Getting Lei'd

You know it’s going to be the best last day of co-op ever when upon arriving at the office you get lei’d.

Yup, I went there, I cracked that joke. Have been waiting nearly three months to do it. Thought I might be mature and resist the urge to make a snarky pun? Guess again!

My lei was gorgeous, intricately woven white ginger and fragrant, while Travis’s was made of red berries and was about as manly as a lei can get.

I basically spent the entire morning wandering around and showing everyone I’d gotten lei’d. You should try it sometime; it’s a real mood booster.

At the lunch hour, the younger attorneys took us out to Chinatown for Pho. Which is pronounced “Fahhhh” and not “Foooooeeeee” like everyone on the East Coast says it. Have been waiting years to point that one out. Snark snark snark.

I knew this was going to be an awesome lunch because directly behind us was a tank of Arrowanas (enormous silver barracuda-looking fish, which always look like they’re frowning) and upon announcing their name as such, one attorney pointed out “Oh, I thought you said marijuana). Turned out, that our lunch time conversation was possibly the crappiest I’ve ever had. It involved the two married attorneys with microhuman infant daughters. Like all guys I know, they’re all about pride and glory, I mean, what guy isn’t, right? However, the subject at hand was potty training, i.e. the making of stool, going # 2, grunting out a lumpy, dropping a deuce, or as they say in Hawaii, “making shishi.” I’m bringing this back to the East Coast with me. Instead of excusing myself to the restroom, I’m going to announce, “Man, I gotta make shishi like it’s my job.”

I found this topic of conversation hilarious, because as an unmarried grubby law student dating an equally grubby, though somewhat more legendary law student, children are a foreign concept to me, as remote and unfathomable as contingent vested remainders (for those of you who don’t speak the law, I think this has something to do with title insurance, but I could be wrong. I once saw an attorney do a happy dance over it).

Anyway, back to crap. Travis and I and the one other unmarried barren attorney sat rapt as these two guys described in hilarious detail the trials and tribulation of potty training a microhuman. One had had a major setback involving potty trauma, where one parent got peed on and now the child felt so bad she refused to go (so sad), but the other had finally achieved success and as his wife had taped the event (not the actual making of shishi, but the afterparty) and there now exists a video of a very intelligent attorney on camera, whooping it up and singing “ Baby, made poopie in the potty! Woohoo!” I would very much like to have seen this video, but didn’t know how to ask.

My own brilliant Dad figured out very early on, that with regard to potty training me, food would have to be involved. I don’t know the specifics since my mom can’t talk about it without convulsing in fits of laughter, but apparently, my Dad, who is a chemist and holds degrees from various institutions of higher learning, made some sort of M&M trail designed to lead me to the potty. Somehow eating candy off the floor was supposed to trigger the urge to use the potty. Well here’s what happened: being a glutton, I happily followed the candy trail all the way to the potty and upon getting there; guess what I did with the potty? I lost interest. Once the candies were gone, what was I really going to do with the potty, anyway? It’s not like the potty was made of candy.

(If anyone else is thinking of the Family Guy episodes where Peter and Brian trap James Wood TWICE with this method of candy trails, all I have to say to you is: “OOOHH, a piece of candy!”)

I don’t know actually how it was then that I came to use the potty, since my Mom can’t get past the candy trail part without aforementioned laughter. But I imagine, I summoned up all my mental capacity that lay dormant in me and decided that making shishi in your own pants is gross.

But yes, these two young attorneys were absolutely mesmerizing in their tales of potty training, and the father who had had the potty success with his microhuman daughter described the method in which he was potty trained, which involved his mom and sitting in a bathroom for two days straight. This seemed pretty hard core to me, but then again, I was a flunky of the candy trail school of thought.

There was not irony lacking in this conversation, these two attorneys are both freaking brilliant at their jobs and would probably blow all of us way at trivia pursuit and other tests of the intellect, so in recounting the highs and lows of potty training, there was some self-awareness that they were literally celebrating the making of poo.

Of all my co-op lunches, even the one where I choked on a fishbone with the WilmerHale investment management guys and nearly died trying to clear it the basement bathroom of Kingfish Hall (good times), this lunch had to be my favorite. Crap is one of my very favorite subjects. And for those of you readers who aren’t lawyers, this just goes to show that lawyers are people too. They celebrate the making of shishi in the potty just like every other parent.

When I returned to the office, since I had no work to do, I spent the afternoon roaming the halls with Travis, both of us showing off our leis once more. I left half an hour early, and that was the end. The last day of co-op ever.

The night would not end there, there was a hilarious Valentine’s Day event thrown by the biggest divorce firm in town (their motto: divorce humanely. I think this is like saying: smoke healthy. Or: kill sparingly) and later one of the very awesome and chill attorneys who could not be present at the crappiest lunch ever, met up with Travis and I and the other barren unmarried attorney and showed us the coolest outside roof top bar in Honolulu. Unmarried barren attorneys do not talk of crap. We talk in practicalities. Example: how long after someone reaches legal age may he or she spend the night with no fear of them booting in your bed? The consensus was at least a full year before the individual may spend the night without the fear of you waking up and having your bed smell like sophomore year of college.

Leis, shishi, roof top mojitos, not a bad way to end THE BEST DARN CO-OP EVER and now onto the opening of the floodgates as Aaron, Anna and Melissa, and the Martin family parental units descend upon the islands…and hilarity ensues.

Behind Blue Eyes

On the last day of birthday weekend, I arose once more at the butt crack of dawn (4:15 am), reluctantly readied myself, piled into the P.O.S. rental and headed out down a road, that kinda looked like a highway, but no signs, driving toward where it felt cold. I was stoked though because I was going to explore the sea caves. And dive with sea turtles and dolphins and be one with marine life and end my birthday weekend on a high note.

Not so much.

Upon arriving, I learned it was too rough to go out. So there I was at (wait for it) 5:12 am with the entire day ahead of me and a free voucher to come back to the Na Pali Coast when it was less rough. I considered using that voucher as TP the next time I ran out, I was so furious. WORST END TO BIRTHDAY WEEKEND EVER (ALL CAPS, SO THERE).

I got back in the car, still dark, prepared to drive along the road, that kinda looked like a highway, but no signs, driving toward where it no longer felt cold. I was fuming. I didn’t even care about the axe murder in the back seat. Go ahead, let him try and hook me, see how far it got him.

This funk lasted all of ten minutes.

Because as I drove along, I saw it rising out of the darkness. The golden arches, expander of thighs and clogger of arteries. It wasn’t just any McDonalds, mind you, it was THE McDonalds that Evan and Devon had told me about, the destination of late night munchies attack. It was Camelot.

At a minute before 5:30, the place was full of locals all giving me the eye. Who was this slightly disheveled pale face? What was she doing with such a ravenous expression? Where had she come from? I walked past all of these melatonin-enhanced men and ordered 4 apple pies. Yeah that’s right. The girl looked around and to the left of me to see if I was with anyone. “You want 4?”” She stammered. “As in 4?” Mind you, 4 pies at McDonalds, even the mecca of midnight munchies is still just about $4.20 (snark snark), but clearly, I had alarmed her with the look in my eyes.

They were the best damn apple pies I have ever eaten from a fast food eatery and I’m sorry that I didn’t buy every last one of them like Evan had. I could have easily eaten 16. Apple pies in Hawaii make apple pies in Boston look bad. Apple pies in Hawaii are DEEP FRIED in delicious goldenness. None of this nonsensical softly baked, slightly soggy, doused in cinnamon crap. I ate two before I even left the parking lot.

From there, I decided to drive up to Spouting Horn, for which I had seen a small checkbook sized sign for, and watch sunrise there. It was surprisingly not difficult to find and once there, I was alone, watching a huge crack in the rock shoot water up. It made a magnificent sound and such, like a panting dragon exhaling exhaust out its nose, but the jutting out of the land made it a lousy place to watch the sunrise. So I moved on in search of a beach closer to Kapa’a, where I was staying, hoping to make it in time for sunrise.

I got lost.

I wound up on an access road with cows.

I took a sharp turn and one of my apple pies fell from its bag and landed on the floor of the car. Not a good sign.

Then it began to pour. Hard. Monsoon style. So I pulled over into some pasture and started cursing the guides at the sea caves, who in reality, had really just been looking out for my safety by not taking me out, but at this point, I was calling them names that would make a sailor blanch. Ho-hum ho-hum.

I reached for the apple pie that had been knocked to the floor. During the impact one of its perfect fried corners had been damaged. More swear words erupted, obscured only by the beating rain.

(10 minutes pass. I consider my bad luck. I also consider tipping over one of the cows I was sharing the side of the road with when the rain stopped. Just to see if it felt good. I was that irritated).

When the rain passed, a beautiful rainbow appeared in its place. I started to thank the higher power for my own personal rainbow and the deliciousness of apple pies. An idea struck me, a rarity. I got out, wiped down the rental car roof with the towel I was going to use in the sea caves, and sat there on the roof, watching the rainbow and eating the remaining apple pies (pics 3 & 4 were taken from the roof of the P.O.S. rental car. So there, rental car agency). This was my own personal birthday rainbow.

When my own personal rainbow finally faded I drove along the access road until I found a road, that kinda looked like a highway, but no signs, driving toward where it no longer felt cold, in the direction of home. I found a small beach park and saw two things. The first was the light house off in the distance, the light house and it occurred to me that since I would be on Kauai until 6:00 pm, I should squeeze it in. The second thing I saw was a naked dude doing some sort of yoga. All I will say is, seeing a naked dude doing the saluting of the sun by a crouching dog or whatever it is called, no matter how attractive the dude is (and believe me, this man could not be called such), is never something you want to see before the sun is entirely up.

So I made my way back to the hotel, changed out of bathing suit and other sea cave clothes, and impulsively decided to drive up to the lighthouse and maybe from there, who knows, maybe Hanalei. Where Puff the Magic Dragon was from.

Nothing eventful or snarky happened to me at the Lighthouse. It was a gorgeous old lighthouse that doubled as a bird sanctuary and by bird sanctuary, I don’t mean, where birds are occasionally glimpsed in the trees, I mean, there were black foot boobies, albatrosses, nenes (sacred Hawaiian geese) and great frigate (friggit) birds everywhere swooping and diving. To atone for my earlier murderous bad funk thoughts, I made nice with the old people from a tour bus and helped them spot humpback whales.

So I thought I had atoned for bad morning bad mood, right? WRONG! From the lighthouse, I drove up to Hanalei, which in Hawaiian means, most gorgeous place on the planet. No, it doesn’t, it means, beautiful lush valley where pot-smoking dragon lives. No, it doesn’t mean that either. But it should.

Hanalei is beautiful wild coastal beaches and green luscious mountains as far as the eye can see. I drove through the beautiful little town of Hanalei, past the church, and the elementary school. On the road out toward the bay where Puff lived, I saw wild horses on the side of the road (see pic). This was better than the sea caves, I thought. I reasoned I had already: 1. consumed the best apple pies known to man; 2. enjoyed my own personal rainbow; 3. seen a naked dude doing yoga in the park; 4. explored the light house and seen more birds than I knew what to do with; 5. Walked over to within 10 yards of wild horses. What could go wrong, right?

Famous. Last. Words.

While at the aforementioned Hanalei Bay where Puff lived, I was shocked and awed by the beautiful trees, the wild surf, the clear blue sky. So I ventured down a steep little path, no more than 10 feet long, to get a better picture. And then I bit it hard. My feet gave out from under me and I fell down the path, down an embankment full of rocks, bramble, and roots and landed in a rag doll snark-o heap on the beach.

I am happy to report the camera was fine. I am happy to report no one was around to see this either. But alas, as I laid there shocked, my pain receptors too overloaded to release any adrenaline or even let me cry at this point, I was a little worried no one was around to help me up. I laid there for what felt like an eternity. Everything hurt, from the fire in my neck, to the scratches on my back, to soft spot of my jaw I’d hit a rock on, everything else just throbbed and the colors I saw from behind my eyes were quite stunning, but I was so dazed I couldn’t even gather up enough brain cells to drop a really well deserved epithet. But man, I wanted to.

At some point, I realized laying all tangled in the sand was a bad idea, I would probably be assailed by black rock crabs if I laid there any longer, so I reluctantly pulled myself up, inspected the worst of my oozing cuts and already forming bruises and to hark back to my dear dear Evan and Devon, I let out one really heartfelt “F-ing Motherf-ing Pigf---ing Pigf---er.” It felt amazing. Most of the pain skittered away at the utterance of those four magic words.

Luckily dear readers, I always carry a first aid kit when I travel (NERD ALERT) and I cracked open that bad boy and had my way with the Neosporin. And all of the stupidly shaped bandages. Honestly, who needs bandaids in the shape of butterflies, who possibly gets injured in such a manner that would require such a shape?

I ended my exploring in Hanalei on that note. Somehow the urge to get out and climb around had left me so I drove back to Kapa’a and located the place to eat that a friend at the firm had recommended. Scotty’s BBQ by the sea is not much to look at from the front, but as for ocean views (see last pic), it can’t be beat. My waiter was made from the same mold as Evan and Devon, and by this I mean he was a stoner, but the similarities ended there. Evan and Devon were endearing, adorable hippies. “Pepper,” that’s what I’m calling him, was one of those forty-fiftyish type of guys who never learned when to hang it all up. He used the word “dude” far too frequently. It took him three tries to take my order. I ordered Kalua pig sandwich and a diet coke. The sandwich was the standard signature menu item. It’s not as if I asked for anything special. On the third time I said it for him, I broke the words up into syllables. Kahhhh-luuuuuu-ahhhhhhhh pig sandwich.

When Pepper came back to the table, he stared at me for a long while making like he wanted to hand me my diet coke, but didn’t. This made me nervous. Finally, he spoke:

Pepper: “Dude, you have real pretty eyes. Anyone ever told you that?”

Me: (what the heck do you say to that anyway? Yes? No, that’s arrogant. But if you say no, then it sounds like you’re fishing. So I opted for silence, polite smile, eyes on the tablecloth).

Pepper: “Your shirt really brings the blue in your eyes out. They’re like ocean blue.”

Me: “Thanks.” Secret smirk rapidly spreading across my face.

And then he left, without leaving me the diet coke he’d brought over. Funny thing was, I was wearing a navy blue Northeastern pull-over (it was windy by the water), and my eyes are hazel, a jumble of greens and browns, but definitely, not ever, have they been mistaken for blue. Not by anyone in the short, happy history of this snarkster.

When Pepper brought over my Kahhhh-luuuuuu-ahhhhhhhh pig sandwich, he sat down beside me and began to talk. This was slightly jarring because, well, I wanted to stuff my face with said pulled pork but instead I had to nod politely and smile at stoner terms I didn’t understand mixed with surfing references I equally did not comprehend. Before he went off again, he told me again just how pretty my blue eyes were. Apparently, they made my whole face. How nice.

I just laughed as I ate Kalua pig and watched the ocean.

And that was the end of birthday weekend, one very strange, but lovely day. A day of triumph and a day of loss. A day of apple pie and nude yoga. A day of rain and of rainbows. Of great big birds and wild horses. And of course, one very baked waiter.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, I give you the Amazing Menini!

Ladies, back me up here. Ponies. As a child, who didn't want one? Once I figured out unicorns could not be purchased at any retail location, I set my sights on a horse. I read all of the Saddle Club adventures, collected the Breyer horses, watched all the Black Stallion movies and designed elaborate plans for the construction of a stable and paddock in our suburban backyard. My parents weren't sold on my brilliant architectural plans nor the feasibility of a horse in the backyard, heck, I couldn't even sell them on a dog, the closest I ever got was two rabbits, neither of which was allowed to live in the house (even though, oddly enough, my slob of a brother was allowed to sleep in the house). So I did the next best thing to owning a horse. I pretended I was one. I would gallop around the yard, then slow to a canter, and then a trot. I would toss my hair and whinny. I can't really tell you how long I did this for, although my parents have a videotape of me in a pumpkin patch pretending to be a horse. I've got to be at least 10. (Back me up here, Mom).

So for part II of my birthday, I splurged and bought myself a private horseback ride across the mountains. I picked this ranch because it seemed a little commercial tourist trappy than some of the others. I arrived at the ranch and my tour guide, we'll call her Sara, who I liked instantly, led me to a paddock and told me I could go on in and pick any horse that I wanted. Seriously. A kid in the candy store had nothing on me. There were at least 15-20 horses of all kinds and colors, quarter horses and mustangs, palominos and pintos. These horses were a cut above the standard rent-a-horse. Some moved away from me as I approached, others tossed their heads, some just kept eating grass. There were a few good contenders, but then I saw him in the back corner, a chestnut with a white blaze down his nose and three white stockings (white markings on his legs). The horse cocked his head like a dog and seemed to smile at me. I approached, cautiously, and the horse seemed to smile even more broadly. I turned and called to Sara, "I want that one."

Sara looked disapproving. "That's Menini," she said, as if that would explain it. She shook her head, "we don't let kids ride him, we don't really like women to ride him either. It's not that he's not a good horse…it's just that…well he's a bolter." I pouted. On a practical people skills point, you shouldn't tell someone they can pick out any horse and then the first one she picks out, you tell her she can't have him. She sized me up thoughtfully. "You ever ride before?" A loaded question. Of course I'd been on pony rides as a child and had occasionally gone for horse back rides on vacations I think, bringing my time on actual horses to, oh let's just say I can count on one hand. "Yes," I replied, just as vague. She asked if I had ever ridden before, not if I competed on the Olympic equestrian team. "Alright, you can have Menini," she said. Excellent, I thought. I was probably going to break my neck.

Menini seemed to be as pleased as I was. We saddled up (well, Sara tacked up both horses, but at least I mounted by myself), and went over basic techniques, rein holding, stopping the horse, backing up the horse, making the horse go faster (I kinda got the impression this wasn't going to be an issue as I could feel Menini literally chomping at the bit). I had practically memorized how to ride a horse as a child without ever actually doing it, so in some weird way, some of this felt like second nature.

Sara and I headed across the valley. She was a petite, trim woman with beautiful blond hair wound tightly in a braid down her back. I liked her instantly; she was easy and interesting to chat with (which was good because for the next four hours it was just going to be the two of us). She'd been at the ranch for twelve years and had passed the time studying horse behavior.

Horses, she said, were pack animals with a natural pecking order. Those at the top did not mingle with those in the middle and the positions could change. For example, Menini was the #7 horse in a pack of 22, but if he got injured or sick, he could drop down to the teens. Menini hung out with the #8 and 9 horses, but didn't care much for #6 or #10 (in fact, Menini, when irritated, would kick the #10 horse). He was a true son of Kauai, having been born on the island, and could trace some of his ancestry to mustangs. The vast majority of the other horses were American Quarterhorses from Canada, ironically enough. The ranch had a contact out in Canada they liked doing business with.

We ascended a high plateau of wide open space. "Now remember," Sara started to say, but her words were lost as Menini took off. We'd gone over the finer points of staying on the horse while said horse was running, but in actual practice, it's quite counter-intuitive. Instead of hunkering down into the saddle, you're supposed to go loose, and let the horse bounce you up and down. In the air. Imagine banging a bag of ice against a hard surface to break up the ice so you can put it in your drink more readily. Now imagine your pelvis is the bag of ice and the saddle and horse beneath are the hard surface.

Sara was pulling on the reins of her horse to slow him up, so I did the same. Menini was reluctant to slow to say the least. Sara congratulated me on my posture and keeping my seat. I was pretty sure my jeans were the only things keeping fragments of my pelvis from spilling out. I gave Menini a pat on the neck. Good boy, I thought, you just wrecked my mom's best shot at grandkids. John, it's all up to you now, pal.

I coaxed some more horse insight out of Sara. She touched upon the relationship between horses and humans. Forget National Velvet and My Horse, Flicka. Horses were prey animals, and humans were predator animals. And both species understood that. In essence, the horse is by nature, suspicious and nervous around us. If you couldn't make the horse feel safe, then the horse wouldn't trust you. The way to make a horse feel safe was to take control, make smart choices, not leave too much give in the reins. If the horse didn't trust you, he would find ways to make your life as unpleasant as he felt, going off in another direction, ignoring commands, etc. Or, Sara shrugged, sometimes they're just mischievous, she said with an eye toward Menini. Menini turned his head to look at me as if to say, who me?

Sure enough, as we moved along through rusted gates and rocky terrain, Menini would let me know if he was displeased. Once when I turned him too wide going through a gate, he banged my left side up against the fence with an indignant snort. Fair enough. Another time as I took him down too steep an incline, rather than opting for a more gentle path, he pulled me over to the trees so I would get hit with the branches. Sara laughed. Her horse, Bruno, which was her own that she kept stabled on the ranch, was an equine angel, a model of good behavior. This horse was making us look bad.

About half-way through the ride, we tied up the horses and hiked into a gorgeous, pristine waterfall for lunch. I self-consciously removed my jeans, hoping that fragments of my shattered pelvis would not be spilling out. We chatted about life and ate turkey sandwiches and oranges. A pale family on a private ride with their tour guide joined us, to my dismay. These people were complaining about the horses, the food, the waterfall, the price of macadamia nuts, the quality of the oxygen in the air. After a few minutes of this, Sara and I looked at each other, both thinking the same thing, either we'd have to leave or set them on fire. Since neither one of us had any matches, we pulled on our clothes and got out some climbing equipment (this I hadn't known about it ahead of time) and scaled up the walls of the waterfall. I may have slipped and wound up knee deep in water. Ho-hum ho-hum. I may have done that twice.

Bruno whinnied to Sara upon our return from the hike out of the waterfall. Menini eyed me. I couldn't be certain, but I felt like he was judging my wet pants. But, he let me scratch him behind the ears so all was forgiven.

A few minutes later when we hit open ground again, Sara said offhandedly, "Menini wants to go again, but you're in control. You get to decide the pace." Uh huh. So Menini and I compromised. When Sara wasn't looking, Menini took off and I made it look I'd given him the go by clucking to him encouraging. My pelvis shattered, I feared now for the structural integrity of my femurs.

"Great job!" Sara said when I had finally slowed Menini to a respectable pace. "That was excellent, you've really got a hold of him. I'm very impressed." I squeezed Menini ever so slightly with my knees. Our little secret, pal.

Then I heard the rustling in the tall grass and saw dark movement. "Sara," I started.

"Pull down on the reins, hard," she said harshly. "Back him up," she commanded. "Back him up!"

Brun was doing that head toss and eye rolling thing, horses do in movies when they're about to go into battle. His front feet came up off the ground.

"Wild pigs," was all she said.

As if on command, a porker family of four emerged. The largest, I assumed to be the male, was black and lean with spiky hair and he was a good size, he nearly came up to Menini's knees. The other, I presumed to be Mama Porker, was lighter, the color of Octoberfest (I'm sorry, Carota, but she was that color and nothing described her any better). Then came the two snuffling baby bacons, one as light as wheat and the other darker like the male. The female squealed like a pitch pipe, and there was some group chortling. From the pigs. Not us.

Bruno was just not having any of this and he was really fighting Sara. Who looks bad now, Bruno? Although I'd pulled up Menini on the reins, he stood there calmly, turning only one to the side as if to say, "pigs. So what?" I agreed. I ate pigs for breakfast. Literally. Now, had I been on the ground and stumbled upon them, I may have felt differently. I may have shrieked like a little girl and run screaming, swearing off all pork products. But sitting atop Menini, I felt quite confident in my position and relationship with this horse. I was pretty certain that Menini would drop kick any porker that came close enough. We both shared the common interest of wanting to see pigs fly. Snark snark. I'll be here all night, folks.

When the danger had passed, and the four-legged nuclear ham family had made a beeline for the trees (no I couldn't get a picture. Although Menini had demonstrated much valor, I wasn't about to give on the reins and go for the camera). Sara told me she hadn't seen wild pigs in five or six years. They had a tendency to spook the horses. There'd been an incident on a group tour awhile back and they'd had to refund the entire tour. And shoot the horses. Just kidding, seeing if you were still reading. Sara gave me lots of compliments for being so level headed, but really, it was all Menini. He'd been the one to hold his ground. I smirked over at Bruno. Way to drop the ball, big guy.

The sun was drooping in the sky over the mountains of the Hanalei region. It was time to turn back. Somehow Sara turned my four hour tour into a fiver. Menini pranced forward, head high, big brave baller that he was. (Make way, here comes the high stepper). When we got to the paddock, I seriously considered asking to put him in the back of the Aveo and drive off with him. I could carry him on the plane, right? Usually in my world, an incident involving wild pigs and horses would have resulted in disastrous injury to my person. So of course, I wanted to make him my house horse. He'd have looked just dandy in my small 1BR rental.

Sara did let me give Menini his feed bucket and he nuzzled me appreciatively. This obviously had nothing to do with me feeding him. It was love, I tell you. I know this because my boyfriend responds the same way when I bring him food. Love, I tell you.

Second part of birthday: ride across the mountain valleys? Check. Managed to stay upright upon the horse without injury to self or the animal? Check. Wild pigs sighting? Check.

Stay tuned, sports fans, for the final part III in which Jess drives all the way back around the island to explore sea caves only to find out it's too rough to boat.

The Fabulous Bake(d) Boys

I knew there was going to be trouble when I called the night before for directions to the shop location for my sunrise bike ride down Waimea Canyon. The guy on the phone, who turned out later to be Evan, told me, "yeah, we don't have interstates out here, so whatcha need to do is get on a road that looks big enough to be a highway, roll down the window, and stick your hand out. When it gets cold, that means you're getting toward the ocean and you're close."

I wanted to say: "so you would like me to drive over an hour across your unfamiliar island wilderness at 4:30 am with no sun nor streetlights to guide me, along a road that might look like a highway and will feel 'cold' when I stick my hand out of the window. Are you high?"

Instead I asked politely. "Is there some kind of landmark, so I'll know to stop?"

"Oh sure, sure. There's a yellow submarine." And then he snickered at his own clever little pop culture reference.

Against all better judgment, I rose at 4:15 the next morning, stumbled into the rental car, an absolute magnificent P.O.S. and took my best guess as how to proceed. To be fair, I knew the place was in Poipu so I headed that way as indicated by a small green sign that was roughly the size of a checkbook and obscured by reeds. I did not roll down the window immediately because it was pitch dark out and the road looked like the opening scene of a horror movie where a forgettably pretty girl is cruising down some country road, singing some girly chick empowerment song (totally off-key because somehow that's endearing) and a stranger steps into the road, she swerves, crashes in the embankment. Dazed from the crash she gets out of the car and runs off into the dark woods, only to be cut down in gruesome fashion by a maniac with a hook for hand. No, on second thought, I was not going to drive with the windows down, the door unlocked. Nor would I sing off-key or talk to myself in narrative fashion. And just to be safe, I had checked the backseat for homicidal maniacs prior to climbing into the car.

When I had driven for an hour or so, having seen no signs or turns or any signs of life, I called the shop and Evan said "dude you're like 10 minutes away, can't you feel how cold it is?" He sounded suspiciously amiable for this early in the morning.

Sure enough, in the gloom a little yellow sub appeared and then an adventure shop for kayaking and biking. These shops are always run by hippies and have a certain, gritty appeal. Evan and Devon,* our tour guides, were both adorned in ratty cargos and even rattier t-shirts. Evan's read: "club sandwiches, not seals" (no joke) and Devon had opted for the quintessential Bob Marley. They both wore knit caps bearing the Rasta red, yellow, and green.

The only other people on the bike tour that morning were a pair of newlyweds. They were shiny and gushy and beaming brighter than my headlights. The new wife, a trim CPA from Dallas, inquired brightly, "oh, did you bring someone?" Just the homicidal killer in the backseat I rode down with. But don't ask him how he got a hook for his hand, he's real sensitive, I thought about telling her. But even I could find no reason to be outwardly snarky to newlyweds, they were just that cute and adorable, so instead, I told her my story about how it was my birthday and I'd never been to Kauai and to make sure that I didn't sound like a total loser spinster, added my boyfriend would be coming out to visit for Valentine's Day. She gave me a slight nod of approval. I wasn't totally beyond help and clearly wasn't poaching her man. New hubby was from DC, an attorney at a prominent DC firm, and had lots to say to me when he saw I was sporting my NUSL sweatshirt. Normally, I don't broadcast the school pride, particularly when the student body is waging war over a stupid t-shirt design (hey it's my blog and I'll snark if I want to), but the morning had been chilly and the sweatshirt was hooded.

Evan and Devon piled us into a van with a trailer and then dispensing with the polite formalities ("oh hey, where ya from?" "How long you staying?") launched into a robust discussion of the medicinal and spiritual benefits of pot. Of course, they didn't call it pot, they called it "herb" and new wife, trying to be polite, started making inquiries about the herbs of the island. It took me about 90 seconds to figure out she thought Evan and Devon were talking kitchen herbs. She wanted to know where she could buy some. This misunderstanding was not lost on Evan and Devon. The two embarked on a game to see who could make the newlyweds realize first they weren't talking about oregano and thyme.

Evan: "Yeah, yeah, you know our nickname on the island is the Roach Brothers."
New wife: "that's a lovely nickname. But you two aren't brothers?"
Devon: "No ma'am."
New wife: silence. Crickets chirping.

Devon: "When you guys get done here, you should head up to Hanalei. It's a really pretty area and Puff the Magic Dragon lives up there."
New husband: "that sounds wonderful. We'll get directions from you when we return."

Then finally, exasperated:

Evan: "My favorite movie is half-baked."
Devon: "My favorite song lyric of all time is 'I get high with a little help from my friends.' And I do."
Evan: "I smoke weed like it's my job."
Devon: "Smoking weed is my job."

(Okay, so they didn't say this last part, but they were laying it on pretty thick and I was shaking in the backseat and nearly lost it completely when I caught sight of Evan grinning at me in the mirror. Although I'm a Republican and my idea of a good time is depriving women of their reproductive rights, sealing up our borders with armed guards, drinking the blood of newborns and hanging out at gun ranges with my card-carrying NRA cronies, I am not wholly immune to the irresponsible charm and childlike wonder of hippies. And I did like these two. They were sweet natured. I liked them ever better when we stopped at a bakery and they came out with an entire box of 32 fresh-baked muffins for the 5 of us. Of course, they ate half in a munchies feeding frenzy but that was fine with me.

We drove into the Waimea Canyon and up to the lookout just in time for sunrise. The brilliant orange sun rose over the Canyon, illuminating the lush greens of the trees and the deep red dirt. On the Canyon wall to the left, the sun revealed a hidden waterfall and a bird swooped down into the rays of light and disappeared.

Evan took us on a tour of our bikes and how to properly operate them while Devon went off into the woods for a bit. Wonder what he was doing? Ho-hum, Ho-hum.

Evan's directions were quite simple. Do not crash the bikes. That was the only direction.

Evan led the way and I brought up the rear with the two love birds in between. Ever so often I would look over my shoulder to see Devon driving the dirty white van behind me and praying that all the rumors about pot and how they slowed your reaction time were false. I imagined him losing control of the van and mangling me beneath the wheels. My death would be ruled death by second-hand marijuana use. Pot kills.

We coasted down the Canyon, the morning wind whipping against my cheeks. I was silently thanking my boyfriend who had coaxed me back into riding after retiring from the biking circuit (age 12 or so: skidded to a stop on some grit on the road, went over the handlebars. Decided life was too short for pavement burns). I was thinking about my Dad, who had hiked across the country, hitting the national parks, wondering if how I felt now was how he felt then. This was what it was to be alive, the wind all around you, the red dirt and green trees and yellow sun rushing by and smearing into one color. Finally, I thought of my mother. It was just a little after 7:30. I'd been born at 7:13am in the morning many years ago on a cold February day. Here I was now enjoying this ride because of all her laborious efforts, and for this, I was thankful.

Every half hour or so, Evan would pull us over a turn off and impart some wisdom about the island of Kauai and Devon would get out of the van and go smoke up in the woods.

First stop: outside a little brown hut with a hand painted sign that read "lost dogs":
Evan: "So we got these wild pigs, yeah man. And a few months out of the year, you can hunt them with guns, but the rest of the year, you gotta do with a knife and a dog."
New wife: "that sounds gruesome!"
Evan: "sure sure. Real bloody mess. I got a Leatherman. Want to have a go at it? Nah, I'm just messing with ya!" And then he pealed into laughter, tears coming to his red-rimmed eyes. It just wasn't funny enough to warrant a laugh, so instead I started humming my favorite Talking Heads lyric in my head: "we're on a road to noooowwwhhhhheeeeerrrreeee."

Second stop: Evan teaches us how to huff Eucalyptus.
Evan: "Eucalyptus was introduced to Kauai to help with erosion, but the purists," he says dismissively, "think it crowds out the native plants." He inhales deeply.
New wife: "I hear eucalyptus is just great for chest colds."
New hubby: "This is remarkable. It's really opening up my passages."
Jess: I guess you can huff just about anything, right Evan? (No, I didn't say this aloud. But believe me, I wanted to).

Third stop: Evan points to an island off in the distance.
Evan: "That's Ni'ihau (Nee-e-how). The forbidden island. No can visit and only people who are born there or marry into the culture may live there. If you move away then you can't come back. I hear they do some wild crazy shite out there." He says that last part almost wistfully.
Jess: So let me get this straight, here on this island for fun, the men run around in the red dirt chasing wild pigs with knives and in their quieter moments, huff eucalyptus. Just exactly what kind of wild crazy shite are you missing out on Ni'ihau, Evan? Snark snark.

Fourth stop: Evan teaches us to huff another plant. I can't remember the name but it is squashy yellow with a shiny gleam. I actually feel a little dizzy, but this could be the bike ride. Devon climbs out of the van and makes another visit to the woods.
New husband: "You guys smell that? Smells like something's burning."
Evan: "No man, that's just the woods. It smells that way in the morning."
Jess: (to herself)(Smoky the Bear says: only you can prevent forest fires).

Fifth stop: We are by a small stream and Evan rips into the game warden who's just been caught "reef bleaching." We all stare at him blankly, the silence gets uncomfortable.
Me: (sighing. Okay, I'll bite) "Evan, what's reef bleaching?"
Evan: (looking surprised) "It's when you take your boat over a reef, dump some bleach, cast your net, and catch all the fish that float up dead to the top. It's illegal."
Me: "What do they do with the fish?"
Evan: (looking at me like I ride the short bus). "They uh…eat them. Obviously."
Me: (giving him by best "look pal, if I'm on the short bus, you're my seatmate" look) "So you're telling me, they eat the fish they've just doused with bleach?"
Evan stares back at me blankly. "Yeah?"
New wife: "So your game warden just got caught bleaching the reef?"
Evan: "Yeah man. F-ing Motherf-ing Pigf---ing Pigf---er. And Kauai's letting him keep his job."
New wife mouth opens wide and drops to canyon floor.
Evan: "I know, right! How can we leave someone like that in charge?"
Somehow I suspected the news that the warden gotto keep his job was not why new wife's mouth is hanging open like that.

The bike ride ended too quickly.

The Roach brothers took us up the ocean route back to the shop and the iconic yellow submarine. "That," Devon said proudly, "is the western-most McDonalds in the U.S." He erupted into giggles. "I've had some good times there, man."
"Yeah dude," Evan chimed in "there was this one time, it was like, 3am or something, I went in there and was like, 'this is a life or death emergency, you gotta sell me every apple pie in the place,' and they did, and it was crazy man, I ate, like 16 apple pies. Dude, I was like, I'm loving it!"
Devon, his eyes wide. "Dude! I'm loving it too."

Dude, I was also loving it, loving all of it, but for markedly different reasons. You see, this was just my birthday morning, it wasn't even 9:00 am yet, and really, what better way to start my birthday, than a sunrise bike ride down the Waimea Canyon with the Roach brothers, a wealth of cultural and homeopathic information. If I ever got in the trouble in the woods, by golly, I could just huff Eucalyptus til I didn't care about being lost anymore.

But like I said, it was just morning. Stay tuned for Part II of my birthday in which I venture across the mountains on horseback and encounter actual wild pigs.


* named have been changed and satirized to protect the stoned.

Enter the Dragon

My cell vibrates and it's Travis texting me to let me know the plans for the evening. He describes the dress code for the evening as "skankalicious." This prompts me to go to the closest and identify something black with bling, but without shoulder straps. Surely, this will do.

As I'm readying to go out, I g-chat with Ira, not really paying attention to what I'm doing, and somehow cut myself on a Pizza Hut box. Oh, I am not joking. I don't know quite how, but somehow I sliced my finger, paper-cut painful, and start bleeding on my leg. Since I am not a fan of bleeding on one's evening attire, even if it is black and skankalicious, I throw on flip flops and dash to The Pharmacy (that is its clever name) to buy band aids. I figure that while I'm out, I should probably hit the ATM.

As the Pro-Bowl draws near, the Vegas street walker talent has been arriving in droves and the streets are clotted with them (Travis is right. They are quite prettier and more high-end than the normal crew.) On my way out from the ATM, I am mistaken for one by a tubby frat guy in a ridiculous aloha print (yeah that's right, pal. You looked ridiculous), who looks me up head to toe, asks me with a leer if I'm having a good night. Now, go ahead men, I know this is the part where you think "well, Snarky was asking for it in that outfit." That's fine. In my world, if you're a tubby frat guy in a stupid shirt, you're asking for it. Besides, I'm a little relieved. Clearly, I've chosen the right outfit for the night. But for good measure, I fix him with my narrowed eyes coolly (I perfected this look as a teenager, it's very hostile. Ask my parents). I don't where Tubby is from (I mean, besides from under a rock), but I don't think he's used to having a female stare him down. This means he's probably from Texas. He wavers a little and then mumbles something. I'm about to stalk off triumphantly, until Tubby's short little companion hisses "I told you she wasn't a hooker look at her shoes." I look down at my flippies. What's wrong with my flippies, damnit! Excuse me for not wanting to wear silver stiletto platforms out to get bandages. Sheesh! Tough crowd.

I meet up with Travis, one of Travis's cousins, her friend, a whole mess of tan dudes, all friends of Travis and Shawn, who work at Duke's and we all head to L4, whose chromosomal moniker reminds me of biology class. (L4, scientists have discovered, is where the recessive skank gene is located). After some sort of verbal wheeling and dealing, we are led to the front of the line to the plush velvet rope. It's drawn back and we're admitted into the dark, pulsing club. But we don't stop there, we head to an upstairs VIP room where, I kid you not, there are chicks in gold spandex swinging from the ceiling all cirque du soleil style and they are really, uh, throwing their backs into it, because I can feel air whooshing above my head and the scent of perfume. (I think it's "Eau de Trying to Put Myself Through College"). In stark comparison, there are two solitary dancers, dressed like punks, on stage doing some sort of painful looking gyration while looking put-off. On the tables surrounding the VIP sections, are go-go dancers, hot, attractive, non-Yeti go-go dancers, in orange zip up suits that remind me of the costumes from Austin Powers (see pic). Travis leads us over the roped off VIP section and I pause for a moment, wondering if there is a Mob element in Hawaii and whether Travis is the head of it.

The group does the whole bottle service thing, 900 bucks for an attractive waitress to come over and mix the vodka into pineapple, orange, or cranberry juice for you all night. This ritual is about as extravagant as Obama's economic stimulus package (oh yeah, I went there. That's right). But I still feel like a baller VIP. I look up, behind us there are movie-style stadium seating. This strikes me as slightly…voyeuristic, in a surround sound sort of way.

I size up the room and am happy to report, Mother that I am not the most skantastically dressed femme there or even in my party for that matter. My dress covers all crucial parts of anatomy and the hem of the dress was just shy of the knee. Some girls are wearing dresses that have as much fabric as those bandanas you tie around dog's necks.

On my second drink (which I fixed myself after tiny Thumbelina-sized waitress, seen pictured with Shawn, nearly overdosed me with pineapple), I notice that the golden swingers from the ceiling are gone and so are the stage dancers and the go-gos. About 90 seconds later, drum music starts up and then:

ENTER THE DRAGON
(You have no idea how long I've been dying to work that phrase into a blog)

Two Chinese Dragons appear on the stage which has column-type steps ranging from 2ish -10ish feet high, and four dudes, two beneath in each dragon, start free-styling on the planks. The music changes and the Dragons settle into routines and gender roles, one Chinese Dragon, apparently the female one, starts shaking her moneymaker at the designated male one.

I look down at my drink. It is only my second, yet I feel like Dumbo. Dear Children of the 80's: remember when Dumbo gets tipsy some spiked bathwater and he starts seeing neon elephants in bubbles? I'm having one of those episodes. I'm not drunk and I can't fly like Dumbo or suck up a peanut up my nose, but I am having one of those bizarre-interludes watching two Chinese Dragons gyrate and jump to the sounds of tinny cymbals. It's like I am not even in a bar. This is not what I signed up for or expected this evening. It would be like waltzing into a Denny's and finding the Boston Symphony Orchestra warming up.

Then the Lady Dragon shudders, and the guy falls down, out of the suit, off the high post and face plants on the stage. He is surrounded by spotters instantly and to my amazement, even though this guy has taken a heck of a spill, he gets back up into the sad, saggy dragon (missing its front half) and reanimates it. Look, I'm all for getting back in the saddle, in the dragon whatever, but good god, that was quite a dinger, shouldn't somebody get this guy some medical attention or at least a drink?

The Lady Dragon starts dancing more frenetically than before, as if to prove a point, and then WHAM! Same guy on the floor again. He looks very frustrated. The Dragon looks all droopy again. The bouncers look annoyed this time. (You can pretty much read their minds: Damnit little tiny dancing man, stay in the Dragon!) And, of course LTD man gets back in the dragon. At this point, you almost have to.

The dance winds up into a fever pitch with acrobatics I can't really describe (and no more falling LTD men) and then the dragons are done and forgotten as the skankarrifc party goers go back to what I can only assume are meaningful conversations about Kant while dancing to the lyrics of "Just Dance" which feature such conundrums as "wish I could shut my playboy mouth." What does that even mean?

To my relief, there are no more people in mythical animal costumes, but the go-go dancers come back, and people start to make their way up in the movie-style theater type seating and either plop down alone or on top of someone else.

At some point, I make the mistake of going into the crowded ladies' room, arguably busier than the club, where the attendant tries to hand me a lollipop BEFORE I get in line to wait for a stall. Not that I would necessarily take candy from a bathroom attendant AFTER I was finished, but the idea of unwrapping one and eating it while you're doing your thing on the toilet is beyond gross, but lots of other people don't seem to think so. It's particularly nasty when one girl takes it out of her mouth while talking to her friend and waves it around in the air, making some sort of point. I guess we can add this to the list of how diseases are transmitted. Bathroom lollipops.

While waiting, I watch a girl over at the sink fishing around in her orange-colored drink with nearly all of her fingers (all except the thumb). The expedition results in the extraction of a soggy-looking piece of gum, which to my amazement, the girl pops back into her mouth. Silly me, I thought she was diving in there to get rid of it. That's a little gross, so I shift my eyes to a girl dressed in a feathery sequined zebra onesie (I desperately wanted to ask her where she got it, so I could get one for Anna and Melissa for when they come visit) but she was on the phone. In fact, from what I could hear, she was telling some (maybe her boyfriend) that no, she wasn't out clubbing, she was on the bus and that's why it was noisy. If that sucker believed that, I had a bridge to sell him. As she talks to MGB (most gullible boyfriend ever, apparently), she plumps up her cleavage with the hand not holding the cell phone. Yeah, that's always what I do right before I get on a bus and go home, readjust myself to assure symmetry.

I make a mental note that on the off chance I ever return to L4 and I need to use the restroom, I will just walk the 3 blocks home, and come back. I return to our spot, have another drink and hang out. Toward the end of the evening, I notice off in the movie seats above us, a guy is uh, licking his lady's tattoo.

Now, it would be just awful of me to tell you where on this lady's body the tattoo was, so instead, as my parting remark, let me just say: inner thigh tattoos are the new tramp stamp.

When you don't wake up alone...

What to do when you don't wake up alone after a night of hearty social frivolity:

First: whatever you do, don't panic. Remain calm. Panicking will only exacerbate the situation.

Second: assess the situation, how bad is it? Where did you wake up? (My place, this is an excellent start). What are you wearing? (Last night's outfit. That's points off for wearing yesterday's clothes, but points added on for being clothed, so it's a wash). Now, what exactly did you wake up next to? I look over. This is really not good. My mother would be ashamed of me. I've been brought up better than this.

Third: review the previous night's event thoroughly. This can be a trying process:

During the day, I hiked Manoa Falls. Good clean muddy fun. Upon returning, I sat out on the lanai, sipped a glass of wine, and listened to my favorite live guitarist play classic rock covers. Self-important and a little bohemian, but still super fun. And then it was time to meet up with Travis, soI headed over to Duke's Waikiki on the Beach and am greeted by the first of the "cousins." Actually, it is just one cousin at this point, her friend, and a random dude pretending to be Travis's cousin. Like I said, Travis is kinda a big deal; of course, you'd want to pretend to be his cousin too.

We exchange pleasantries and decide to go over to the mall, which apparently, against all intuition, is a spot where the locals drink. This is news to me, but I happily climb in the cab and make the trip. Note: the cab shall be important later.

Travis has our names on the list of some club, which, forgive me Travis, is super-trendy in a "Blade" bloodbath techno rave kind of way, and the strobe lights and the smell of dry ice make me a little woozy. It's not that I'm not super-impressed; it's just that I'm not super-hip, I mean, surely you've ascertained this from the way I dress, so I am a little relieved when we make our way over to Mai Tais to meet up with the other cousins.

Imagine a mall like many other malls, although this one is more open-air on top because it's Hawaii, and on the top floor, crammed into a square teeming with tanned arms and legs and tattoos is an impressive looking bar called Mai Tais resplendant with scantily dressed lady bartenders. Good start. Now imagine if you can, it is always happy hour (except from 7-8pm), so the drinks flow freely and the drink specials really are special, and – kiss of death – their specialty, other than being one of the few bars to serve pitchers of beer, is their froofy island drinks. They're so good even the locals are drinking the signature mai tais, mojitos, lava flows, martinis etc. Herein lies the problem with girly froofy drinks. They are vipers in disguise because they lull you in a fall sense of security by hiding away the alcoholic taste, so when you decide to sample one of each kind of drink (island special, margarita, martini, champagne-based concoction, and shot), you do so without the warning bells going off in your head that you are heading for one heck of a bender.

No matter. Travis orders me a passion fruit mojito, which is just as fruity as it sounds. I start talking to the cousin and then Travis is introducing everyone around us as cousins. Everyone. He is related to everyone and helpfully explains how he is related to each, although, it's impossible to hear because apparently the hottest local group, Koauka is on stage. (Think ska, punk, reggae on rolled into one delicious fun sound). Each local cousin is ridiculously nice and gregarious and more hilarious than the last.

Suddenly, I am taking a ladies' shot with the cousins. Suddenly, I am ordering another Island Kiss (champagne with blue Curacao and something else, coconut or pineapple something), suddenly I'm insisting that Travis drink a Lychee martini (I don't even know what lychee is, I thought it was a monkey or a moss that grows on the northern face of trees), suddenly I am singing along to Koauka making up the words, and then, I realize with a start, that I am thinking that late night karaoke would be a totally awesome idea right now.

Now it's time to panic.

I stop and excuse myself to the ladies' room. I know my limits. When I start to think that late night karaoke would be a totally awesome idea, I know that it is time to go home. This isn't my first rodeo. I cut my teeth in Boston's famed Hong Kong. I know what late-night karaoke looks and sounds like. You are either crazy or not entirely sober if you think it's a good idea. I ain't crazy, so I must not be entirely sober. This is confirmed as I sit there in the stall listening to two other Mai Tai bargoers discussing Brittney Spear's comeback and I find myself in agreement with them. I too feel loads of sympathy for the little Pop Tart and admire her tenacity for clawing her way--good god. I've got to get out of here. Run screaming if necessary, pull a fire alarm, but I am approaching the point of no return. Any minute, I could be up on the Mai Tai bar, dancing like a wounded walrus and making myself into a youtube legend.

I bid a hasty good night to Travis, who insists I take a cab (course I am, I'm a good half hour from home and there are at least 3 karaoke bars en route, I can't be trusted on foot, obviously), I thank him for his even-present chivalric concern, ask him to say good night to the cousins and then bolt for the nearest taxi cab stand.

This is where it all goes down, even though I left Mai Tai's alone, I will not wake up alone because of events that transpired in this yellow speeding death trap.

It starts off innocently enough. The cabbie asks if I've had a good night, I respond politely in the affirmative and ask him how his night has been. We talk about the weather in Waikiki. President Obama (local grown native boy, what else?), plans for the upcoming superbowl and pro-bowl, and then WHAM, we're talking about his plans when he gets off work and guess what, his plans include bbq ribs. This is more than any less than sober glutton can bear. So I scramble, start talking about what I'm going to eat, but knowing in my heart of hearts that all I have in the room is fruit, flippin' fruit, and suddenly I'm pleading with all my soul for him to pull over at the Burger King. Keep the meter running, whatever, this is a matter of life and death!

And this dear friends, is how I woke up the following afternoon next to a half-eaten, plain classic chicken sandwich. It wasn't even entirely unwrapped, still peeking out from within its lovely waxy tissue shroud. Yes, there it was, half-devoured on the pillow next to me on a bed of crumbs and sesame seeds. I am so embarrassed that I left half a sandwich. Seriously, who can't finish one lousy chicken sandwich from BK? I hardly deserve to call myself "glutton." "Lightweight" would be more fitting.

And then I see an empty fry-pod on the floor, a triangular apple pie box, and an empty soft drink cup. Ooooohhhh, a value meal. Saucy minx!

So remember, when you wake up after a night of hearty social frivolity and you find yourself not quite alone. Do not panic. Remember: assess the situation. Review the night's events. And for godsakes, get rid of the evidence.

Jurassic Poultry

Karma can be a real pain.

Travis told me the hike at Manoa Falls reminded him of a jungle and at some point prior, he had also told me that much of Jurassic Park was filmed on this island. I put these two little fun tidbits together and thought, I should hike Manoa Falls. But first I should watch Jurassic Park. Don’t try to follow nerd logic, just go with it, mmmkay?

Jurassic Park was one of those high points in my childhood movie-watching development. Do you remember the chills you got when Sam Neill and Laura Dern first saw the grazing dinos? Or how bout when that smarmy little kid gets blown off the electric fence? Or maybe, the entire scene in the kitchen with the raptors drumming their claws on the stainless steel? Okay, fine, how bout when Laura Dern, totally stoked to see Sam Jackson, reaches for his arm and sighs “oh, Dr. Arnold” and wham that’s all that is left of him and then moments later, limping, she tells herself to RUN. And if that doesn’t do it for you, then all I have left is if you didn’t feel your heart soar the “When the Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth” banner falls down over the T-Rex like a deranged beauty queen, then you are made of wax, my friend.

Of course, maybe watching a movie about dinosaurs breaking loose and stalking the humans on an isolated island right before one goes hiking alone was…less than bright. I dunno. I never said I had impeccable timing.

As I descended the trail to Manoa Falls, I was not disappointed. Ferns and overgrown trees abounded, reaching from floor to sky, enclosing me in its humid shade. Mountains in the distance, a waterfall you could hear but couldn’t see. It was like I stepped onto Isla Nubar (for those of you who have been living under a rock and have never seen Jurassic Park, that’s the island with dinos on it). Oh Michael Crichton, I muse, what a masterpiece you wrote, and Spielberg, you cinematic wizard, for creating a movie whose special effects still look good. So I wander along. There aren’t many people out on the trail and there are only so many geniuses who would come out and hike in the mud. I am a genius.

And I get to thinking about dinosaur breeds and which one I’d least like to see in the jungle and which one I’d have the best shot against it. And then maybe, if I were a dinosaur, what kind I’d like to be…and so forth.

And then I hear it, rustling in the shiny palm fronds. I freeze. Remember in science class that whole line they feed you about instincts, you’re either fight or flee? Either I’m hardwired improperly or that theory is just a load of crap. I go cold all over and almost wet my shorts. You see, I’ve already played out the scene in my head when the dinosaur tracker turns to his left only to realize the raptor has been hunting him. “Clever girl,” he murmurs. And then he is ripped to little khaki shreds.

Okay, so subconsciously I know there isn’t actually a dinosaur in the bushes. But that doesn’t preclude big cats, wild boars, machete wielding crazies. I glance to my left, reluctantly, really, seriously, and earnestly glad that I wore black shorts. The waxy green fronds shake and now my legs can move, I scurry backwards in the mud. The largest of the creature fixes its beady eyes on me and lets a long, indignant cockadoodle. Sigh. Wild chickens. Could I be any lamer? The urge to wet myself and the shiver feeling faves. I look around the make sure no one has seen this. No one has seen me. But now, I’m starting to empathize with that fat guy at the zoo and the peacock incident. What is with this island and freaking birds popping out all the time? I was actually legitimately spooked. Ugh. Stupid karma. Guess I shouldn’t have made fun of that fat guy. (seriously, look at these surly drumsticks! Not only that, but sometimes they get into chicken scuffles and fly upward into the bamboo, they look just like the martial arts fighters from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Fierce!)

Whatever. Like you imagination doesn’t get the better of you sometimes.

Ignoring the monstrous wild chickens, I push on. I reach the mouth of the Falls and get to talking to the two other hikers. I'm good at this kind of thing, not by any virtue of my own, but I have what people consider a friendly familiar face and I'm always being told I look "my-daughter-in-law/student/grand-daughter/brother's girlfriend/niece." I suppose this is better than being told I look like that female serial killer that Charlize Theron played, but really, I'd just prefer to be told I'm gorgeous all the time. I am most frequently adopted by older couples on public transport, who would prefer I were their grand-daughter, since I'm so much less sullen, have no piercings of any kind, won’t look at you blankly if you reference a president prior to Jimmy Carter, and am generally helpful in describing attractions and places to visit.

Anyway, I strike up a conversation with a nice lady with a totally rockin' turtle tattoo, freshly inked on our neck. She's a former Hawaii resident who now lives in California. She's come back to visit her old places every winter and this year she’s gotten a tattoo of Hawaii’s beloved sea turtle. I’m going to omit the part where she describes the whole process, completing with scabbing. I’m squeamish, so there.

The other person is a computer programmer from Cambridge, MA. He looks like he could be the unfortunate love child of the lead singer from Blues Traveler and the guy from Bare Naked Ladies. He is shiny bald. I love shiny bald men who forego the comb-over, and just go for the wax, so dazzling in bright sun. This way I never have to think about where the hair from the comb-over is growing from. When you have to wonder, is that scalp hair or ear hair, it's time to go bald and beautiful.

They're both lovely, easy to converse with, and eventually the nice lady offers to take both our pictures. "You should go in," she says. "There's a rainbow on the falls, it would look so pretty." She's right (you can see it in the picture to the left, I'm on the right in my favorite armpit-airing pose). But then again, what if there are flesh-eating bacteria germs? Or a sinkhole? Or one of those Moos I keep hearing about? Moos are legendary lizards who make Godzilla tremble and they hide out in water and get super-ticked if you go into their water holes. You're supposed to throw a leaf or something on top of the water to gauge their mood. I don't know. But at least as far I can discern, there are no Moos. (Note: the Moos in my head look like the spitting dinosaurs in Jurassic Park, FYI). As for the flesh-eating bacterial and sinkhole, that is anyone's guess.

But, it's jungle-humid out and despite the landslide warnings and gigantic legendary lizards, the water does look mighty refreshing. So I go for it. It's not even that glacially freezing as I'd expected, but climbing out to the falls is tricky. The rocks are slippery, covered in fine green algae. I'll save you the suspense. I don't fall in. I know you’d like that, but I don’t.

But then the programmer decides he wants a picture too. I think we all know where this is going. The fat man is wearing no-traction flip flops (they call them "slippers" out here), and as I've already described the rocks are ridiculously wet and slimy. To be fair, I won't over exaggerate the extent of his fall because it's so obvious he's going to fall.

And he does, and actually, he's more graceful than say, a water buffalo. But he does land with a splash, sort of catching himself but not really. So it's not so much the slip, but it’s the noise he omits. It's like a high pitched cross between a rebel yell and yodel: "WA-HOOOOOOOOO" he cries as he stumbles. I look over him, did that sound really just escape a grown man? To my relief he starts to laugh, because I'm already losing it and so is the nice lady who took our pictures.

Don't worry; he doesn't even get that wet. Only his jean shorts are soaked, his top is fine, and he gets to go home with a good story and guest cameo on my blog (which apparently, just 8 people follow. I hate you non-committers). But we all sit there and have a good chuckle, we three random strangers in the waterfall. At some point though, I realize I really need to use the restroom, the waterfall is not a good option, I can only imagine how a Moo might take you whizzing in his sacred waterhole, and if I'm not entirely mistaken (see last picture, see his shirt isn't even that wet), I think there may have been some budding chemistry between these two, so I bid them good bye, and depart.

The hike out is worse than the hike in, because the slippery mud is all still there but now gravity is really working against you. A Hawaiian man (you can tell because he's nut brown tan and roughly the size of a compact fridge) and his gorgeous dog, a Rhodesian Ridgeback mix, advises me, just to go with the natural contours of the earth, that's what Mother Nature wants you to do (I'm not kidding, that's what he said). And my first reaction is, that is the biggest pile of crap I've heard in awhile. And then my second reaction as I'm bumbling along with grace of aforementioned water buffalo, I think, well why not? I grow bold, leaping from root to rock to mud flat. Suddenly, I am one with nature and the natural contours, Mother Nature and I, we tight, for like a whole 7 minutes, and then I'm on my ass in the mud checking the ring finger on my right hand to see if its broken (ruling: have decided it was not broken, only jammed painfully and not bent or crooked). For the second time since coming to Hawaii, my backside is covered in foul smelling mud, only this time, I have adapted. No white shorts. I've opted for black. Regrettably though, it still looks like I shat myself.

As I pass three Japanese tourists who are ascending, I hear snickering. Oh that's rich, I think. I'm going to go out on a limb and say, despite being considered the smartest sentient beings on the planet, the Japanese tourist population cannot dress in proper hiking attire to save their intelligent lives. I've seen this everywhere from Diamond Head, to Makapu'u to the Blowhole. I spin around and look down at what freakshow footwear they have on and I'm not disappointed. The dude is wearing Converse, but one of the girls is wearing (oh, I kid you not) strappy silver sandal heels (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN! YOU ARE HIKING!) and the other is wearing some sort of gold ballet flat with ribbons or something that lace up half her legs. She gets another point off for wearing what looks like a hat ripped right off Panama Jack's head. Good luck with that in the mud and the rocks, I think, with enough snark to knock over a toddler. I muster up all remaining dignity and pass by, acutely aware of being covered in mud, but still smug.

This time on the way out, I don't even turn at the rustling of the bushes and the mocking clucking of the Jurassic chickens. I sigh and wonder if Moos like chicken.