This afternoon, in pursuit of a story, I was rebuffed by a prospective interviewee who refused to talk to me and was adamant that she did not want to be quoted or named.
"I don't trust reporters," she said, to me, the reporter, but her voice, her tone, implied less distrust than outright hatred. "I had a bad experience with a reporter once, so I refuse to talk to them." I once had bad service at a restaurant, but it didn't make me despise all waitresses. Why is blatant disdain OK when it's directed at journalists -- or lawyers -- but not mechanics or plumbers or even priests, for God's sake? OK, the lawyer thing I get. But reporters? Yes, some are despicable. Those TMZ guys, for example. But they're not real journalists. Reporters are keepers of the faith, guardians of The Bill of Rights, bulwarks of the first amendment, for patriot's sake. I wrote a very nice piece, one sure to shed only positive light on the subjects and subject matter, which was peace by the way--hard not to shed positive light there (unless you're Ann Coulter or something). She, the testy reporter-hater, will not be in my fine story. That's justice enough for me.
A three day weekend has come and gone, and I've been about as productive as a lone turnip in the Mojave. Without irrigation. A withered vegetable. I feel rested.
It's been raining so much and so hard at our home in Hawaii that Ron spent today -- finally a nice one -- righting crooked trees, their shallow roots letting go of the mud and leaning like amputees without their prostheses. He fought fertilizer dilution with yet more fertilizer and mowed the impossibly soggy grass with no small measure of difficulty. Meanwhile, I gazed out at an impossibly brown landscape, broken by evergreens and mountain peaks, up and out to the brilliant blue, awaiting snow that so far this winter has been illusive, rendering my pending purchase of knobby tires moot. I did make my way to Gene Taylor's Sporting Goods today to drool over a pair of skis. I'm old school, and they all seem kinda fat to me. I'll buy them when it snows, but not until. No reason to thrash a brand new pair or planks on the rocks.
Speaking of fat, it wouldn't kill me to get into a little better shape before I go. Tomorrow night, I shall hit the treadmill and the leg press in ernest. Or with ernest. Whoever Ernest is. Actually, he is my grandfather, my uncle and my cousin. I have a very Ernest family. Of course, I won't hit the machines (or the Ernests) literally. People would stare, and the owners of the gym might frown on my abuse of their equipment. Surely, you know what I mean. You're not Shirley? OK, I'll stop.
Don't you just totally miss Leslie Nielsen?
A hui hou. Aloha!