Author JT Twissel
Yosemite Spring
In honor of May Day, I’m posting some pictures taken recently by a friend of mine of Yosemite Park which is just waking to Spring. I always love her pictures.
Half Dome Shrouded by Carol Teltchick
I’ve been busy the last few weeks getting a book ready for publication which I’ll tell you all about later. It’s a collaboration with two other writers: Duke Miller and Aaron Asseltine who write over at Tin Hats Blog and will be published by John’s Motorcycle Storage Unit. 
I love the feeling of tranquility in this shot. If it weren’t so cold, I’m quite sure Carol would have jumped in buck naked and swum around. 
I’m not sure what kind of flowers these are, anyone?
Happy May Day everyone! And thank you Carol for letting me post your pictures.
#ThursdayDoors: Hidden
This semi-hidden door actually leads to St. Augustines, a Catholic church which sits behind a wrought iron fence just off Waikiki’s main drag. Its history dates back to 1850s when it was just a shack made from palm fronds and driftwood. You can read more about the history here.
View from the street of St. Augustine’s statue.
The top of the church as visible from the fourth floor of the condo building next door.
As to why the church is behind a locked wrought iron fence, across the street is a beachside park that is home to many homeless people. They oddly co-mingle with tourists from around the world, primarily Japanese, taking selfies in the sunset. Some look as though they’ve spend the night in the piss-filled gutters of San Francisco even though there are public showers and restrooms along the beach. I guess it’s hard to panhandle if you look clean and neat and well-fed.
Just to the right and in front the church is a very common sight in Waikiki, an ABC Store.
It is not an exaggeration to say you can find one of these shops on every block. You can find one of these shops on every block even though they all sell almost exactly the same stuff, which is basically everything but mostly cheap touristy trinkets.
Window of another trinket-filled store. The Hawaiian flag is similar to the Union Jack because many royals favored the Brits over the US.
You expect to see wonderful things when you travel but for me, the unexpected is what makes a trip special. This time it was a YWCA in the middle of Honolulu’s business and government district.
The Y is across the street from the Iolani Palace. From the outside it doesn’t look like much, however once past the reception area is an atrium with one of the most beautiful swimming pools I’ve ever seen. I wanted to leap right in with this fellow.
The architect of this building was Julia Morgan, the very same Julia Morgan who designed Hearst Castle. But that wasn’t the best part of the surprise. Inside of the atrium is the best restaurant we found in Honolulu. It’s modestly called Cafe Julia.
One of unique things about this place, beside its menu, is the owner’s collection of whimsical liquor bottles. There were thousands but because they were behind glass, it was hard to get a picture of them. Here are a few:
So if you’re ever in Honolulu, check out the Laniakae YWCA and Cafe Julia. Make sure to save room for the chocolate mousse! Check out other doors and unexpected delights over at Norm Frampton’s #ThursdayDoors event.
The People’s Prince
Prince Kuhio, 1871-1922
Jonah Kuhio Kalanianaole was Hawaii’s last royal prince. Although he never sat on a throne, his birthday, March 26th, is cause for celebration in the islands.
Without Prince Kuhio, Hawaiians would have most likely suffered the same fate as Native Americans, forced assimilation into a culture with little respect for the earth; their traditions and language in jeopardy of disappearing forever. Or worse, watching as cherished rituals were reduced to comic stereotypes.
Kuhio was the nephew of Queen Lili’oukalani. After she was overthrown, he was briefly arrested for treason and then fled to South Africa where he joined the British Army and fought the Boers. When he finally returned to the islands he did so with a mission: to promote and preserve the Hawaiian culture. Eight times he was elected to the US Congress where he helped secure rights for native Hawaiians. Rights like, being able to homestead on the lands of your ancestors.
Music is very important to Hawaiians and so for the week leading up to the Prince Kuhio festival, local television stations broadcast events held at schools and cultural centers throughout the islands. Not the kind of music you hear in Tiki bars and shopping centers but traditional songs sung in ancient Hawaiian. 
The parade, which kicked off the final day of celebration, began with the traditional blowing of Pu shells to the north, south, east and west. Then came the members of the Royal Order of Kamehameha (descendants of Hawaiian royalty) either walking on foot or driven in convertibles (all Mustangs for some strange reason). I noticed that many of them had red hair and fair skin. Hummm.
A great, great, great grand nephew of King Kamehameha?
Many schools marched in the parade, some singing and some dancing. There were hula dancers, both young and old, drummers, horseback riders and even one dragon.
These kids got to ride on a trolley!
After the parade, people gathered in Kapiolani Park near Diamond Head for a celebration that included song and dance and food from a flotilla of food trucks. All in all, a perfect day and a joyful celebration for a great man. Happy Prince Kuhio Day!
When to Visit Honolulu
If Honolulu is on your bucket list, I strongly recommend visiting in mid-March. Not only is the weather mild (if you don’t mind the occasional rain shower) but that’s when the annual Honolulu Festival is held.
It’s actually a celebration of all the various races and cultures that are Hawaii. The Japanese, Chinese, Indonesians, Tahitians, etc. After days of exhibits and contests held at various venues throughout the city, the festivities end with a parade that goes on literally all day.
Can’t remember where these dudes were from.
And it is exuberant and full of fun. And loud!
Lot of drummers!
But after dark the world explodes.
Next, a more somber but also unforgettable festival.
#ThursdayDoors: Aloha
I’ve just returned from almost a month in Hawaii. I didn’t intend to stay that long but my grandson was (as they say) on “Hawaiian time.” Finally on March 21st his chubby little cheeks emerged, followed by an equally chubby little body and thank goodness, he was healthy. So I waited until my grandmotherly advice caused my son-in-law’s face to twitch uncontrollably and then left on the next available red-eye.
In Hawaii many of the hotels, government buildings, and even hospitals have open air reception areas and atriums. They have no front doors. Evidently the craze currently circling the planet thanks to Norm Frampton and the #ThursdayDoors peep-and-tellers hasn’t yet reached the Hawaiian Islands!
Above is the entry to the Hawaiian state capitol. If you walk through these columns the legislative chambers are to the right and the government offices to the left. If you look up through the sky light in the atrium, this is what you’ll see:
In front of the capitol is a statue of Father Damien, the patron saint of the Hawaiian Islands.
Religion has played a controversial role in paradise. Before the missionaries arrived, the islands were ruled by warrior kings who often had several wives (some of them sisters) and maintained order via ancient superstitions and myths. The missionaries brought changes that benefitted the poor but they also brought sickness and doors.
Behind the state capitol is Iolani Palace.
This palace was built around 1882 under the direction of King Kalakaua who felt he needed digs worthy of his lofty position. At that time, many of Hawaiian’s royals were anxious to be accepted by their European counterparts thus Kalakaua’s palace could easily be at home in London or Paris. Except for the banyan and palm trees on the front lawn, of course.
Ironically Iolani Palace would serve as a prison for the last member of the royal family to have any political power, Queen Lili’oukalani. She was no match for power hungry American businessmen who had the implicit support of the US government.
The doors to Iolani Palace were almost impossible to photograph from the bottom of the staircase on a hot day, but they seem like sad doors to me.
Happily we were also in Honolulu during the festival of Prince Kuhio, the last royal member of Congress and the founder of many civic organizations dedicated to preserving Hawaiian Culture.
More pictures to come. Aloha!
The Star-Spangled Sound of Nothing Left to Lose
The dangers of traveling in America.
Hombre Infame, Infeliz…Tu Eres La Causa De Mis Angustias
I’m in Hawaii for a few weeks with limited internet access Please enjoy this reblog from Duke Miller on the TinHatsblog
Our door was green and the cats hung out just inside the garden trying to kill movement. The woman bent over to pet one and the Calico scratched her. Specks of blood hit the rocks. The cat was Einstein and the victim was Trudy. Einstein was the first out of the box looking for food and water. Six sisters and brothers got scattered around town, but that’s the way of cats: here and there, putting up self-identity struggles with humans who don’t share the same vision.
Across town a second woman, a Mexican woman, was hiding from a house deal with Trudy. The Mexican had sold too cheaply or so said a few jealous relatives who kept their nails long and red. That might have passed, but then the real sadness set in when the old woman on the corner, who peeled oranges with one of those hand-cranked blade…
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#ThursdayDoors: Marilyn Slept Here
A warehouse door with obvious fire damage which a graffiti artist decided to cover up appropriately with a fire scene. Downtown Reno Nevada
Paris has the Eiffel Tower and New York City, the Statue of Liberty. But poor old Reno Nevada’s iconic landmark is a sign spanning the main drag that reads “Biggest Little City in The World.”
If you can’t figure out what the heck that means, don’t worry. No one can. The slogan is the result of a contest won by “one G.A. Burns of Sacramento” who was awarded $100 for his brilliance by the “City Fathers.” That was back in 1927 when Reno was being run by railroad men, merchants and ranchers. They had officially approved gambling and the town needed some glitz. Thus, a sign was born.
As an aside, the town’s original name was “River Crossing” but it was changed to Reno in honor of a Civil War general who was killed by friendly fire and whose last words were “Sam, I’m dead.”
There is no downtown Reno any more. Not really. Unlike Vegas, the casinos and resorts are spread out all around town.
Downtown Reno (seen from across the Truckee River) sometime in the 1960s
Once there was a downtown Reno, a stretch along the Truckee River where the casinos intermingled with banks, city offices and department stores. Today some of the older casinos remain (Harrahs and the El Dorado), cramped in between pawn shops and check-cashing places. It’s four blocks square that hold all the joy of an abortion clinic unless the Hells Angels and their buddies are holding their yearly jamboree. Then it feels a bit like Armageddon.
The casinos try to woo potential gamblers by creating magical and surreal environments where no one could possibly lose all their money but to me they feel like neon-lit fish tanks where I am the fish.
But it wasn’t always that way. Once upon time there was The Mapes.
The Maples Hotel had an old-fashioned coffee shop in its lobby. Red velvet booths and a counter where you could watch soda jerks create the greatest chocolate malts and floats. And the french fries, oh my! Trust me, the chocolate malt you buy with hard-earned baby-sitting money at age thirteen will forever be the best one on earth.
But the hotel had another claim to fame. For a stretch in the fifties and sixties it was a prime spot for catching a glimpse of celebrities such as Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable, Montgomery Cliff and the Rat Pack (Sinatra et al). Monroe stayed there with her husband Arthur Miller during the months of filming “The Misfits” which meant the hotel was always surrounded by news crews.
I always thought the Mapes’ marquee (above) represented the town far better that a sign no one understands. I can remember hitches outside the casinos for cowboys who would ride into town on the weekends from one of the many nearby ranches. Of course I’m not quite old enough to remember actual horses being attached to them. But I do remember stepping in cow dung on my way across the field between my house and the school.
Unfortunately, the so-called “city fathers” had no sacred memories of chocolate malts and no desire to preserve the room wherein Marilyn Monroe slept. Despite the all-out efforts of preservationists, this was the Mapes’ fate:
So famous was this building that it’s destruction was broadcast on the evening news here in San Francisco. I felt like I was watching an execution.
I have veered (as usual) wildly off Norm Frampton’s prompt of ThursdayDoors.
What Not to Wear to a Tea Party
Last summer I was invited to a tea party. By that I mean, tea and crumpets with ladies in frocks and garden hats and not a group of people with teabags hanging from the rims of their hats screaming “Obama is an Arab.”
The Tea Party circa 1930
I hadn’t been to a tea party since my daughter was three and the teacups held apple juice. My first thought was “goodie, I get to pretend to be a lady again.” You see readers, I spend 90% of my time in baggy clothes and flip-flops and rarely wear jewelry. My mother describes my fashion IQ as “mid-century homeless.”
Therefore, what to wear was an immediate concern. It would have to be something I already owned (and fit into) because, even when I was very thin, the thought of being watched as I stripped to my panties always freaks me out. So, you could say my unwillingness to bare my butt to hidden security cameras lowered my frock candidates to two, both of which were bought for funerals but worn to any and all special occasions, including weddings.
The next big decision was which piece of jewelry to wear. Oh my, the true test of whether or not you’re a sentimentalist lies in the jewelry you’ve carted all over the country. I like to think I’m not but below are pieces I haven’t been able to part with so you tell me:
Buttons – from the assortment above you’d think my political inclinations swing wildly but the Nixon, Rockefeller and Bush buttons I inherited from my father. They’re a reminder of all those arguments we had around the dining room table, many of which resulted in my expulsion to my bedroom sans dessert. They also remind me of one of the last things Dad ever said to me before his death “Republicans really aren’t nice people.” I have no idea what prompted him to say that, probably the swift boating of John Kerry. I’m sure Trump would have mortified him.
This cheap plastic pendant was given to me by a sixteen year old boy who lived with his foster parents in a trailer park in Ridgecrest California. All three raced dirt bikes out in the desert at a time when movies like The Wild One depicted motorcyclists as thugs. But they were good people. They taught me a valuable lesson about rushing to judgement. The pendant always reminds me of a spaghetti dinner, the drive-in movies and what it’s like to be sixteen and forbidden to ride on the back of a motorcycle.
I bought the sun pendant in the Haight Ashbury district of San Francisco. It always reminds me of following Country Joe and the Fish (who were playing on the back of a flatbed truck) and singing “Well, it’s one, two, three, what are we fighting for. Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn, next stop – Vietnam.” I may have to wear it again.
The charm bracelet was from my Aunt Elvira who had no children of her own and used to take us to Disneyland. Until I was about thirty-five, it was my dream to live in FantasyLand. Guess what – I’m having that same dream all over again.
Whose jewelry drawer doesn’t contain an assortment of oddball keys? You can’t throw them away because one might unlock a diary that’s been hidden in the back of a closet for decades, full of childhood stories you’ve long forgotten.
Other treasures include earrings without mates (they’ll show up), my grandmother’s charm bracelet, the odd pendant or two, and a couple of unpolished garnets. It might surprise you to know that my jewelry collection is not insured.
Back to my ensemble, I decided that wearing old campaign buttons and just one earring might make me look even kookier than I generally do. They were definitely on the what not to wear to a Tea Party list. Instead I wore a simple set of hand strung beads and clip on pearl earrings that had belonged to my grandmother.
You may wonder why I’m telling this story now. Well, months ago I predicted Trump would eventually go to war with the Pope not really believing it would ever happen. Well, it’s beginning and I’m moving to Wonderland to have tea with the Mad Hatter.
Saying nothing in particular 