He is Josh. Josh plays classic rock covers every Saturday evening at the Ohana and he was hands down, the best part of every Saturday night back when I lived here last year. I would listen to him play from 8-10 every Saturday night, wine in hand on my balcony (lanai) before going out and meeting Travis at some sketchpad night club.
Josh comes on and he opens with a Dead tune and I’m musically smitten all over again, the night air is warm and smells of fried food and hibiscus (well it does, and that smell is just fine by me). Even though I don’t live in this hotel anymore, I feel like I’m home again. I even walk over to the balcony and check to make sure the ladies of the night are still in front of Denny's. They are there in full sequined regalia. Excellent.
At the break, Josh comes over to the bar and I say shyly, “I bet you don’t remember me.”
He looks me up and down and says, “I cant’t remember your name, but I remember your favorite song.”
I can’t help myself. “Prove it,” I say. “And don’t play Jason Mraz or I’ll vomit.”
And the first song he plays after the break is “Ophelia” by the Band. Okay, he’s proved it. I hang around the Ohana bar until 11, about an hour after Josh has finished and then I’m starting to get a little tired. I’m trying to wait up so I can meet my buddy Travis’s new girlfriend at some bar, but I’m kinda tanked and still seriously jetlagged. I bid Mike, Josh, and the locals good night at the Ohana, promise to come back next Saturday, and then I head out, not really sure where I’m going, but I’ve got some time to kill. Enough reminiscing. It’s time for a swanky drink.
I end up at Rumfire. Why Rumfire? Because if you thought Waikiki was on fire, Rumfire makes Smokey the Bear cry. This bar has huge fire pits like kiddie swimming pool size fire pits and some of them are at foot level. And it’s a bar which means there’s always the element of danger that someone drunk will fall in one of these pits and be burnt to a crisp. It also doesn’t hurt that it’s right on Waikiki Beach, it’s open air so you can see and hear the ocean, and the drinks have snooty names, but are decent.
The bar isn’t particularly crowded tonight and though I’m underdressed (jeans, black Bob Dylan T and sandals, fine for the Ohana, not so much here), I cozy up to the bar in the back corner and order a cucumber Mojito. I know that’s touristy, but they’re very, very good at Rumfire.
And then here comes Rodney.
I get it, I get that I’m a lady alone in a bar. I get that it’s really hard for a guy to come up and talk to a girl he doesn’t know. But I would like to point out that first of all, I’m not dressed for guy attention, it’s not like I’m lounging around in a do me halter dress or wearing hooker heels. I’m dressed a little scrubby to be honest and I’ve chosen a seat at the bar away from everyone else, pretty much sitting where the servers have to come and get their drinks. I really just want to be left alone, drink my mojito, watch the ocean, kill time.
Rodney apparently misses all of these signals and sidles up next to me and immediately starts to touch me, first on the shoulder, then on the hand. I’m not a fan of this whatsoever. Then when he turns full body to me, I notice his button down shirt has an enormous golden tiger painted on it. It’s undeniably Ed Hardy. Now I’m just trying to stop from smirking ear to ear.
(Oh hey, Seth, while I'm on the subject of Ed Hardy, this one’s for you, pal. Saw this at the Ala Moana mall. This will have to do since I couldn’t get a picture of Rodney’s golden tiger. PS. Ed Hardy is every where out here. Apparently, love kills slowly all over the place here in Hawaii).
In my personal space and wearing a garish golden Ed Hardy tiger? That’s two strikes. So, I try to be polite and plan my escape plan to a different bar. Rodney and I trade mundane details and pleasantries. He asks what I’m drinking, I tell him and ask what he’s drinking. He swills around his drink in a snifter, it’s light and caramel-colored, looks like cognac to me. I happen to be right. Score one for the former bartender. He tells me it’s cognac mixed with something something. Then he raises an eyebrow, “surprised you haven’t heard of this, it’s named after you.”
I think I know where this is going. “It’s called a Jessica?” I ask hopefully and brace myself.
“No, it’s called a Beautiful.” He arches that one perfectly manscaped eyebrow. "Just like you." He raises the snifter to me and drinks deeply.
I make a noise that's somewhere between a snort and a sigh. Whatever it is, it's not lady-like nor polite.
Look, you can’t use that line in a bar and think that might actually get you a woman. The only guy in the whole wide world that might get away with a crap line like that is Daniel Craig, and only when he’s playing James Bond, is sporting a tux and has just totally housed two South African drug lords with his bare hands and then maybe, just maybe would you get away with a line like that.
I finish my drink quickly, decline the Golden Tiger’s offers to buy me another and skedaddle from the bar with a bad taste in my mouth. I’ve heard some bad pick up lines in my day but this one is hands down one of the worst for both content and execution.
But on the positive side, as I’m trotting down Kuhio Avenue, I see this:
Now, I know we have rules about when and where you can put people on teams. But I feel like since I’m out of state, I get a pass this month. So Stierman, this one’s for you: Yes, she’s actually wearing a tail. I watched it swinging as she walked and all I could think about was Sonic the Hedgehog and his little buddy, Tails. I had to follow her three blocks out of my way just to make sure and get a pic. In my defense, I was not the only person who did this.
So Stierman, your team.
1 comment:
Damn you Martin!!!!!
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