The Coconut Chronicles

Mr. Internet's Home for Wayward Bullies

Fri, 16 May 2008 21:52:27 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

The year is 1987.

My boyfriend, Stud, and I have just finished another round of sucking face and groping, and now we’re bored – as teenagers perpetually are when not groping or face sucking. “Let’s go over to Geeky B’s and hang out,” Stud suggests.

“It’s after eleven o’clock, he’s probably asleep,” I say, readjusting my bra and re-spiking my hair, (which may have been blue at that time).

“Are you kidding? He probably only woke up an hour ago.”

We hop in my car – well, my parent’s car, a massive, white and red Malibu Classic, Damn the environment, full speed ahead - and go. Sure enough, Geeky B’s house is dark but for one light in his bedroom. After a rap on his window, he lets us in. Stud was right, Geeky B is at his computer and his night has just begun.

Geeky B and I go back to the days of our 5-pin bowling team. (Yes, I bowled. I also collected comics, and kept my Star Wars collector cards in a photo album, in sequential order. Got a problem with that?!) He was at the forefront of the Computer Geek movement, with his pasty white skin, out of date clothes, and too-large glasses. He dropped out of school in Grade Eleven to spend more time on the computer. I worried about him, and the irony of that, in this age of technology, must be obvious.

“You guys gotta check this out!” Geeky B says, motioning to a large contraption sitting on his desk, beside his computer. The contraption is a metal box straight out of an eighties sci-fi movie. It is about twelve inches across and eight inches high, with all manner of cords, wires, and bits of…um…stuff poking out of it.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Watch.” Geeky B smiles, takes the handset of his phone from the cradle and places it into a form-fitting receptacle on top of the contraption. Then there is a flurry of keystrokes and incantations (and I think he may have brandished a magic wand). The contraption lights up and starts making all kinds of weird noises. As Geeky B types, we watch a glowing green sentence appear on his computer screen:

Hey, Gates, what’s up?

That’s when the magic happens. Words start to appear beneath Geeky B’s sentence, except he isn't typing them.

Not much, Geeky B. Got to Level Ten on Frogger today.

Far out. Still working on that stupid micro-whatever program?

Yeah, but my mom’s being a total cow, she says me and Steve gotta mow the lawn and rake the leaves once a week or she’s not gonna pay for our Doritos and Coke any more.

As the “conversation” continues, Geeky B turns to look at our puzzled expressions with a crafty smile. “Do you know where that’s coming from?” He asks. Of course, we don’t. “Texas!” (What? You thought I was going to say Seattle?)

“How?” Stud and I ask, in awe.

He points to the contraption, “Through that. It’s called a Modem.” (Cue the Steven Spielberg-esque music).

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the internet.

The year is 2008.

On a wee patch of volcanic land, somewhere in the South Pacific, from the comfort of my bed, (yes, I write in bed), I am “speaking” to you over the very same internet I witnessed the birth of way back in Geeky B’s bedroom.

Twenty years, less really, that’s all it took to get from there to here. Twenty years ago, I would have had to rely on letters to communicate with the outside world. Today, I can communicate with Beckster back in Nelson, in real time, via Instant Messaging, while she speaks to the Ripster via satellite phone, as he stands on the summit of Mt. Everest. How crazy is that?

I owe much to the internet. I live in a place with no bookstore and no library – heck, you can’t even buy a watch here – but I can research anything, down to the smallest detail with just my trusty laptop, (or “Lappy” as he’s affectionately known) and a few cords.

But there is a dark side to all this technology. Sometimes, I think they should have called it the Crack-net, to better express the internet’s addictive qualities. Be honest, how much time do you spend on Facebook? The other danger of the internet is the anonymity factor. Predators and bullies, who, in real life, are confined to back alleys or their parent’s basements, find a world, rich in victims, they can move through freely, all with the click of a mouse. And of course, as easily as I can find information on a 5^th Century BC trade vessel, so others can also, just as easily, find information on how to make a bomb with the items you keep under your kitchen sink. Scary.

While I manage to avoid – I hope – most of the predators and terrorists, and my limited bandwidth/speed keeps me from wasting too much reality time online, I have run into my share of bullies. If you’ve spent any time at all on a discussion board, you know exactly what I’m talking about because there’s always one, often more than one, of these real-life losers who live to taunt and ridicule unsuspecting newcomers to their little internet kingdom.

Discussion boards, or forums as they are also known, are essentially networking platforms for folks to meet online and discuss subjects they are interested in or passionate about. For me, as a writer, they are gold. For the manuscript I’m currently working on, I have a shipwreck forum populated by maritime archaeologists, salvage operators, and shipwreck enthusiasts, from all over the world, who supply me with leads and information I would otherwise spend months, maybe years, trying to track down. I am constantly overwhelmed with gratitude for the assistance these strangers so willingly provide. (If any of you are reading this – thanks again!)

I’ve been working on a short story I hope to enter in a competition this summer and I needed some technical information on life rafts. I emailed the Fergs and the Flying Powers (my blow-boater friends) for some info but I also found a good sailing website with a bustling forum, which I posted on. I’m always honest about my intentions when I post on forums, and so I explained that I was a writer, working on a short story, and looking for answers to a few technical questions.

So, what kind of responses did I get?

Most, as usual, were excellent, positive, comprehensive, and friendly. (If any of you are reading this – thanks again!) But, as usual, the bullies had to rear their ugly cyber-heads. Two fellows, in particular, seem to…well, how about I just let you read some of their comments:

“Look...I could be like everyone else here and tell you to get a real job....but I don't…”

“Professionally I wrote already over 180 reports...all over 50 pages they also have charts, tables, recommendations, fancy calculations and each is sold very expensively.... etc...
So I guess I am a writer too...just like you....PFFFFFFFFFFFFFF”

“He passes away a sucker, much like those that read this post... she is gone now, adrift in words that almost could be called plagiarism - a egoistic parasite that when given the chance dances for only the five minutes but if no quarters remain in the jukebox - gone - for ever more...”

There’s more, but you get the idea.

The best thing to do with these sorts of sad people is ignore them. Their rants are the same on every forum, on every subject. They are no different than the school yard bullies who, undoubtedly, used to beat up my friend Geeky B because he had the audacity to be different.

The year is 1998.

I’m all gussied up for the final X-Files wrap party at the Planetarium. From behind me, in the elevator, a deep voice says, “Princess?” When I turn around, a tall, dark-haired, strikingly handsome man, in an expensive suit and tie, is smiling at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, apologetically, “do I…”

“It’s me, Geeky B!” he says.

And so it is. We hug. He tells me about the big software company he is part owner of. I tell him about my job as a stunt performer. Neither of us is surprised by our career choices but we are ecstatic at our mutual success.

Is there a moral to this story?

QUESTION: Is there a moral to this story?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Life at the Top

Fri, 09 May 2008 22:32:49 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

Big news this week, the Heineken store brought in a shipment of celery! If you didn’t see the report on CNN, I’m here to tell you it was quite an event. Speaking of news, (nice transition, don’t you think?) you may have heard that the Chinese summited Mt. Everest with the Olympic torch. What you probably didn’t hear about was the circus of paranoia and oppression leading up to the summit. I’m often saddened, though not shocked, at the lengths to which people will go to hide their own failings. I’ll return to China later (well, not literally, seeing as I’ve never been there) but first I’ll share some local drama with you.

Before we came to Perfect Beach Resort, we knew one our jobs would be to run lagoon tours for the guests. The Aitutaki lagoon – which, by the way, should be a Unesco World Heritage site – is the attraction of this island. If you come to Aitutaki, and don’t do a lagoon tour, you’ve missed the point.

The boat Mr.Boss was using for his tours worked well for him but for Prez, well, let’s just say it was a little on the primitive side. In his typical, gung-ho, entrepreneurial fashion, Prez instantly saw the potential of the lagoon and the reef that rings in. He convinced our employer to invest in a better quality, more sea-worthy craft and quickly set about exploring the waters surrounding us. What he found was a stretch of magnificent coral canyons populated by numerous schools of reef fish as well as large pelagics such as Humphead Wrasse and graceful Eagle Rays. Better still, this was a playground he could have to himself as no other tour operators ventured outside the reef.

In just a few months, Prez perfected his itinerary. First stop, weather permitting, would be at least one or more of the canyons outside the reef, usually with a visit to Eagle Ray Alley where the rays like to feed and play. Next he’d come back inside for lunch, on one of the idyllic motus, and more snorkeling in spots such as The Aquarium, The Coral Gardens, and The Pinnacles, and, the highlight, the Giant Clam Reserve. The tour takes a full day and guests spend most of it in the water snorkeling, which they love.

Word of mouth has made Prez’s “Adventure Snorkel Tour” the must-do tour on the island. Oh, we get the odd guest who gets seasick outside the reef, or who feels much too far out of their comfort zone, but overall the excursions get rave reviews. The guests are happy, we’re happy, Mr.Boss is happy, everybody is happy, right?

Nope.

We’re new, we’re foreigners, we’re popular, and that makes us a target for every disgruntled tour operator on the island looking for someone to blame when their business is not as robust as it could be.

There’s no shortage of lagoon tours on Aitutaki and every tour offers something slightly different. Large boats cater to the crowd more interested in looking at the water than being in it. They have ukulele players, games, and cook up king-sized lunches. The medium boats can go to places the big boats can’t, so they can offer more snorkeling but still provide amenities such as sun-cover and BBQ lunches. In the small boat category, of which we are one of only a few members, tours can be more personalized but that does mean foregoing many of the creature comforts of the larger tours. We cater to adventure travelers who want action, action, action, and don’t mind a little rain on their head, or peeing in the ocean instead of a toilet. But there’s a tour for every taste.

Like everywhere else we’ve been, though, you’re always going to find the folks who, for whatever reason, have a business that’s not doing well and want to pin their failure on the ones who are. Months ago we got the wink that some of these scapegoat-seekers were starting a petition against us. And a few weeks ago, the Mayor lodged a formal complaint against us, in Rarotonga. Mr. Boss was questioned regarding our work permits and an email dialogue ensued between us about how to handle this situation.

And this takes me back to China, (again, not literally).

For those who know nothing about Everest, there are two sides from which you can attempt a summit. One side is in Nepal – the side the Ripster and crew are on this very minute – and one side is in Tibet, that hotly disputed Chinese territory. Concerned about protests, the Chinese closed the Tibet side of Everest to all climbers – supposedly until after their summit but now it appears the closure will remain for the season. As much as I disagree with their action, for a multitude of reasons, I suppose I can see their point.

Then they closed the Nepalese side as well, until May 10th. Huh? (Long story). Well now, we wouldn’t want some climber on the summit displaying a “Free Tibet” banner next to the guy holding the torch aloft for Chinese propaganda…er…I mean news. What the Chinese don’t give a rat’s ass about is the fact that Nepal’s economy relies heavily on Everest and the expedition companies who bring in the climbers and trekkers.

Talk about your Grade A clusterf**k. Rules, supposedly set in stone, regarding where climbers could and could not go, what kind of communication systems they could or could not use, and just when they would actually be allowed to climb, changed daily, sometimes hourly, and sometimes no one really knew what was going on at all. Expedition operators had to sign confidentiality agreements (gag orders) or risk being tossed out of the country. And all this on the opposite side of a very large mountain from the Chinese.

Here’s what makes me scratch my head. If the Chinese had just gone ahead and climbed the mountain, without the fufooraw, and even if some climber had whipped out a photo of the Dalai Lama and danced a jig in the background, (unlikely, there’s very little jig dancing done at 29,0000 feet), what’s the worst that would have happened? China’s oppression of Tibet is hardly a well kept secret, not to mention that the world has already, very vocally, voiced their disapproval. There’d be a few blurbs on CNN, a few fists raised in anger, and then we’d all go back to monitoring Brangelina’s latest adoption or Paris Hilton’s latest…well, whatever the heck she’s doing these days (I’m out of touch, thank goodness).

All they’ve succeeded in doing, as far as I’m concerned, is cementing, in the minds of many, their reputation as anti-democratic tyrants hell bent on stuffing a sock in the mouths of free thinkers and duct-taping them closed. And, hey, aren’t the Olympic games about peace?

Until Tibet is free, China will remain a failure as a super power, and no amount of censorship can hide that.

And that brings me back to Aitutaki, (literally)…

What to do about the anti-Prez & Princess campaign? I know my hubby had his feelings bruised, particularly since he’s been working his butt off, on his own time, building a website to help boost tourism to the island. Mr. Boss wrote a three page plea for tolerance and understanding, which we, thankfully, talked him out of sending. Me? I just laughed. I urged Prez to ignore it, keep on doing what he’s doing, and focus on the positive and all the truly good people we’ve met here. For once, he listened to his wife, (oh, come on, I’m just kidding!)

Time judges all. Hard work, a positive attitude, and solid ethics will win out every time over pettiness and greed. And men of peace and goodwill, who value freedom and free speech, will always, however long it takes, prevail over tyrants.

FREE TIBET!

QUESTION: What would you do?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life,

The Princess

p.s. For more info, have a look at the daily Everest dispatches on www.peakfreaks.com and to see Prez's happy clients just watch the slide show from the pervious post!

I'm Such a Tease...

Thu, 01 May 2008 19:41:14 GMT

Speaking of Language

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 22:28:46 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue,

She came, she saw, she photographed…and photographed…and photographed. My twelve days with Helmi the Wonder Editor flew by far too quickly. Luckily, we have plenty of pictorial evidence of her stay, not to mention a new nickname to add to the list: “Photo-Op Helmi”.

Much happened in only twelve days. New friends were made, new sights were seen, new adventures were had. You will recall from the last Chronicle, Helmi’s introduction to the wonderful world of snorkeling? Well, I’m proud to say, on her last full day, she actually snorkeled in the wide open ocean! This is no small feat. Even folks who are comfortable in the water get intimidated by the Big Blue – home of creatures with large pointy teeth and tentacles. OK, I’ve never seen any big teeth or tentacles out there but this is what people imagine lingers beneath their tender, exposed limbs as they swim. What a sight, then, to see my friend floating along, swaying with the surge, in a state of perfect relaxation. Ten bonus points for that!

Of course, later she would discover the joy of snorkeling against a strong current, inside the lagoon – we can’t have her getting too complacent, can we?

One of my great joys, these past twelve days, was having a fellow language lover to talk with. A professional snorkeller, Helmi may never be, but when it comes to language she is aces. Born in Germany, she first discovered her passion for language in elementary school. Her teacher wrote the word “father” on the board and then went on to write it in several different languages, pointing out the connections between them. She was amazed. At university, she majored in English and minored in Spanish, with the goal of becoming a translator. Language would prove to be her ticket out of her homeland and off into the world she longed to explore. While she has traveled extensively, and lived in a few different countries, Helmi has put down roots in Canada and has adopted English as her primary language. I might add, she speaks and writes English better than most people who were born in Canada. When I asked how her native tongue was faring after so many years, she said her family tells her, on visits home, that she speaks in “Broken German”.

Language also happens to be one of the qualities I most admire about the Cook Islanders. Though all islanders speak English, Maori is the official language, (it is a different dialect than the New Zealand variety). The Maori language was developed when there was a shortage of consonants in the world. Consequently, native speakers sound a bit like they are talking while a dentist works on a back molar. Here is a Maori sentence: E iva anani i runga i te paata. Please don’t ask me what it means, I merely pulled it from a textbook, but it has nine consonants and fourteen vowels. Impressive. Equally impressive is the fact that, despite the heavy-handed influence of the “civilized” world, including a whole whack of missionaries bent on reforming the heathens, islanders have managed to hang onto their language.

Good for them.

In the shops and restaurants, you will hear the locals slip back and forth from English to Maori as naturally as breathing. I’m sure I’ve been talked about more than once in Maori. I’m beginning to suspect, “Aa ke tupua i moana ke teina” means “Oh god, here comes that skinny, white girl checking to see if there are any packages, again. Can’t she get a life?” But nowhere is the Maori language more beautiful than in church.

Yeah, you heard that correctly, church.

Last Sunday, Helmi and I got dudded up and went downtown to sample a little religiosity. We’re neither of us godly but the traditional Maori choir at the Christian church here is mentioned in every guide book as a must-do activity. The guide books, I can now swear on a stack of bibles, are not lying. To traditional (read: boring) church hymns, the Cook Islanders bring a savage beauty. Even the most joyful black gospel choir would be hard pressed to match the power of these crooners. The hymns are sung in Maori and sung loud enough to make even god say, “OK, OK, I get it now can you keep it down, it’s Sunday and I’m trying to rest!” The men and women call back and forth to each other in song much the same way they do in their own music, which made all of my hairs stand on end. I loved this, it strikes me as an almost imperceptible act of defiance, as if they are saying, “You can make us wear clothes and give up our traditions…but not all of them.”

The service was given in both languages but I would have preferred to hear it all in Maori. Foreign languages are also a kind of music to me.

We are now six months into our stint here at Perfect Beach Resort. Our guests come from all over the world and we have learned the art of communication with speakers of many tongues. Most world travelers have at least a rudimentary grasp of English and some are proficient in three or more popular languages. All this leaves me more than a little embarrassed at my mono-linguism. Take the Swiss girl who lamented to me that she spoke seven languages fluently, several more with some degree of fluency, but her Navajo, damn it, was pretty poor. My ability to count to five in Japanese did not score any points with her.

I love the way Swiss and German people pronounce the word “smoothie”, by the way. Smoovie.

Many of my conversations with Helmi, however, focused on the English language, specifically as it relates to literature. I call her the Wonder Editor for good reason; she is the police officer who patrols my stories, kicking out mixed up tenses and bad punctuation. She is the yin to my yang. I have no shortage of imagination, what I lack is the discipline to keep my creativity under control and within the parameters of good grammar. One of the reasons I love writing these Chronicles is that i kan write bad englush and it don’t matter none. (As she reads this, Helmi is squirming!)

But all too soon the snorkeling and language discussions were over. Helmi of Many Nicknames was loaded back onto Air Rarotonga, and now I have to do my own dishes again. (I told you I was being spoiled, Helmi!) I will miss her terribly. (Not just because of the dishes).

We now enter the busy season so don’t be surprised if the odd Coconut Chronicle is tardy. Already, my personal emails for the past two weeks have stacked up and wait, unanswered and accusing. (Martha and Patty-Cakes, thanks so much for the Tiger Sauce and Licorice, I’ll write soon, promise!) Thankfully, this is also the start of our winter. Ah, winter! Nights get so cold now we actually have to put a sheet on…brrrrrrrrr!

I will leave you with my favorite photo of Helmi; I hope it makes you smile as much as it does me.

QUESTION: What language have you always wanted to learn?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

p.s. – New photo album coming soon!

Kick Helmi, kick!

Out of her Element...and Into Mine.

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 06:37:26 GMT

A Late Hello from the Big Blue!

I suppose a spanking is in order for my tardiness. That’s OK, I’m a big girl, can take it. I have excuses, as always, but I will spare you the verbiage and cut to the chase.

Helmi the Wonder Editor is here! Her journey was not without its share of adventure, however. Anyone who has invited a guest from afar to visit will understand how much I wished for the weather to be perfect and for Aitutaki to make a memorable first impression on her. Memorable? Yes. Not quite in the way I’d hoped, though. First, her flight from Los Angeles arrived in Rarotonga only to find the airport shrouded in clouds and darkness. Wisely, the Air New Zealand pilot decided not to attempt a landing in such bad conditions and opted, instead to land in Tahiti – an hour away – where they could refuel and wait for the weather to clear a little. And don’t think this meant Helmi got to enjoy some down time in French Polynesia. Nope. All the passengers had to remain onboard while the plane was refueled. Onboard with, I might add, their seat belts unfastened, (because if the plane explodes in 2.3 seconds you may be able to escape if your seatbelt is not secured).

Meanwhile, back on Aitutaki…

I had my morning all planned out, leaving plenty of time for grooming and such. Then the phone rang and “Hi Princess, it’s William at the airport, do you have a room for a single traveler? I have a young woman here who needs a place for two nights.” Did we have a room? Yes. Was it clean? Hold on, I have to stop laughing before I answer that. Not only was the room not clean but also the gentleman who’d checked out left it in a state similar to what the room might look like after a troupe of howler monkeys had stayed in it for the weekend. Frantic cleaning ensued. Mere minutes before we were scheduled to leave for the airport, red-faced and cranky, I took a military shower and jumped into a clean set of duds. Nevertheless, I was still bouncing up and down, excited to see my friend.

We waited at the gate. Watched the plane land. Scanned the passengers walking across the tarmac. Watched all the passengers leave. No Helmi. Well, I thought, that’s strange.

My attempts to find out where in the world my friend was, including numerous phone calls and frustrating website searching, were futile. But, eventually, the phone rang and Helmi told us the scoop.

The next flight arrived and there she was…in the middle of one of the worst rainstorms we’ve had in months. Welcome to our tropical paradise! Sigh. She was thrilled to be here, not least of all because of the death defying, bumpy plane ride from Raro – apparently the worst she’s ever been on and this is someone who’s traveled extensively in South America.

At last we are together. What a treat! One suitcase was dedicated entirely to goodies for us. Some were expected: DVD cleaner, hair elastics, Tiger Sauce. Some were a pleasant surprise: Bengal tea, a couple terrific books, licorice, chocolate from around the globe, and much more. So many luxuries all at once; it felt like Xmas!

Xmas comes early...

We have been doing some touristy things but the weather has been less than stellar and I do still have to work, so it is not completely a vacation. Helmi has been offering her help at every turn, which is appreciated, but I also have to be firm at times and make her go relax and enjoy. Darn German blood of hers!

There are many aspects of this visit which I am enjoying, not the least of which is a familiar face and a set of ears willing to listen to me ramble and babble about this and that. But it is especially nice to see Aitutaki through a fresh set of eyes. We humans are so adaptable; the same scenery that once took our breath away quickly fades into the tapestry of everyday life. Helmi’s many exclamations of awe at her surroundings serve as a much-needed reminder that I am indeed living in a pretty spectacular place.

And here I need to make an important point. Helmi is not a water person. Oh she likes water and I know she is loving this lagoon, but I’m sure she’d be the first to tell you that water is not a comfortable environment for her. But one cannot come to Aitutaki and miss the wonders of its underwater world. So, we have had “snorkel training”. There is much laughter and the occasional snout full of salt water but Helmi gets gold stars for bravery and persistence.

What is your element? Where is it that you feel that “aaaaahhhh” sensation? For me it has always been the water. I love the desert, I’m enchanted by mountains, forests humble me, but water is where I feel confident and free. Prez, even more so - I like my water a lot more sedate than he does.

But why are some people drawn to certain environments while others are not. Even people who are born and raised in roughly the same area are often compelled to seek out vastly different landscapes. Cities and crowds make my palms sweat. My girlfriend, Deb Mac, once had to talk me down on the streets of Santa Monica. For those who haven’t been, downtown Santa Monica, California is a kaleidoscope of people, and shops, and sounds, and smells. While Deb breezed effortlessly in and out of stores, weaving through throngs of people like a pro, I felt as if the world were closing in around me, suffocating me. Conversely, I’m sure she would feel just as out of place if I strapped a bunch of dive gear on her back and dropped her eighty feet down in the ocean.

Another time, Prez and I took a couple out on our Mako for a short cruise and the woman confessed to me that although she admired the beauty of water she would never be comfortable around it. She had grown up in Kansas or one of those landlocked states and whenever she traveled to a coastal city she said she felt as if she might fall off the edge of the world at any moment. I laughed at this because, for me, traveling away from the coast brings on an overwhelming bout of claustrophobia. I feel hemmed in.

As wonderful as it is to recognize the element in which you are most at home, I believe it is valuable to occasionally cross into other realms. I hope one day to trek in the mountains with our dear Peak Freaks. A trip to New York City is also on my “to do” list, if you can believe it. I know these are places outside of my comfort zone but one of the joys of life is challenge, isn’t it?

Helmi’s willingness to immerse herself, quite literally, in an unfamiliar element, earns her an extra helping of respect in my books. Yesterday, Prez took a bunch of us to One Foot Island for the day and Helmi came along when we ventured off for a quickie snorkel adventure out in the lagoon, far from the safety of shore. Her mask leaked and I know she had a bit of struggle but I also know, from the expression she had on her face, that it was worth it. You don’t have to be Jacques Cousteau to be dazzled by the site of a giant Moray Eel being groomed by a tiny cleaner Wrasse, or by a gang of brilliant red Soldier Fish hiding under a coral ledge, or by any of the many bright and colourful fish in this lagoon.

I know Helmi feels a little inadequate, sometimes embarrassed, and that my efforts to help her explore this new environment are somehow a chore or a burden to me but she couldn’t be more wrong. I’m so proud of her!

Helmi Cousteau at the bow of the boat...

Wait until I tell her about the shark dive I have planned for us next week!

Wonder Editor & Princess hanging on the motu...

QUESTION: What is your element?

Until next week, (yes, I promise to be more punctual), I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Countdown to Helmi and other news

Tue, 08 Apr 2008 22:11:18 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

Six more sleeps until the Transporter, aka Helmi the Wonder Editor, arrives! She is certainly going to need a vacation after the work out we’ve put her through. Our emails have been something like this:

Mar 5, 2008

Hi Helmi,

Could you please bring us 23 ceramic roosters? We’re not too fussy about colour but they need to be between two and three inches high. Thanks

Mar 7, 2008-

Hi again,

About the ceramic roosters, we’ve just learned that colour is, in fact, important. Please make sure they have blue bodies with yellow heads. Oh, and I made a mistake, they should be two to three feet high, not two to three inches. Doh! My bad. Thanks!

Mar 9, 2008

Guess who?

OK, apparently Customs will not allow more than five ceramic roosters into the country at a time – something about import laws. Jerks. So scrap all the roosters. I hope they’ll give you your money back??!! Instead, I’ve ordered a giant panda from Amazon. It’s being delivered to my friend on Baffin Island and he’s going to transport it to you on his private plane. Technically, he’s not supposed to do this so he’ll be landing in a field near your house. Keep your eyes peeled! I know this is a bit of a headache, and I imagine there will be a ton of forms to fill out, but we’ve got a real bamboo problem on the property and we figure a panda would be just the thing to keep it in check. You’re the best! Thanks!

Mar 12, 2008

Hey,

They’re an endangered species?? Well, how was I supposed to know? Seriously, Customs are so fussy. So here’s the list as it stands:

- 1 crate of Skittles (all green Skittles removed)

- The complete Harry Potter series translated to Sanskrit

- Five ceramic roosters, blue bodies with yellow heads, two to three feet high (did I forget to mention we wanted them again?)

- 15 packages of Lipton Cup-o-Soup, Chicken Noodle flavour (the one that says “now more noodles!”)

- Nail polish – Colour, “Cherry Crush” (can be found at the Pharma-Save in Quesnel)

- 157 bars of Lindt dark chocolate…only 85% cocoa please

- One medium centrifuge (don’t ask)

I hope you have all that! I just have one more teensy weensy favour to ask. During your stopover in LA, you’ll see a Mexican food place – I think it’s called El Taco, or La Taco (I can never remember if taco is feminine or masculine). Anyway, here’s what you need to do: Bring a small Styrofoam cooler with you. Order me a large chicken burrito (no sour cream) and tell them you want it extra, extra hot. Get them to wrap it up a few times then put it in the Styrofoam cooler. (It would probably help if you bought a few of those instant hand warmers and put them around the burrito). Then duct tape the cooler closed. If security asks you what’s inside the cooler, or wants you to open it, just tell them you are a doctor delivering a heart for an emergency heart transplant on Aitutaki and you can’t open the lid or the heart will get contaminated.

Hm, on second thought, don’t tell them it’s an “emergency” transplant or they’ll wonder why you’re flying on a regular flight. Just say it’s for a transplant and don’t specify the urgency.

I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see you Julie…er…uh…I mean…um…what’s your name again? Oh, that’s not important; we’re going to have a fabulous time!

Hug, hug, kiss, kiss,

The Princess

p.s. – make sure you ask for extra hot sauce with that burrito. Thanks!

I bet you think I’m exaggerating? HA! Poor Helmi, we have had her running all over town with our crazy requests.

Let see, what other news do I have for you? Well, there was a bad scooter accident a few nights ago. Surprise, surprise. A girl was air vac’d out to New Zealand with a head injury. The police - those paragons of justice - took a look at the accident scene and declared, “It’s both their faults.” Ah, CSI they are not.

Do you know what the requirements are for a motorcycle license here? Two dollars and fifty cents. You go to the police station and, if the police officer is not busy painting someone’s house or DJ-ing at a club, you put your money down. The officer will ask you, “Can you ride a scooter?” (A technique he learned after extensive training with the CIA and FBI, respectively), to which you reply, “Yes”. Then he writes you out a license. If you are stupid enough to answer “No”, you probably shouldn’t be operating any motor vehicle anyway.

We killed another rooster. Our total is up to three on-purpose kills and one semi-accidental kill. Prez has rigged up a trap made out of 2x4’s and chicken wire (note the irony), under which he leaves bits of bread to entice the cock-a-doodlers. The trap is either devilishly clever or the roosters are completely brainless, (I’m voting for brainless). Once trapped, they make a great deal of noise. Not a good idea because this only reinforces our urge to smite them. If they were smart, they would lie down and be perfectly silent. When Prez comes towards them with the machete, they should point at their throat and wheeze out, “Not me…laryngitis.”

Each kill usually buys us a week of peace and quiet. Believe me, it’s worth it, not least of all to watch my machete-wielding husband with that half-crazed, “Lord of the Flies” expression on his face.

Oh yeah, and I’m mad. Not just irked or bothered but really, really peeved! I’ll give you a little back story first: Prez and I watch very little TV, even when we have cable, with its 756 channels. He enjoys his UFC (men in underwear beating each other senseless) and I watch the Simpsons (witty social commentary), and we both tune in for various Star Treks. We find the majority of TV programming, particularly episodics and series, to either be utter garbage or requiring a level of consistent viewing we simply can’t commit to. We once watched an episode of “Lost” at the Kozak Mansion and we were…lost, that is. There’s no way we can keep up with a series like that, our lives are far too scattered. And woe to the friends who try to watch it with us in the room – “Who’s that?”, “Why are they doing that?”, “What’s that room?”, “Is this a flashback?”, “Why don’t they just make a signal fire?”, etc.

So, a few years back, freshly arrived in civilization from parts beyond, we decided to go catch a movie. I’d read a blurb about this show “Serenity”, a sci-fi based on a canceled TV show, and off we went. As we sat in the theater, watching the credits roll, our jaws scraping the floor, we looked at each other and said, “What TV show? And why the hell was it cancelled??!!” I looked up the name of the short-lived series – “Firefly” – and few years later, in Nelson, we found the entire series for rent in the local video store. We watched them all, back to back, and again, looked at each other and said, “Why the hell was it cancelled??!!”

The cancellation of Joss Whedon’s brilliant series, “Firefly”, is the greatest tragedy in television history. Speaking as someone who has worked in the business, is ultra-picky about TV, and loathes lame TV writing, this is the best series ever produced.

Here, on our little patch of sand, we have no TV. We rent DVD’s but most of them are pirated. I’ve ordered a few documentaries through Amazon but recently I decided to buy the “Firefly” series. We watched the whole thing again. Still every bit as amazing. Then we watched it again. Flawless. We’re on our third run through. For us to watch a non nature documentary more than once, is unprecedented. For us to actually buy a TV series? There was a time I would have told you that would never happen.

Why am I mad? Because I want more! Thirteen measly episodes of the single best series ever made, that’s all we got. I say we grab the torches and pitchforks and storm Fox’s head office!!

But seriously – rent the series. Even if you’re thinking, But I don’t like sci-fi, trust me, you’ll like this. Then rent the movie “Serenity”. Then buy a stack of postcards to send to Universal and start demanding more! (Oo, I like being a rabble rouser!) Long live the revolution!!

QUESTION: Why are you just sitting there? Go rent it, now!!

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

p.s. - Big hugs to HQ who is back home after successful surgery to remove cancer from his lung. And bigger hugs to Mom II who has to nurse the old curmudgeon! Love you guys! xoxoxox

Full of Sound and Fury

Mon, 31 Mar 2008 00:16:35 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

Recipe for Feeling Small:

50 mile wide, ominous cloud

25 Knot wind

226 Thunderclaps

8 Billion gallons of rain

100 Megawatt lightening strikes

1 Tin roof

Mix ingredients, lie in bed, and be amazed.

Don’t you just love thunderstorms? I remember one night back in Nelson we sat upstairs at the Ripsters, turned out all the lights, and watched a dazzling thunderstorm through the large picture windows. Yet, as full of Boom and Bang as mountain storms are, nothing quite beats a tropical deluge.

Last night a big crasher landed on top of us. Part of the joy of tropical storms is the thin wall separating you from the elements. Our windows and doors are always open, so you get the full scope of the sound and fury in Dolby quality. And, if the wind is blowing in the right direction, you also get a cool misting from the rain. But the best part is that tin roof of ours, the one that feels as if it could shake right off with every thunderclap or be pounded clear through by rain drops the size of small house pets. Exhilarating!

Encounters of this magnitude with Momma Nature always send me into a vortex of self reflection. Last night I was thinking about death. Not in any morbid way, just pondering the inevitable. It is inevitable, isn’t it?

I’ve never really considered my own end, partly because it always seemed so far away. Now, however, as I scooter my way toward the Big Four-Oh, (July 2009…I have still one year left as an official Cougar), the signpost for Endsville is no longer an abstract idea, it is a tangible object.

I am nearly forty, and last night one thought kept rolling through my brain as I watched the palm trees backlit by lightening: there is no going back. I think one of life’s many ironies is that by the time we start to actually figure some stuff out, by the time we start becoming genuinely interesting people with worthy ideas, suddenly we’re also in a race against the clock. I’m pretty happy at thirty-eight and three-quarters; I could sit here a spell. I’m not as buff or tough as I was in my twenties, true, but I’m not as arrogant or shallow, either. My looks are still passable enough to get me ID’d at liquor stores at least once a year, and men still, occasionally, make lewd comments as I walk by, (Note to young girls: this won’t bother you as much as you get older). My brain is sharp enough to finish a crossword puzzle in a decent amount of time but now it’s also wide enough to accept other puzzles with less definite solutions. Yep, I like me right where I am.

But I woke up this morning a day older. There is no going back.

I don’t want to die but I’m not afraid of it. At some point oxygen will no longer make it to my brain, the lights will go out, and consciousness will vanish. Everything I’ve ever experienced and, more interestingly, every thought that’s ever drifted through my crazy cranium, will also vanish. I will be but a shell of a Princess.

There are numerous theories about what happens to us after we die. I don’t believe any of them, though I acknowledge that the ‘verse is a mysterious place and anything is possible. The way I see it, everything is matter, and eventually the shell we leave behind will break down and convert to another type of matter – ashes to ashes, dust to dust, yadda yadda yadda. Perhaps, in last night’s thunderstorm, if there were a way to trace such things, I might have found the molecules of Leonardo Da Vinci, or my old hamster, or even the first humans to walk this earth.

Prez likes to remind me that humans are largely made up of water and those water molecules return to the atmosphere once we die. He likes to remind me of this while I’m drinking a glass of water. I drink dead people.

As for consciousness, some would call it our “soul”, that is a puzzle with no hints, and no answers at the back of the book. I prefer to leave it as one last surprise though I must admit last night I had an image of my consciousness being sucked into a cyclone and melting into the universe. That was trippy. (I think my iron level may be getting low again).

Everyone has their own way of looking at death, of dealing with it. For many, insulation is the key. Stay safe, close the windows, lock the doors, sound proof the roof. If you can’t hear it, feel it, see it, smell it, or touch it, it can’t hurt you. Nothing works though. Death comes to everyone and what you thought was safety turns out to be your prison. Sure you stayed dry, but you never heard the thunder or felt the wind.

I plan to live long enough to be a cranky old lady, with too many cats, who drinks martinis in the afternoon, and bores the neighbourhood kids with stories of how cool she once was. But when I’m gone, I hope they say of me, “She always loved a good storm.”

QUESTION: Do you think about it?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

p.s. Speaking of elements, our good pal the Ripster is in Nepal preparing to climb Everest. Of course, first he has to get over the mountain of red tape the Chinese government has put in front of him. (Don’t get me started on the Chinese government). From Nelson Base Camp, his wife, “Beckster” keeps everyone up to date with dispatches on the Peak Freak’s website. This year, the theme is “Green”. Very cool. Anyway, you can follow Ripster and his team on their amazing journey here. GO PEAKS!!

p.p.s - My man chartered his guests onto a nice, juicy Dorado/Mahi Mahi. Cats and humans alike were jubilant at the prospect of fresh fish!

Fish for cats? Fish for humans?? Now that's more like it!!

Cat on a hot tin roof...

Survivor Aitutaki...and Beyond

Sun, 23 Mar 2008 23:18:24 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

Just down the road from us is a house with a giant aluminum catamaran in the front yard. Prez and I have often chuckled at this monstrosity and wondered how on earth they are ever going to get it into the water from its present position. Everyone gawks at this boat. How could they not, it’s monstrous. About ten feet away from that leviathan, however, is a much more interesting boat, one that you’d never give even the slightest glance, unless you knew its history. On this beat up, little red boat, a Tahitian fisherman drifted, lost at sea, for over five months.

Five months! Think about that for a moment. Consider what you have done for the last five months. Try to feel the weight of time, the length of days and nights strung together. Now imagine spending all of those days and nights lost, with little chance of rescue, on an ocean, which can, at times, rise up and take you on the most terrifying ride of your life. Most of us can’t begin to picture what life lost at sea would be like, nor can we conjure up the kind of mental fortitude and determination one would need to survive such an ordeal.

Survival, that’s what I’ve been thinking about lately. For those of us in the civilized world, it is a word with little meaning. Even the poorest among us can find food, water, clothing, and shelter, however meager. Survival is not a matter of figuring out how to make life better, it is a matter of figuring out how to make life continue.

Gruesome as this may sound, I often think about what Prez and I would do if there were some sort of catastrophe and civilization disintegrated. If our surroundings let us, I think we’d fare pretty well. On the morning of 9/11, after staring wide-eyed at the TV screen for what felt like forever, Prez said, “I’m going to go fill the truck with gas and pick up some water.” Though that day would not turn out to be the end of the world, many people later commented to us on what a good idea that was and how they’d never even thought of preparing for a disaster.

In Port Coquitlam, or Nelson, even in Baja, planning for disaster is relatively easy. Gas, water, food, tools/weapons, clothing – those are your main concerns and can usually be found in abundance. But what about a place far out in the middle of nothing…like Aitutaki?

Yesterday, during our evening cool-down swim & cocktail, Prez and I watched the supply ship being unloaded. I love the supply ship. I’m not sure why; every month they just bring more of the same old crap I always complain about. But maybe, maybe this month will be different! Maybe this month they’ll bring Barbara’s Bakes organic cheesies! Or Bengal tea! Or corn on the cob! Or a David Suzuki veggie burger with fries and rosemary veggie gravy!!!! Anyway, as the sun began to set and the barge unloaded shipping containers full of disgusting sausages and flats of Coke, I wondered what would happen if the supply ship stopped coming.

Disgusting sausages and Coke is bad. No disgusting sausages and Coke is worse.

Without our dear supply ship and the daily flights from Raro, (which occasionally bring eight dollar heads of broccoli), what would happen to this island? We’d be OK for water as most places have rain water collection. Power would eventually stop once the diesel generator ran out of fuel. We could fish but that would have to be done the old fashioned way, in an outrigger vaka, once the petrol stopped flowing. Mornings would be quieter – buh-bye roosters. Pigs would once again be valuable currency. Fruit, no problem. Vegetables, so-so. We’d have a relatively comfortable existence until things began to break down and no replacement parts came in, or until a few good cyclones pounded the heck out of the island. In a very short time, I think we’d be back to skewering each other with spears.

And how would I make out in the Tahitian fisherman’s shoes? (Not that he had any). With Prez along, I might make it. Alone? Probably not. One day someone would find an empty boat with several scribbled notes, such as: “Day two: chocolate has run out, situation desperate.”

I’ve been reading Adrift by Steven Callahan, the true, first hand account of a fellow lost at sea, in a rubber life raft, for seventy-six days. Seventy-six may seem short compared to the more than one hundred and fifty of our Tahitian survivor but it’s still nothing to sneeze at. I’m at “Day 27” of his ordeal and he’s already had four ships pass by without noticing him, even when he shot off flares. His muscles are atrophying and he’s feeling the effects of vitamin deficiency. At night his raft is head-butted by Dorado and the occasional shark, during the day temperatures rise above ninety degrees Fahrenheit, converting his raft into a floating steam room. In less than a month, he’s gone from a happy-go-lucky sailor to a near skeleton, clinging to life and sanity by his fingernails.

But he survives. He must because he wrote the book. Unless of course the last page ends like: “Hey, look! A friendly dolphin coming to play! Oh wait, no, that’s not a dolphin, it’s a sh…”

This amazes me about humans – we survive. People often confuse Darwin’s notion of survival of the fittest with survival of the strongest. By “fittest” he meant those who best fit in their environment. To quote Dennis Miller, “If you dropped a lion, the king of the jungle, at the South Pole, then he’d just be some penguin’s bitch”. But here’s where humans get interesting, we change to suit our environment. Too cold? We kill furry things and make coats out of them. Too hot? We run around naked, get really good tans, and build nice shady huts. Too dry? We learn to find water and keep it in handy jugs. Too wet? We leave Vancouver and fly to Mexico for two weeks to dry out at an all inclusive resort.

I mentioned in an earlier Coconut Chronicle about how small islands change people. I’m sure Darwin would have much to say about that. I no longer hear the roosters. When I can go to bed at night without an ice pack, I comment on the “cool” weather. Dreams of food grow less intense. I’m practically Evil Kneivel on my scooter. And I’m afraid one day I’ll see a non-pirated DVD and long for the occasional camera movement or background voices which sound vaguely Russian.

The Tahitian said he passed several islands before reaching Aitutaki, but none were close enough that he felt he could safely swim to them. By the time he washed up on these shores, his family had already had his funeral. If he were Canadian or American, he’d already have a book deal, a movie, and a Barbara Walters’ special. I’m not sure what he’s up to back in Tahiti but I’m guessing he’s still fishing.

Yep, us humans, we’re a crazy species. We are often at our best when things are at their worst. Each day I read the news headlines and I shake my head. On top of growing environmental problems, and escalating financial worries, there’s also a whole peck of conflict brewing around the globe. Is this ship still sailing true? How long before we need to take a serious look at our life rafts? As much as I hate to end on a note of doom and gloom, looking out from my tiny, almost-deserted island, the seas seem to be growing stormy and clouds are moving in. And even here, where gillnets slowly squeeze the life from this lagoon, I have to wonder, how long can we survive?

QUESTION: How long…

OK, OK, I won’t end on a gloomy note. That was mean, especially on Easter, that joyous pagan celebration of shagging and fertility (oh come on, what did you think the bunnies and eggs symbolized?). So, some good news, for me anyway. Do you recall that short story I sent off, non-express mail, back in January? Well, it is being published in the next issue of Storyteller. Yippee! Yes, the world may be going to hell in a hand basket but all is well in my little corner of it!

QUESTION: What would you want in your life raft?

Until next week, barring the end of the world, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

p.s. No photos this week as we have already exceeded our bandwidth limit. Still haven’t adapted to the stupid, slow internet here.

Forward Thinking

Sat, 15 Mar 2008 19:46:27 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

I’m going to tread some potentially dangerous water today. Not in the lagoon, but in the hearts and minds of my friends and family. I’ve resisted tackling this subject for fear of offending yet another person I love but…darn it, I can’t control my Spock brain any longer. I must speak.

So, let’s talk about Forwards. You know them, we all get them, some of us send them. You see it sitting in your inbox and the subject line looks like this: FW: This is a true story! Appeared on Good Morning America. You click it, perhaps still a little skeptical, but then you read a heartwarming tale about a young, penniless man who was given a glass of milk when he was starving, then later became a doctor, and saved the life of the woman who’d given him that glass of milk. And just to squeeze one more tear from your eye, the doctor signs the woman’s hospital bill, “Paid in full with one glass of milk.” Aaaaaaaaaawwwwwwww!!!

Hard must be the human heart that could resist forwarding such an uplifting message to all the good folks in the Address Book. Hard hearted, I guess that’s what I am.

I rarely forward emails of any type. Not only do I not forward them, I usually delete them, unread. Thankfully, most folks know my cold hearted reputation and leave me off the mass mailing list. There are a few exceptions –Martha sends me funny pictures of cats (I’m a sucker for that) and good jokes, and Ironwoman Benson used to send me photos of Brad Pitt half-naked. But, despite my ornery disposition, I still find a FW waiting for me at least once or twice a week.

What’s my problem? What is so bad about these emails? So some of them are bogus, so what?

Yes, many Forwards are harmless – jokes, funny pictures of cats, Brad Pitt naked, (hold on, I need a moment to visualize that) – but many also range from mean spirited to downright dangerous. You need to understand, most of them are either false or have been so drastically changed from their original format that they might as well be false.

Here are the reasons I hate Forwards:

#1 – Forwards propagate hate and intolerance

This week, I received the same Forward from three different people. My finger is sore from deleting it! This Forward was about a letter to the editor, supposedly penned by a little old lady, concerning terrorists, Islam, 9/11, etc. The content of the email was bigoted, ignorant, and intolerant – three qualities I despise. It was crafted, I’m certain, to make me feel indignant and angry at Islamic persons and those that defend them but it only succeeded in making me angry that someone would want to promote such vitriol.

The writer starts with a long diatribe about the war on terrorism then asks us if we’ve forgotten about the events of 9/11. Next they state that they are supposed to care about a prisoner’s copy of the Koran getting desecrated when an overworked soldier kicked it and got it wet. “Well, I don’t care!” declares our soapboax hero. Then, they state that they will care when a series of things happens. Here are a few of the choicer bits:

“I’ll care when the mindless zealots who blow themselves up in search of nirvana care about the innocent children in range of their suicide bombs.”

“When I see a fuzzy photo of a pile of Iraqi prisoners who have been humiliated in what amounts to a college hazing incident, rest assured that I don’t care.”

Whoa, can you feel your buttons being pushed?

First off, forget about Sept 11? Is that humanly possible? I wish I could. Please, tell me how to erase those images from my mind and stop grieving for the dead. Second, I’m not going to rebut these statements, if you can’t understand what’s wrong with them then nothing I say will change your mind.

(FYI, the content of this Forward was written by Doug Patton, a freelance columnist and political speech writer, not a little old lady.)

I’m going to stop here because the goal of these types of Forwards is to get us all worked up in a lather, and I won’t walk that path.

Forwards are faceless. They are your opinion, perhaps, but they’re not your words. Don’t hide behind them, it’s cowardly. If you feel strongly about a subject, please email me and we’ll debate it. I bet you’ll find you are a lot more cautious when you take ownership of the words you send.

#2 – Forwards are liars

Has anyone received their cheque from Microsoft or AOL, yet? Didn’t think so. That Forward refuses to die. Every time I think no one can possibly still believe it, there it is, sitting smugly in my inbox. My Daddy taught me there is no such thing as a free lunch. Words to live by. No one is going to give you money for forwarding emails; no one is going to donate money to a sick/dying child if you forward an email. Repeat after me, there is no free lunch!

How about those emails telling us all to look for little Jimmy or Susie who has been missing for six months and blah, blah, blah. I have only ever come across one of these that was genuine. If it is real, forward it, by all means. And here’s where you can check for authenticity: www.snopes.com

I love Snopes. If you ever want to know the truth behind a Forward, just type the relevant information into the search bar at the top, (e.g. “Little Jimmy missing”), and it will spit you out a list of stories, with details regarding their origins and truthfulness. Just for fun, have a browse through the site. I bet you’ll come across many familiar Forwards and more than a few Urban Legends.

#3 – Forwards trick people I love

If I were at a party and overheard someone feeding an obvious line of BS to someone I love, I’d have some serious words with them. Punching might ensue, depending on the level of intoxication. If I could punch a Forward I would.

How I cringe when I see one of my friends or family has been suckered in by these shysters. That’s not to say my loved ones are suckers, it’s just that many of them have great big, round, wonderful hearts and don’t see the world through the cynical filter that I do. They can’t imagine anyone lying about a sick child for sport. Me? I can imagine a lot worse than that.

The authors of these lies and half truths play with people’s emotions. I’d punch them, too, if I could.

#4 – Forwards encourage mob mentality

One of my goals, when considering any issue, is to try and view it from as many angles as possible. I do my best to employ critical thinking in every aspect of my life. Emotions are powerful critters, prone to stampedes, and best kept on a tight rein. In recent years, the few times I have found myself going with the flow and not stopping to question my thoughts, separate from the group, I’ve always ended up ashamed, disappointed in myself.

There’s a reason riots happen, a reason otherwise sane and decent people commit unspeakable acts when in the throes of a mob. Mobs trigger deep seated emotions. These emotions pick up our nerdy higher thought processes, give them a wedgie, and stuff them in a locker.

Forwards are the electronic equivalent of a mob. The words elicit strong emotions: “innocent children”, “mindless zealots”, “overworked soldier”. These emotions stifle the little voice of reason that might say: hey, don’t the good guys kill lots of innocent children, too? Emotions have their place, and are sometimes necessary to fully comprehend an issue. Yes, emotions are terrific; I have three and use them once a month whether I need to or not. Seriously, just let the Spock brain have its say, too, that’s all I ask.

To finish, remember the story about the doctor at the beginning of this email? Well, it is a true story – somewhat. The young man was never penniless or starving, he was quite wealthy. He was out horseback riding and asked for a glass of water because he was hot and thirsty; the girl gave him a glass of milk instead. He did treat the girl, later on, when he became a doctor, but he didn’t save her life and he normally gave three out of every four patient’s free care anyway. He did write the note on her bill, just as a joke. Does it still make you teary eyed? Didn’t think so.

So now I have you all nervous. Can I ever forward something to Princess again? Well, ask yourself these questions: Is it funny? Does it have a cat in it? Is Brad at least fifty percent unclothed? If you answer no to all of those, best skip me.

Oh yeah, and don’t bother sending videos, even with funny cats in them. Our internet is so slow, by the time they download I’ll be back in Canada.

Now, please forward this Coconut Chronicle to everyone you know.

QUESTION: Do you Forward?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin' life!

The Princess

p.s. I had a few amazing days off and here’s some photos to prove it! Also, big hugs to Mom, who is recovering from new hip #2. Feel better, we love you!!

I float therefore I am... That's one crazy looking crab!