Summer Solstice (!)

He who obtains has little. He who scatters has much.-- Lao Tzu

Art by Isabel Bryna

Roaring along at mach-minus-a-zillion speed (that's very slow), I only discovered at this second that today is the Summer Solstice. I was transendentalized (stoned) by a yoga class early this morning and nobody said anything about the solstice.

You would think that folks who practice the ancient healing art (yoga) would be excited about our planet and the seasons. I cannot really speak for them. They are very nice people and I am ... well, sorta out there (a goofball).

Reality (what we think is fact) is:

We are moving into summer in the northern hemisphere!

Why should we celebrate this?

For one, it's a change. Practically anything has got to be better than what's been going on. I rant a lot and I'm sure you're tired of hearing about my pain. But I've noticed it's becoming universal (a lot of people are upset).

Granted some are not. For example, Elon Musk had just one simple word to say yesterday when another one of his SpaceX Rockets blew up: He said it was due to an "anomaly." (something unexpected). How many anomalies has he had? Six (6) SpaceX rockets have exploded??? I call that a habit (something that keeps happening).

Change, Space Man! Concentrate on repairing your Tesla reputation not going to Mars!

If he actually went there, I would not be unhappy or sad...  If he stayed there!

According to Meta AI (Mark Zuckerberg's artificial intelligence program), here are a set of Summer Solstice Rituals of Abundance that we might want to consider for a fruitful summer:

1. Write Your Intentions: Write down your desires for abundance, whether financial, emotional, or spiritual. Be specific and positive (that's asking a lot, if you ask me).

2. Create a Solstice Altar: Decorate with symbols of abundance like sunflowers, green plants, or golden objects (like someone we all know).

3. Light a Candle: Representing the sun's energy, light a candle to attract abundance and positivity (and bugs if you're living in the tropics like I am right now).

4. Solstice Bath (my favorite): Add herbs like chamomile or lavender to cleanse and invite abundance. (I say, jump in the ocean or any large body of water and yell, WHOA MAMA!!!)

5. Gratitude Ritual: Reflect on what you're thankful for and express gratitude to attract more abundance (How much abundance can one person take? Apparently a great deal. I'll take a little more abundance, please.).

You can see how AI is creeping into our lives. I'll give you one more ritual that I think Zuck himself and a few of his tech bros (inflated egotistical men) like to do:

6. Green Money Ritual: Place a handful of coins in a green pouch or bag on your altar to attract wealth. (Or, start a social media company that attracts trillions of followers and allow all the crazy people in the world to say whatever they want, and you say whatever you want, and call it fact.)

Seriously, I wish you all a wonderful Summer Solstice and a joyful Aloha Friday!

Abundance (having more than you need). When is enough enough?

Note: The bombing of Iran (the day following the summer solstice) is further evidence of the insanity of the President of the United States, DJT. The singular decision of a mad man. The loudest patient in the asylum is claiming he wants quiet time, while wearing a red ‘call to arms’ cap.

The Inner Brian

Brian Wilson 1942-2025. 

When The Beach Boys hit the scene in the early Sixties with their song Surfin USA, I was puzzled. Here was a Chuck Berry remake by a group of white guys with high pitched voices.

As they continued to produce nasal-like harmonies of bubble gum hits, I wasn’t impressed. My good friend Paul claimed they sang out of tune. 

Another high school friend, Andy, began collecting every one of their albums. He was hooked on surfing and in my opinion, riding the wave of the latest trend. 

We came from Pomona, a valley town. The culture was changing from lowrider to something else yet to be determined. As the story went, The Beach Boys were booed off stage at our most popular nightclub dance venue, Rainbow Gardens.

I believe the year was 1962. I didn’t know anyone who was there that night, but my research did reveal that the up-and-coming band from Hawthorne was forced to leave the RG stage due to a Latino music event scheduled on the same day.

I took that as a sign of honor. Probably because, in those days, I was a cynic. We didn’t want no stinking Beach Boys in our town.

I laugh about it today. My cynicism was palpable and directed at most authority figures and especially whatever struck me as trendy and popular. I chose The Rolling Stones over the Beatles because they were renegades.

I laugh even more when I consider how straight I really was.

I blew off The Beach Boys. It wasn’t until many years later that I recognized the genius of Brian Wilson. I still consider many of the band’s tunes vacuously annoying. 

Ironically, I didn’t realize that Brian’s pain as a young man represented how I felt at that time of my life. Granted, as I’ve learned, Brian had mental challenges and a tyrant for a father. I had neither. But I felt really bad and alone.

I’m not prepared to talk about my problems here, other to say that I felt abandoned. Suffice to say that when I listen to some of Brian's very personal musical compositions today, I choke up. He hits a nerve of  adolescent loneliness that resonates with me.

In his well-researched book, If Everybody Had An Ocean (2021) author Willian McKeen, explains the harsh family background and musical genius of Brian Wilson. We learn how Brian's brilliant studio work attracted musicians from around the country to Los Angeles in the late 60s. They included the Mamas and the Papas, the Eagles, Crosby-Stills & Nash, as well as Neil Young and Joni Mitchell from Canada.

As we now know, The Beach Boys Pet Sounds album opened up a new world of complicated arrangements and inner person feelings that were outside of the standard fun-in-the-sun Beach Boys repertoire. When released in 1966, Pet Sounds was not a commercial success, far from it. Over the years, with high marks from music critics, Rolling Stone Magazine has consistently rated the album No. 2 on its top 500 list.

On an early sunny morning in 1964, I was riding with my surfing buddies down PCH through Laguna Beach when a Beach Boys song began playing on the AM radio, probably station KRLA. The mood of the tune caught my ear, not just the lyrics. It seemed to define the opening of a new day. We were on our way to Doheny with surfboards. Nick, Andy, Bill, Pat? I don't remember exactly who was there.

The song was Don't Worry Baby, which, as I learned later, Brian defined as his greatest musical accomplishment as of that date, according to McKeen's book.

Brian had been gobsmacked by musical producer Phil Spector's release of Be My Baby by the Ronettes. The production featured Spector's new "wall of sound." Brian was jealous and told his girlfriend, "I'll never produce a song like that." She replied: "Don't worry, baby," reassuring him that he would.

Here was Brian Wilson achieving his own wall of sound with that tune and inserting the poignant lyric from his personal conversation.

McKeen's book explained to me why that piece of music, mostly the arrangement, had made such an impression on me.

I have since discovered more about and gained more appreciation for Brian Wilson from documentaries and the feature film, Love and Mercy (2014). I purchased Pet Sounds for my musical library.

Brian died a few days ago at 82. Thank you Brian for revealing your inner feeling so artistically so that we may understand our own lives a little better.

Full Moon Rising

Stripping wax from the deck of my Bruce Jones longboard.

President Trump sending the National Guard and thousands of U.S. Marines into a tiny section of Los Angeles is like me calling in a heart surgeon for a bee sting. It's getting crazy out there. 

Meanwhile, I attempt to go with the proverbial flow, rather than dive into the chaotic rip currents. Or do I?

Speaking of which, I sold my log at the monthly Hanalei surfboard Swap Meet last Saturday. Precisely where I purchased said board -- a 9' 6" Bruce Jones model, single fin totally old school -- six years ago, drawing another circle for my life's path. I've been going in circles for 78 years.

I arrived at the Swap Meet early and before I had a chance to lay my longboard on the grass, an old surf dawg greeted me with: "That's a Bruce Jones! Not too many of those around. He's gone, you know, won't be making any more boards."

Five minutes later, I accepted $175 for the BJ: SOLD. The day before when I cleaned her for sale, stripping off wax and noticing all the ding repairs, I considered the possibility that nobody would want this funky surfboard. Beautifully shaped, she had many miles on her when I got her. All the repairs had made her too heavy. I was tired of carrying her to the water. I wanted something lighter. Like a Longboard Lager.

On the precipice of a full moon, I was ready for a change.

View from above Anini Reef last week.

Owning a condo on Kauai is a money pit, a small price to pay for paradise. Owning anything on this Garden Isle in the middle of the Pacific Ocean is an act of acceptance (as if we can really own anything). That is, acknowledging that the climatic elements of wind, rain, humidity always come out ahead of man-made stuff. So you pay to keep stuff working. The material world owns you. I repair screen doors as a matter of habit, as well as trimming, weeding, planting to keep our gardens in shape. Same thing I do at home. I try to keep up with Barbara.

Mystiko keeps his eye on the ball

Our daughter Isabel Bryna and grandkids, Viva, 14, and Mystiko, 7, are embracing island life, growing as fast as the surrounding jungle that never sleeps. The family vibe here on the North Shore appears tight and supportive. Look around and you see a generous population of young parents and their kiddos at soccer games, beach parties and park activities. The kids whose parents grew up here -- many of Pacific Islander descent -- typically have multi-generational support. 

Joseph Kekuku with his lap steel guitar, circa 1904

Hawaiian music received unexpected credit this month with a new documentary produced by PBS Hawaii, Pu'uwai Haokila (Heart of Steel in Hawaiian). The film tells the story of how Hawaiian music influenced American music of the early 20th Century, particularly through the steel guitar "invented" by Hawaiian Joseph Kekuku. Hawaiian orchestras toured the backroads of the U.S. playing a new style with stringed instruments including the ukulele, guitar and violin. 

These bands toured remote locations in the Deep South, Texas and Midwest, introducing unique high tones with the steel guitar, bending notes with a steel slide. Blues players, including blues-original Robert Johnson, as well as country and bluegrass musicians adapted the instrument. You can watch the documentary free on YouTube. Five stars! Another reason to save PBS. They do a marvelous job of covering and preserving Hawaiian culture, as well as serving other local regions throughout the land. 

The Royal Hawaiian Orchestra played at the gala opening of the Cocoanut Grove Ballroom in Santa Cruz in 1907. I had the playlist posted above my desk when I was employed in the marketing department there.

Back to Los Angeles and those circles. In January I wrote a series of posts under the title, Ask the Dust, a quasi ode to author John Fante and his novel (1939) of the same name. My series took place very close to where the current immigration protests are happening in old Los Angeles. I was there in December. Is there a theme here? A clairvoyance? Connection?  

One more question: Why have there been so many airplane crashes since Donald Trump was inaugurated as President?  Chaos breeds chaos. The Kilauea volcano on the Big Island has been active lately. The Hawaiians believe the fire below the earth is a goddess named Pele, a deity known for her temper and passion. She’s certainly disturbed. It’s in the air.

Keep the faith. Aloha nui loa.

Good Stories for Mama's Day

My mother, Dorothy, and grandmother, Kate, circa 1913 Havre, MT.

My mother, Dorothy, was a good story teller. I believe it was a family tradition that traces back to Ireland on my mother's side. She also possessed a psychic ability, or at the very least a superstitious tendency that she inherited from her mother whose parents were both from the Emerald Isle.

I never knew my grandmother, Kate, who according to family lore would turn around and go home if a black cat crossed her path. She birthed 10 children in Havre, Montana. Nine survived. Seven boys and two girls. My mother told of laundry freezing on the clothes line and the earthen floor in their home that was heated by a coal-burning cook stove.

One morning at the age of 13, I had just returned from my morning paper route when my mother confronted me in the kitchen. "I had the strangest dream last night," she said. It was one of many meetings between us where I felt a special confidence, as though what she was telling me was a secret or important message.

"I heard a voice," she said, "repeating, 'Father Ronald is dead. Father Ronald is dead.' Followed by the number 51."

Her hazel-colored eyes beneath dark eyebrows peered straight through me, to the point where I was hearing the voice in her dream, her words echoing in my mind. I visualized a script of repeating numbers floating through dark space... 51, 51, 51.

A day or so later we learned that her brother Ronald, a Jesuit priest, had died of heart failure. He was 51.

On another occasion, my mother approached me with intriguing news. "Judy Garland has married Mark Herron. He may be your cousin." That was like telling me he was my cousin.

Judy Garland was the girl Dorothy in the movie, The Wizard of Oz. She became an actress, singer and entertainer who was married five times to different men, Herron being her final husband at the time of her unfortunate death at age 47.

I do have a cousin named Mark Herron, whom I finally met years later, but he was never married to Judy Garland. But it was a good story.

My life opened to a new world when I was 8-years-old and my mother introduced me to the Pomona Public Library in the town where I grew up.  I found a children's section that was full of books about interesting people. I got hooked on reading biographies of famous Americans, although they were all men.

I went through the whole bookshelf: Davy Crockett, Francis Marion, Lewis and Clark, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Edison, George Washington Carver, Henry Clay, Daniel Boone and more. That's where my love for books began and I thank my mother, who always had one or two open books laying around the house.

There's nothing like a good story, but a good mother beats it all. Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!

Some Things Never Change

Oliver Hardy and Stan Laurel (Laurel and Hardy) with their miss-sized pooches. Circa 1930

Cameron was not a dog person as a kid. Four-legged creatures made him nervous. He was born that way. Not with four legs but with an aversion to animals. They bugged him. 

Growing up he also didn't like sticky things, flies in his milk or the taste of pizza. Everybody likes pizza, but not Cameron. When he was first offered a slice of pizza pie, he gagged. “That's not pie," he said.

He would stir his Cream of Wheat until every lump was gone. It had to be smooth like a milk shake. The tiniest bump bothered him. He would take his spoon and squash it as if it were alien invader.

The only animal he tolerated was horses. He enjoyed watching them run and gallop on TV with cowboy and Indian riders shooting, whooping and hollering. But he didn't really know much else about horses. In fact, the first time he rode a horse at a riding track, he got sick and threw up.

Probably because he asked to ride the fastest horse, named Midnight. He had heard friends talk about the speed and thrill of riding Midnight. He climbed up and into the saddle and sat there like he was on a bench waiting for a bus. When Midnight took off, Cameron bumped up and down like a jumping bean on a hot skillet.

After that, he took horses off his list.

He didn't understand the process of learning how to ride a horse, or that maybe his taste buds would change as he grew up. He just banished things with the words: "NOT DOING THAT AGAIN."

He was "cut and dry." "Plain and simple." 

When his parents brought home a small puppy with shaggy blond hair and little brown eyes, he was intrigued. He liked petting the soft fur of the dog, which his mother named Blondie. But he did not like the chore of house-training Blondie.

This meant putting newspapers on the floor where Blondie was supposed to do her duty. Cameron didn't care for that, especially cleaning up afterwards. He didn't realize that his mother did the same thing with him when he was a baby and wore diapers.

Cameron was clueless.

But miracles do really happen and people change along with everything else. We call it "growing up." We all learn to adjust, or not. Some continue to act like children with their little hang-ups and trantrums, whether it's out of stubbornness or arrested development.

Cameron's big change came as an adult. He inherited a large Malinois breed dog when his friend Patrick, moved into an apartment and could no longer keep it. The dog's name was Finston. He was extremely shaggy with straw-like fur as thick as a polar bear's coat. Finston shed so much fur that Cameron's place looked and smelled like a barn. But it didn't bother him. He had adjusted and developed the sense of caring or compassion, although he was never compatible enough to marry or live with a roommate.

In the late morning after the fog lifted, you would see Cameron and Finston walking together across the railroad tracks and down the hill into Capitola Village.

"Hey Cameron!" the local fishermen would shout.

"Howzit! Buddy, or Billy or Jimbo!" Cameron returned the salutation, depending on who called him. 

"Finston's lookin good!"

Cameron's face wrinkled into a big smile, as he thought to himself how uptight he used to be back in the day. Now he's actually recognized for his dog. He had become a dog person.

"Oh yeah,” he replied. “But I gotta keep him on a leash. It's a damned police state down here. No doubt about it."

Back to the Island

The beach at Hanalei Bay yesterday morning. PHOTO:BBS

Waterfalls from heavy rains streaming down the mountains as seen from Hanalei. PHOTO:ROBYN 

The government craziness that pervades our life these days feels slightly removed as we settle into island reality once again. Magical white clouds dance through the sky chased by dark, water-laden puffers orchestrating a familiar hide-and-seek drama between sunshine and rain on Kauai, the small, northern-most island of the Hawaiian chain. 

This week all of the islands turn their focus to the Merrie Monarch Festival, the annual week-long hula competition in Hilo on the Big Island, where halaus (hula clubs or studios) from throughout Hawaii perform impressively choreographed dancing and show off beautiful costumery in front of adoring fans. 

Kane (men) don hula garb and dance like warriors at the Merrie Monarch Festival.

Female and male dancers alike fill the stage. The popular show has been running since 1963 and is named after one of Hawaii's favorite kings, David Kalakaua (1863-1891), a major patron of the arts who restored the ancient rite of hula to island culture following years of missionary crackdown.

We'll be watching on a TV screen. Hawaiian pride, discipline and joy will be on full display.

The Blue Buddha, our island ride, is back on the road, having been awakened from nearly ten months of hibernation, which translated to dead battery and this year a defunct starter. No worries, right? Hearing that engine hum is as pleasant as listening to the shama birds sing outside our window every morning before dawn. They take their cue from the crowing of the resident roosters.

We've watched our 6-year-old grandson Mystiko hustle around a soccer field, his shaggy blond hair flopping and a smile on his face. He's focussed.

Granddaughter Viva, 14, seems to have stretched several inches, her long limbs flowing as gracefully as the fronds of a queen palm swaying in the breeze.

Mama, Isabel Bryna, is as busy as ever juggling her life as mother, artist, entrepreneur and surfer.

Being grandparents is special. And in the islands, kupuna (elders) hold a revered role in the family hierarchy. Store discounts are also appreciated.

Yesterday, hearing that the Hanalei bridge was open following flood closure the day before, we drove down to the historic little town which fronts Hanalei Bay. The clear, glassy water drew me in for a dunk. Back at the condo I pulled my longboard from behind the couch and waxed her up for the days ahead.

Barbara has already attended two yoga sessions at the Princeville Community Center, re-connecting with our island friends who prefer a good stretch first thing in the morning. 

Final note: I’d been thinking about Pope Francis over the past few months understanding that he was nearing the end of his life on earth, and marveling at what a great spiritual leader he’s been. He truly walked the walk, emphasizing the virtues of dignity, humility and compassion for all. He was the right person, in the right role at the right time. We need more leaders like him. Here's hoping the Conclave elects the next Pope in his humanitarian likeness. May you Rest In Peace, Pope Francis. Pray for us.

Here's wishing you all the best in your lives. Aloha nui loa.

Let's Get Together, Smile on Your Brother

Jesse Colin Young from the cover of the LP, Song for Juli.

When I came across the news that singer Jesse Colin Young had died last week, my heart sank, a reaction over which I had no control. He was 83 -- a decent life span, I thought. No cause of death given.

The thing is, Jesse's career and my life conjoined in a funny and, in the end, heartfelt way. In fact, at one time, I was Jesse Colin Young.

His 1973 song "Ridgetop" about living in the woods north of San Francisco  -- a jazzy rockin' ode to counter-culture environmentalism -- struck a chord in me the moment I first heard it in a record store in downtown Eugene, Oregon, where I was hoping to relocate with my small family -- wife Linda and daughter Molly.

I purchased the record, which also included "Song for Juli," a beautiful dedication to his young daughter, and the title of the album.

Jesse's tenor rose rose to a wonderfully optimistic octave -- smooth and good feeling. His voice didn't approach negativity. So much so, that his attempt to evoke a grim moodiness in his psychedelically inspired song, "Darkness, Darkness," was still hopefully charged by his unique voice.

In 1977, he brought his band to the Cocoanut Grove Ballroom in Santa Cruz. A lady friend of mine was dying to go. I was curious but had been sidetracked by so many of the great folk-blues inspired compositions of the Seventies by the Eagles, Steve Miller, Boz Skaggs, Neil Young to name a few. 

Jesse's show at the Grove was a bust, uninspired and disappointing. He seemed to have stagnated for some untold reason. He'd gone stale. I had lost Linda in a car accident the previous year and my emotions were jumbled. Was that it?

Fast forward to 1979. I had moved to Santa Cruz, had two young daughters with me, Molly, 9 and Vanessa, 4. A young guy I don't know knocks on my door to ask if he can climb the pine tree in my front yard to retrieve his frisbee. "Of course."

He tells me that he's visiting his sister across the street. I don't know her, have only seen her from a distance. He tells his sister, Barbara, that Jesse Colin Young lives across the street from her.

That is how he described me. I guess it was the dark hair and mustache. Long story short, the moniker becomes, jokingly, my pseudonym. Barbara and I become a couple and a family with a third daughter, Bryna. I call Barbara, Jane Fonda.

I don't believe we really saw ourselves as celebrities, but it was fun. 

Me as Jesse

Sometime later in the 90s, Barbara and I are vacationing on the Big Island of Hawaii. I see in the local newspaper that Jesse Colin Young will be performing at the Aloha Theater in a small town above Kona. He lives here on a small coffee plantation. We attend the show with our Hawaii friends and former Santa Cruz neighbors, George and Kathy.

Jesse looks healthy and happy and the show includes Hawaiian players and songs and oozes with love and aloha in front of a local audience in the intimacy of a restored old theater. It was a winner. A few nights later we find ourselves in a restaurant specializing in fusion cuisine (East & West) with George and Kathy and Jesse. Jesse is actually sitting at another table with his family. We don't meet.

Back home in Santa Cruz maybe seven years ago, we see that Jesse Colin Young will perform in concert  at the Rio Theater, a former movie theater now performance venue. Of course we go. Jesse performs with a band of young musicians, including his son, who are touring the country. He's the seasoned band leader of these talented kids.

Jesse's voice is as pristine as ever. He has the audience swinging with his signature "let's get together, smile on our brother" anthem. He tells the story of how he had suffered from Lyme Disease from a tick bite, how it took a toll on his life.

I thought about his lifeless show at the Grove in '77. After all the years I had wondered about his performance and my disappointment. I attributed it to Lyme Disease. He later wrote a song, "Lyme Life."

Thank you Jesse for hanging in there. Barbara and I thoroughly enjoyed the show. I could tell that having your son and a group of young, exceptional musicians play with you elevated you to a higher level. 

That would be Maestro.

JC Young 2019

Side Note: Singer/songwriter Kris Kristofferson (1936-2024) was misdiagnosed with Alzheimers for years, before his memory loss was finally attributed to Lyme Disease.