"Good morning, Mister Dave!" This is Kim Bling; I think it
has to be her; 9:10, and she is set to pick me up in 15 minutes or so. She often
checks on my voice, or what passes for these tones on the voicemail a few
minutes before pickup. "Are you sleeping?" I have not yet said a word. "No.
What's up?" She does a ramble on the traffic and being late. And she's got to
let me know that she's a frantic someday soccer mom of maybe 32 or so. She won't
be able to pick me up at 9:30. And so she's sorry. I've been about to lock up,
take my tote bag with stuff down the steps from my walk-up apartment to a lot,
leave the lot, then park my butt up a ways past a driveway near a yellow fire
hydrant, and as usual. I live on Kahoaloha Lane, by the way.* And does it sound
a little quaint to your ear, Hawaiian stuff like the name of the road where I
live? Maybe good. This little roadway is but one of maybe thousands of
Hawaiian-language words and/or phrases that label streets in Honolulu, and
