Day of Samhain 2007

I completed reading the book, "The Shock Doctrine," authored by Naomi Klein a couple of days ago. I have returned to my second reading of Robert Fisk's book, "The Great War for Civilization."

Incidentally, I have found that, in reading much of the news these days, I ask myself, "Haven't I seen this before?" Sure enough, it's the "shock doctrine" repackaged and used over and over again. I have refrained from deviating to lengthy diatribes about current affairs as of late, although I continue to read a variety of news sources.

What concerns me now is the composite of short-term interest rates, the state of the "bubble economy," and the timing of the attack on Iran. I believe that we are seeing a repeat of the same conditions that existed prior to the incursion into Iraq. The so-called "technology bubble" was collapsing, a recession was looming, Greenspan lowered short-term interest rates, and the incursion into Iraq was hastily launched. And, the year 2003 was very close to the Presidential elections. Coincidence? I don't think so. It's the "shock doctrine" in action. Perhaps if we determine what short-term interest rates were on the day the incursion into Iraq commenced, we can probably predict when the attack on Iran will occur. My rough estimate is sometime around April of next year.

As was expected, the Fed lowered short-term interest rates. The estimated effect for me will be another $150 drop in monthly dividend income from my investment accounts. The last rate decrease caused a $300 drop in income. Thus, I will be drawing $450 per month from my savings until the next interest rate decrease in six weeks.

Of course, the dollar is not worth much these days. The Fed-induced inflation has made the dollar almost completely disposable. That gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "disposable income." Banks are certainly not attempting to lure savers. Saving money is so passé.

I was in a despondent mood his morning. The sudden downpour when I arrived in town did little to alleviate my disposition. I was literally trapped in Kukui Plaza with my cup of coffee from Safeway®. At noon, the rain finally stopped. Thus, I could commence my homeless guy itinerary.

I was relieved when I sat myself down in the inner courtyard of the library. I sat and pondered my ridiculous situation. The "condotel" unit is now the major money sink that could leave me both homeless and penniless. I am doing all that I can to preserve capital and protect my assets. However, all that really matters is the divestiture of the "condotel" unit. Once the global recession arrives, I will be in deep shit if I still "own" the albatross.

The global recession will probably kick in about six months to a year from now, once the impact of high energy prices affects all consumer goods and services. Given the fragile nature of a debt-based economy, I can see no other recourse. Perhaps it is wise just to spend all my savings, as it is losing its value by the day. When the Fed has finally lowered interest rates to near-zero percent again, my savings will only have a fraction of its current purchasing power. That's the mirage of our economic "system." Lower interest rates translate to asset inflation, giving the illusion of increased wealth. Lower rates also mean cheap loans based on the inflated assets, giving the illusion of even more wealth. However, energy costs are also inflated and give rise to higher and higher prices (due to the multiplier effect for each stage of the production and distribution chain) for goods and services. In the end, the mirage of increased wealth yields to the reality of exponentially increased debt. Thus, net worth (i.e., assets less liabilities) decreases and makes us poorer.

The dulled mind is tricked into seeing an increase in personal wealth because of the "ownership society." The accumulation of property (e.g., real estate, automobiles, consumer goods, and so forth) creates an illusion of immense wealth. Yet, only the so-called "standard of living" has increased. Wealth has decreased because depreciation of assets, obsolescence, and debt accrual. A high standard of living is a consumption pattern, not wealth. However, we equate it to wealth because of its flaunt value, that is, the appearance of "living high on the hog." Of course, flaunt value opens the doors to social acceptance, even aiding in the mating ritual. And, it is flaunt value that is driving the exorbitant consumer spending that makes up over 70 of the GDP.

By mid-afternoon, the sky was clear with some intermittent showers. The rain, however, had triggered the methane production of the manure compost. I sat in the courtyard and attempted to ignore the odor until my allotted gym time. Were it not for the peace and quiet, I could not have held out for long.

I did my usual workout at the gym. All of the stress and tension returned with a vengeance nonetheless. I am so fatigued by my circuitous path to "freedom." When will I ever complete the exodus? The rain apparently started up again while I was in the gym. I walked to the nearest prison transport stop (read: bus stop) near Longs® at 4:10pm. Three Waikiki-bound prison transport passed through, but all were too crowded for my liking. The rain let up, so I walked to my usual prison transport stop. After along wait, I boarded the next prison transport bound for Waikiki. Traffic was ridiculously heavy because of the rain and everyone commuting to Waikiki for Sinister Kahuna Day parties. I arrived at my destination at 6:30pm.

I completed my psychotic rituals for the last time. Then, I hurriedly devoured my prison meal (read: beans and bread). At 8pm, the losers in the adjacent prison cell came back Within minutes, there was a lot of loud talking. I thought a party was in progress. Then, I realized that the clowns were yelling. There were a number of thuds as crap was flung at the walls. I immediately called the watch commander's desk (read: hotel front desk). A prison guard (read: security guard) was dispatched. I decided that I did not want to stick around. I chatted with the prison staff (read: hotel staff) about the incident.

I thought about one last visit to my safe haven, Barnes & Noble® in Ala Moana Center. As I waited at the prison transport stop, I noticed that traffic was extremely heavy. Most of the prison transports were late. I watched the crowd of costumed satanic gargoyles parade down Kuhio Avenue. Actually, it was quite entertaining. I finally boarded a prison transport, but I alighted in central Waikiki. I waited forever for another prison transport going back to where I came from. In the meantime, I watched the parade of Sinister Kahuna Day disciples. I also saw the babe who looks like the former friend. In fact, I am 90 percent certain that the babe in question is the former friend. I boarded another prison transport and rode it all the way to Waikiki Beach. When I alighted, I found myself in the middle of a huge group of costumed satanic gargoyles. I walked across Kalakau'a Avenue to the beach side and walked toward central Waikiki. Across the street were an endless mass of satanic gargoyles moving in both directions. There were almost as many on my side of the street, but navigating through the crowd was easier. I walked all the way back and past central Waikiki. Then, I traversed over to Kuhio Avenue and headed back to Quagmire Prison (read: hotel.

I felt somewhat numbed by the experience. That's actually only the second time that I have walked that path since I moved to Waikiki. I felt alienated and insignificant. Here, everyone was out having a good time with all of their friends, and I was walking through the crowd alone. I did not know a single soul. I recollected the days when I was out on the party circuit doing the same kind of stuff. Now, I am a non-entity. Of course, that's the beauty of Waikiki. There's a lot of activity, and just walking around in the crowd can thwart feelings of aloneness. In that sense, I will miss Waikiki. I won't miss living in a prison cell.

I stopped off at the Food pantry to purchase a pint of ice cream. I ate the ice cream in my prison cell in a silent celebration of the end of my prison term. I am still shackled to the mortgage, though. I may venture out again into the heart of Waikiki. The evening is still young. And, it is my last night here.

One-Man Farewell Party

I did not sleep well again last night. My mind remained active and churned through the same depressing financial statistics of the pseudo-exodus over and over again. When I finally woke up, I felt dismal. Nonetheless, I submitted the the hotel pool contract to Keali'i, the general manager. The "condotel" unit is slated to be put into service as early as Thursday night. Keali'i gave me a few assuring words but I am only concerned about the bottom line: maximum revenue.

My decision to invoke the pseudo-exodus, by the way, has more to do with tax accounting rather than the various annoyances that I often discuss. Of course, the issue stems from the hypothetical sale of the "condotel" unit with the next seven months. The secondary issue is cost-cutting.

After adding yet more complexity to my life, I was on my way to town to emulate a homeless guy. The old local homeless guy was sitting in Kamali'i Park as usual. I ran into Pseudo-professor Mike at Safeway®. We chatted briefly. He had rented a truck and hired a group of people to move his vast acquired retail inventory to storage facility. He was on his way to supervise the group.

After consuming my brunch, I walked through the Capitol district, barely even noticing the lush greenery. Only until I was seated in the inner courtyard of the library did I realize that I had completely forsaken the most important part of my daily ritual. The smell of the manure compost had subsided to a tolerable level. As I sat and revelled in the visual feast, I felt some semblance of composure. The sky was overcast, and the air wad damp. Rain was a certainty. I composed the "blog" on my rapidly failing Palm® TX. The digitizer is ready to give out. Using the virtual keyboard is frustrating because the virtual keys either function intermittently or trigger the wrong key values.

Although I have explicitly stated as such, the pseudo-exodus has facilitated an easier transition to homelessness should the need arise. I will be able to terminate my rental agreement within 30 days. The latter contingency will remain "on the table" as long as necessary to protect my assets (i.e., not default on the mortgage for the "condotel" unit). Yes, I am willing to sacrifice my personal safety and comfort for my assets. That's enslavement. However, as time goes on, I may simply abandon my assets to cut my losses.

By 1pm, the clouds had dissipated. Sunlight basked the courtyard with light. Sadly, the heat increased the methane production by the manure compost. Alas, we can't have everything, can we? Regardless of the odor, I managed to lapse in and out of a coma for an hour or so. I have not felt so relaxed in days.

The time finally came for me to walk to the gym. I did my usual gym workout. I wondered if I should change my gym time until later when the hottie gym trainer is working her shift. Such foolishness amuses me. After my workout and shower, I made the trek back to Waikiki in time for Happy Hour at Quagmire Prison (read: hotel), that is, my last Happy Hour there. One-Man Farewell Party. Keali'i, the general manager, always serves as the bartender. He said that, as an owner, I am always welcome to stop by for Happy Hour. I will keep the offer in mind. I dropped back five free drinks to celebrate the Pseudo-exodus.

Big headache. Let's face it, I felt like crap. However, I made the journey to my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®. As usual, I meandered around the aisles. Three local guys were chatting in the "Get Rich Quick" section. One of the guys was giving the same exact spiel that I have heard over and over again from these "multi-level marketing" (i.e., "network marketing") snake oil salesmen. I won't go into detail about how I had to sprint across Ala Moana Center to catch up to the prison transport (read: bus) that I thought was diverted. The rest of the evening? Same ol' shit.

View from the Bottom

I cannot say that I was in a good mood this morning. The continuity of an already bad situation is being disrupted by even more stupidity. Stress is quickly becoming my best friend. And, it is likely to remain my best friend for quite a while.

There are numerous individuals in the same or similar predicament. For some reason, I seem to meet all of them. Take for example, Pseudo-professor Mike and Robert. We have different temperaments and differing levels of trustworthiness. We do share one common attribute: an uncanny ability to choose foolish paths. Ultimately, our choices lead us to failure, alienation, and precarious quagmires. I have always somehow been a magnet to such individuals. Like attracts like, I suppose.

We seem to need a savior, although we may differ in whether we actively desire being saved or unwittingly fall into traps that require outside assistance. I don't believe that any of us are stupid. We just lack the necessary skills to survive in a cutthroat culture. Unlike my campadrés, I did not attempt to assimilate. I wanted to escape the "system," whereas they embraced it.

I have different aspirations as well. My compadrés desire becoming rich ... quick. They are driven to seek the life-styles of the rich and famous. I, on the other hand, seek obscurity, modest poverty, and freedom from the "system." Yet, for all the differences, we end up in the same station, a purgatory-like stasis that is neither comfortable or assuring.

I really have only one more step to achieve the exodus, that is, the divestiture of the "condotel" unit and as much of my other material possessions as possible. It is, therefore, the "ownership society" which enslaves us. The irony is that we own nothing. Instead we are owned by the "ownership society." When I say, "we," I refer to the rank-and-file peons only. The elite class (i.e., the moneychangers and the powers-that-be) is the "ownership society," the only true "owners." All of it was a clever ruse to quell the masses and prevent any uprisings. Failure in the "ownership society" is deemed to be the fault of the individual. Hence, there is never any collective action to remedy the situation. The only solution is to flee sans any possessions.

I was off to Barnes & Noble® in Kahala Mall early this morning. I enjoyed a cup of coffee in the café. Patricia, my future landlord, met with me to finalize the month-to-month lease agreement for a room in Slob Manor (read: rental housing). I will definitely be moving out of the "condotel" unit on Thursday. My goal is to remain in Slob Manor until the "condotel" unit sells.

I met moms for lunch at the usual time. We ate at Pearl's Korean Barbeque. Lunch was extremely filling and delicious. On the way back to Hawai'i Kai, we stopped off at Foodland in Koko Marina so that moms could do some grocery shopping. Moms served up coffee ice cream for dessert before I walked back to Koko Marina to work out at the gym. After my workout, I walked back. I was able to chat with moms a bit before heading on.

I ran a number of errands, including a brief jaunt to Safeway® in Kuapa Kai, before going back to Kahala Mall. I purchased a smoothie at Jamba Juice®, which sufficed as my dinner. I sat on one of the benches in the mall, enjoyed my smoothie, and composed the "blog" on my Palm® TX.

I also reflected upon my time with moms, certainly the only redeeming aspect of my life. I also pondered the mess that I made for myself. I am no longer certain if I will ever be able to undo the mess.

The time came for me to return to Waikiki. As it stands, I now have two full days left there. I have already bid farewell to Lance, the weekend night watch commander (read: front desk person). Lance was probably the only friendly person on the whole staff. After I completed my psychotic rituals, I was off to my safe haven, Barnes & Noble® for another exciting evening of meandering around the aisles.

Later, I discovered that the prison transport drivers (read: bus drivers) have gone through their three month route rotation. Thus, Tom was not driving the Route 8 prison transport (read: bus). I did not get a chance to bid him farewell. Perhaps, I will see him on another route. I returned to Quagmire Prison (read: hotel) and spent the rest of the evening in the prison compound (read: hotel lobby). Will I miss this grand life in Waikiki? No.

Brokeback Molehill

The old local homeless guy was fast asleep next to the dividing wall when I passed through Kamali'i Park on the way to Safeway®. His bed consisted of a few ragged sheets and two extremely soiled pillows. A half-full shopping cart was parked next to him with, what I assumed, were his worldly possessions. About 50 feet away from him, there were four halfway house derelicts sitting on the grass. They appeared to be intoxicated. It's fairly easy to tell the difference between the homeless and the halfway house derelicts. The latter usually only carry a backpack, are better dressed, and more than likely intoxicated.

As I was completing the purchase of my brunch items, I observed a homeless guy standing at the end of the checkout counter. He was babbling something incoherent. I could smell the cheap booze on his breath. I knew that he was homeless because I saw him parking his shopping cart with his possessions outside. It is disheartening to see that kind of human tragedy every day. The "regular" folk look down upon the destitute as if they were despicable varmints. Yet, no one knows better than I that a simple foolish situation could turn the tables at any time. We could easily become "them."

I did not sleep well again. My decision to invoke the pseudo-exodus is haunting me. It is a gamble that could easily turn the tables on me and reduce me to a homeless derelict. However, I could not just sit and wait for something to happen. The culture of greed (i.e., the epidemic of the "seven sins") is malignant and spreading its destructive force at an exponential rate.

Had I remained in wage slavery, I would have simply maintained the status quo. There would be no impetus to sell the "condotel" unit. I would have tolerated the insane conditions of Quagmire Prison (read: hotel) because that is what an automaton of the "system" does. In some respects, my emancipation from wage slavery has opened my eyes and allowed me to see how trapped I really am.

The chorus of bells at St. Andrews Cathedral greeted me at noon as I entered the Capitol district. The grove of banyan trees, the cool trade winds, and the singing birds were my welcoming committee. Gentle showers interrupted the composition of the "blog," but I did not mind.

Whenever I gaze upon the luscious gardens, a sample of what Paradise could have been, I confirm the futility of the "ownership society." I also realized that, even if I divest the detestable "condotel" unit, I will be plagued with the same malady of despair. True freedom requires that I divest all but the essentials for survival. As much as I have reduced the number of possessions, I am still far from my ultimate goal.

The latter point became most obvious to me during my discussion with Pseudo-professor Mike last night. He is clinging to the large retail inventory even though it provides no personal gratification. He had purchased the inventory as part of a faulty business plan which he believed would make him rich. Rather than liquidate the inventory through a broker, he is increasing his expenditures to store the stuff. He is also working on new ideas to "repackage" the inventory for greater profit. In the meantime, holding the inventory is eating away at his potential revenues. How similar that is to my own plight! Retaining the "condotel" unit, my Nissan® Frontier truck, and the rest of my meager possessions is essentially doing nothing but draining my own resources. I am certainly not gaining any personal gratification for my part in the "ownership society." And, for what?

I became extremely anxious, almost unable to sit still, as I pondered my inability to attain freedom. I had to stand up and move about as an anxiolytic remedy. There is just no end to human folly, my friends, and I am one of the biggest perpetrators.

I walked to the gym at 1pm in high anticipation of catching a glimpse of the hottie gym trainer. Sure enough, the goddess was there. Baby was working with a gym member. Baby is so hot! My mind was ready to snap.

Incidentally, as I walked to the prison transport stop (read: bus stop) last night, I noticed a hottie up ahead who looked very familiar. If I am correct, I believe that she was the former friend. Baby was with a group that appeared to be speaking Farsi. Baby also was wearing the same blue dress as in the pictures that Shirley had shown me few months ago. Baby was looking hot. Could that babe really have been the former friend?

I commuted to and from Waikiki on the prison transport just to drop off my gym bag. Once back in town, I meandered around before ending up in the Capitol district again. I tried not to ponder the ridiculousness of the pseudo-exodus. What will be will be. I could have thought about the hottie gym trainer, but nothing fruitful would have resulted. Fortunately, a couple birds kept me company until it was time for me to leave.

Once back in my prison cell, I began an extensive cleaning project to prepare for its return to the hotel rental pool. I want to insure that it is back in the pool as soon as possible. Then, of course, I completed my psychotic rituals. As always, I had to seek refuge at my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®. The rest of the evening? Same ol' shit.

Only a Mirage

The itinerary this morning was the same as yesterday, only I was in an even more despondent state. Last night, I had transferred $1,400 from my money market fund to my local bank in order to pay the first and last months rent for the room in Slob Manor (read: rental housing). Anytime that I part with large sums of money, my stomach becomes queasy and my mood irritable. And, that's just the beginning of the expenses. Automobile insurance and mortgage payments will plagued me this year. Early next year, I will have to contend with taxes, estimated taxes, automobile registration, and more. Slowly, my net worth is being whittled away. My only salvation will be the divestiture of the detestable "condotel" unit.

The old local homeless guy was stationed at the edge of Kamali'i Park when I passed through with my cup of coffee from Safeway®. My journey through the Capitol district, particularly the grove of banyan trees, was much more appreciative. The inner courtyard of the library became unbearable within minutes because of the smell of manure compost. I was able to peruse the work of the numerous volunteers who toiled away yesterday to upgrade the landscaping.

I walked to the State Capitol and sat in the inner courtyard as a consolation. I continued my religious reading and also composed the "blog" with my trusty Palm® TX. Later, I walked back to the library to breathe in more methane. Alas, the odor was still too pungent. Back to the Capitol building I trudged. A young hottie, on lunch break from work, sat on the bench near the "moat." Baby ate her lunch leisurely. Then, she laid down on the bench to bask in the sun's warmth. A group of Japanese tourists walked through the courtyard with their cigarettes and digital cameras. The guide provided a brief historical lecture about the area. Is that what these fools pay for?

Prior to my religious reading session, I had a moment of reckoning. From a purely secular viewpoint, I am a true loser. And, I appear to be careening downward toward the lowest debased form of human existence, the homeless derelict. I wondered why I was not privy to enjoy the so-called "good life." Why can't I be driving around in a gas-guzzling 6,000-pound motorized chair (read: SUV) with a hottie at my side? Why can't I have big bank, big house, big Vienna Sausage like all the arrogant punks around me? Then, I realized that I have neither the drive or the motivation to pursue such a life-style. Instead, my quest appears to linked an intangible entity. There is a tremendous void, but nothing material can fill it.

The day was too nice to spend in a frivolous commute to and from Waikiki. So, I opted to say in town for the afternoon. I did my time at the gym, although a little later than usual. I felt much better after my workout. Then, I spent more time in the courtyards at the library and the State Capitol. I spent my final minutes in town in the library courtyard. While I was breathing in the methane gas formed by the manure compost, I heard a voice call out my name. It was John from Heald College and ... his wife! Yes, John is married now, and has been for a year. I'll just say that he's done well for himself. The hottie who was sitting in the State Capitol was also in the library, Baby works there.

Sooner than later, the time arrived for me to return to Waikiki. I rode the Route 4 prison transport (read: bus) that winds through the Makiki district. And what was awaiting me when I arrived back in my prison cell (read: little shoebox)? My psychotic rituals, of course! On Novemeber 1st, I will be free of that crap.

I chatted briefly with Psuedo-professor Mike after he had left six voicemail messages earlier. We later met at my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®. We ended up chatting until closing time at 11pm. Afterward, he gave me a ride back to the detestable Quagmire Prison (read: hotel). I have, at least, come to understanding about his troubled chronology of the past few months. The rest of evening was ... the same ol' shit!

Peonage Redux

I have failed. There is no other way for me to say it. The long battle is essentially over, and I have come out further behind than expected. The exodus has essentially been thwarted. The checkmate move pretty much occurred when I foolishly purchased the "condotel." I had severely overestimated too many variables ... my abrupt emancipation from wage slavery, my intolerance of crowds and stupidity, and my inability to settle down in one spot forever. Then, there's my inability to grasp the concepts of greed and evil. My original plan called for three to five years of time with me "calling the shots." Oops!

I should have known better. I can never "call the shots." I am a peon. Peons have no control over much, not even the peonage. We are here to serve at the whim of the elite class. We are the blood, sweat, and tears who create the wealth of nations, only to be robbed blind by the robber barons.

The pseudo-exodus finds me in a precarious position. I will be reconstructing the deconstructed. I will be adding layers of complexity, which bring added financial costs. In other words, for ever step forward, I will take two steps back. Idiotic, isn't it? I will have to introduce even more complex strategies and more cost-cutting measures. Even then, the damned status quo cannot be guaranteed. What I have just described is the definition of failure.

I have essentially painted myself into a corner. I will have to return to wage slavery just to maintain the mortgage payment on a "condotel" that I no longer reside in. Can there be any greater description of sheer stupidity? I think not.

I slept decently last night, although my mind was subconsciously preoccupied with my tentative decision to put the "condotel" unit in the hotel rental pool. In addition, I was having second thoughts about moving into a communal situation in a place that is essentially a pig sty. Of course, I am getting a little tired of cleaning my prison cell (read: little shoebox) daily with my humble dustpan and brush. I would rather not have the responsibility of cleaning anything.

I felt composed when I finally departed for town. However, the undercurrent of stress did not make itself manifest until I experienced stomach cramps while shopping for my brunch items at Safeway®. Fortunately, Safeway® still maintains public restrooms.

The old local homeless guy was sitting on a wall across the street from Kamali'i Park while the maintenance guys watered the pathetic patches of grass and weeds. Few of the other homeless stopped to chat with him. Still preoccupied with the pseudo-exodus, I walked onward through the Capitol district to my final destination. It wasn't until I sat in the inner courtyard of the library that I felt more at peace. I reflected upon my visit with moms yesterday. I am grateful that I have the luxury of time to be able to do so. The time spent with moms is priceless. I also completed my religious readings and composed the "blog" on my Palm® TX.

Later, I again pondered the pseudo-exodus. I really do not have much choice about the "condotel" unit. I don't particularly enjoy living there. My expenses (e.g., parking, laundry, food, etc.) are now too much to bear. And, Waikiki leaves a lot to be desired. On the other hand, I really do not want to live amongst a house full of slobs. Of course, I will be emancipated from exercising my compulsive cleaning habits. The big advantage is that the living situation is temporary. I am committed to live there only as long as I want to. I could simply remain there until the "condotel" unit is sold, hopefully within the next few months. I concluded that the plan is workable and worth a try.

A group of about 40 volunteers began work in the inner courtyard. Several carts of plants and flowers were wheeled in. While I was there, one of the guys dug up the spartan ground cover in the large central planter. Within minutes, the rest of the group began digging up the existing plants. Dust and dirt filled the air, but in a pleasant way. There were a couple of older hotties in the group. In a day or so, we will be able to see the fruits of their labor.

The time came for me to walk to the gym. All of the uncertainties of the pseudo-exodus came back to haunt me. When will I ever escape the madness of the "system"? I used my workout as a diversion from the issues weighing heavily on my mind. The ride back to Waikiki on the prison transport (read: bus) took well over an hour.

Once I was back in my prison cell, I called Pat, the owner of the house with an available room rental, and committed to renting the room. Will this be an even bigger mistake than purchasing the "condotel" unit? Only time will tell. After completing my psychotic rituals, I was off to my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®. If all goes as planned, my last regular visit to my safe haven in Ala Moana Center will be Wednesday night.

I tried to look at Waikiki from a different perspective as I rode the prison transport to Ala Moana Center. Even though Waikiki is a filthy dump, I will miss the place. I've gotten somewhat used to the concrete jungle, but that's not the way I want to live. There are also a lot of hotties running amuck, but that's neither here nor there for me. I meandered around Barnes & Noble® after purchasing a few food items at Foodland. There really is nothing else redeeming about Ala Moana Center. It's dungy, impersonal mall. I rode Tom's Route 8 prison transport back to Waikiki at 10pm. The rest of the evening was the same ol' shit.

The stock market soared again today. The official story was that upbeat news from Microsoft® and Countrywide® Financial raised the markets. However, upon closer scrutiny, the real news is that home foreclosures are rising, the dollar is still dropping, oil prices have surpassed $90 per barrel, real inflation is up, and the Fed injected more money into the "system." The stock market reacts very favorably to bad news, something that Naomi Klein points is characteristic of "disaster capitalism." Both Wall Street and I are are expecting the Fed to drop short-term interest rates by another half percent next week, much to my chagrin. This is greed at work.

Pseudo-Exodus

Sleep eluded me again last night, this time not because of any satanic gargoyles. There's just too much on my mind as I attempt to make sense of the mess that I am sitting in right now. The only remedy of the moment was, naturally, a tanning hike up Koko Head. Jump-starting the morning required coffee from the Barnes & Noble® Café, of course. The coffee machine was allegedly inoperable, so I had to settle for costlier Americano beverage which tasted like the free freeze-dried crap that is served in the prison compound (read: hotel lobby). Yuck!

The hike up Koko Head was much cooler today thanks to large swatches of cloud cover. I was preoccupied with the same ol' shit on the way up. As I made the trek back down, I could hardly ignore the magnificent view. I felt a little better.

Afterward, I visited with moms. We drove to Kuapa Kai so that moms could pick up her shoes at the shoe repair shop. We also picked up a couple of local-style plate lunches at L & L® Drive-in. After lunch, moms served up coffee ice cream for dessert. I helped moms put the large collection of recycling into the new curbside pickup containers. Frankly, I almost cannot put into words just how important my time with moms has become.

Moms told me of several instances when she fell, a couple of which she explained that her leg "gave out." I am a little worried. Uncle Tosh had a recent fall that ended up fracturing his hip. Moms showed me a couple of scrapes on her leg from a recent fall. A few minutes later, I walked to gym in Koko Marina. I was surprised that I did not get wet given the intermittent rain. After my brief weight workout, I walked back to say good-bye to moms.

I stopped off in Niu Valley to check out a room for rent in a house. Pat, the owner, was there to greet me. There are five people, all twenty-something, living in the house. The place was essentially a dump. Dishes were piled up in the sink in the kitchen downstairs. The upstairs, where the vacancy is located, is a little better. There's a refrigerator and microwave as well as a large common area. Only two people live upstairs. There's also a washer and dryer, wireless Internet service, and uncovered parking. The house is located almost directly across Kawaikui Beach, which is a nice isolated surfing spot. For $700 per month, I think that the place is workable. I have until tomorrow afternoon to commit.

I was back at Kahala Mall again before returning to Waikiki. As despondent as I have been, I purchased a delicious smoothie at Jamba Juice® to cheer me up. When I returned my dismal prison cell (read: little shoebox), I was treated to an endless slammin' soirée from the adjacent prison cell. Obviously, a new set of idiots are "doing time." Why travel all the way to Hawai'i just to play with the furniture? The asswipes were still at it when I departed for Ala Moana Center. I believe that my hand is being forced to accept the pseudo-exodus. I have decided to call Pat tomorrow and indicate my interest in renting the available room.

Another evening at Barnes & Noble® after a short shopping session at Foodland. This month, I have spent a lot of money on food that I really didn't need to eat. That's a sure sign that something is wrong. I meandered around the bookstore for an hour and rode Tom's Route 8 prison transport (read: bus) back to Waikiki When I returned to my prison cell, all was quiet. Thank goodness, because I was ready to go on a homicidal rampage. Sheesh! The rest of the evening was the same ol' shit.

Buying out of the "middle class lockdown" (as Joe Bageant calls it) is going to be a lot costlier and take even longer than I had envisioned. I have observed just how quick everything falls apart, and just how tortuously long it takes to remedy. We are not talking about a quirk of the "system," but a built-in feature. There is almost no way to escape. The so-called "American Dream" is a deadly snare.

I believe that the last three chapters of Naomi Klein's book, "The Shock Doctrine," painted the Orwellian future that is already being shaped for us. Massive "privatization" will eventually create a technological feudal system. The seemingly chaotic financial mess that we are witnessing is, in actuality, part of the process. Money creation is serving to transfer more wealth from the lower economic classes to the elite class. Some sort of monetary system will always remain intact in order to serve the latter purpose. Money will eventually become the constructor of a global feudal system. I have discussed these ideas before, but now I am certain of them.

How could I be so foolish to have purchased the detestable "condotel" unit? Even sages like Anonder had warned against such stupidity. However, I was too entrenched in the "American Dream" and too blinded to realize that I was another casualty of economic war just waiting to happen. The "Dream" only works for those who have financial security, but even that may not provide immunity. The "system" is now feeding upon itself. It will take no prisoners.

Thanks for the Memories

As the Route 4 prison transport (read: bus) inched its way to town via a circuitous route through Makiki, I grew more impatient and anxious. Why? I have nowhere that I need to be. Why did I choose the longer route in the first place? My sanity is beginning to unravel, I suppose. When I finally arrived in town, I purchased my brunch items at Safeway®. Once again, I gave in to the temptation of fresh coffee.

I sat within the monolithic confines of the bland Kukui Plaza mall. Each day, I wonder ... how long before I am escorted off the premises by the security guards? The mall section is essentially boring, made up of offices and small snack shops. One of my former Asylum students works in one of the doctors' offices. Every now and then, I get to chat with him.

Not able to quell my anxiety, I found difficulty in following any itinerary. Essentially, I was frozen in a state of indecision. Finally, I mustered up enough energy to walk to the Capitol district and on to the library. Because of my fragile mental state, I neither noticed or honored the natural beauty of the grounds as I ambled through it.

Not until I sat in the inner courtyard of the library did I realize the folly of my error. Every opportunity to enjoy the Creation should be exploited with a passion. Yet, I still felt miserable. The torture of not fulfilling the exodus is too much to bear.

Deep down inside, I still host the premonition that something terrible is soon to happen, possibly the convergence of several tragic events. Yet every attempt is being made to create a subterfuge of "business as usual." There is just so little overt evidence to suggest that the "system" is ready to implode. A few courageous investigators have uncovered much of the truth, but they are ridiculed or silenced. I have attempted to remain objective. What I believe is happening can be attributed to the herd mentality. The herd, clearly the majority, have bought into belief that the "system" is infallible. The herd then moves along and invests itself into the "system." The mass of the "system" increases, and the resultant inertia becomes an entity upon itself. However, the basic foundation of the "system," its paradigms, are without merit. Thus, only faith and optimism is what carries the "system" forward. Something is clearly wrong, though, and I can feel it.

I decided to restore my monk haircut at the Institute of Hair Design. The price of haircuts has gone up one dollar. Then, I completed my workout regimen at the gym. Right now, the gym may be my only salvation from total insanity. The rest of the afternoon was a blur since there is hardly anything memorable about returning to Waikiki. My psychotic rituals are even less memorable.

More Barnes & Noble® fun as in store for me to night, but you already knew that. I first stopped off at Foodland to purchase a piece of pudding bread. One of the checkout guys noticed that I stop by almost every night, so he now chats with me. The bookstore was unusually quiet. And, again, no hottie "bookseller." An older African-American guy chatted with me about computers and video editing. He spotted me perusing a Windows® Vista book. "Wait for Service Pack 1," he advised me. I rode Tom's Route 8 prison transport back to Waikiki. He apparently had a slight accident last night, which is why he did not show up at the usual time. The rest of the evening will be the same ol' shit.

Incidentally, the huge wildfire in Cali brings back memories of an even larger wildfire when I lived in Convalescent City. The account is recorded somewhere in the old journal. I remember that most of the town was evacuated including the infamous Roach Motel where the Brotherhood of the Immaculate Roach monastery was located. I had stayed at my old buddy Tom's place. We watched as the fire consumed most of Cuesta Ridge. The heat was unbelievable. The smoke was unbearable. I had never seen anything like that before.

Dinero Detox

"Put it back in the hotel pool," moms suggested yesterday in response to the vocalization of my frustration with the inability to divest the detestable "condotel" unit. Perhaps moms is right. However, I am not comfortable with the outlay of money that must be made in order to facilitate the process. I have to cover two months of mortgage and maintenance fee payments ($2,440) before I receive the first check from the hotel. In addition, there are miscellaneous unrecoverable costs of $275 and some change. Rental housing will require at least first and last months rent (about $1,500). On the plus side, I estimate that I can shave off $280 per month from my monthly expenditures. Even then, my standard of living is unlikely to improve.

My reservation about the aforementioned plan is that it embeds me further into the "system." I see myself becoming enslaved again and the exodus becoming a distant memory. Just the thought of further incarceration makes me extremely despondent. My investment income has already dropped drastically. Next week, after Fed drops the short-term interest rates another half percent, I will be up shit creek without a paddle. I will have to withdraw $500 from my savings each month to just cover expenses. Yet, how much longer can I tolerate the horrid conditions at Quagmire Prison?

I have been checking the HiCentral site and have observed that all real estate activity had come to a complete stop after the Fed's actions. From what I can tell, I missed the window of opportunity. I doubt that I can sell the albatross for at least another two to five years.

When Pseudo-professor Mike disclosed that he had blazed through about $80,000 in less than a year, I almost fell on floor. Part of it was spent on a poorly implemented business idea. He had purchased a large retail inventory. "I'll probably have to spend $10,000 just to get rid of it," he added. I was flabbergasted. I could not understand how he could commit so much money in a cavalier fashion. He now has only a fraction of his savings remaining. Yet, he felt that the risk was worth the gamble to quadruple his money. Why have we been reduced to petty gambling to be become financially viable? Perhaps I am just too risk aversive. That's why I am stuck in a rut.

Sometimes I believe that I have become too much of a fundamentalist insofar as my conviction to the simple life. By refusing to increase the complexity of my life-style, I end up thwarting myself anyway. The inner struggle is increasingly turbulent because I do not want to reconstruct what has already been deconstructed.

I was awakened at 5am this morning by a slammin' soirée in the adjacent prison cell (read: little shoebox). I was able to ascertain that a couple of older Japanese babes (term used loosely) are "doing time" in there. They left for some unknown destination and were back to catch up on their sleep at 9am. This is common practice with the "slopes" who visit Hawai'i. Last night, as I rode the prison transport (read: bus) to Ala Moana Center, two young Japanese chicks sat way in the back where I was stationed. It turned out that one of the chicks was really a guy. He had long blond hair with purple highlighting. He wore a short jeans skirt with fishnet stockings and high heels. Fortunately, as long as he did not say anything, he was thin enough to pass for a chick. Since I share a common ancestry with those fools, I am justified in wondering what has happened to the "slope" culture.

I was only slightly groggy when I departed for town. The homeless guy itinerary was on the agenda to no one's surprise. Once in town, I purchased my brunch at Safeway®. It should be obvious that coffee was a necessity. On my way out, I saw the old local homeless guy hobbling through the parking lot. He must have been in Longs®. He takes rapid steps as he walks, but each step in only a few inches in length.

After I consumed my brunch, I walked through Kamali'i Park. I observed the old local homeless guy sitting on the dividing wall. He was chatting with another homeless guy. Incidentally, the homeless population in Chinatown Gateway Park has increased again with unfamiliar faces. The number of homeless in Hawai'i will continue to rise as cost of living rises. Matson® has just raised its shipping surcharge 25 percent. Energy costs are also going up.

The walk through the grove of banyan trees in the Capitol district did little to quell my anxieties. Even my daytime vigil in the inner courtyard of the library had little effect on my mood. The digitizer problem with my Palm® TX only served to exacerbate the situation. All kinds of things pop up now when I use the virtual keyboard.

Even in the last few minutes within the sanctuary of the library courtyard, I was still battling my inner demons. I was even more tense than when I first arrived. Regardless of my disposition, discipline requires that I complete my daily regimen at the gym.

After my workout and shower, I felt some sense of relief. My anxiety had abated. However, I was on the edge again as I rode an extremely crowded prison transport back to Waikiki in the most terrible traffic. I became quite tense when I realized that the Quagmire Prison (read: hotel) Happy Hour had commenced, and I was still minutes away. Not to worry. I arrived in time to drop back four free drinks.

After completing my psychotic rituals in a groggy state-of-mind, I was conscious enough to spend time at my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®. No hottie "bookseller." Baby may be long gone. Who will replace her? I stopped off at the Food Pantry on the way back to Quagmire Prison. I had a hankerin' for some local grinds (read: food). So, I purchased a package of Mussel Poke. Knowing that only locals would buy Poke, the checkout person spoke Pidgin English to me. Naturally, I had to converse in my rusty version of Pidgin English. Back in my prison cell, I chowed down on my treat. I will probably loiter around the prison compound (read: hotel lobby) for an hour before calling it a night. Let's hope that I can get some sleep.

In the Labyrinth Redux

When I returned to my prison cell (read: little shoebox) from the prison compound (read: hotel lobby), I began choking because of the thick smoke. I thought that my prison cell was on fire. Instead, cigarette smoke was funneling through the electric outlet of the common wall. Even with my windows wide open, the density of the smoke was unbelievable. The clown in the adjacent prison cell must have been smoking ten cigarettes at a time. What I suspect is that he taped a whole box of cigarettes together to make one big cigarette. Why not just purchase a big fat "stogie" (i.e., cigar) and inhale the smoke? Sheesh!

Well, another manic Monday morning found me sipping a hot cup of coffee at the Barnes & Nobel® Café in Kahala Mall. I met moms at 10:30am. Moms and I ate lunch at Panda Express®. On the way back to Hawai'i Kai, we stopped off at Koko Marina so that moms could do some grocery shopping at Foodland.

Later, I walked down the gym in Koko Marina. The view of the Ko'olaus were outstanding. The sky was completely clear of cloud cover. I could easily discern the geological nuances of the distant mountain range. After my workout, I walked back to say good-bye to moms. Then, I drove to Kahala Mall yet again. I purchased a nice cold smoothie at Jamba Juice®, which sufficed as my dinner. Sadly, I eventually had to return to Waikiki. The dreaded laundry chore was on the agenda, although I was a day early. I did not want to wait until tomorrow. My mind could snap before then.

Furlough time was spent at Ala Moana Center. I stopped off at Foodland first. Then, I ended up at my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®. No hottie "bookseller." I wonder if baby still work there. I meandered about the aisles aimlessly. My sole purpose there was to sort through the disjointed thoughts going through my mind. When I exited the bookstore, I observed one of the newer homeless babes sitting on the staircase. I have usually seen her walking around the bookstore. She totes a filled backpack and a another piece of hand luggage, which confirmed that she was homeless. Tonight, she looked very sad. As I walked to the prison transport stop (read: bus stop), I felt a deep sense of gratitude that I have not been reduced to that level of desperation and hopelessness. Yet, in all honesty, I am just one foolish move away from being there.

Tom's prison transport (read: bus) pulled up at the usual time with a "Not in Service" sign. I was just about to make a mad dash to the other prison transport stop. Tom honked the horn, and waved me and several other passengers to get on board. I was spared a late night cardio workout, and I arrived back at Quagmire Prison (read: hotel) for more late night prison compound fun. Sheesh!

After my discussion with Pseudo-professor Mike, I reflected upon the series of follies that lead to the misadventures of the common rank-and-file peons. In our finite lifespans, we attempt to achieve a level of superficial success because we believe that many more prime opportunities will subsequently reveal themselves to us. Instead, we become overwhelmed by a complex labyrinth of deception entirely of our own making. The costs in terms of time and money can be substantial. However, aside from maintaining the status quo, there are only two possible paths. One path would increase the complexity of the labyrinth, the most common choice. The other path would deconstruct it.

In a culture obsessed with material and financial success, deconstruction is viewed as the loser's way out. Once this particular path is chosen, a number of elements of deconstruction dynamics transpires. The deconstructor is shunned by contemporaries. Babes are totally out of the question. And, a significant amount of money is required to undo the egregious mess, that is, in addition to the large sums of money that was a prerequisite to initially create the labyrinth.

In my case, the time has come for a decision and a rapid implementation of the latter. Specifically, I must deal with the issue of the "condotel" unit since it remains the only obstacle to the exodus. I have already accepted the fact that I can no longer tolerate residing there. I am driving myself into a terminal state of fatigue in seeking less than inspiring ways to avoid vegetating in what is essentially a tomb (read: mausoleum). How much longer can I keep up the ruse?

At this point in time, there are a number of variables to contend with, most of which are out of my locus of control. Thus, my ability to predict the state of those variables is uncertain. One variable is the state of the economy including the interest rate set by the Fed. Another variable is the number of available buyers. The only variable that I have control over is my sanity. Thus, the time to make a real decision has come. Should I put the detestable "condotel" unit back into the hotel rental pool? For tax purposes, I only have until December 31st to make the decision. In other words, the unit needs to be sold before the end of the year. As I said, I have no basis to make an accurate projection about anything. Thus, I will have to rely on gut instinct.

Now and Forever

Yesterday, I sent e-mail to Professor Lisa in lieu of a phone call. Her cell phone number has a Boston area code, I believe. So, there was no way for me to call her. She replied to the e-mail last night. Apparently, she is leaving for LA sometime today to attend a conference. She expressed that she feels as though she is in a rut. I know for a fact that she has been very disappointed about the direction that Hawai'i has headed (just as I am). I have a feeling that she will be moving back to the mainland as soon as possible.

I have been reading Naomi Klein's book, "The Shock Doctrine," and I am nearing its completion. Well, I must say that the book is the capstone of my current affairs library. Klein's assertion about what she terms "disaster capitalism" is perhaps the greatest insight into the current fusion of government and business using the Friedman model of capitalism. My little library of seven books now comprise the full spectrum of truth wherein the urgency and rationale of the exodus become manifest.

Klein's explanation by means of previous global economic travesties provides the "missing link" to the empire's violent presence in the Middle East and Central Asia. The two geographical areas are the last bastion of the Old World. The greed of the moneychangers and powers-that-be only see vast resources to be exploited and huge markets to sell the hedonism of the so-called "West." The key would be to convert the backwards religious zealots into individualistic and materialistic satanic gargoyles. The flagship of the Middle Eastern "makeover" model, Iraq, would be replicated over and over again. Greed knows no end, which is why the empire remains obstinate about Iraq. The same "makeover" must be applied to Iran, Syria, and so forth.

Simple accusations by the progressives such as, "It's about the oil," are easily dismissed. The opposition simply points out that oil would be more cost effective if purchased on the open market rather than by invading a nation to procure it. Thus, the dulled mind gradually begins to believe the old "spreading democracy" myth. Mind you, acquiring the resources is still a primary objective as is political hegemony in the region. Yet, little consideration is given to the challenge of converting closed societies and religious enclaves into a consumerist culture.

To me, all of that is scary. I am a part of the madness because I was born into it. Yet, I do not agree with it. Friedmanite "free trade" and democracy cannot coexist. Even within the empire, we are seeing the latter axiom at play. Greed is absorbing the entire empire, which is why it will eventually turn upon itself and devour its own flesh. I certainly do not want to participate in the feeding frenzy.

Another homeless guy emulation kind-of-a-day had me following the usual Sunday itinerary. The old local homeless guy was sitting in the same spot again. I saw him while meandering through Kamali'i Park. He stared blankly at the endless traffic snaking along Beretania Street. Where is his family? Why have they abandoned him? Even as I pondered those questions, I knew that the answers were meaningless. The old local homeless guy is on his own. He's on the streets, and only he can insure his survival. Little does he know that I envy him because of his "freedom."

I had gotten up early this morning. Reluctantly, I cleaned the glass louvers, doing slightly better than a half-ass job. That's part of the enslavement of the "ownership scoiety." I have taken the piecemeal approach to cleaning the dump. Rather than designating one day for a complete cleaning, I simply choose a random task to perform each day. Thus, I may wipe down the furniture one day. The next day, I may defrost the tiny fridge. The strategy reduces my feelings of enslavement.

I sat in Kukui Plaza and sipped my coffee while delightfully enjoying my air-filled energy bars, both courtesy Safeway®. Sometimes I forget that such simple pleasures are, in reality, luxuries for a monk. I cannot take them for granted.

I always sit in an area that obscures the view of the outside world. I have no choice since there are few places that I can sit freely within the "ownership society" devoid of the threat of being evicted by a Nazi security guard.

I stared at the various portions of the hideous concrete structure as I concurrently grew more despondent about my incarceration. For a while, I seemed to be in a catatonic state. I did not feel like walking to the Capitol district, so I continued sit in the huge tomb (read: mausoleum) until it was time for my workout at the gym.

I shuffled slowly down the street. A recently homeless babe (term used loosely) passed by with a shopping cart full of her belongings. When I turned the corner to Pauahi Street, I saw a familiar face ... Pseudo-professor Mike. We chatted for a few minutes. I made a commitment to stop by his place later. I shuffled to the gym and did my cardio workout. On the way out, I was able to catch a glimpse of the hottie gym trainer. Baby was chatting on the phone, probably with stud. Damn it! Baby was looking mighty fine, by the way.

After I dropped off my gym bag, I was on my way back to town. As promised, I met up with Pseudo-professor Mike at his place. We had an interesting chat. In the past few months, he has gone through a series of events that may have served as a kind of deconstruction of his life. What mattered most is that, through adversity (although some of his own making), he has soldiered on. I had a moment to reflect between sips of fine red wine. All we can do is soldier on in life, I thought to myself. We don't have time for much else. Pseudo-professor Mike prepared a delightful, albeit simple, meal. He served up ice cream for dessert. We continued our chat. I came to realize that I harbor no malice toward him. The past is definitely now history, and all of us should be forgiven for our foolishness.

I made the trek back to Waikiki, arriving with enough time to complete my psychotic rituals and freshen up before leaving again. Yes, I was off to my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®. No hottie "bookseller." I did not stay very long because I was fatigued from the wine that I had consumed earlier. I will most likely loiter around the prison compound (read: hotel lobby) for a while before calling it a night.

Easily Amused

Am I ever glad that Net radio is still around. Last night, I plowed into the wee hours of the morning listening to DI.FM Deep House with Windows® Media Player 11. There's also the new DI.FM Soulful House channel. What better countermeasure to the slammin' soirée? And, in all honesty, I'm very satisfied with Windows® Vista for now. It runs fine on my Toshiba® Satellite notebook computer. What more can I ask for?

Incidentally, time spent at my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®, is more productive than I often imply. I am always on the lookout for a new book to purchase. I am very careful about choosing only books worthy for the official monastic library. The bookstore also carries a number of interesting little kits. One item that I perused was a kit to learn to play the harmonica. When I sell the dumpy "condotel" unit and find rental housing, the harmonica kit will be on the list of purchases when I lift the current spending moratorium. The kit even includes a nice harmonica, all for $10 (in-store). How can I go wrong?

The old local homeless guy was sitting on the dividing wall at the edge of Kamali'i Park when I passed through. He was the only soul in the park. Then, I purchased a cup of coffee along with my daily supply of air-filled energy bars at Safeway®. I have been drinking more coffee lately. Well, that's much better than cheap booze.

The walk through the Capitol district was pleasant. Five of the homeless were sitting under the shade trees near the Korean and Vietnam Wars Veteran's Memorial site. A couple of other homeless were enjoying the cover of the majestic banyan trees in the small grove that I am always compelled to walk through.

The inner courtyard of the library was the main stopover in the course of my homeless guy itinerary. Not being as fatigued as I was yesterday, I composed portions of the "blog" on my Palm® TX.

My Palm® TX has become invaluable to me. In retrospect, I wish that I had purchased an even cheaper notebook computer and installed Ubuntu Linux in it. I assume that a cheaper computer would most likely have better compatibility with the generic Linux drivers. Well, that's all "water under the bridge" now. What's interesting is that Access®, the Japanese software firm that now owns the rights to the Palm® OS, has developed a Linux-based version. However, Palm® has yet to implement it in any products. Unfortunately, my Palm® TX is exhibiting the same common problems that plague the unit (e.g., quirky power switch, digitizer errors).

During my relaxation session, I was easily amused by a number of birds flying from the tops of the palm trees to the bamboo plants and back. The chirping of the birds was music to my ears. I could sit there for hours, which is what I did.

The regular homeless were passing their endless idle time in the library doing nothing. Many of them were catching up on sleep. The homeless guy sitting at the table next to mine talked to himself intermittently during his conscious moments. Often, I wonder why I am not truly homeless. There is only a very fine line between my general lifestyle and theirs. However, that fine line involves at least $2,000 difference in monthly expenditures. Only by sheer chance did I not end up on the streets.

I felt a general sense of laziness all day, no doubt a combination of fatigue and malaise. I can no longer cope with modern life. I watched as a father momentarily walked away from the table with his kids to make a cell phone call to place a bet on a football game. Earlier, I read a news item in which drivers of 6,000-pound motorized chairs (read: SUVs) stated that they may consider a smaller motorized chair if petrol prices approach $10 per gallon. These are the driving forces behind the empire.

Something tells me that no one even gives one second of thought to the Iraq and Afghanistan débâcle that is dragging on, a symbol of the morose decadence that has permeated the empire. Even the economic crises mean nothing to the carefree and gluttonous satanic gargoyles. Frankly, I am puzzled that the Shrub administration often voices concern about public opinion. The public could hardly care less. Like a rabid mutt, the empire and its citizens continue to ravage and infect the whole planet. It is a juggernaut that refuses to stop its pattern of destruction. And, I am afraid that it is past the point of no return.

I reflected on the moronic stocks and bonds markets, the preferred gaming of the elite class. Lots of dough have been made by the evil ones. They have so much "liquidity" that they can easily gamble and make a fortune by exploiting the herd mentality. Right now, thanks to the Fed, the greedy ones are able to buy up stock equities and drive the prices up. The herd of fools follows, driving stock prices up even more. Then, the sell-off begins. The evil ones quickly move the proceeds to bonds and obtain the highest interest rates.

In the meantime, the herd realizes large losses as stock prices drop. When the herd finally overcomes the transactional inertia, they are too late. The fools move into bonds, but interest rates have lowered and bond prices have already gone up because of demand. It's even worse for the rank-and-file peons who must depend on mutual funds, bond funds, and money market funds. Lag time for redemptions and exchanges may take days, an eternity in the world of computer-based trading. In addition, all mutual funds have limited allowable transactions per year, usually less than 10 total. Sound familiar?

Rather than make the fatiguing trip back to Waikiki and then back to town, I opted to simply stay in town. I spent a longer period of time at the library. I finally walked to the gym at 2:15pm. No hottie gym trainer. After my cardio workout, I walked back to the library for another relaxation session in the inner courtyard.

By late afternoon, I was seriously contemplating the true homeless life-style. My disdain for the "condotel" unit increases by the minute, even though the conditions are not much worse than a conventional rental apartment. Will I be allowed to stay at one of the homeless shelters? Or, will a background check disqualify me? The latter idiotic questions are constantly in my thoughts as desperation approaches a fever pitch.

A thin African-American guy walked through the courtyard at 4pm. I see him at the gym most times that I am there. He dresses completely in black, long-sleeved shirt and long pants, all loose-fitting, made of some kind of synthetic fiber. He wears shades and a black safari hat. At the gym, he does about 30 minutes of walking on the treadmill in the same outfit. I have seen him sitting in the locker for long periods of time, or preparing some kind of concoction in the sink area. He speaks to no one. I have suspected that he's homeless, but now I am certain of it.

Near closing time at 5pm, the patrons of the library began to file out. Most of the crowd are going home to family. The homeless must reluctantly return to the streets. And, I must make the trek back to the hellhole (read: Waikiki) and my detestable prison cell. My life is empty, just as that of the homeless. So, off I went.

After completing my psychotic rituals and eating the same crap for dinner, I was beside myself to find something to do. When will this torture end? Hard as it is to believe, I spent part of my evening in lockdown in my prison cell. I did some religious reading. Then, I loitered around the prison compound (read: hotel lobby) before calling it a night.

On a lighter note, Professor Lisa called and left a message last night. John in Modesto sent an e-mail. He attempted to call my old cell phone number. I could not call either of them because I do not have a cell phone. The phone in my prison cell (read: little shoebox) cannot call long distance phone numbers. John has turned 50 years old. I've known him since my early twenties. Time is flying by.

Poorest Guy in Empire

I did not sleep well at all last night. Thus, I spent 3.5 hours in the inner courtyard of the library lapsing in and out of a coma. My only productive time was spent at the gym. Sadly, no hottie gym trainer. I was in a real foul mood when I returned to Waikiki. Quagmire Prison (read: hotel) has been completely full for days with idiotic tourists. Tourism is booming here, and the idiotic tourists are spending money like there's no tomorrow. I have never seen so much money being tossed around. And, it's not just tourists. Everyone is Big Money Grip. I am the sole person in the whole empire who has a moratorium on superfluous consumer spending. I am the poorest guy in the whole empire. Isn't that amazing?

I completed my psychotic rituals and sat on the floor to rest for a while. Then, I was off to my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®. No hottie "bookseller." I spent time in the music department. I was able to sample a few selections from several new House Music CDs. Then, I meandered around, not locking at much of anything. Tom's Route 8 prison transport (read: bus) must have been diverted again. I literally had to run to the prison transport stop (read: bus stop) at the other side of Ala Moana Center. I was able to board a Route 19 prison transport.

The prison transport was filled with Japanese tourists with their "I Love Hawai'i" tour books. All of them had huge Wal-Mart® shopping bags full of crap made in China. Even the Hawai'i-branded products are made elsewhere. The little tour books are a joke as well, being basically maps to find all of the shopping destinations. I am ashamed to even say that I am a resident of Hawai'i. The current trashy representation of Hawai'i is simply a slick update of Polynesian stereotypes that never existed in real life.

Well, the stock market went through a minor correction. Oil prices are heading for $100 per barrel as predicted, and the dollar is still sliding. Expect the Fed to drop rates another half-percent again at the end of the month. By mid-2006, we'll be at zero percent. How can I make such predictions? Easy, just think greed.

Outlander

I always look forward to my tanning hike up Koko Head, which has become a regular ritual. It's a good excuse for me to visit with moms, too. The morning begins with the obligatory cup of coffee at the Barnes & Noble® Café in Kahala Mall. The hike itself is always enjoyable. It's quick, not too strenuous, and allows me time to think with a clear mind. Lately, I have had a lot to think about.

As I savored the view from Koko Head, I experienced an epiphany (term that I despise using). Ignoring the suburban blight, I stood in awe of the creation. The great expanse of the Pacific Ocean nearly brought me to tears. How could anyone not see the hand of the Creator? I visited with moms after the hike. Moms had a few errands to run, so we drove around Hawai'i Kai. While moms was at the shoe repair shop in Kuapa Kai, I walked over to Safeway® to purchase a few food items. Our last stop was at Zippy's in Koko Marina to pick up a couple of plate lunches to go. After lunch, moms served up coffee ice cream for dessert. Then, I walked down to the gym in Koko Marina. Along the way, Lori drove by and saw me walking. She offered me a ride. We were only able to chat for a few minutes. Lori mentioned that a divorce may be in the works for her. I won't take sides in that matter. After my workout, I walked back to say good-bye to moms. I made a brief stop at Kahala Mall again. Then, I returned to Waikiki. I dropped off my gym bag and rode the prison transport (read: bus) to the Waikiki branch of the library. I spent an hour there.

After completing my psychotic rituals in prison cell (read: little shoebox), I was off again to my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®. No hottie "bookseller" again. I wonder if baby no longer works there. I rode Tom's Route 8 prison transport (read: bus) back to Waikiki. the rest of the evening will be the same ol' shit. During my ruminations, I had a chilling thought, "cold feet" actually, that I was not fully committed to the exodus. All kinds of rationalizations floated above my head as I figuratively peered upward. I could list them off as each rationale panned around my periphery, but why bother? The sinister kahuna is simply trying to introduce doubt.

Doubt is a strange instrument of terror. It seems so benign, yet it is completely paralyzing. There is always doubt when one goes against the grain or moves against the herd. Life, itself, is so uncertain for us all.

What happens after I sell the "condotel" unit? After all, I have perceived it to be an anchor, pulling me to the bottom of the abyss. The thought of searching for rental housing, establishing the utilities, and so forth, brings on fatigue. That's why I opted to purchase the dump in the first place. The "condotel" unit is an all-in-one package. And, frankly, it was easier for me to purchase a place than secure rental housing. I also bought into the usual "middle class lockdown" (as Joe Bageant calls it) crap. You know the drill ... real estate is a sound investment ... the "ownership society" ... tax deductions ... blah, blah, blah. That was then, this is now.

Buying out of the "system" is going to cost plenty in terms of money and much more. We're also talking about the end of the only life-style that most of us have known. Cutting that off also means cutting off all of the superficial perks and trappings as well. That's hardly an issue for an ascetic monk.

Say that I secure an unfurnished rental housing unit, and I live in it with just a sleeping bag and a cardboard box to use as a table for my computer. Are the implied ramifications obvious? I have been so obsessed with escaping society that I did not make any projections about future conditions. Such a life-style begs for the tube to be installed in the living room like a shrine. That's how The Master spends all his spare time when he's not in wage slavery. That's what I did when I lived in Chez Loser in Kane'ohe. I have vowed to never purchase another tube again. So, will I subscribe to broadband Net access and spend all my time on my Toshiba® Satellite notebook computer?

That's the scary part about the deconstruction ... all aspects of life as we know it disappears. All the unrealistic hopes and dreams of an artificial world disappear as well. In its place, an "enlightenment" is supposed to bring about a renaissance of spirituality.

Something tells me that I will be continuing the homeless guy emulation. However, I will have peace of mind that I will have no long-term obligations that I cannot meet. I will most likely seek employment, but I won't become a wage slave again. I will only search for peon jobs, ones that require little commitment. All I expect is to break even with rent. If the peon job becomes unbearable, I resign and move on. The same goes for rental housing. Once the dump becomes intolerable, I pack up my two gym bags of stuff and move on. The joys of the disposable lifestyle!

As I continued to ponder the perils of the exodus, I felt more confident that I will be able to subdue the demons of doubt and overcome the challenges that lie ahead. After all, what exactly do I have now that is worth holding on to? That's right, nada. For now, the wait for "freedom" must continue ...

Rotten to the Core

Last night, I discovered that another "condotel" unit in the "cheapskate" section has come up for sale. My unit is in the "cheapskate" section (i.e., 2nd and 3rd floor units) as well. There are now three units for sale in that section with my unit being the lowest priced. I must sell the dump soon. The exodus awaits ...

By the way, I believe that I have found the only piece of furniture that I will ever need to purchase ... a Sumo® Omni lounge chair, actually a modern version of the beanbag chair. It can be my chair as well as my bed. How can I go wrong?

I followed the exact homeless guy itinerary as yesterday. Before departing for town, though, I called Ralph, dean at HCC. He had left a message about two weeks ago. I finally returned his call. We chatted for a while. The sociopathic buddy still works under him. Unbelievable, eh? Ralph is tentatively planning an informal get-together, the details of which will be disclosed later.

I was in a deeply agitated state, even as I sat outside in the peaceful courtyard of the downtown library. Such a gorgeous day, with the sun basking the courtyard with light and warmth, yet a dark cloud was over my own head. Earlier, I had seen the old local homeless guy as I walked through Kamali'i Park. He sat at edge of the park. He was passing the time feeding the birds.

I spent three hours sitting at a table in the library courtyard. I sporadically composed the "blog" on my Palm® TX. Otherwise, I simply enjoyed the view of the plants and listened to the sole bird chirping away in one of the trees. Sadly, I remain agitated. I have become acutely anxious as I await my "freedom." Only the despicable "condotel" remains as the sole obstacle to the exodus. My despondency has also been a function of my intense reading, the latest being the book, "The Shock Doctrine," by Naomi Klein. Never before have I been made aware of how the empire has completely rotted to the core. The malignancy is in such an advanced stage that it cannot be regressed. It will run its destructive course to the bitter end. Truly, there has been no greater warning than from the God Book: "Get out of Babylon."

Klein's book has gone on to infer answers to implicit questions posed by the "blog." For example, "free trade," the "ownership society," and "privatization" are intimately connected to the reasons why we have been confined to our tombs (read: mausoleums) and channeled to commercialized destinations (e.g. shopping malls, entertainment complexes, etc.) or wage slavery by means of segregated transportation conduits. Hence, the heavy reliance on 4000-pound motorized chairs (read: automobiles). The latter three components are the mainstay of our everyday life, and each is a building block to continually escalating consumerism. We are seeing the implementation of a new type of prison, one perhaps even more insidious than the traditional concept. Any deviation from the closed "system" results in undesirable consequences. Not to worry, the rank-and-file peon values an allegedly higher standard of living over "freedom." They prefer being satanic gargoyles over possessing human sentience.

I spent the last hour in the courtyard lapsing in and out of a coma before leisurely walking to the gym. I did my usual workout. No hottie gym trainer. Returning to Waikiki was a lesson in despondency. During the ride on the prison transport (read: bus), I pondered a number of scenarios concerning the "condotel" unit. Of course, I have gone through the scenarios before. I just need to decide whether I am serious enough to take the next step. The most viable option is to "bite the bullet," move out, and put the "condotel" unit in the hotel rental pool. Then, I should unlist the unit and keep it as investment property until the real estate market recovers. The most viable deadline is December 1st. If I hold the unit for five years, even with having to dip into savings, I would not realize any "paper" loss. Obviously, the most desirable option is to sell the dump.

After completing psychotic rituals, I made the getaway to my safe haven, Barnes & Nobel®. No hottie "bookseller." I rode Tom's Route 8 prison transport back to Waikiki at 10pm. Another night has come and gone.

Subreality

Last night, I neglected to mention that, as I ate the Libby's® Vienna Sausage, I observed that the little sausages looked exactly like the Vienna Sausage. Could it be that tiny? Even the color was about the same. Sheesh!

So, I was on the road again this morning, following the usual homeless guy itinerary. Walking from Safeway®, I saw the old local homeless guy sitting on the dividing wall in Kamali'i Park. He was chowing down on some fast food. His face was pocked with a number of abrasions. He may have gotten "rolled" the day that I saw the paramedics in the park. He waved to me as I passed.

The inner courtyard of the library downtown is my daytime sanctuary. From there, I compose portions of the "blog" on my Palm® TX. I am spending less time on my Toshiba® Satellite notebook computer, primarily because I want spend as little time as possible in my detestable prison cell (read: little shoebox). More and more, my prison cell is reminding me of a casket.

I have observed that another of the regular Ala Moana Center homeless, a Caucasian guy, at the library. He is always sitting on one of the benches at the prison transport stop (read: bus stop) late at night when I am returning to Waikiki. He is also always well-dressed (i.e., business attire) and wears a tie. At his side is a small gym bag. At first, I thought that he was heading home from work. However, I often saw him hunched over and asleep, and he never boarded a prison transport (read: bus). Seeing him in the library for several hours at a time in the middle of the day confirmed his homelessness. He is one of many that I have confirmed to be homeless once I spotted them in the library.

Another fellow, a rotund Caucasian guy, is a library regular. The telltale sign is the sleeping bag that is amongst the possessions that he carries with him that is cleanly stored in a zippered transparent plastic bag. He always places a small radio on the table where he sits on the second floor balcony. He appears to do a lot of reading. Often, though, I see him carrying on what appears be a whispered verbal dissertation (as opposed to talking to an invisible friend). As the continues his diatribe, he gestures with his left arm and hand. Was he once a pseudo-professor? Every Sunday, as the prison transport I am aboard passes the Academy of Arts, I see him sitting on the grass watching the traffic go by. The library is closed on Sunday. I assume that he camps out there or across the street at Thomas Square, another notorious homeless park.

I am growing despondent by the day as I desperately await any offer for the detestable "condotel" unit. However, after the Fed lowered short-term interest rates, the playing field has changed. The stock market is following the herd "buy-sell" mentality which has led to its violent up-down spurts. Just take a look at the exchanges between equities and bonds. Prices are going up, especially for food. Gold and oil prices are up, while the dollar continues its downward trend. And, yes, the real estate market is sliding into oblivion.

I continue to be flabbergasted by the mindless sheep who buy into the constant lies brought forth by the politicians and other agents of the moneychangers and powers-that-be. Now, some of the so-called "progressives" are calling to boycott the vote. Fools, all of them! The vote does not matter. We're on a "one dollar, one vote" system now. I have stated before that the only effective countermeasure is to place a moratorium consumer spending, and not just for one day. A long term consumer strike is the only effective voice. I am already engaged in such a strike. The "system" is going to crash sooner or later. However, the longer it continues on its malignant path, all the more wealth will be drained from the lower classes. Without a cushion, hitting bottom is going to hurt badly.

I lapsed in and out of a coma momentarily to show my appreciation for the tranquility afforded me in the library courtyard. My mind still weighed heavily upon secular quagmires that are well out of locus of control. I long for the simple life. I want to be at peace with myself and with nature. How much more of my good years am I going to squander because of human stupidity and evil? The exodus is literally the only way out.

Even my gym workouts are becoming more meaningless. Old age sure has a way of changing one's perspective and priorities. Yet, I continue to follow my workout regimen religiously. Discipline, at this point in time, is the primary objective. Heath and meaning are secondary. As I walking out of the gym, I saw the hottie gym trainer working with a gym member in the far corner of the gym. Naturally, I was suddenly thirsty and had to partake of the water fountain just a couple of feet away from baby. Needless to say, baby was looking hot.

I was able to return to Quagmire Prison (read: hotel) in time for Happy Hour. Yes, I reneged on my promise to skip Happy Hour. Upon seeing the hottie gym trainer, what else could I do? After droppin' back four free drinks, I was not any happier, mind you, but my nerves were sedated.

Big headache. When am I ever going to learn that cheap booze is no good for me? I ended up at my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®, again. No hottie "bookseller." Then, I rode Tom's Route 8 prison transport back to Waikiki. Another day bites the dust.

Counterlife

I was rudely awakened at 6am by the "slope" in the adjacent prison cell (read: little shoebox). For some strange reason, it is customary for all "slopes" to wake up as early as possible to open and close the prison cell door every couple of minutes. I departed for Kahala Mall at 8:15am, first retrieving my truck from the Waikiki Banyan parking structure. I always ride the prison transport (read: bus) to the parking structure. The prison transport stop (read: bus stop) is across Kuhio Avenue. I waited at the intersection until I was given the "walk" signal. I saw a 4000-pound motorized chair (read: automobile) rapidly approaching the intersection from the left and assumed it was going to stop. However, I hesitated for two seconds. The 4000-pound motorized chair kept going until the idiotic driver came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the intersection. Had, I not paused, I am not sure where I would be right now.

Morning coffee at the Barnes & Noble® Café was my salvation. I met moms for lunch at 10:30am. We ate Pearl's Korean Barbeque this week. The only news is that my bro and sister-in-law are still giving moms are difficult time about the bedbugs. I gave moms a ride back to Hawai'i Kai after lunch. We drove through a downpour while passing the Kuapa Pond area. The rain did a decent job of washing my truck for me. Moms served up coffee ice cream for dessert. I then helped moms search for bedbugs. We found one under moms' mattress. I am certain that the bedbugs are only congregating in moms' room because moms spends so much time in there. Of course, my bro refuses to listen to reason. He believes that moms imported the bedbugs. Moms wants to bear the cost of fumigating the house. Ridiculous, I told moms. The whole house is full of clutter. Fumigating the house will do absolutely nothing unless the clutter is cleared out. Later, I walked to the gym in Koko Marina to do my workout.

After saying good-bye to moms, I drove back to Kahala Mall. I ended up staying there for only 20 minutes. What is the purpose of hanging out at a shopping mall? So, I drove back to Waikiki, parked my truck, and returned to my prison cell much earlier than desired. I was done with my psychotic rituals by 5pm.

I rode Tom's Route 8 prison transport to Ala Moana Center this evening. When I disembarked, I noticed that his prison transport was being rerouted. So, I made a mental note that I would have to catch the earlier than usual prison transport back to Waikiki. I stopped off at Foodland first to purchase a piece of pudding cake and a symbolic can of Libby's® Vienna Sausage (for my belated prison dinner). I then sought out my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®. The hottie "bookseller" was on duty. Baby was looking might fine, by the way. When I arrived back in my prison cell, I quickly devoured the whole can of Vienna Sausage. For the latter part of the evening, I will lounge around in the the prison compound and continue to read Naomi Klein's book.

A random thought is in order. On the days that I visit with moms, I feel as though I have a purpose or meaning for my existence. Thus, when the day is done and I must look toward the next day of homeless guy emulation, I feel an existential malaise. Yes, I am talking about tomorrow, another day of the same ol' shit.

Incidentally, I happened to peruse the "Real Estate" section of the Sunday paper. I noticed an advertisement for senior rental housing. The minimum age requirement was fifty-five years. The rent was $605 per month. Could this be my calling in two years? Let's hope so.

Beasts of Empire

There is a unique tapestry being woven by the thread and needle of my daily sojourns to nowhere. Knowing that our world controlled by satanic gargoyles is careening to its demise, I find solace in the most mundane sense of being.

As I was eating my banana while walking to the prison tranport stop (read: bus stop) this morning, an older hottie just exiting the Food Pantry smiled and asked, "How's that banana?" Very good, I replied. Baby laughed an walked on. What was that about? The ride to town on the prison transport (read: bus) was uneventful.

When I walked through tiny Kamali'i Park this morning, the old homeless guy was there as usual. He sat on the low dividing wall along the periphery of the promenade. The park is pretty much a refuge for the homeless. Few others, with exception of the maintenance crew, venture through the tiny park. The old guy always calls out to me, "Poppa, poppa," before asking me for spare change or some kind of favor. Lately, he has only acknowledged my presence, perhaps believing that I, too, am homeless.

After purchasing the usual fare for brunch from Safeway®, I made my way to Kukui Plaza. I glanced in the direction of the park and observed a number of paramedics assisting someone lying on the promenade just about where the old guy was sitting. The same dividing wall was now obstructing my view.

After completing my brunch, I debated upon whether I should sit in the lanai area of the Beretania Street Apartments. There has been a security guard on duty lately, most likely a deterrent to the homeless. Since I am now mistaken for one of the homeless, I thought better of the idea. The Capitol district seemed more inviting. Quite a few of the homeless hang out there.

As I walked back through Kamal'ii Park, I noticed that the old homeless guy was conspicuously absent. Perhaps he is at the prison transport stop shelter (read: bus stop shelter), I thought. I have seen him sleeping there a number of times. Nada .

There must have been a downpour just before I arrived in town. Puddles of rainwater were everywhere. The air was damp yet crisp. The plants in the Capitol district's gardens seemed more vibrant, exuding a life force powerful enough for me to sense. No human can own the earth, I confirmed to myself. Strands of idiotic tourists were slinking about like blobs of malignant tumors. How obvious that humans do not fit in at all with the Creation. We are an anomaly. Our presence has been honored by invitation, and we have worn out our welcome.

I also pondered the nature of evil, wondering why the kabuki-masked gabachos¹ were chosen to be ambassadors of evil through time. Do they assume superiority because of their ivory white skin color? Or, perhaps, the tragic history of Europe over the ages, the domination of religion and its subsequent corruption, the Enlightenment, the rule of the aristocracy, the elitist universities, the birth of industrialization, and so forth caused the gabachos to abandon true values and become infected by the epidemic of the "seven sins" (amongst other systemic plagues). The European gabachos then exported their evil elsewhere including the US. I am not making any racial implications. By geography, happenstance, and historical antecedents, the gabachos wound up being agents of evil, conquerors of humanity, and purveyors of malignant beliefs and value systems. Evil, of course, knows no bounds. Skin color is irrelevant, as the corrupt world today is living testimony. Sadly, it is, of course, the gabachos who are most actively pursuing and spreading evil. They directly or indirectly control most of the world's governments and corporations. They make up the entire elite class of the moneychangers and powers-that-be. Yet, that is still not enough for them. Naomi Klein has more than validated my assertions in the book, "The Shock Doctrine."

The key, I believe, is that the gabachos chose to overtly abandon true religious doctrine by subverting religion and "politicizing" it. Religion then became a political institution, representing debased human thought rather than those of the Creator. Religion was only kept around to maintain a theatrical air of morality. Throwing out religious constraints allowed humans to focus on enlightenment and secular knowledge which eventually debauched the so-called "traditional" values and morality, what can be defined as "modernity." Without a direct intervention by the Almighty (i.e, being struck down), humans became much more brazen in skirting the moral laws that govern humanity. The very existence of the Almighty was then questioned. In an historical context, the latter is the same issue as presented by the quandary of the "Tree of Knowledge of Good and Bad" in the Garden of Eden.

The non-gabachos remained immune from the devastating effects of modernity mainly because their societies were either tribal-based or girded by strict religious dogma or both. Never underestimate the efficacy of the epidemic of the "seven sins," however. The human heart is treacherous. Eventually, the homogeneity of evil will triumph. Then, it will implode.

In the meantime, the gabachos are certainly not going to relinquish their power. I don't blame them. When I look at the dolts and morons who comprise the rank-and-file peons, I would not entrust any of them with leadership either. At most, the peons can only suffice as tools, a means to an end. They are expendable. They can only be minions of evil. Yet, when the time of end arrives, they will be swept into the vortex of destruction as well.

My cardio workout at the gym was uneventful. I caught a glimpse of the hottie gym trainer while baby was working with a gym member. Baby was looking hot, but we knew that already. I returned to Waikiki, only to be sickened by the sight of its tackiness. To make matters worse, the whole place is infested with gabachos, no doubt eagerly spreading evil in "Paradise." After dropping off my gym bag, I quickly departed for town. I was able to spend a little more time in the Capitol district and enjoy the view of the peaceful gardens. My sanity was saved.

I meandered about town for no apparent reason. There are no crowds on Sunday, so I was not accosted by stupidity. However, the prison transport ride back to Waikiki was a nightmare. I won't bother to describe it. Later, after completing my psychotic rituals, I was beside myself to find something to do. Oh well, when all else fails ... there's always my safe haven, Barnes & Noble®. The hottie "bookseller" was on duty. Baby did not seem to be in a good mood. Neither was I, actually. I should have just hung out in the prison compound (read: hotel) for the evening. All I want is to get out of Babylon.

¹Gabacho, a White Supremacist satanic gargoyle.

Exodus Blues

My desire to continue to compose the "blog" has diminished considerably, although I will maintain my vow to chronicle the exodus until the day of its coming. I have always loved to write, but now it seems to be a tedious task. I cannot even bring myself to reply to e-mail or continue discussions in the message boards. At first, I thought that the cause was the stress of unemployment. Now, I am not so sure. Yes, there are days that I mutter to myself, "I could be earning chump change in wage slavery instead of lapsing in and out of coma with nothing else to do." However, that is not the root of the problem.

The exodus itself has been a trying experiment. Over the course of two decades, it did not come to fruition until recently. Although I have always been a loner, the idea of fully exiting society never seemed feasible. My humorous discourses in the journal about being a monk finally became an idea whose time had come. My original Five Year Plan that is detailed in the journal was to fund the down payment for the purchase of property. At the time, I was fooled into believing that home ownership was the prime directive. I was following the so-called "American Dream." The bottom line is that I went through extraordinary circumstances to save a moderate sum of money. In the end, that was the lesson of the Five Year Plan.

I did not become fully entrenched in the exodus until my secular life began to disintegrate. That is, I began to experience deep dissatisfaction with wage slavery. When I was finally fully emancipated, the exodus was an obsession. Wage slavery tends to dull the mind. All kinds of rationalizations float in the dulled mind about why one should do this or that. I rationalized why I had to continue home ownership while I was a wage slave. Naturally, like all wage slaves, my mind mind had become so dulled that I overestimated my tenure. Hence, when I was hastily emancipated from wage slavery, I was caught up in the trap devised by the dulled mind.

The key point here being that wage slavery impedes the exodus. Wage slavery, of course, is the common peon's only source of income. Therefore, the funds required for the exodus must come from wage slavery income. Yet, the nature of wage slavery challenges the willpower of the wage slave to save. Money saved is money not enjoyed, the little voice says. In the end, the percentage of income saved is gradually decreased to nothing as the unwitting wage slave concedes to instant gratification. With little restraint, savings goes negative. The exodus is defaulted.

Having a family or "significant other" also diminishes the possibility of executing the exodus. Frankly, I would say that the exodus is completely impossible under those conditions. Both conditions require an enormous financial commitment, normally one that quickly turns to debt. There is no way to facilitate the exodus while in debt or with huge monthly payment contracts of any kind. The exodus requires a singular, ascetic life-style.

The true exodus requires a huge lump sum of wealth stashed away that is generating some kind of income on its own. The exact amount of wealth required is unknown, but I would venture to guess that at least $1 million is necessary. Obviously, for the average peon, that kind of wealth will be impossible to accrue in a lifetime. That is my quandary as well. So, we must look at a more creative exodus, I assume.

That's where we are today. Sometimes I forget how short my lifespan really is. I am here for a short blip in time. I could have remained in wage slavery for a couple more years or until I am too decrepit to perform any task. Either decision is superfluous. Most likely, I would have passively remained in wage slavery until I was forced out. What is the sense of it all?

My first stop this morning was Safeway®. Its restrooms are open to the public. Often, there is a line of derelicts or the homeless. Someone took a huge dump and plugged the commode. How long before the restrooms are locked up? I purchased four air-filled energy bars and a cup of coffee. The checkout guy asked, "Same thing every day?" Yes, I said, same thing every day. He admitted that he had eaten an air-filled energy bar earlier himself. "They're pretty good," he added. He told me that he knew a guy who ate the air-filled energy bars with soup. Yuck! We both concurred.

As usual, I sat in Kukui Plaza and ate my brunch. Fools walking by glared at me as though I was homeless. I could see the blue sky through the skylight. I felt relieved. Earlier, it looked as though rain was imminent. After my homeless brunch, I made the trek through the Capitol district. A homeless guy was sitting on the grass, chanting with his arms open upward toward the heavens. He seemed to be "rejoicing in the Creation."

Some of the homeless apparently prefer to remain on the street, the assumption being that they have taken leave of their senses. Yet, I have to wonder ... perhaps they truly understand the concept of "freedom." Because greed created the "ownership society," we humans have forgotten that we are a product of the land and not vice versa. None of us can own the land because we do not live long enough to do so. Some of the homeless probably see the futility of ownership and the disconnection with what we call "nature" (especially when we choose to live in tombs (read: mausoleums) of our own making).

I savored every second as I walked though the gardens of the Capitol district, the culmination being my quiet jaunt through the grove of banyan trees. Hundreds of birds make their home in the trees. Today, I heard them all chirping. Why have I not heard them before? Naturally, I have to ignore the cigarette butts strewn about and all of the 4,000-pound motorized chairs (read: automobiles) parked along the periphery. There is something tragically wrong with modern life.

I sat in the inner courtyard of the library for an hour. I had a few moments of silence to enjoy the garden in the courtyard. Then, an idiotic local hag sitting at the next table began a non-stop cell phone conversation that lasted the remainder of my stay. Everyone in the large courtyard including the second floor balcony were privy to a most moronic conversation. Same shit over and over again, no doubt because the hag must use up her "minutes" or lose them. Fortunately, I had to leave for the gym just as the malignant gossiping commenced.

As I was walking through the I'olani Palace grounds, I was stopped and briefly detained by a thick female, haole (read: Caucasian) police officer, one of "Honolulu's finest." I allegedly matched the description of a suspect who had just assaulted a prison transport driver (read: bus driver). Upon calling in that the suspect was apprehended, the bitch then realized that I did not weigh 250 pounds, one of the key descriptors. The bitch left without even offering an apology.

I did my usual cardio workout at the gym. One of my former Diploma Mill students was in the gym and recognized me. We chatted briefly. I had a good rapport with most of the students in my classes, which was not much of a consideration before my termination. At this point, I don't really care. I returned to Waikiki to drop off my gym bag and wash my gym clothes by hand in the wretched little sink in my prison cell (read: little shoebox). Then, I ended up back in the Capitol district to try to make up for the unpleasant experience earlier. For the time being, my homeless guy jaunts will suffice in lieu of the exodus.

The real problem with the exodus is that I may not be able to completely exit society, much to my chagrin. A partial exit is practically useless. The temptations and snares will always make themselves manifest at the most inappropriate times. Worst of all, the situation is exacerbated by the dense urban living conditions. Thus, the exodus may require methods of survival more fitting of an urbanized monk. I am not too keen on the idea, but I may have no choice.

The ride back to Waikiki on the prison transport (read: bus) was tarnished by a group of obnoxious Micronesian or Marshall Islander punks dressed in "gangsta"-wear. No tourist dared to sit in the back of the prison transport with them. The Polynesian hoodlums came from the projects. They spend hours smoking cigarettes, drinking cheap booze, and making hella noise at the more popular prison transport stop shelters (read: bus stop shelters) in Waikiki. They tend to give the tourists the "willies." Well, heck, they can't be all that bad, eh?

My evening was even more uneventful. After completing my psychotic rituals, I was not in the mood to go to Ala Moana Center. Instead, I spent part of the evening piddling around with my Toshiba® Satellite notebook computer. Can my routine get any more duller than that? Sheesh!

At 10pm, I stepped out for some fresh air. I rode the prison transport to Fudgepacker Park (formerly Kapi'olani Park). I sat on one of the benches. Within minutes, a heavy downpour had me running for cover. I was drenched and stranded in one of the pavilion structures. When the rain finally subsided, I walked to the Waikiki Banyan parking structure. I retrieved the last shopping bag full of canned beans. I arrived back at Quagmire Prison (read: hotel) at midnight. Alas, the time was past the cheap booze curfew. I could have easily dropped back a big-ass can of cheap brewski. Saved by the bell. I'll spend a little time in the prison compound (read: hotel lobby) before calling it a night.