I was fumbling with my change purse in a food kiosk on the campus of the University of Lowai‘i at Manoa …

What was that? The University of Hawai‘i, you say? Haven’t been following the news lately, eh …?

As I was saying. I was fumbling with my change purse in a food kiosk on campus, and I almost stepped on this bird. I mean, really. One second, I’m standing on bare concrete, and the next there’s a feathered creature right directly under foot. The myna, for a myna it was, must have mistaken my coin purse for a packet of potato chips, and was ready to take any risk, the better to seize the packet or anything that fell from it.

Moths might possibly have been good for the bird’s digestion, but I doubt that the pennies that made up the entire content of the purse (not counting the moths) would have been.

I stooped to take a closer look. At the bird – I had exhausted the possibilities of the purse. It wasn’t hard; the bird wouldn’t let me touch it, but it refused to go off more than a few feet. After all, I still had that packet of potato chips purse in my hand. In fact, while I was watching, it disgorged a small palm fruit from its crop and threw it on the ground.

“See? See?!? You go around eating potato chips, while I have to try to survive on nuts and berries. Now are you going to give me one of those chips, or not?”

The myna’s eye was cocked in a way that made it look hyper, even crazed. The bird’s feathers were unkempt, the ones on the top of its head appearing to stand on end; almost, an avian Mohawk hairdo featherdo. The back of the bird’s neck had no feathers at all – one reason why the head feathers were so obvious. The biggest toe on its left foot was crooked and swollen. A sign perhaps that the bird suffered from avian malaria, a disease that, like its vector mosquito and indeed, its myna host, were unknown in Hawai‘i before the coming of the haoles.

Or, perhaps, a sign that the bird was suffering from malnutrition. After all, the kiosk contained vending machines that spewed out the usual assortment of refined sugars, starches, and oils. Like all the others on campus, each one with its contingent of mynas, pigeons, doves, sparrows, and cardinals prepared to pass on cockroaches and palm fruits in favor of Doritos, Sun Chips, and Pop Tarts.

I remembered a house sparrow I had seen some years ago, at a McDonalds in Seattle, Washington. A sparrow that was addicted to French fries and would filch all it could grab from people or rubbish bins. The grease on the bird’s feathers was so thick, I was amazed it could fly. In fact, I feared that the bird would spontaneously combust if the nearly-everpresent Seattle rain stopped and the sun came out.

I remembered an article by Jared Diamond, claiming that agriculture was humanity’s worst mistake. Because it traded the good nutrition of the hunter-gatherer lifestyle for the empty calories of single-species crop farming.

Or kiosk vending.

The scraggly myna didn’t get any potato chips. I left the kiosk wondering what the hell I was doing getting any. Not to mention thousands of what, it says here, are the best and brightest of the young adults of Hawai‘i.

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2009 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

He: Damn that Captain Cook!

She: Why?

He: Because, before he got here, there weren’t any ants in Hawai‘i. Now, there’s almost 50 different kinds! All brought in by some haole trader or other.

She: And we care why?

He: Because they’ve gotten into the potatoes, that’s why.

She: Oh good grief. I’ll clean off the shelf while you …

He: … ask for a moment of silence.

She: A moment of silence?

He: Yes. Let us spray …

A few minutes later.

She: Did you get ‘em?

He: I think so.

She: Then what are you staring at?

He: This critter running around lost between the shelf you cleaned and the trail I zapped.

She: Critter? What critter?

He: What else? Little orphan antie …

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2009 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

Quilly and I were out driving early on a Sunday afternoon not long ago. We had just gotten onto the (ahem) Interstate H-1 in Honolulu, bound for Hawai‘i Kai, when an object appeared on our windshield. A brown thing; it looked like a stick that had been out of sight in the windshield wiper well until the wind from our acceleration dislodged it.

At least, that’s what we thought. Until the stick flashed its bright red dewlap at us.

It was a lizard. Specifically, a brown anole lizard. No, it’s not native to Hawai‘i. Is anything native to Hawai‘i? Besides the centipedes, I mean. But you know about them already. The brown anoles hitchhiked to O‘ahu from the Caribbean. Maybe they thumbed a cargo boat, or a plane. Or they came first class, as somebody’s pet, and got loose when the kids grew tired of them.

This one had caught the cannonball – ours – to the east end of the island, and would get there in no time. If it lived. Which was by no means a sure thing. The environment at the base of the windshield of an automobile that is traveling a freeway at 60 mph = 100 kph tends to be a little windy. One misstep, and our reptilian stowaway would begin its long minute’s journey into squish.

But our passenger clearly was a hoppy frood who knew where his towel was. He refused to panic, and after a few minutes in the slipstream, glaring at us, he disappeared into the windshield wiper well. Not the wisest of moves, thought Quilly, remembering the showers that had been dampening O‘ahu over the preceding week. But no rain fell; the anole’s gamble paid off. We arrived home, and promptly forgot about him.

Until the following morning, when we went out to the car prepared to drive to our respective workplaces, and there was the hitchhiker, unconcernedly sunning himself on the hood. Male brown anoles defend territories, and this one, not having the option of a pink Cadillac, was prepared to make do with a tan Malibu.

And I was almost prepared to oblige. Brown anoles, after all, eat bugs, and older cars on O‘ahu, including this one, have enough buggy passengers to feed a whole colony of anoles. I could have called it our very own onboard biocontrol system.

But then I thought “long minute’s journey into squish” and made an executive decision. I blocked the lizard’s path to the windshield wiper well with one arm, scooped him into my other hand (rather to my surprise), and escorted him into the mock orange hedge at the side of the road. Into which he disappeared, never to be seen again.

Or did we? That tan duellist that Quilly captured on camera looks awfully familiar …

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2009 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

CAVE CANEM (Latin): Beware of the dog. CAVE HOMINEM: Beware of the human.

Seems like only yesterday that our English teachers were telling us exactly what they thought of “news” like this. ‘Man Bites Dog’ stories, they called them, and they were to be beneath our notice. Especially on our assignments, where, if they appeared, they would attract the deadliest Scarlet Letter, the one that would cause the parental units to proclaim the virtues of our remaining in our own rooms after school, for the next week at least.

Our teachers, sadly, foresaw neither the National Enquirer Gospel of Profit, nor the Vista of a World Without Classified Advertising (presented by craigslist). Factors that would transform the MBD from an object of educational disdain into the principal resource of the modern information industry:

ROVERVILLE (API*) Police and Humane Society officials are investigating at this hour a report of aggravated manbite at a home on Setter Avenue.

Authorities were called to the home at around 9 PM yesterday by neighbors complaining of loud noises, including those of a dog or a child in pain. Responding officers found a man, later identified as Mr. Carney V. Russell of Roverville (the owner of the home), and a male golden retriever. The residence showed signs of a struggle, including large hanks of dog hair strewn on the carpet. When both the condition and the name (“Sparerib”) of the dog were ascertained, Mr. Russell was taken into custody, and Sparerib to the Humane Society clinic, where he is reported to be doing well.

Upon hearing of the arrest, Ms. Eva B. Rich of the Roverville chapter of PETA spoke to the media. “We have been aware of Mr. Carney V. Russell’s activities for some time, and we are appalled that it has taken so long for the authorities to act. We expect that Mr. Russell will pay the full penalty for his crimes. Should he not do so, he may expect a visit to teach him respect for life not of his species, with our most potent persuaders including brass knuckles and a year’s supply of tofu bacon. But you didn’t hear that from us.”

Mr. Qu Fulin, however, a Setter Avenue neighbor of Russell’s and proprietor of Roverville’s Seven Joys restaurant, was more concerned with the state of the dog. “Golden retriever? Terrible choice! Much too bony, and the meat’s too tough. A St. Bernard is much better, especially if you feed well, keep exercise down, and harvest before it’s a year old.”

A number of citizens have been seen in the vicinity of the Setter Avenue address. At least one of these citizens has been identified as a former business associate of Mr. Michael Vick. It is rumored that these persons are seeking a way to use the currently-idle assets of their former business in a legal way, and are seeking advice from Mr. Russell.

Mr. Russell’s arraignment on charges of assault, battery and cruelty to animals (specifically, to Sparerib) is scheduled for 10 AM local time tomorrow in the Roverville Town Hall and Court House.

(* = Amoeba Press International)

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2009 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

Spare a thought if you will, dear reader, for the one-hit wonder. You know, the musician who rockets from obscurity into white-hot fame with a single song, and then plummets back into the abyss.

Or the typecast actor, who mutates from nobody to celebrity on the strength of one role – and can never do anything but that role ever again.

Imagine what it must feel like to spend years working at a craft only to discover that one thing, and one thing only, makes a splash with an audience.

Like when you discover that a large chunk of the page views on your blog tracks to a single entry, and more specifically to the one picture on that single entry.

I have no idea why centipedes, the subject of that one picture, have become so popular all of a sudden. Perhaps a whole lot of college students are facing midterms in invertebrate zoology. Or perhaps a pack of young Calvins are collecting objects for their G.R.O.S.S.-club initiation rites. Whatever the reason, increasing numbers of people lately have been hitting on that picture. (I doubt they’re actually reading the post it’s on.)

And Google has been helping. As of this writing (15 April 2009), a websearch on both the text and the image functions of Google will call up the image in question. Over the last several weeks, the image has been progressing ever nearer to the top of the list.

However it is that Google decides such things. Probably by hit counts.

Which becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, because everyone knows that the nearer you get to the top of a list, the more likely people are to check you out. Which is how come you see companies with names like AAAAAAAAardvark Service Services Inc. in the Yellow Pages.

(Let’s pause a moment while the under-twentysomethings out there do a websearch on “yellow pages”, and ensure themselves that this is not a synonym for “yellow snow“.)

I considered trying to capitalize on this trend by making this blog “all centipedes, all the time”. But I reasoned that it probably wouldn’t work. Just like Chubby Checker trying to sell reworked versions of The Twist over and over and over again didn’t work.

Not that the idea is completely without merit. For I discovered, while trying to figure out just what was going on with this apparent centipede craze, that a bunch of the images posted online under the name “centipede” are actually millipedes, or caterpillars, or sawfly larvae, or, well, who knows what else.

And even when the picture is matched correctly to the name, errors remain. Consider this quote from the Wikipedia page on centipedes:

Some species of centipedes can be hazardous to humans because of their bite. Although a bite to an adult human may only be painful, those with allergies that are similar to that of bee stings and small children are at greater risk.

So I guess that means, if you’re allergic to small children, don’t come to Hawai‘i, the centipedes will get you.

I don’t think the Chamber of Commerce is going to like that idea.

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2009 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

The other day, over at the online Bible study that Quilly is running, the discussion turned to the origin and meaning of sin.

(Yes, Mr. Squirrel. Again. Religious persons trying to solve the “sin” problem are just like Bullwinkle trying to pull the rabbit out of that damned hat. The trick never works, but they keep at it anyway. I sympathize.)

The question came up: is the urge to sin innate in humans, or is it planted there by, you know, the red-skinned guy with the horns, the hooves, and the pitchfork. No, sit down, Hellboy, I’m not talking about you.

I argued that sin must be innate, because we humans are descended from other creatures, and the lives of those other creatures are full of sex, lies, and videotape. OK, maybe not videotape. Or DVDs, either, if you must know. I confess, the next beetle I see with a microphone or a camera will be the first. Despite what you’ve heard about insects making their fortunes in porn. But, said I, I could tell a tale of sin among the bumblebees that would well and truly wrinkle your nose.

They didn’t believe me.

And, truth be told, they were right not to believe me. I don’t have a tale to tell. I have two, one (the one below) on the sin of thievery, and another on the sin of envy. So far.

Yes, bumblebees really will steal. Because they get lazy just like everybody else. (Hey, I can add “sloth” to the list!) The situations in this story are based on real scientific observations of organisms in nature. Well, OK, maybe not Snapdragon International, but … oh, read the story. See for yourself.

The tale told below was originally posted here.

==================================

STEAL, v. To remind those who have of the existence of those who have not.

The inventor of the flower was a genius. He or she – the designer’s identity has not come down to us – saw megatons of pollen that desperately needed to get shipped from one plant to another, and a huge, idle crowd of bugs wandering from place to place begging for handouts. Our hero splashed some paint on some leaves, hung a few balloons, placed a juice bar at the deliveries dock for visitors who were attracted by the advertising and came with a sack of pollen, and presto: UPS (Universal Pollen Service) was born. Simple, elegant, and everybody won.

Trouble was, of course, that all bugs were not created equal. Some were better couriers than others – and some, through ignorance, laziness, perversity, or a lucky break in size and shape, simply snuck in for the drinks and out without leaving so much as a tip. In the early days, this was OK, the job got done and there was plenty for all. Inevitably, though, the marketplace got crowded, competition increased, and words like “freeloader” entered the vocabularies of botanical boardrooms.

The CEO and CFO of Snapdragon International watched the weakening stock prices of “open access” flower companies, and thought they saw a way to increase shareholder values. “Redesign our blossoms”, they ordered, “so that only the most efficient pollen carriers can get to the bar.”

They did, and it worked. Labor productivity skyrocketed, as did Snapdragon International’s meadow share. Wages went up for the workers who could turn the tricks of the new posies, and the managers all got huge salary increases and hefty bonuses. Slums developed around the snapdragon stands, and beetles in rags were seen begging spare change in the business district and pushing shopping carts through the streets among the new luxury condos, but this hardly mattered.

Until the day when the President of the Bumblebees Union buzzed the executive offices demanding why, after all those years of bargaining in good faith and making all those onerous concessions in work rules and loading rates for the sake of the firm, her workers were not getting paid. An investigation revealed all: destitute insects, tipped off by disgruntled members of a rival labor organization (Allied Federations of Lepidoptera), were breaking into the backs of the flowers and stealing the nectar!

At this point, management was too deeply committed to its developments in bloom technology to change strategies; besides, an attempt to retrofit to “open access” mode would have caused a market stampede. So they invested in security measures, guarding the flowers with barricades, barbed wire, and ants armed with mace and stingers.

To no avail: the thieves circumvented all the security and the nectar kept disappearing. There were ugly confrontations, leading to riots and loss of life, all of which was, naturally, reported in the grassroots networks. A wave of selling hit Wallflower Street. The CFO had no choice but to ask the Bumblebees for wage concessions, which prompted first a work slowdown and, finally, a full-blown strike.

Snapdragon International wilted. Its assets were acquired by Burbee, which maintained Snapdragon’s more glamorous products through tissue culture and genetic engineering. Snapdragon’s managers were last seen, shopping carts in hand, standing in line with the roaches and fruit flies at the Magnolia Juice and Pollen Bread Kitchen. Except for the CEO and CFO, who were hired to head the Advanced Blossom Design subsidiary of the Orchid Conglomerate.

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2006, 2008 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.

This piece is dedicated to the memory of Prof. Bastiaan J. D. Meeuse of the University of Washington, who introduced me to the field, and allegorical possibilities, of floral pollination biology.

OK, I’m too lazy to write. Actually, begging your pardon, it’s like this: my employers are insisting I take a work break. The best I can do right now is re-runs. You wish new stuff from us, go here. She has dragon. I has draggin’.

The post below first appeared on Felloffatruck Publications on 9 March 2008. Five months later, and nothing has changed. Except possibly the profits of every insecticide maker with a distributor on O‘ahu.

=========================

Yep, that’s right. We live in a haunted house.

You don’t hear too much about haunted houses here in Hawai‘i, I reckon. I never did. Most probably ’cause the place is notoriously short on dark and stormy nights. Scary stories around here tend to be daylight tales, featuring big guys with big eyes and even bigger spears, Britney, who are inviting you to be the centerpiece at dinner tonight.

But it is what it is. We’ve got ghosts.

No, we didn’t see any ethereal sheets floating about the place. Nor did anything come hoo-ing into the bedroom at three in the morning.

What tipped us off was the sight of objects crossing our faux-wood floor. Things that shouldn’t .. be .. moving .. by .. themselves …

And then came the day when one of us reached for a snack. And discovered that .. someone .. had .. been .. into .. the .. cookies …

So. Who you gonna call? Eh?

Nah.

These are our ghosts.

Ghost ants. Tapinoma melanocephalum, to be formal. Tiny little things whose little white behinds blend into the woodword. They’re practically invisible except when they’re getting into things they’re not supposed to. The cookie jar, for instance. By the millions – which is how many worker ants one of their supercolonies contains.

I sometimes worry that if I somehow were to kill them all (and trust me, they cause me to reveal my inner Dalek), we’d be in trouble, ’cause we’d discover that they’d been holding hands and keeping the building from collapsing. And they’re one of the (at last count) 47 species of ants on these islands. Most of them pestiferous. And all of them haoles.

Hey. I’m supposed to be a scientist. No supernatural beings need apply, remember? What were you thinking?

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2008 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

He was walking along reading. He said, “According to the brochure, there should be green sea turtles sunning on this beach up here.”

She said, “Yeah, well according to my eyes, there are rocks sunning on that beach. One of them looks a little turtle shaped, but …”

If you wish to read Quilly’s honu thoughts, click here: Honu Heaven

If you wish to read O’Ceallaigh’s honu thioughts, click here: While Turtles Safely Graze

As usual, they were sitting on the couch side-by-side. He had spread sheets from work up on his computer screen and was muttering to himself. She was reading. Presently She put down her novel and walked to the bathroom.

In the bathroom She reached for the hardwood toilet seat lid and it moved. She let out a tiny shriek, then a big bellow: “Hon! Do I have to share the bathroom with a gecko?”

He said: “Of course not.”

She heard his laptop close and settle on the coffee table. His footsteps approached. He appeared in the bathroom doorway. She scrunched over to let him in. She pointed and said: “It ran behind the wastebasket.” Then, as He reached out She added: “Be careful. It’s huge and it tried to eat me.”

He glanced over his shoulder, gave her that look and queried dryly: “How big is huge?”

She said: “At least three inches. Maybe four if you count the tail.”

He said: “Ri-ight.” Then He moved the wastebasket. There the monster was! He said: “Two inches, max, with the tail, and it’s a female. Probably just looking for a place to nest and have her babies.”

“Does it have to be in my bathroom?” She queried.

He said: “I’ll see if we can avoid that.” He reached for the lizard. It ran behind the toilet. He said: “Go get me the empty Kleenex box you just tossed in the trash.”

She complied, then watched him open one end, wondering to herself if He knew there was a huge hole in the top of the box. She didn’t ask. She has learned that He usually knows what He is doing.

He reached behind the toilet with the box in his hand. The lizard darted from behind the toilet and huddled in the corner near the sink cabinet. He tried to pick it up. It darted back behind the toilet. Again He brandished the Kleenex box. The lizard dashed into the corner near the bathtub, then back again to the corner behind the sink.

“It’s scared!” She said.

“Really?” He queried.

She ignored his sarcasm and ordered: “Don’t hurt the poor little thing!”

He paused, hunched over the toilet, arms circling the tank, glanced over his shoulder and gave her that look.

She smiled all bright and cheerful and said: “I’ll be quiet now.”

He grunted and turned his attention back to the gecko. This time when it ran into the corner, He put the box down in front of it and reached down behind the gecko with his other hand. She saw that He meant to scare the lizard into the box. It had other ideas and ran up the bathroom wall. He plucked it from the wall and held it gently inside his cupped hands.

She scooted out of the bathroom and hustled into the living room to open the door. He followed. They walked out onto the landing. He opened his hands. The gecko raised her head and looked at him, but didn’t try to move. He held it.

The gecko stirred just a bit, moving from the palm of his hand to his wrist. She said, “It likes you, you’re warm. Besides, with all that hair she probably thinks she’s safe in a forest.

He grunted and lowered the gecko to the floor. It stayed where He put it.

She queried: “Did you hurt her?”

He picked the lizard up again and looked it over in the palm of his hand. “No,” He answered. “I think she’s just tired.” Once again He lowered the lizard to the floor. This time it scurried from his fingers and slipped into a crack between two boards.

She threw her arms around him and swooned theatrically, “My hero!”

He gave her that look and groaned, but He returned the hug.

She said: You can play dot-to-dot on my body.  Look! I have a mosquito bite here and one here and one here and one here …..

He said: You need to soak that one on your arm before it gets infected. I told you not to scratch them.

She said: I have no control over what I do in my sleep. And look, I have one here and one here and one here ….

He shook his head and got out of bed to walk away.

She said: Don’t you want to know which one bothers me most?

He said: Which?

She said: The one you haven’t got!

“Dude!!”

“Now what?”

“Look! Up on the wall! It’s a bird! It’s a plane …”

“It’s a lizard, dude. Hemidactylus frenatus, to be precise.”

“Hemidacta-hoo-a-huh-a-what?“

“That’s gecko to you, dude.”

“They’re selling car insurance in our apartment?!?“

“Not that gecko, dude. This gecko. There’s lots of different kinds, y’know.”

“Maybe you and OC know, dude. But I’m glad to hear it. I’ve heard of door-to-door sellers, but door-to-door lizards? Ridiculous. Besides. I never understood this company. A gecko. Haven’t they ever heard of Gordon Gecko?”

“That’s Gekko, dude. And lizards aren’t slimy. The company wouldn’t be beating on your door anyway. Last I knew, they weren’t selling insurance on virtual cars.”

“Good thing, dude.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t have a virtual license.”

“That’s gotta be wrong, dude. You’re always driving me crazy.”

“For this I need insurance?“

“No. I do.”

“Actually, I think it does. Your hemihoohahwhatsit. Scrawny little thing. What’s it doing in here? Can’t be getting much to eat. Or drink.”

“It’s probably hiding.”

“From what?”

“From its friends.”

“It’s got friends?“

“Yeah. They don’t call it the Common House Gecko for nothin’. They’re all over the place. And if a little one meets up with a big one, it’s invited to dinner. So to speak.”

“Y’mean they’re cannibals??“

“Minus the stew pot, dude, but, yeah.”

“So it’s native to Hawai’i then?”

“You are wrong, dude. It’s an import like just about everything else around here. Came to O’ahu during the 1940s and ate up all the rest of the lizards. ‘Course none of them were native, either.”

“Well, then, dude, what is native around here?”

“Um … centipedes.”

“Remind me again why we came here, dude?”

“So certain dudes could go surfing? Your bruises still hurting you?”

“Only when I laugh, dude …”

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2007 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

Living in Hawai‘i means thinking about things differently. No, I don’t mean sipping Mai Tais on the lanai of your mansion and driving around the island in your Ferrari. You can put away your Magnum, P.I. DVDs now. Besides, with the gridlock on O‘ahu’s roads, good luck getting that Ferrari up to bicycle speeds. I mean thinking differently about really basic stuff.

Like, shoes.

You mean to tell me that people wear flip-flops, those miserable little pieces of so-called footwear with the thong between your toes, because they’re comfortable? I tried it. Once. Five minutes later, my feet were so cramped up, they may as well have been amputated. I spent the rest of the day walking on my hands because it was easier. Besides, I’m a scientist (really), and sandals in the laboratory are verboten. Only real shoes need apply. There is a reason for this. You only have to drop a test tube full of hot acid on your bare toes once …

No. People ’round here don’t wear flip-flops because they’re comfortable. They wear them because of shoe drill.

Most people from the U.S. Mainland know nothing about shoe drill. They just come barging into the house with whatever they’re wearing on their feet. Sometimes wiping them off, sometimes not. The person responsible for cleaning the floor complains, but the worst that can happen is that the offender gets handed the mop or the broom. Most of the time, however, the grit just gets left for the next floor cleaning. However often that might be in your house.

But most people in Hawai‘i aren’t from the U.S. Mainland. They aren’t even Hawai‘ian natives. They’re Asians. Mostly from China, Korea, Japan. And they brought shoe drill with them.

Trust me, Yank. You do not want to go blundering into an Asian person’s house with your shoes on. The looks of shock and horror that accompany any such attempt put the puny screams of today’s frontline horror movies to shame. As does the sight of a grandmother, all 4′ 9″ and 80 pounds of her, prepared to unload on you like a blitzing middle linebacker. And if that doesn’t work, the Ninja pop out from behind the Japanese screen in the living room and cut you to ribbons. No. First they carry you and your offending footwear out of the house. Then they cut you to ribbons.

What you’re supposed to do is enter the vestibule of the house and take your shoes off. This is shoe drill. In Asian households, the homeowner often provides sandals for people to wear in the house. The in-house standard here in Hawai‘i is bare feet, or at least it’s been bare feet in the places I’ve been so far.

This is a great way to tell the malihini from the kama‘aina at a party around here. Those in the know are already at the bar sipping Mai Tais while the rookies are still in the vestibule untying their sneakers. One thing about flip-flops. They come off quickly and easily. Thank goodness.

Now, the very existence of shoe drill makes a statement about the cleanliness of the house that practices it. Not to mention the safety. Let’s face it. In mainland America, given both the frontier mentality and the climate, you need to wear shoes in most houses. To protect your feet from whatever the previous sets of shoes have tracked in. Plus the temperature of the floor (hot or cold, depending on where you are and when). Plus whatever verminous things like ants or wasps or snakes have snuck into the place when you weren’t looking and are lying in wait for your unshielded tootsies.

Shoe drill states “you don’t have to worry about those things here”. Which is a fine statement for the homemaker to make. As long as the verminous things are listening …

So nowadays I come home and, because “when in Rome” and all that, I take off my shoes. Most of the time, I’m doffing sandals (not the flip-flop variety), but sometimes real loafer-type shoes. Last night, it was the loafers I had just taken off when I looked up, and there was a centipede crawling across our floor.

Now, Quilly and I have been telling you all about the flowers of Hawai‘i, and the birds of Hawai‘i, and the mammals of Hawai‘i, on our blogs. None of these creatures have actually been native to Hawai‘i. This was our first look at real, honest-to-Mergatroyd Hawai‘ian native wildlife. Though we would have preferred it if this particular species of wildlife hadn’t spent the last several years watching the Crocodile Dundee movies. Especially the second one. The one where Paul Hogan’s character went to New York? Y’see, U.S. Mainland centipedes are pretty puny, maybe an inch (25 mm) long, most of ‘em. The Hawai’ian ones looked at these things, got themselves to the gym, bulked up, and scoffed.

“That’s not a centipede.”

“This is a centipede.”

So here’s this thing, as long and big around as a pencil, scurrying across my living room floor and headed for the kitchen. And they bite. Which would be bad enough by itself, but centipedes bite with a venom that is similar to the one found in bee stings. And if you have an allergy to bee venom … like Quilly does …

Hawai‘ian residents, I’ve since learned, attack invading centipedes with flamethrowers, bazookas, or machetes. I didn’t have any of those things. Or a lot of time, either. What I did have was …

Shoes!

Which I promptly put back on, strode brazenly across my sacred floor, and stomped the intruder into mush. (It took awhile.)

I’m just glad I didn’t have to cope with blitzing Asian grandmothers too.

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2007 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.

Pancakes. Warm coconut syrup. Portuguese sausage.

And Brazilian Cardinals.

Is this seat taken?

Hold the soy sauce, but I’d like some tea, please.

Come to OC.

Hey, you’re a little stingy with the coconut syrup there, aren’t you?

We heard it before we saw it.

A cat, a kitten really, calling out to us from the shrubbery. We were coming back to our rented room from the surrounding grounds, where I had had the muted trumpet out, practicing. The session did not go well, and I was tired and cross. I do not like to make a noise, jetlag and the lateness of the hour notwithstanding, and said so, in less than polite terms. And as if in answer – mew.

A few seconds later, it showed itself, a gray tabby with white feet. A tiny thing, hardly as much as a handful, though probably older than it looked; cats in Hawai’i run small. We had seen some of its siblings earlier in the day, but they had been shy, greeting us with their cries but refusing to come within reach, or staying if they did.

This one was different. We called to him and he came, picked him up and he snuggled into our arms, content. For the next hour, we played “pass the kitty”. He purred against my chest, nestled in my left hand, and each vibration caught the tension and irritation there and buzzed it away into the quiet tropical night.

The grounds crew knew of these cats, and were actively seeking homes for them. We know better; this kitty’s visit was a temporary comfort. Still, we couldn’t resist the temptation to name it.

I wanted to present him with “Mergatroyd”. For some reason, I have always remembered the catchphrase from the Snagglepuss cartoons (“Heavens to Mergatroyd!”), and, though to date I haven’t yet given that name to a being with whom I expected to share living quarters, someday …

Quilly demurred. She suggested “Grifter”. She sensed, as I didn’t, a certain mercenary quality to this feline …

Just then, the ice machine down the hall rattled. For the first time, Grifter stirred, then made clear intention movements. “I’ve done all I can here, time to move on.” I set him gently down on the patio deck, and he scampered away towards the sounds coming from the vicinity of the icemaker.

Soon, a big male voice was saying “Come in, kitty, and make yourself comfortable …”

  - O Ceallaigh
Copyright © 2007 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.