When I was young and growing up in the Midwest, I’d often corner my father in the family room where he’d be sitting listening to the Brothers Cazimero. Once I had him trapped, I would make him tell me about the sixties and seventies. (Should be known that none of this cornering or trapping was really necessary given his penchant for father-son time as well as the good ol’ days.) Despite being a straight-edge lawyer whose house rules included no television during the week and holding hands for grace at Sunday dinners, he had lived one hell of a young adulthood. The young Irish kid from Kansas City dropped out of society to surf and wait tables at the original Duke’s in Waikiki — where Don Ho played the nightly entertainment — before skipping over to Saipan for a short stint teaching and scuba diving. He eventually met my beautiful mother in Japan and they got married. Soon thereafter, they returned to Kansas City for him to get his law degree, and for them to start and raise a family.
But to this day his favorite dress-up will have him in an Aloha shirt. And more often than not he’ll have a lil’ Hawaiian guitar playing in the background at the house.
Anyway, one of the most amazing things to me about his youth continues to be that he never did drugs. He basically fit the bill for island-bummin’ pothead and he knew people — smart and inspired people who tripped on early versions of LSD and the like. But never felt the need to. He was happy and “high” enough simply waking up to a glass of pineapple juice and the sights and smells of paradise.
That’s what this edit of Irish charger Cain Kilcullen reminds me of: an out of body experience without the chemicals.
