When does a habit become a style? When does a fad become the norm?

I was recently confronted by this quasi-philosophical issue after having poured over a number blogs from across the great literary landscape we call the “blogosphere”—a place that magiacally floats justed above the bloated intellectual landscape of the “micheal-moore-o-sphere”.

And how could it not.  From radical diatribes on political shennanagans to the mundane haikus of the spiritual vapid, I soon realized that it is a vast wasteland of quirky insouciance that has somehow become the de facto  jell-o mold of our electronic discourse.  I encountered so much  ’hip’ writing, in fact, that I begin to wonder if I stumbled upon a vast left wing conspiracy hell-bent on bludgeoning us to death with the tripe of the trope.

Everything seemed so excruciatingly bland and pithy and whimsical and poignant and desperately earnest, that the emotional gamut of life has somehow been whitewashed into literary vanilla.

Sure,  I came across some slight personal variations:  novel topics, unique word choice, esoteric vocabulary. But through it all I mostly found people grasping awkwardly in search of a compelling ‘voice’.

Perhaps I am being too harsh—I too have indulged in a glaring lack of style and have fallen back on cliche and the comfort of the first person.  I too have had moments of weakness and tried to exceed my tenuous literary grasp. I paused to wonder: Could this all just be some kind of an allergic reaction to how our stories and our lives are exposed in the media? Could this all boil down to some fundamental boredom in our lives? Is this actually a. . .rebellion?

Nah. Most people just suck at writing.

There is a reason why not all writers are remembered, nor all diarists lauded.  Who wants to read the pulp drivel of a  hundred years ago? I sure don’t, and I am less inclined to read the crap being produced today.

Well, I can’t change the “blobo-sphere”, such as it is, but I can demand one thing for all of us poor bastards forced to read your blogs: Be interesting!

Thank you and good night.

Note: The best thing I read on a blog?  B.J.Penn wannabee’s liquored up on weekends looking for trouble amidst the Tita action hoochimama’s.

Your old Kona is wondering if a sea change is in the air. . .or if that smell just isn’t some fad drifting by on the breeze.

I bring this up after hoofing to it to work the other day and nearly getting run over by some overweight slob struggling to keep his large girth wedged into tiny biking shorts whilst navigating a mountain bike around pedestrians.

What am I talking about, you ask? Cheapskates trying to save a buck on gas money.

Just how long is this going to last? How much longer am I going to have to get run over on the sidewalk by weekday warriors huffing and puffing their way to physical fitness and fiscal responsibility?

Sure, it looks good to don casual clothes, trick out a retail bike with a new light and knobby tire and start complaining about lack of bicycle parking at work, but I eagerly await the day when everyone just says “Screw it” and sucks up the higher gas prices—’cause you know that’s what’s going to happen.  This whole fitness-through-saving-some-dough phase ain’t going to last long with us couch potato Americans. Eventually everyone will realize that driving to the local McGreasy is a lot easier than balancing a super-sized value meal and 92oz drink with your breaking hand.

And until that day, to all you chunky cheapskates out there trying to kill two birds with one stone I say:  Kona tu-wooska mucho crank-o. oh neeeeeey!

That’s right. You heard me. Not on my watch!

What am I talking about? oil, man! OIL!

I realized yesterday that I am getting just a little bit tired of all of those nattering-nabobs of negativism in the media (I’m talkin’ about you Friedman!) chattering on and on about America’s oil dependency.  Everyone nowadays seems to think that it would be better for oil prices to keep skyrocketing so that Americans can finally ween themselves off of that addictive “malignant molasses,” sweet crude.

Why is it that MY generation must be the one to sacrifice financial well-being for the environmental future?

Why must I be the one to pay $137.82 for a Sonic Cherry Limeade just because I don’t want to turn my air conditioning off while waiting for Jesse, the part-time Community College Student and full time waitress, to hand me the a Vanilla Limeade which just happens to be the drink ordered by the Mr. T-looking dude in the black van  across the parking lot who just happens to be glaring at me  ’cause I am yelling at Jesse through the closed window of my air-conditioned car  trying to explain that the drink tastes an awful lot like vanilla—all the while keeping an eye on  Colonel  Decker as he screams down the street in his antiquated Army jeep hell bent on capturing  the man accused of a crime he didn’t commit?

I get the sense, sipping my cool beverage while watching Face-man peel out in a cloud of smoke, that something distinctly un-American is going on here.

First, Mr T. didn’t get his Vanilla Limeade.

Second,  gas costs way too much these days.

As I look out on the street, I notice Baby Boomer after Baby Boomer drive by in their gas-guzzling Cadillac Behemoths—just like the ones they have driven throughout their entire adult lives.   I turn to ask Jesse as she skates gracefully by and ask, “Isn’t there something wrong with this picture?”   Indeed there is.  Suddenly, in the prime of my money-making life, I am asked to suck down a precipitous increase gas prices along with a commensurate drop in discretionary income in order to make America, quote “a better place”.   How, you ask?  By giving the government more of my tax money so it can piss it away by building  Public Transportation Infrastructure.

Well, my friends, I have seen the public transportation future and it sucks. . . .Even countries that does it well can’t get past the rising ticket prices, public drunkenness, annoying crowds, hectic scheduling and the occasional suicide delay.  The way I see it, rising gas prices aren’t a problem of not enough oil, but of too much consumption.  There are simply too many people driving cars in China and India.  The solution?—Irish Children.

Barring that, however, the only other solution I can see are age restrictions on older drivers. Baby Boomers are wedded to their precious gas-guzzlers, ergo, make all of THEM start using public transportation.  Let’s see how long all of this oil-intervention-tax-hoopla lasts when aging hipsters have to stand in the roasting sun for a bus that may never come right next a  guy who hasn’t bathed since the Carter administration!

I pity the fool!

As I took keyboard in hand and dipped my brain into the black inkwell that is my soul, I was suddenly struck by the dearth of “nard” related humor on this blog.

What happened to me? When did puerile humor suddenly slip by the wayside? Had I, Kona, the most profound thinker ever to listen to Jack Johnson whilst sniffing vanilla scented candles, lost my comedo-philosphic way? Perhaps.

But then the ship of fate set me aright with the alarming news that Voodoo men right here in the Congo (my work location) are prancing about and robbing men of their. . .ahem virility. That’s right.  Billywitchdoctor.com and his cohorts are single handedly shrinking nards and generally making life difficult for the ”average” man. 

This is real. I swear.  Jack Johnson will attest to the fact.

So if you see this man stading next to you on the street corner. Don’t move.

And if he asks you to, never, I repeat, never say these words:

I Am Sofa King We Todd Ed.

The nards you save could be your own.

As most of you know, I am not one of the those “country-is-going-to-hell-in-a-hand-basket” kind of guys.  I’m not one for imminent doom and gloom of the Republic.  In fact, I think we were pretty much as screwed  then as we are now. . .which somehow brings me to my point:

What is it with “comedians” going into politics?

Has anyone else noticed the annoying rash of self-styled “funnymen” getting “serious” about “politics” lately? It seems that suddenly everyone who has sweated it out on stage at The Laugh Factory has suddenly gotten all intense about how I should live my life.

Now, I don’t mind listening to some of our comedians espousing their little nuggets of social wisdom. George Carlin, for instance—one could always sense that no matter what he said he knew when he was full of shit—What scares me are that these other purveyors of ironic truth are earnestly serious and sincerely believe what they say. It’s like a bad Palmolive commercial:

Pretension? Your soaking in it!

And as it turns out these “comedians” aren’t that funny at all. Remember when Bill Mahr was cutting his chops on those crappy HBO specials years ago? He has always found his jokes funnier than his audience—and still can’t deliver a joke with a straight face.  What about some of the others in the comedic millieu? John Stewart? Hamming it high on the schmuck factor.  Al Franken? Please.

But funny of funnies! There is news that Mr. Franken is now on the political march, railroading voters in a cold Polish-rich environment in order to expand his pseudo-intellectual zeitgeist.

Which brings me to my second point: Is there not something inherently arrogant about people who make fun of others trying to tell us what to do? Half of the fun of comedy is being “in” on the joke, that thrilling tingle of superiority one gets when dissin’ the stupidity others.  But does the same logic hold true for political discourse? Who thought that smug irony in the public arena was a good idea for the country?

This man?

Well, my friends, it has been a while since I a have jumped on the ‘internets’ and I do so now with the sole intention of stating that “I am addicted to doughnuts.”   I know. . .I know. . .it is rather shameful to admit it, but I was sent to treatment program after an incident at a local 7- Eleven involving a cinammon twist and a case of Colt-45.  

I was told by my mentor that the first step in overcoming a donut problem is admitting that there is a problem.  In a public place. With people.  Preferably with your pants up.

That being said, in order to assist in my recovery I would like all of you to head out to a local Dunkin’ Donuts  chow down on some jelly-filled goodness for me.  Live the life that I now cannot lead. Do it for me. Do it for your country.

 (And while your at it, pick me up one of those chocolate topped doo-dads with the sprinkles. But keep it on the down low, my mentor is Castro and he’s got plenty of time on his hands now.)

Peace!—and remember Let Go and Let Glazed.

that’s right ladies and gents, due to factors completely under my control I will cease doing this blog on a daily basis. . . .however, there may be periodic updates, errata and/or et cetera. . .

Well, it had to happen.  Someone got busted for Snackin’ on Snoopy.

 That’s right. Here. In Hawaii.

I personally was not involved, but I heard it went down something like this: guy wanted to play a little round of golf with his beloved dog, staff tells hims “no doggie-nuggets on the green,” man is forced to leave pooch near clubhouse, workers wander by and eye fine piece of puppy chow,  dog agrees to go with,  workers make puppy páte.  

A simple tragedy and one that could have been diverted if the owner had just told the workers to “Sit! Stay!”  

The sad story reminded me of  the time I went to Chinaman’s Hat with my brother.  It was a beautiful day, the clouds were no where to be seen, the water was serene and clear, the delicious smell of BBQ wafted over the beach. . . .we made our way to the shore, nodding with a knowing smile at two men  slow roasting a fat, succulent pig on a spit. . .which just happened to have a nice set of paws and A JUICY DEWCLAW!   Ppbbbt! Ppbbt! Ahhhhh! Man?! A dog?!?

Yes. I dog. My brother confirmed it.  How?  I never asked.

Now, far be it from me to not to comment on the cherished traditions of another culture. . . I have to say that I fail to see how this can become accepted culinary practice.  We all know what questionable hygiene practices dogs have,  and I have often found them licking various regional areas and digging up things they shouldn’t (cat box anyone?).  I just can’t imagine that such  culinary carousing makes for a tasty meat. . . .and yet I wonder. What does Fido taste like? It is better fried or BBQ’d ? And more importantly, can I fit my neighbors annoying lap dog into this traditional smoker?  

(It’s portable—a fine feature when running from the ASPCA.)

Designers! It’s Aloha Friday!. . . Make it work.

I’m sure all of you out there in the real world are as tickled pink as I am to hear that the government has just announced that all of us—you, me and Toonces-the-Driving-Cat—will now all be classified as “farmers” by the federal government.

That’s right. You heard me. Government Bail Out Check!   

In an effort to stimulate our private economic regions,  the federal government has seen fit to return some of the hard earned cash that we have dumped into Washington over the years.  How much? Not enough to make a real difference, but enough to buy me a shiny new PS3,  the equivalent of an endless supply of government-subsidized technological crack. I am a junky and I need it bad.

Sounds great, yeah? Until you find out the moolah ain’t coming until June.  Those damn good fer nuthin’ fed-e-ral know it alls don’t know squat ’bout raisin’ no pigs. . .Pigs don’t play PS3 in June! 

Who knows if the money will help the economy anyway? The only fromula I remember from Economics 101 is: 

       +            =     

With all of the recent economic new, I thought I would weigh in with my liberal arts educated opinions about the whole credit debacle. . . . .It would seem, from reading the papers, that we are experiencing what economic experts refer to in technical terms as a “pooch screw,” an economic situation in which people are willing to pay way too much. . .for everything. 

Especially housing.

Anyone who has turned on the TV and come across ”Flip This Old Bob Villa”   knows that housing prices were going through a ridiculous bubble recently.  There were people on the show who would buy a house for, like, $3.50, add a little turf in the front yard,  some bland paint in the kitchen, and then “flip it” for roughly $82,000,000 to a couple with 12 kids working at Burger King.   I mean, it was insane.  

Who financed all these mortgages, anyway, Benny Hill?

 Hmm. . .I wonder. . . .you think the show will be picked up next season after the housing market tanks?   Doubtful, yeah?  Unless they change the format. . .maybe something like, ”Spin My Credit” or “Rotate My Escrow.”

In the meantime, we can all rest easy that this will never, ever, happen again.