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It took awhile, but I’ve finally checked in on Robert, in Neverland, Hawaii. Norwegian was nice enough to offer me a month on the “Pride of America” cruising the Hawaiian Islands, and the man himself met me at the dock.
“I’ll be in a shiny silver Lexus, don’t worry, I’ll put plastic over the back seat.”
I didn’t have my housewarming gift, or ANY of my baggage, part of the great joy that is international performing, so I ran around the ship and packed a roll of toilet paper, a toothbrush/comb/shaving kit, fresh fruit, yoghurt, and muffins, matches, pens, ect, in a lovely gift bag, and we had a few laughs as Robert opened and narrated.
“Jesus, I’ve never had one of THOSE. Oh, fresh fruit! Where would I ever find that in HAWAII???” They liked the muffins.
Robert was characteristically generous, offering not only clothes, but also props and bits, as I was a luggageless sea drifter. I demurred. The airline had called, and I knew good news waited at the ship. Robert is my director, for good or ill, and his encouragement that Summery Sunday will stay with me.
"Lets see, you're on Wednesday night, so you'll be fired Thursday..."
To know Robert is to know that his genius involves primarily blind luck. His character, “Butterfly Man”, landed on his head during his third public performance like a, well, you know. His California springboard to street fame, same thing. He has an elite ability to
unwittingly cultivate good fortune. This uncanny knack has shown itself most clearly in Robert’s lovely lady, Kumi, who, although she is perfectly intelligent otherwise, loves him right to bits. But hey, we all knew that. On this trip, I see that Lady Fortune has smiled on his inky skull once again.
Our man found a place in Hawaii with all the trimmings, sunken living room, deck, and airport twenty minutes away. The old yeller even has lots of land, and an ocean view. Ok, he’ll need to build a thirty-foot-high tree house to get that view, but he’s got time. There’s an open, covered garage/workshop/studio/smokehouse where juggling clubs hang from the rafters, along with the cap to a pretty sweet Toyota 4x4, and yes, the fabled Morris Minor. On the huge wooden office desk, (pretty cluttered, for Robert… could he be… RELAXING?) a drippy candle in a holder waits for the next evening gathering. Boxes of tools join fire extinguishers and an inverter under the solar-paneled roof. As if the Lexus weren’t enough, he is also packing one fierce weed whacker, may I mention. A Square-corded Shindaiwa, which, as the jungle reclaims two bedrooms and a bath on a daily basis, is a critical Hawaii survival tool.
While we were hanging out at his house, a man named Eric and his lady, Aileen, came by to visit. We talked for a while. They are artists living at Bellyacres, a juggling community down here. After a bit, I figured out that Aileen and I worked together at the festival of Arts and Ideas in New Haven about 12 years ago. She had a funny bit with lipstick and heels on a six footer. Small world. We went for a walk to check out the land, it’s a “spaghetti” plot, thin, but way, way long. He could park like twenty blimps.
He drove us out to a HUGE volcano. I had borrowed sweatpants from him earlier, and when the park fee was due, I reached for my wallet in what I hoped was soon enough to qualify as having tried to pay, but too late to really pay. I saw missing money, and said
“Oh! I left like sixty bucks in your pants. It was either sixty or ten.” A huge smile came across his face.
“It was ten.” He hasn’t changed a bit, dammit.
The volcano was vast. Really. I mean huge, here, not tiny: BIG. It was a dormant monster, once creator of much of Hawaii. A crazy wasteland sleeps around it. Rocks bide their time, while fresh-from-unseen-ovens steam comes up , has a look around, and heads for higher ground. I felt grateful and amazed. There is a constant wind. Robert talked about wearing his toupee once on a volcano trip with Kumi’s mom. He loved the way the wind made the rug stick out in crazy angles, and was trying to get it to fly off, figuring that him chasing the thing around, yelling at it, might be a fun bit.
He hasn’t changed at all, thank the gods.
And on a deeper level, from one once-drifting soul visiting another, thank Kumi, for taming this force of nature enough to land him in quiet, lush environs, rather than living in a refrigerator box, drinking vodka for dinner, breaking balls, and busking for breakfast.
Against all odds, you made good, Mothman.
“I’ll be in a shiny silver Lexus, don’t worry, I’ll put plastic over the back seat.”
I didn’t have my housewarming gift, or ANY of my baggage, part of the great joy that is international performing, so I ran around the ship and packed a roll of toilet paper, a toothbrush/comb/shaving kit, fresh fruit, yoghurt, and muffins, matches, pens, ect, in a lovely gift bag, and we had a few laughs as Robert opened and narrated.
“Jesus, I’ve never had one of THOSE. Oh, fresh fruit! Where would I ever find that in HAWAII???” They liked the muffins.
Robert was characteristically generous, offering not only clothes, but also props and bits, as I was a luggageless sea drifter. I demurred. The airline had called, and I knew good news waited at the ship. Robert is my director, for good or ill, and his encouragement that Summery Sunday will stay with me.
"Lets see, you're on Wednesday night, so you'll be fired Thursday..."
To know Robert is to know that his genius involves primarily blind luck. His character, “Butterfly Man”, landed on his head during his third public performance like a, well, you know. His California springboard to street fame, same thing. He has an elite ability to
unwittingly cultivate good fortune. This uncanny knack has shown itself most clearly in Robert’s lovely lady, Kumi, who, although she is perfectly intelligent otherwise, loves him right to bits. But hey, we all knew that. On this trip, I see that Lady Fortune has smiled on his inky skull once again.
Our man found a place in Hawaii with all the trimmings, sunken living room, deck, and airport twenty minutes away. The old yeller even has lots of land, and an ocean view. Ok, he’ll need to build a thirty-foot-high tree house to get that view, but he’s got time. There’s an open, covered garage/workshop/studio/smokehouse where juggling clubs hang from the rafters, along with the cap to a pretty sweet Toyota 4x4, and yes, the fabled Morris Minor. On the huge wooden office desk, (pretty cluttered, for Robert… could he be… RELAXING?) a drippy candle in a holder waits for the next evening gathering. Boxes of tools join fire extinguishers and an inverter under the solar-paneled roof. As if the Lexus weren’t enough, he is also packing one fierce weed whacker, may I mention. A Square-corded Shindaiwa, which, as the jungle reclaims two bedrooms and a bath on a daily basis, is a critical Hawaii survival tool.
While we were hanging out at his house, a man named Eric and his lady, Aileen, came by to visit. We talked for a while. They are artists living at Bellyacres, a juggling community down here. After a bit, I figured out that Aileen and I worked together at the festival of Arts and Ideas in New Haven about 12 years ago. She had a funny bit with lipstick and heels on a six footer. Small world. We went for a walk to check out the land, it’s a “spaghetti” plot, thin, but way, way long. He could park like twenty blimps.
He drove us out to a HUGE volcano. I had borrowed sweatpants from him earlier, and when the park fee was due, I reached for my wallet in what I hoped was soon enough to qualify as having tried to pay, but too late to really pay. I saw missing money, and said
“Oh! I left like sixty bucks in your pants. It was either sixty or ten.” A huge smile came across his face.
“It was ten.” He hasn’t changed a bit, dammit.
The volcano was vast. Really. I mean huge, here, not tiny: BIG. It was a dormant monster, once creator of much of Hawaii. A crazy wasteland sleeps around it. Rocks bide their time, while fresh-from-unseen-ovens steam comes up , has a look around, and heads for higher ground. I felt grateful and amazed. There is a constant wind. Robert talked about wearing his toupee once on a volcano trip with Kumi’s mom. He loved the way the wind made the rug stick out in crazy angles, and was trying to get it to fly off, figuring that him chasing the thing around, yelling at it, might be a fun bit.
He hasn’t changed at all, thank the gods.
And on a deeper level, from one once-drifting soul visiting another, thank Kumi, for taming this force of nature enough to land him in quiet, lush environs, rather than living in a refrigerator box, drinking vodka for dinner, breaking balls, and busking for breakfast.
Against all odds, you made good, Mothman.
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