Whose guarding the henhouse?

For those of you who have not seen the uncut version of the Jon Stewart vs. Jim Cramer feud, it's enlightening. My only contention with Stewart is his support of the "loser" homeowners who got themselves into this pickle. I agree that most are not losers, as Rick Santelli if CNBC claimed, but hard working Americans who got caught up in the scam of the century. They're victims. Still, plenty of people submitted fraudulent loan applications. Some lied about their incomes. Others went so far as to lie about having a job. Of course, in the good old days, a person couldn't get away with that. The financial institutions actually checked up on you, contacting your employer and requiring that you provide a W2 statement. Still, it doesn't take a PhD in finance to know that if you make $50k/year, you cannot afford a half a million dollar house. Even so, Stewart is 99.9 percent right here. It's not really about Cramer. He's just representative of the shoddy reporting and corruption that's infiltrated the media. And where was said media, namely the self-touted number one financial network? Where was the guardian-of-the-democracy press? Nowhere to be found. I think that's due in part to the fact that they were benefiting from the bull market created by the housing bubble. Shoots folks. We've been calling it a bubble for years and everyone knew it had to burst. Had to. Because people making $50/year can't afford half million dollar houses and they were snapping them up like chachkis at a garage sale. But nobody dug into it all while it was happening. And if they had, I don't think most of today's journalists would have understood the intricacies of the markets, nor the impacts of various regulations or deregulation to have sorted it all out. But some of those guys at CNBC understood and did nothing about it, reported nothing, until after it all came crumbling down.

As an aside, I heard yesterday that AIG execs are getting bonuses. What say we start flooding our elected representatives with emails demanding our money back?

I've been called into work today, which is shaping up to be the sunniest, most beautiful we've had in a month. So much for my plans to start a modest tan line. But I could use the kala (that's Hawaiian for money) since I will not be receive a bonus from Uncle Sam, so I'll drag my okole in and pour for the thirsty masses.

A hui hou. Aloha!

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Fruity booty

It was a long drive from Glenwood to the northern tip of the island -- three hours -- so for sustenance, we stopped at Baker Tom's for malasadas on the way. My pal Kathy and I were headed to Kapa'au for a hike, one we'd read about in the local newspaper. The couple who run Baker Tom's (not sure if the husband is actually Tom or not) are delightful, with enduring stamina. They're as old as radio, yet they're always on duty, ready to serve behind the counter, as they have for many years, frying, baking, brewing and smiling, there in Papaikou , gateway to the Hamakua Coast. The malasadas are enormous, cheap and delicious, the coffee OK, the tourists all happy to have discovered this place, buzzing with sugar and caffeine. They make a killer pumpkin cheesecake at Baker Tom's, too. It's always a pleasant stop. Ahapua'a . It's a Hawaiian land division, usually a strip or wedge, stretching from mountain to sea. Hawaiians lived in villages wit

Born and bred

The creature stared at me, wide-eyed through the florescent glare, Saran Wrap stretched tight across its broad back. Alone in the seafood cooler, he was the only one of his kind, there among the farmed, color-added Atlantic salmon and mud-flavored tilapia, perched on a blue foam tray, legs tucked 'round him like a comfy kitten. He didn't blink. He was dead, red, cooked and chilled, ready to eat. Such a find is rare in the City Market fish department in Gunnison, Colorado. What if nobody takes him home? I thought. This beautiful animal will have died needlessly, ripped from his home, family and friends (Dory, Nemo, Crush and Gill?) only to be tossed in the trash when his expiration date came and went. I lifted him for closer inspection, checked that date, felt the heft of him, scanned his surface for cracks and blemishes. The creature was perfect. I lowered him back into the cooler, nodded farewell, turned to walk away, took one step, and stopped. Shoppers strolled past, stud

On Tennis and Writing and Being Too Nice

I've recently been recruited to play tennis for a local 4.0 ladies tennis league team, referred to as either "Team Debbie" for the nice woman who manages us, or "Have Fun," which is our pre-match chant. We're still looking for a proper name. But we do have fun, despite getting creamed most outings. Last Saturday, we played in the Edith Kanakaole Tennis Stadium in Hilo. Good thing, too, since outside it was pouring, complete with thunder and lightning. It's a substantial structure, covered, yet open all around, most famous for hosting the annual Merrie Monarch Hula Festival in April. It was about 85 degrees outside and 100 percent humidity, air so thick it took three sucks of my albuterol inhaler just to breath. Several of us arrived early to warm up, but after twenty minutes' steady rallying with my teammate, Keiko, the human backboard, I was drenched. I played doubles with a nice, extremely fit and excellent ground-stroker named Cynthia from Pahoa.

Mountains and Islands

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