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.