…you asked all the wrong a questions

Being local has nothing to do with ownership of land or taxes or visitor or permanent status. Nothing to do with how we speak or what we like, or what we eat.

It has everything to do with heart. it’s Hobey Goodale’s heart. it’s Bobby Pfeiffer’s heart. It’s Francis Frazier’s heart. It’s my granddaughter, Cassandra’s heart and her father, the son of a famous beach boy’s. He probably paled around with Doris Duke. Ever hear the story about how Doris brought a Queen’s Surf of  beach boys to a croquet party at La Pietra? Priceless.

It’s Duke Kahanamoku and Nadine. Peaches and Don and the Omanskys and the Hilton and the old Moana.

It’s the story of Margaret Clark who works at NTBG and Chipper Wichman and my son who works there. too. it’s John Allerton’s story. it’s your story darling JOSE and your daughter Millie’s and her husband, Duke Wellington’s. it’s Janus Samu’s story. It’s JoAnn and John’s….

…and the kids. the darling kids-home grown or exotic-brown and golden, red and sunburned, shod and barefoot, walking, swimming, paddling, surfing, searching the sky for rainbows.  Counting the birds. It’s their story.  Who see another kid his size and don’t care how much money his mommy has in her purse, his daddy has in wallet, how big a car they drive.

It’s the visitors who come  to Kauai and go home to write letters about loving the glorious expanse of green and gray. Dancing, singing,  white caps on the sea. Laughing rain clouds playing hide and seek. The sparkling blue and sassy sea. White sand. Black rocks trimmed with moss. Soaring peaks and vallies deep. The soft and sweet of the morning air. The rooster’s crow. The cats. The dogs. They who can hardly wait to come back. Who save money to come back.

These are locals.

They are local who become color blind to race. Deaf to colorful language. The strangers who came to Kim’s going away party at Kukuiula harbor  who ate, drank, danced, sang and cried with us and fit right in.

All of us who used to meet at Tahiti Nui when Louise was alive. VIP’s from around the world, and hippies on the beaches, who, for free, ate  Thanksgiving dinner-the works-after Iniki.  The way the local came together after the disaster.

What do we all-does all this- have to do with being local? Everything.  A great wonderous love for the land. Us locals are a microcosm of all human being on earth. A melting pot to end all melting pots.

We smell local. Look local. Hear with local ears. See with local eyes. Love with a local love so great it soars the soul.

Locals are not those who see dollar signs on every empty lot or field. Who see suburban sprawl puke up and down every lonely stretch of cane.  Who see more highways cutting across the great, mysterious center of the island.

We, who are locals, are the future of this planet and we know it.


2 Responses

  1. Bettejo, I understand you’ve had a religious conversion … you’re walking around all day saying “God be here! God be here!” 🙂

    I imagine, though, that God wonders why you keep calling him “Richard Gerald JR.”

    I don’t think you have to worry about Richard’s “camp followers,” Bettejo. All those “separate” people who claim to support him, are really just-him. He has admitted to having more personalities than even he can keep track of.

    3D: Unfortunately, I think the path of traceability stops at the offshore hard drives that Richard has bragged about using. But it might still be worth a try; maybe the people who own those hard drives can be forced to reveal the ultimate source. Maybe — I don’t know.

    In any case, Bettejo (and Californiadreamin’) know who exactly who Richard is now; Californiadreamin’ has looked in his face and knows exactly where he lives.

    And eventually, a cretin like this will keep pushing his luck until he p’s-off the wrong person some day, and he’ll wind up in a compost heap.


    Wheeulz (Carl)


    • CARL, it’s so good to hear from you. Hope you had a nice rest & feel up to reading COSMIC PSYCHOPATH.

      Must tell you vandals knocked my fence down. In broad daylight. They certainly weren’t looking to steal the fence. They were set on hurting Ari: if he were to try and cross the barrier the vandals created he could have broken a leg or, at night, in the dark, killed by a car. They are getting bolder. More stupid. I’m protecting my animals. Watching my back.

      it isn’t Richard, it’s his sick sick sick camp followers who are our main concern. He’ll use them and keep his skirts clean. it won’t work. He will go too far. He IS a psychopath and lots of people know it. .
      If he’s listening in, remember Richard, ever if you are on the mainland you are involved.And do you think the idiots who do your dirty work will take the fall for you? Fat chance.

      Peace and love bettejo


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