One more time...

The other night, while on my way home from The Palace I was crusing up King St. on my moped, which is more fun than a sack full of snakes at a Saturday Night revival... all was right with the world. The heavily-mufflered new cars hardly wispered as my `ped buzzed briskly, neon lights on store signs hummed louder. We had the green. Less than 50 feet from the intersection a full-sized pick-up ran a red light, center punching a late-model mini-van. He hit the van so hard that it spun 360 degrees plus a few and came to a stop heading in almost the same direction. Glass splinter chrome trim flying metal crunching loudness broke the thick Honolulu night-air silence. The guy in the truck went right through the intersection and slammed into a parked car on the right-hand side of street. The rest of us just rode through, as though nothing happened. No braking, no swerving, just all heads turned in horror looking at the wreckage that in another instant could have been us. I had escaped one more time.

But for what? Tonight, Dylan's words played in my brain: "... you did the bump and grind in your time, didn't you? You used to laugh at everybody that was hangin' out... now you don't talk so loud, now you don't feel so proud..." I swear he wrote those words for me.