KILLING FIELDS RESORT December 22, 2012

I saw tt first.  A southern state with the most homicides. Bad economy. Needs help financially. Perfect.

A meer $7,500,000 for 2,468 acres in an interesting terrain. An incredibly beautiful lodge that can easily be enlarged for wealthy  non participating guest accommodations. A dirt road gains entrance and it’s already known as a magnificent hunting site. Stocked with animals to hunt, we might want to move them. Then again, we might consider imposing high fines for anyone deliberately or accidentally killing a four-legged or winged creature.

I think we could probably accommodate one person per acre participation at twenty bucks a head.  We could pay off the debt in less than a year. We don’t want so many they’d be bumping into each other. We want them to hunt. So we could afford to do a 1/2 a person per acre and make it more interesting.

There are existing buildings on the  property that could be  cute shops. There are structures on the land suitable for voyeurs-no sexual intent here-that could be made safe. I’d like a safari environment but I think this property might be more inclined to an ultra civilized  Southern man hunting theme. No racism intended.

We could have  team game features  on occasion, limited to the number of players. No one to exit killing fields  until all their opposition is dead. We simply do not offer field hospitals. I mean if you’re hit and you’re down you’re dead.

Players could collect ears or scalps or Eagle Standards depending  on the theme. Weapons, of course would have to left at the door when they depart. Maybe, with small groups, the winners could celebrate at the lodge.  That would cost extra.  Better minds than mine at figures could do the math here. Obviously we’d have advertising expenses.  More jobs. More money.

We’d need staff: chefs, waiters, housekeepers. We could buy a really good hotel manager. We’d need ground’s men, patrolmen, guards. The killing fields could resemble a Jurassic Park set up. We certainly don’t want any of the participants secretly slipping over into safe territory. Murderous two-legged creatures may not be as large as raptors or Tyrannus  Rex but I think they are a few degrees brighter.

Maybe on occasion we could  safari into the killing fields. Non participants might pay a lot for this experience. They’d have to sign a waver.  Participants would receive extra credits, medals and such, for bagging beauties and old ladies.

I realize my financial skills- the ability to come up with the big buck-and my imagination are limited so help me out here. There’s money in it. Plus a simple way to reduce the population. To improve the financial quagmire. The jobless, homeless problem. Stop wars but continue to support the military industrial complex. We couldn’t, of course, purchase too many top of the line products. At least not in the beginning, but we could lease drones to non participants. We could also lease satellites. View the action from above in the bar or in the lobby

American ingenuity. We’re in a new ago, kiddies. We can do it.

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SAY MONEY HONEY December 14, 2012

As I’m sitting in my courtyard with long yellow legal and  pencil- as my friend and editor Kimo Rosen suggested – conjuring up ideas for a column, as all columnist must do, I am suddenly distracted by the thought of money. A dreadful distraction on such a drippy wet interesting morning.

My mind, and the zillion words there in, are supposed to  swing towards a total involvement in the trilling, tweeting, twittering song of the birds that flock and flourish in my jungle, sending delightful word-spinning, pencil scratching, lead ditters on the page.

The sweet scent of  fragrant frangipani  is supposed to scroll me a Pulitzer at the very least. Then lure me into a loquacious twittle, babble, gabble word crevice while chilly mini raindrops falling on my head swell up to  fill my quota.

The taste of tinned Christmas cookies will fill my head, as well as my belly, with big fat nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs Kimo, and others, will be able to read on the screen.

Oh joy. Kalloo kallay…

But what pops up? Don’t look up. I better find some money to pay some guy to come and cut those branches down before a wicked witch wind womps  them on my woof…er, drops them on my roof

“Stop it,” my creative mind screams and covers her ears. Unfortunately covering my ears when the words are coming from the inside out doesn’t cut the mustard  Don’t think about white elephants…

“…white elephants my foot. Where’s this money supposed to come from?”

“Shuddup.” The wind lifts a page of long yellow legal and its long flat tongue flutters back.

“The last guy you talked to wanted twelve hundred dollars  a day.”

“That’s more than I pay my dentist.”

“Teeth. How awful it must be to have a body.”

“You got one, too. You’re attached.”  I think about attachment. I’m attached to money.

Bird squawks, nose sniffles, cookie crumples and page flaps take a rumble seat as a walloping wind sends empty pages flying. Clutching pen and pad I scramble to my feet and head for a drier spot. I find one on a comfy wrought iron chair, plunk down, and giggle as dead branches gilded gold and dripping glittering dime store ornaments-my original contribution to an outdoor Yule- dance and  bob and bumble in the thrashing elemental wind and rain.

A war-whoop crash of thunder rapidly following a display of jagged blue brings my meandering mind to a jarring halt. No thoughts. No words. I am deafened. I am dizzy. I’m distraught. My head’s a blank.My teeth itch.

When my vision clears, what to my wandering eyes does appear? Not a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer but a  rampant raft of rubble large enough to build an ark that floats dinosaurs and unicorns, too, to safe anchor.

My mind whimpers…

…and that nasty noisy little voice that lives there sings, sweetly, “Think money, honey.”

Nostalgia December 8, 2012

In the first house we built- FHA financed- we had power, water, a phone-in the kitchen-a washing machine, a stove and  refrigerator, a hot water heater, a radio-I had my own- and, of course, a bathroom with the usual features.

We had two cars. One was a family car and the other was a Model T my father drove down the hill to catch a bus, a red train, a ferry boat-where he had a warm breakfast and a pleasant trip across the bay-then a street car and finally an up hill walk a couple of blocks to work. He said he rode everything but a bicycle.

I walked to and from school- rain or shine-up a long flight of narrow stairs built into a steep hill-side.

This was long before there were dryers, dish washers, freezers, microwaves, computers, televisions, blenders, and all the other high-tech stuff that gets us through the day today. When we wanted light we pushed a button or flipped a switch. We turned a faucet and hot or cold water  poured out. A milk man-a neighbor- delivered milk and sometimes-during the war-black market catsup and butter. Catsup and butter-and gasoline-were rationed.

A mail man rumbled up the road and delivered the mail. Dogs ran free. When things went wrong we could usually repair them ourselves. We went on long walks-with our dogs and often a cat- down quiet narrow, winding roads, often collecting neighbors and their dogs and kids along he way. I can remember the trees, tall and green, and the gorgeous golden eucalyptus. The rolling hills were rich and green with life. Once my dogs and I confronted a rattling rattle snake.

If I wanted to be entertained on a cold and rainy day, I read a book or listened to the radio. The good radio program usually began in the evening-although there were soaps at lunch time. I loved I Love a Mystery- so scarey- and the Shadow.  Laughed at Bob Hope and Baby Snooks, Jack Benny and Charlie McCarthy. So much of what was going on on the air was left to a kid’s imagination.

When the weather was nice I played with my dogs and rode my horses in the woods. Climbed trees, built rickety tree houses, which were not so much fun to fall out of, and some times played  hide and go seek with neighborhood kids.

We lived in the country so going to a movie was a real exciting treat. My father sent me to San Francisco, all dressed up in new shoes and a suit with a corsage on the lapel, to see Fantasia at the Geary.

Life was so simple. I was so happy.

Then came the Bay Bridge. No red buses, trains, ferry boats, street cars. Standard Oil, Firestone and Ford bought all the public transportation systems in the country With that came suburban sprawl-the richest loam in California concrete coated. Orange groves-like bad indians- bit the dust  The air went bad. Water went rationed.  Food went frozen. Press a button living began. Boobs and televised junk keep us planted in a chair or  glassy-eyed dazed to a screen. Fast forward to today where high-tech toys make us happier.

What? Sez who?

I just went through a scene with my computer Time Warner got involved. Kauai Electric Techies from all over the world keep my phone lines busy. Guys at MacPro in Lihue held my hand. Weeks of  struggle.

Does all this make me happier?

Hopefully this nonsense will pass and we’ll all be back to two tin cans and long string.