go shopping anyhow…

… at the metropolitan Kalaheo Post Office where I picked up a zillion catalogs and bills,  I met Helen. She’s a Jehovah’s Witness. Used to walk the street with a Watch Tower in her hand. She tells me ‘they’ now speak about athiests-ouch-and  when she dies she’s not going to heaven but coming back to paradise on earth. That sounds neat. I’d come back too, only I don’t think I’d like to spend all eternity in heaven or planet earth with Helen and the Jehovahs.

When I got to OId Koloa Town and did my shopping at the Big Save, I met a man at the head of the line, a tourist,  who was passing out money like it was going out of style. I asked for some- since I had to go home and feed Ari, my horse-but he, the guy, not Ari, shook his head. ‘Course I had a basket of Chardonnay and Kahlua so guess he didn’t believe me. Believers, I tell you. I din’t gets no money. Ari  ate anyways, and I took the booze home.

At this point I hied myself into the darlingest Pizza joint in Old Koloa Town- just beyond the collosal mess the Knudson’s made-Pizzeta-that’s amore- restaurant, where I immediately dumped the most delicious pizza I’ve ever eaten on the floor. I was stoney cold sober, honest, at that stage. It was replaced and cleaned up-post haste-by the cutest dimpled waitress I ever saw. Met there a guy named Tom-with his two children and a wife-from Alaska. I am not a people collector but I meet people easily-I am legally defined by a shrink as delightful and ongoing even though I am a secular humanist- so when I asked if he was a ‘Palin’ fan, he said, “She embarrases us.” So I gave him my card and invited him to my house.

So where does the WEE(d) AND ME come in? Well, forty years ago-at least- in Old Koloa Town, which was a wreck but  didn’t have the messy black tarps the Knudsen’s erected, or any Pizza joint, fancy or not, when a little hippy friend offered me a toke-is that what you call it?-on a Thai stick. What the hell is a Thai stick, I wondered. But, not caring to appear too super uncool, I replied, cooly, “Yep” and took a drag. I damn near chocked to death. I’m not a smoker. My throat burned and my eyes watered and I thought I was going to die. Didn’t. But I rushed out and killed at least a half a dozen passing tourist meandering up the road towards Spouting Horn. That’s a lie. What I did do was go on a crying jag that lasted three days. Never tried that again. Well at least I admitted I took a drag. So there Bill Clinton.

Readers and Editors, did I also tell you-truth-that I was once a featured columnist with Herb Caen?


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