I subscribe to the James Joyce conceit of life: Getting through each day in a modern world is every bit as heroic as anything mythic ancient warriors faced back in the day.

Our world, too, is fraught with peril. There are Scyllas, Lotus Eaters and Cyclopes waiting to ensnare us as we make the rounds from house to work, Starbucks to Costco. There are even prunes disguised as plums, but more of that later. Just circumnavigating town on a weekday can bring plenty of unpleasant encounters that call for the same strength, endurance and patience that Ulysses needed to make his way home from Troy to Ithaca.

Fortunately, when I arrive safely home after such an odyssey, there are two faithful cats waiting to hear the tale of trials. This is what I told them until we all fell asleep on the couch, only to be roused again by the cold, rosy fingers of dawn daring us to face another heroic day.

First, kitties, there was this citizen plumber, loud and crude, at the coffee shop in the Enchanted Lake. He was back from a cash-only trip to the Calypso's Island, which he called The Philippines, where he went to battle woman after woman in the caves of Angeles City, paying a heavy price in pesos. Then he played golf for seven long days. Later, he was giving a friend tips on how lucrative the solar-water heating retrofitting industry could be. "I'll give you this job. A couple of hours, three thousand dollars and we split 'em," he said.

I know all this, along with everyone else held captive in the coffee shop, because he was speaking in a giant's voice into a tiny cell phone. Our hero was lucky to escape with his ears not burned off.

Next, after a brief visit to the underworld to do battle with assorted vixens, ogres and editors, there was a stop at the medical palace, where a young Aeolus warns me that my chances of making it to the big home — retirement — aren't so good if I don't lay off the potato chips, pulled-pork sandwiches and plate lunches. The only way to escape is by promising him that I'll head straight for the salad bar.

Which is how, near day's end, I ended up in the fruit section at the supermarket, a place normally as foreign to me as anything Odysseus encountered in any of his wanderings.

And there they were, like a chorus of Sirens singing out to me. They were plump and beckoning; not like a pizza at all. So I bought the lotuslike plums and was so eager to start my healthy journey that I attacked the juiciest-looking one even before I reached the parking lot.

Bah! It was bitter, and it got spit out. Dauntless, I tried another one. Same thing. I was headed back to the returns counter in a fighting mood when I read the label: "Plum-prunes. A product of Chile." (Hades, more likely). The fruit wasn't rotten, it was bred to taste that way.

Fortunately, the doctor hadn't mentioned beer, the balm of everyday heroes. As Joyce, or maybe it was John Lennon, said: Whatever gets you through the night.

Reach Mike Leidemann at mleidemann@honoluluadvertiser.com.