We like to think the Maestro believes in something—we like to believe everybody believes in something. Perhaps he sees his temple in the Kaka‘ako construction sites at dusk, its chorus as the interminable traffic down Ala Moana Boulevard and Nimitz Highway. . .

You couldn’t look like a black Harvey Fierstein in drag, live to be in your sixties, and not have learned a thing or two about surviving. . .