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Showing posts from December, 2015

Act of Contrition

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I called my auntie back in New York just before dawn as I walked down Kalakaua Avenue one morning last week to tell her the news. “Marie,” I said to her phone, “I just went to confession for the first time in more than 40 years. And…” I paused for a second, searching for the right words. “Well, let’s put it this way,” I continued. “It was a good idea.” I still can’t believe I went to back into the confessional during my trip to Honolulu after a decades-long defection from this sacrament. Most people go to confession after vacation to atone for the sins they racked up while they were on the road. But I was doing all sorts of different things on this outing and it felt like the right time for a spiritual cleansing. I had attended mass at St. Augustine-by-the-sea after meeting and eating with the wonderful members of the Tongan choirg and I thought that going to confession would be the next logical step. This was not an easy decision, as confession was one of the scarier a

O Holy Night

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My Christmas miracle came a little early this year and it happened a long way from home. I experienced the magic of the season last week while wandering around Waikiki on the second night of my Hawaiian vacation. As I was walking down a street near my hotel, I could hear people singing and, since there are a lot of bars in the area, I incorrectly assumed that it was a bunch of drunks trying to show the world how much fun they were having. But I quickly determined that these singers were very talented. I listened closer and I recognized the melody of the song they were performing, but I couldn’t make out the lyrics. I was tempted to keep walking and just forget about it, something I do far too often. But I wanted to know who these people were and what they were singing. And since I was on vacation, I wanted to step out of myself a little bit and do something different. I followed the voices to the backyard of a small housing complex and stood in an alleyway listening until

Shaka to the System

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I’ve gone nearly 24 hours without giving anyone the shaka, the Hawaiian hand signal that means everything from “hang loose” to “have a nice day.” This is probably for the best, since a gesture that involves wagging the extended thumb and pinky would probably be considered an insult in Brooklyn and result in yours truly being pummeled into a coma. No matter. I had an absolutely fantastic time in Honolulu and I am thoroughly bummed that my 11-day trip has come to an end. This vacation was a great idea and I can’t believe how I hemmed and hawed before I finally decided to go. I saw such beautiful scenery, like the Kualoa Ranch , where Jurassic Park and other films were shot. I had breakfast on the beach, watched the Honolulu Marathon, and did a wild downhill bike ride. I went to Pearl Harbor and boarded the USS Missouri , where Japan surrendered in 1945. I huffed and puffed up to Diamond Head , where I enjoyed the fantastic view while trying to restart my heart. I also met s

Honolulu Baby

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The future is a dark cloud, Christmas is kicking down the front door, and I’ve got a million things to do around the house. So naturally I’m taking off for Honolulu this morning. Yes, I decided that I needed a little more adventure in my life so I booked this trip a few months ago. Now that the day has finally arrived all I can do is think of my dear mother’s words whenever I did something totally ridiculous. “Oh, Robert,” she’d say. “Whatever possessed you!” Indeed. What the hell did possess me? I don’t know, but whatever the crazy spirit was it seems to have hit the road and left me here with a chorus of jangled nerves. I always freak before taking long trips. It’s kind of my thing. And I’ve made the Hawaii trip before, traveling to the Big Island with my family to celebrate Christmas several years ago. But now I’m on my own and juggling so many worries I could land a gig on the Ed Sullivan Show . No matter. I’m on my way and I know my mother would’ve been very proud t

Shelter in Place

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One minute they were alive, and the next minute they were all dead. Yes, we had still another mass shooting in America. For some stupid reason I thought we might have gotten a break after the Paris slaughter, but it seems like the madness is escalating, gathering momentum like a boulder tumbling down a mountain. So now we have even more names to add to the list of victims--husbands, wives, sons, and daughters--who were taken away far too soon. We have more smiling photos of people of all races and creeds who have been savagely gunned down. I want to know all their stories, I want to reach out to all their families and feel what they’re going through, but there have been so many victims my mind is ready to explode. I scroll through the photos and my heart breaks again and again. Terms like “soft target,” “active shooter” and “shelter in place” have worked their way into our language and no one seems to have a problem with that. Various news programs and police departments a