Chicken Skin

Chicken skin.  It’s what Hawaiians use to describe the prickling of the hairs on your arm and the goose pimpling of flesh when something otherworldly is near.

I love a good scare and I’ve always had a fondness for ghost tours.  The ones I did in Boston, Seattle and Savannah were all good, but a tad tame.  This is due in part that in places like Boston and Seattle, we worry about things like liability and law suits.  Hawaiians?  Not so much.  Sure, there was a waiver to sign and a prohibitive ban on children under 18 (excellent policy that most places should enforce), but then the tourguides took us on van to the Northern side of the island where all creepiness seems to occur and marched us into the woods on a rainy and moonless evening over slippery roots, jagged rocks, cliff edges and other naturally occurring lawsuits waiting to happen. 

Now keep in mind all of these tours have a similar hoax element and it’s this:  The orbs.  The tourguides, in the interest of earning tips and adding a heightened sense of creepiness and danger, will all tell you that for whatever reason, ghosts can be captured on your convenient handheld camera.  I am here to tell you that a relatively intelligent person (someone with an IQ greater than that of a turnip) can give you a reason for why you might see orbs in your pictures.  Here’s mine: it’s dark out and it’s got something to do with the reflection of your flash.  But then, I couldn’t leave it there, so I went to wikipedia, the last word on all things important.  Here’s what wikipedia had to say on Orbs:

Orbs – round spheres of light in ghost pictures that can be caused by flash reflection off of reflective surfaces, dust,glass, insects, pollen, moisture, snow, rain, hair, and lens flare.

So I was partly right about the flash.  So clean your lens before going on a ghost tour.  Score 1 for Snarky.  But deduct points because I’m on a tour with a bunch of people who actually believe they have captured ghosts on film.  This is because a tour like this attracts not just tourists, but the kinds of tourists who believe in throwing split salt over your shoulder, not walking under ladders, and voting democratic.  Silly silly people.

So here’s my best “ghost orb.”  I’m calling this orb, “the ghost of health care reform.”  May it rest in the spirit world.  Snark snark.

So I arrive for my tour and immediately chat up Cousin Joe, our black-clad tourguide, while waiting for the rest of crew.  In Hawaii, everyone local is a cousin.  We get talking and Joe seems glad to talk to someone under the age of 40 (which seems to be the demographic of this tour) and I tell him about being a tour guide at Sam Adams.  We trade stories on some of the snarkier things we’ve said to tour guests (none of my mine will be written about here, I love Sam Adams and all of you tourguides), and of course Joe’s are a billion times better than mine because his specialty is the paranormal and you can really, really mess with people.  But I ask him in all seriousness, if he believes in any of this. 

Here was his response (paraphrased): “Most of what we do is for the tourists, yah.  (Islanders always add a hearty ‘yah’ at the end of sentences.  I dig it).  But you let me know if you don’t feel a little chicken skin while we out at Morgan’s Corner.  Those woods, they don’t feel right, yah.”  He shrugs.  Good enough for me.   

Dear readers, I don’t know where I stand on ghosts.  Let’s face it, as humans we’re kinda morons.  We haven’t conclusively proven or disproven the existence of ghosts.  Hell, I mean we’ve claimed to have “proven” things before which were obvious screw ups (the world is flat, the whole universe revolves around us, it’s okay to be around high levels of radiation, and  yes, I’m looking you at, Marie Curie).  I’m just saying.  We’re not the most well informed species.   So who knows.

But here’s where I stand on mythology, legends, and ghost stories. Nerd alert: Love me some mythology.  I’m been a mythology junkie since the age of ten.  I started with the bloody blood Norse legends of Odin and Valhalla, moved on to the Greeks and Romans in my early teen years and then dabbled in Asian, Egyptian, Native American and Indian for awhile.  I love mythology because it’s just amazing the way in which earlier civilizations explained creation, naturally occurring events like storms and fires, and the seasons.  And I’m nerdy, but you knew this already.

Hawaiian mythology is heavily based in honoring one’s ancestors, which is no surprise because Hawaiian culture is so wonderfully steeped in family traditions.  And also no surprise, there’s quite a bit of legends surrounding their natural phenomenon: volcanoes, fire, the ocean, sharks, etc.  In a word: love it.

So back to the actual ghost/legend tour.  There are five spots we’ll be visiting.  Let me just give you a run down of the tour: About twenty-five people, mostly obese middle-aged Midwesterners (you look at the pic below and tell me I’m not accurate), a handful of Japanese tourists (okay, here’s my one and only rant on them.  If the Japanese are so much smarter than we Americans are, please tell me why they are wearing 4 inch heels and mini-skirts/weird overall thingy that ends in a skirt but has suspenders?  We’re going into the woods at night and its raining and when you booked the tour, they only told you two things.  To wear closed toed shoes and a windbreaker and where to show up).  But we can’t leave yet because two people are missing.  Do you want to guess or shall I just tell you?  I’ll just tell you.  It’s Valentine’s Day weekend, obviously, it’s going to be newly weds.

While we wait for the newly weds, I get to talking to the Southern couple in the seat in front of me.  I’m going to call them Todd and Cheryl.  Todd is a nice guy in the insurance business.  His wife, Cheryl has reddish orange frizzy hair and a dramatic kind of demeanor about her (if you look in the pic, they’re the couple all the way over on the right).  She’s the kind of person who would corner you, a total stranger, in a restroom at a wedding and tell you that she’d overheard that the bride had a “bun in the oven.”  Because I’m alone and remind her of the girl her son is dating (“you look just like her, honey and she’s in nursing school,”) she adopts me as her confidant.  She leans over to me and says, “you know, some people think I’m psychic.  I can sense things, you know?  And I’ve seen ghosts, real ghosts.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, interested.  She’s going to make my blog, I can already tell.

“I can read palms and I went to this workshop on auras.  And honey, let me tell you something.  You have a beautiful aura.”

Moral dilemma:  I find it hard to be outright snarky to nice people.  My little snark teeth only really come out at bars when guys are being annoying or, if someone else started the snark fight.  You see, I too have some background knowledge in auras.  Thank you, Stierman, Book Club and Michael Crichton.  I read a good twenty pages on auras.  And I desperately, want to ask this woman if she wants to “fluff” my aura.  I really, really do.

But, I can’t.  So instead I ask politely, “what color is it?”

“Honey, yours is blue.  Very calm and beautiful blue.”

Now, I know she’s full of it.  Snarky auras aren’t calming.  Mine has got to be burgundy or taupe, maybe mustard colored.  Definitely not blue.  I give my snark aura an indignant shake, it’s like a hair toss, which is almost as good as fluffing it, I suppose. 

I smile and Cheryl begins to tell me about the time she knew that her daughter was in a car accident (a minor bang up, nothing serious) and her mother’s instinct woke her up in the middle of the night.  “I have a gift,” she says.  “I just know things.”

Here’s what I know: the newly weds have just arrived.  They are 20 minutes late and they are sporting a suspect looking glow and everyone on the bus hates them.  At least they’re not Wedding Monthly Cover Couple newly weds.  You know, the kind of couple you look at it and think, I’m an ugly cave troll and will never get married or look like that.  (To see the newly weds, look at the group pic over on the left, she’s in the white outfit, he's in green).   They settle in the only available seats behind me and immediately start making out and cooing to each other.  Now, even if the tour is a total bust, I don’t care.  I’m sandwiched between Cheryl the psychic housewife and the oblivious newly weds.  It’s a little snark sandwich. 

Nu’uanu Pali Look Out:

We wind up the windward side of the island towards the Look Out.  And my god, is it windy.  ‘Nu’uanu’ means ‘windy’ and ‘Pali’ means ‘cliffs.’  I’ve been here in the day; it’s got a view of the island not to be missed.  You can see clear across to Chinamen’s Hat, a strange-shaped island rising out of the water.  I came here with Travis and with his mother and both told me it was a pretty different place at night.  They weren’t joking.  At night, the wind pummels the palm fronds and causes them to clatter and there is no end to it.  There are few lights and the shadows of the Koolau Mountains loom large and jagged in the starless sky.

The legend, one of my favorites, goes like this: Back in the time of battle to unite the islands, King Kamehameha the Great stormed the shores of Waikiki with 10,000 men.  They forced the last hold outs, about 1500 men, to jump off the Koolau Mountains.  

Here is my favorite painting of this, I saw it in one of the museums and then bought a bunch of these postcards and sent them to my friends, because I’m creepy.  It was called the ‘Battle of the Falling Fish.’

Now ask yourself, what would cause you to throw yourself, a hardened warrior, off cliffs this sheer and perilous?  I’ll tell you and no it wasn’t just death before dishonor.  If you were captured, even though King Kamehameha didn’t like to sacrifice people, he would offer up captured warriors to the god of war.  There were two preferred methods both involving copious amounts of agony.  The first method would involve the breaking of your shoulders, your eyes would be scooped out and then you’d be left for three days on an altar to think about how much your life sucked.  The other was similar with a slightly different twist: they’d break all the bones in your body, leave you screaming on the altar overnight, and then behead you in the morning.

You wanna guess the year of the battle?  You’d assume it was back in the day, right?  Maybe 1120 or 1349?  Not a chance.  1795.  That’s just 19 years after a bunch of tea-throwing, we’re mad as hell and we’re not gonna stand for taxation without representation so take your stupid white wigs and go home, founding fathers signed the Declaration of Independence.  19 years after that and King Kamehameha was uniting the islands all Braveheart-style.  Makes me kinda proud.

I stood apart from the group, while Joe explained the legend I already knew, and I walked all the way over to the Look Out edge and put my hand on the railing.  The wind was whipping my hair, camera, and jeans into a frenzy.  I wondered, could I do it?  Could I jump if I knew what awaited was abject agony and eventual death?  How would you come out on this?  Could you do it?

This was one of two places where I felt my skin crawl.  Chicken skin.  Excellent.

Kawa'ewa'e Heiau

Pronounced “Hay-OW,” the Heiau was a war temple built sometime in the 12^th century.  It measured about 40 x 20 yards and essentially is made of rocks and bones.  

Here in Cousin Joe in front of the Heiau,, the speckled shape behind him is the mound of rocks and bones:

Hawaiians believed that taking the bones of a loved one (after they were deceased, obviously) and grinding them up and leaving them here or sticking them in the bottom of your canoe or cooking utensils was a great way to honor the dead.

This particular Heiau had a peaceful past, most Heiaus are dedicated to Lono, the god of peace.  This one though has a slight smudge on its past.  It was once the site of human sacrifices by Kamehameha.

Last word on human sacrifices, I promise.  So forget about tossing virgins in the volcano.  The god of war required warriors and warriors were men.  Offering a woman to the god of war was an insult.  Second, the whole point of the sacrifice wasn’t so much the death as it was the suffering, which is why it wasn’t just a quick chop and lop of the head.  Agony and pain was what the god of war required.  Yet another good reason to toss yourself off a cliff in a losing battle.

Now at this point, Joe recounts the story of Kamapua'a, half man and half hog, who can change his shape at will.  

 

Cheryl interrupts him by waving a manicured hand in the hand (I checked them out on the van for you, fake magenta nails that you could gouge an eye out with).  “Excuse me, but what is the difference?”

Joe is confused.  “I’m not sure what you mean,” he says slowly.

Cheryl smiles wide. “Well you said half man, half hog.  Aren’t those one in the same?” 

Every woman in the group sniggers.  Told you that I loved Cheryl.

Morgan’s Corner:

Morgan’s Corner is hands down the most celebrated and haunted area of Hawaii.  I’m dying with anticipation as we’re driving to the Old Pali Road where the famous hairpin awaits.  Behind me, and I’m not exaggerating this, the newly weds are going at it something fierce.  The good news is, it’s raining, large lazy plops of warm tropical rain, not a downpour, but enough to drum the roof of the van as we drive.  So this helps drown out some of the noise behind me.  Bad news: I said some, not all.  Now either, these two are the worst kissers on the planet (I’m talking like fifteen years old and it’s your first kiss and there’s all sorts of awkward maneuvering and noises bad) or, they’re sucking each others fingers.  I don’t know and I’m certainly not turning around to find out. 

Then I hear the unmistakable noise of a zipper being unzipped. 

Yup, this is actually happening in the seat behind me.  Obviously, I can’t turn around as this breaks all treaties of decency and manners, so I go passive aggressive.  I clear my throat very loudly and then slam my back against my seat, just to let them know that I know what everyone else knows: normally, you have to pay double for that kind of action, Cotton.  But I’m not into it.

We pull over, get out at Morgan’s Corner, and we are standing before an enormous, gnarled, ancient tree.  It reminds me of the tree of death in the movies, “Sleepy Hollow” and “300.”  It is the kind of tree you would hang someone on.  I’m just saying.  

Now, there are actually 3 stories worth telling about Morgan’s Corner.  The first one you know because this story is told the world over in many locations.  It was invented by a concerned parent who didn’t want his teenage daughter to go to a Lover’s Lane type destination with some rogue. 

And for those of you who don’t know it, here’s the Hawaiian version: young Hawaiian girl goes out with some upstanding youth stationed at Kaneohe military base.  They go dancing (probably the Charleston or something, it was the 1920ish era, I imagine) and then they go park somewhere to make out.  (Side bar: who the heck makes out in a car anymore?  This legend needs to be updated to a dorm room or something.  But I digress).  The girl protests going any further, guy good naturedly agrees to take her home, and when he goes to start the car, it won’t start.  His manhood on the line, the guy has to go out in the rain for some gas.  He leaves girl in the car.  She starts to hear noises.  Weird scratching/dragging on the roof of the car.  She’s scared and helpless.  Some cop comes along and rescues her from the car, but tells her not to look anywhere except at him.  Of course she glances above the car and her beau is hanging there, gutted.  It’s his foot that’s been banging the top of the car.  Moral of the story: Abstinence.  Or, as I like to think of it.  Always send the guy for gas. 

So yes, this is the Hawaiian version of the man with the hook story and why not set it here under this uber creepy tree. 

Story #2:

We’re in the woods now because obviously we can’t stand in the roadway.  The greenery is so dense here that it blocks out much of the rain and the night sky. I find it hard to breath here, it’s so humid with the plants. 

Joe drops his voice and explains why it’s called Morgan’s Corner.  Morgan was the closest doctor to this place in the road and when people would inevitably flip their cars, he would be the first on the scene.  Now why would people flip their cars, here?  Well for one thing, people are morons.  They drink, they drive like Massholes, they go too fast around curves and lose control.

 OR…they pick up a hitchhiker.  It’s always an older Hawaiian woman in a traditional mu’mu.  Of course, it’s no ordinary woman.  It’s Madame Pele.  Hands down, she is the Goddess Supreme, goddess of fire and the volcanoes.  Often she is a young beautiful jealous hot hot mess with a bunch of supernatural lovers and her exploits always seem to result in a volcano erupting.  In this legend, she’s an old woman come to judge our driving skills.  If she likes you, she just hitchhikes and vanishes.  If she doesn’t, if she feels that maybe you didn’t put your turn signal on fast enough or you’re drinking, she’ll flip your car.  Regardless of the form she’s in, she’s not to be trifled with.  Moral of the story: don’t pick up hitchhikers.  Nothing good ever comes of this.

Story #3: 

And here’s why I have chicken skin again.  Someone was actually murdered right by Morgan’s Corner and it sparked the end of the death penalty in Hawaii.  Creepers.

Two prison escapees, James Majors and John Palakiko, came upon the house of Theresa Wilder, an elderly woman who worked for Dr. James Moran and who lived not far from Morgan’s Corner.  They robbed her and then took their time killing her.  They were sentenced to hang, but the execution was stayed at the last minute because the governor and Hawaiian citizens didn’t want to have the death penalty anymore.  There was a huge public battle waged over it for a couple of years and their sentences were eventually commuted to life in prison and Hawaii doesn’t have a death penalty anymore.  Joe adds that these two men died of mysterious circumstances, but that feels more wishful thinking than truth.

Manoa Cemetery:

Snarky was not scared by the Manoa Cemetery.  Nor impressed.  The one noteworthy thing is that when you drive in, you offer candy at the gate to appease the scores of Chinese immigrant children who died of influenza.  These immigrants came over here to work in the pineapple and sugar cane fields.  The cemetery is beautiful, sits on a hill and overlooks Honolulu.  I’m only including this in the blog, so you don’t feel like I skipped something good.  Really, I think the tour takes you to Manoa after Morgan’s  Corner so you can shake off the creepiness.

And I took a sweet pic of this dragon, which was half covered in rain and half not.  And then I found five dollars.

Manoa Falls:

The last stop.  The newly weds are at it again behind me.  Cheryl tells me about the time she was at a summer cottage and this door slammed behind her and she knew it was a ghost.  Good times.

Now, two things about Manoa Falls.  First, I hike these Falls last year and wrote it about in my blog and described the creepy lizard spirits, the Li, that live in the falls.  Here’s the deal in case you missed it, you’re supposed to float a Ti leaf on the water’s surface.  If it floats, you can swim.  If it sinks, you’re gonna drown and be eaten by some lizard-faced deity.

Joe adds something I didn’t know about Ti leaves.  “Ti leafs can be carried around to ward off spirits.  Their bushes are often planted at cemetery gates to keep the spirits in.  And,” he adds helpfully, “in times of famine, you can chew their roots for sustenance.”

I look at Joe and find no trace of irony in his face.  Times of famine?  Seriously?  Look around you, Joe.  1 in 4 Americans are considered obese.  1 in 3 in this tour group is morbidly obese and the other two are sporting muffin tops.  Hardly, a time of famine.  But thanks for the tip.

Back to creepy lizard-faced deities.  They are much like the sirens of Greek mythology, they can lure you into the water.  And here is a critical difference between men and women:

To lure a man to his death, the lizard will transform into a smoking hot wahine and the man, overcome with lust and desire, will follow her willingly to his watery grave. 

Okay, so I looked all over for a pic of the lizard deities and this is as close as I could come.  It's the Hulk in front of Manoa Falls.  I mean, I dunno, I've never seen a lizard deity, maybe it really does look like Hulk.

To lure a woman to her death, the lizard does not transform into some six-pack sporting dreamboat of a man with a sensitive, yet daring side, who appreciates you for your complicated and fickle nature.  Nope, because women are too smart to fall for this.  The lizard will transform into a drowning child and the woman, overcome with maternal instinct, will try to rescue the child.

Moral(s) of the story: First.  Women are better than men.  We’re givers.  Second, you see a child drowning in a suspicious tropical body of water; you let the little sucker drown.

Final sidebar: Manoa Falls is where they film “Lost” and for those of you who are fanatics, here’s what we saw on our climb down: big lights that lit up the valley, security men crawling all over in yellow rain slickers, the crew, the cast (the tour guide rattled off some of their names, but they weren’t the main ones and I don’t watch the show, so asking me that is like asking me the atomic weight of Selenium, I have no idea), cast trailers, big pieces of important looking equipment covered with plastic tarp, smoking hot sports cars in the private parking lot and a polar bear. 

I’m joking about the polar bear. 

And that concluded the ghost tour, I was pretty pleased with the presence of my chicken skin and wealth of new Hawaiian lore I learned.  I shot the newly weds a perfectly deserved, parting shot of a dirty look, bid good night to Cheryl, and told Joe if he ever found himself in Boston, to head to the Sam Adams Brewery.  I know a couple of good tourgides over there.

Of Pineapples and Rip Tides

In honor of all you East Coasters buried in snow (and by buried, I mean, no snow whatsoever in Boston), who continuously remind me how much you despise me for being in Hawaii, I decided to spend your big snow day eating pineapple and chilling at one of Hawaii’s most famous beaches. Snark, snark.

It was not my first time at the Dole Pineapple Plantation. For those of you who’ve read my blog posts from last year, you all know my feelings on mazes. There’s something deeply creepy, a little Victorian gothic, about winding your way through one and at nearly 2.5 miles, the Dole Pineapple Plantation lays claim to the largest outdoor maze. And while it is constructed from local flora like hibiscus plants and such, it is not constructed from pineapples, because pineapples are freaking sharp.

Did I say local flora? Oh, I did. Well this time I visited the Plantation, I decided to do some of the educational stuff. So against my better judgment, I bought a ticket for the Pineapple Express (insert stoner jokes here). The gaily colored little train takes tourists on a half hour tour through the actual plantation and provides a historical narrative. And also, some of the worst local music ever created by a group called Aloha DNA or something grossly cute and family friendly like that. The narration of the history of the Plantation would play for about 10 minutes, which is still 8 minutes longer than the average American’s attention span and 9.5 minutes longer than the average Japanese tourist’s, and after this time, Aloha DNA would play. Now I understood why the conductor and other train employees looked so pained. If I had to hear this twice an hour for 8 hours a day, I might end it all by falling on the sharp end of the pineapple.

Which brings me to the noble pineapple. Did you know that the pineapple isn’t even indigenous to Hawaii? The Hawaiian name for pineapple is “Hala Kahiki” (yeah, I had to look up the spelling, so what?) and it essentially means, foreign fruit. Pineapples come from Paraguay. And Hawaiians aren’t exactly certain how the pineapple came to Hawaii. The most popular theory is that they ended up here on a shipwreck of sorts. I like that theory best because there’s something random and a little romantic about that. And it’s better than giving the Spanish explorers credit, because we all know what they liked to bring to a new country was small pox. Zing.

(pineapple roadkill)

 (Stierman, I decided to skip cankersores caused by eating too close to the core & went girly pineapple souvenir cup)

And then I found five dollars…

After that I headed further north to Waimea Beach. Waimea Beach is a small sandy bowl of a beach park tucked in between sheer, jagged cliffs. It is one of my favorite beaches for the simple reason that the waves here are high and dangerous, and as a result, tourists go out of their way to endanger themselves. In the winter months, the swells can reach over thirty feet high. So not only can you lie around and tan for hours, you can watch people put themselves in unnecessary peril while ticking off the lifeguards to no end.

The last time I was at Waimea the lower beach was roped off and there were signs that prohibited swimming because of the swells and riptide. Ask yourself, did this deter people from trying to swim? Of course not. So the poor dogged lifeguard team had to keep getting on the microphone and continuously remind people not to go swimming. It’s an uneasy line to walk because the lifeguards want to make the beach fun enough so people will visit, but they must also protect people. From themselves.

This time, there’s a new breed of lifeguards at the tower. They’re deliciously snarky. They ridicule the surf perpetrators from atop their cream-colored tower.

“Hey man, maybe you could get your girlie surfboard out of that surf before I send my sister down there to haul you out.” Ouch.

“Hey dude over by the rocks, yeah you! You better get back to your girlfriend on the beach or I’m gonna go over and show her what a real man looks like.” Ouch to the second power and extra points for good delivery.

Now occasionally, not even snark prevails and one of the lifeguards (probably the one who lost the rosham contest) has to crawl down the ladder, get in the beach buggy and head down the beach to extricate some jack monkey from the surf. Then the lifeguard left at the tower narrates:

“Well it’s a close one guys, neck and neck. Oh wait, hey idiot, you’re swimming against the tide now. Here comes JC from the beach, he wastes no time, folks. He plunges into that surf with reckless abandon [I swear to you that the lifeguard said reckless abandon, I laughed so hard that I snorted sand. Honestly.], and he’s making his way out. He’s got the guy by the neck and he’s bodyslamming him! No, JC! Don’t do it!” In reality, JC has just browbeaten the guy into coming in from the ocean and then he puts him in the buggy for a ride of shame back to the tower. But it sounds cooler the way the lifeguard tells it.

Now where am I in all this? Clearly, not in the surf. But interestingly, I’m closer to the roped off area than is prudent because I wanted to take some pics of the surf for you, dear readers. No matter, the sun is shining, people are being reckless, and I’m neatly laid out on my beach towel, lathered in Maui Babe, and engrossed in a really funny audio book by Neil Gaiman. I’m pretty much oblivious to all errant noises except the lifeguard’s bullhorn, which easily pierces through the i-pod narration.

Let me say this again, I’m oblivious to everything around me.

The next time I hear the lifeguard on the bullhorn, he bellows the following:

“Hey, hot chick! You’re too close to the rope. You’re gonna get wet, chica.”

I ignore this, it’s not worth sitting up for.

“Hey girl in the rainbow bikini, did you hear me? You’re gonna get wet, girl! The tide’s coming in!”

The beach isn’t overly crowded, but surely he doesn’t mean me. And then it hits me, literally, water splashes over my feet, towel, beach bag, i-pod. I snap up to a sitting position. The surf having swelled up the beach is now sinking back down again. I look around me in shock, people are laughing at my surprised reaction and I notice that most of them have noticed the incoming tide and have moved up the beach. FML. My stuff is all wet.

But wait…he called me a hot chick. SCORE!

I don’t care how vain that is, how ridiculous I looked now all wet, it was like this guy had yelled, “Hey, attorney of the year! Hey, Pulitzer prize winner!” It doesn’t matter if the lifeguard is 300 pounds with no teeth (he’s not, he’s on the short side, completely jacked with an unfortunate faux hawk). It also doesn’t matter that we’re all modern women now and this kind of remark is supposed to have no effect on us. I don’t care how militant of a feminist you are. We all want to be called hot chicks in our bikinis. I’m counting this one as a win.  And I'm not even remotely embarrassed to admit it.  So there. 

But seriously, there’s a moral to the story here: Spend February in Hawaii.

No, no, I mean, if you’re gonna lie around on the beach all day and snark on people being idiots, don’t be one yourself. Mahalo.

PS.  And then I booked it home to catch the sunset at the beach park outside my condo.  This one was a particularly good one (made even better because I grabbed take-out fajitas from Senor Pepe's):

Birthday in Hawaii, Part Deux

My birthday started out a whole lot like last year, woke up in tropical paradise and applauded myself for not being somewhere snowy.

And then I went off in search of Hula Pie. 

Hula Pie is an island tradition.  It’s a massive hunk (think 1/4^th of an actual pie) of macadamia nut ice cream with a cookie crust, mounds of whip cream, hot fudge and some sort of hard, chocolately malted top.   In a word: heaven.  And the best place to get one on Oahu is at Duke’s Waikiki.  So I head over there, order one for breakfast, wolf it down and then wonder why it is that my heart is racing at 9 in the morning.  Go figure.

Then I head off to buy myself the same present I bought myself last year on my birthday: string bikini.  It’s becoming something of a tradition and yes, I still feel like a total rebel buying one.  And keeping in tradition, I’m posting the pic (and please keep your comments to yourself, I just went house on enormous ice cream pie dessert.  Mahalo.)

As if it’s not awesome enough I’m spending my birthday somewhere tropical, the Super Bowl falls on my birthday this year.  Now this is 90% a good thing.  It’s only bad if the Saints don’t win.  But unless you live under a rock, you already know the Saints wiped the smug expression right off Manning’s face.

And I did my part too, to wipe some smug expressions off Colts fans faces.

I headed to Tiki’s, a rooftop bar with excellent TVs, drinks, and Superbowl food specials.  The problem was, the only really good seat available at the outside bar was right in the middle of a bunch of guys (and a few ladies) decked from head to sandal in Colts gear, most of them wearing Manning jerseys.  Now, do I sit down and watch the game in the vipers’ nest or do I take a seat far away from a TV?  I think we know how this goes.  I am no shrinking violet, so I made friends with Colts fan and pretended to be vaguely indifferent about the game.  In reality, I'm a bitter Patriots fan and I hate the Colts on principal alone. 

For the first two quarters, things were okay.  That was until this guy, I’m going to call him Drew.  Drew is one of those Guys Who Doesn’t Get It and I’m pretty sure he’s modeled himself and his wardrobe after “The Situation” from the Jersey Shore. At some point early on, he tells me the Colts are heavily favored and that the spread is 10 points, that’s a touch down and field goal, he adds helpfully.

Drew is full of crap.  The spread is 5. 

Here is a pic of Drew in a rare, quiet moment.  It's a Manning jersey.

Then Drew begins explaining the rules of football to me, starting with what a first down was, because I wasn’t cheering every time the Colts touched the ball.  I ignore him and order another beer, but he’s very persistent that I understand the rules of football and also that I know he played football in high school.  He also critiques every play, every coach’s call, every referee’s call, in addition to all of the commercials.  I make a game-changing decision: I’m going to have another Bud Light and then throw myself off the balcony at Tiki’s.  Into a firepit. 

During half time, I sneak over to the restaurant side of Tiki’s where I find a pair of old people, Tom and Wanda, who clearly want to adopt me.  They have great seats and they let me sit with them and their adult son, Kevin.  They are from Minnesota (which is a whole bag of football worms in itself), but they’re rooting for the Saints.  They have fun accents and tell me I remind them of one of their granddaughters.  So I’m good for a quarter with them. Aren't they cute?

I head back to the bar side of Tiki’s during the 4^th quarter and thoroughly enjoy myself as the Colts fans get more and more despondent.  This translates into alcohol-fueled belligerence and the introduction of silly string.  Question: who brings silly string to Hawaii and then to a super bowl party?  Apparently, Colts fans.  And for the record, these kids aren’t from Indianapolis.  They’re actually from Jersey, which makes it even worse they’re rooting for the Colts.  That and I hate silly string.  It’s unnatural.

Unfortunately, I don’t get to see the ultimate soul crushing moment because I have to leave the game two minutes early to make it on time to my big birthday present to myself: sunset cruise on the Na Hoku, but a certain someone is nice enough to text me the score (thanks again), so I know as I’m stepping on to the large Catamaran that the Colts have lost. 

Sorry, Drew.  Maybe next year. 

Also, because this is a booze cruise, Captain Mike, First Mate Miles, and Master of Ceremonies, Randy have checked my ID and now know it’s my birthday.  Randy gives me a huge hug. Here is a pic of Captain Mike and Randy.

We get on the boat and Miles gets the booze going immediately.  In ten minutes we’re all friends.  This is how it worked at Sam Adams.  Give people booze and they bond.  It’s just nature.  Don’t fight it.

Of the 25 people or so on the cruise, 15 of them are from Seattle, so I make friends fast.  Soon we’re all on a first name basis.  Everyone is friends on a booze cruise and people think its adorable I’m all by myself on a booze cruise and it’s my birthday.  And they start spilling drinks on me, that’s a sign of friendship for sure.  Or the fact that the boat is rocking something fierce.  Good thing I wore black.  They also let me on the secret that half of them are not wearing underwear (which is a little weird, these peeps are all in their mid to late thirties).  So I spend the next 10 minutes trying to figure out who has gone commando.  The wind helps with this process as it lifts a few skirts.  This is a pic of the Seattle crew taken from A-Deck.  I tried to get their attention, but again, how do you get the attention of people who don't wear underwear?

Then there are the boys from Australia, who are adorable with their accents and pronounce my name “Jezz-ee-ka.”  They’re both surfers and they have shark stories to share (Snarky = smitten by shark tales of any kind).  They ask me if I know any good island hikes and I’m come off looking like solid gold because I’m able to describe three (and that’s all I got).  Thank goodness they didn’t ask for anymore suggestions.  I’ve just used up all my coolness.  

Let’s not forget the two pilots either, guys in their fifties, sucking down Coors Light and making the standard “be glad I’m not your pilot,” joke as they get drunk.  When one of them empties half a can on my sandals, I am sincerely glad they’re not my pilots.

Finally can’t leave out the quartet of cougars who shanghai the Aussies into a corner for awhile.  And one of them takes a body shot off Randy.  I’m just saying.  That’s an unforgettable sight, seared into memory. 

So once we’re out a little bit, Randy calls for everyone’s attention.  “There’s a birthday girl on board,” he explains.  “Let’s all sing happy birthday to her.”

Oooh!  That’s me!  (Okay, so at this point in the cruise, I didn't look this demure, but whatever.  I'm cute here as the birthday girl.  Deal with it). 

For the record, Happy Birthday sounds really good when you’re in the middle of the ocean holding a Mai Tai.

But Randy isn’t finished.  Afterwards he says, “that was just awful.  But don’t you worry, Captain Mike and I have composed something a little special for you.”

And then he busts out an ukele.  S**t just got real.

Randy and Mike serenade me with an absolutely hilarious rendition of “I’m Yours” by Jason Mraz.  Everyone joins in on the chorus.  Okay, all snark aside for a moment:  I feel incredibly special, like a little drunken Mai Tai Princess.  Alcohol-fueled or not, everyone is being so nice to me on board and I’m 3000 miles from home and celebrating my birthday alone, and now, well now I don’t feel alone.  First I got adopted by cute old people in the bar and now I’m being serenaded on the high seas. It's enough to make you a little misty-eyed.

Snark back on.

Captain Mike calls for me to dance in the middle of the song.  I’m standing on A-Deck at this point (that’s the top of the boat where I come from, I’m sure it’s called something else) and since I’m an obliging kind of girl, I break into my best hippie dance imitation.  Arms twirling, spinning the black dress around (and yes, I’m wearing underwear.  Do I look like the kinda girl that channels Britney?).  It’s awful.  I move like a drunken walrus that’s been gored by a harpoon.  I cannot dance, and I know it.  But nobody notices or seems to care, everyone is singing along at the top of their lungs to “I’m Yours,” and this night now reigns in the top 3 of best birthdays ever.  And no, there are no pics of me dancing.  You all know what a drunken walrus that's been gored by a harpoon looks like.

But wait, there’s more.  As we sail out further we see giant mint colored sea turtles and in the distance, a whale breaching and not the mild mannered blow hole spouting stuff.  No, this whale is out of the water, shaking his tail for all he’s worth.  The sunset is brilliant and clear, the bright orange orb sinking so fast over the horizon that I can just get one click of the camera off before it’s gone.  And no, that has nothing to do with the Mai Tais I’ve been drinking. (You can see the whale just in front of the sailboat)

After the cruise,  the Seattle peeps decide to adopt me, even if I am wearing underwear, so we head off with the two Aussies in search of general debauch and drinks with umbrellas in them…

Another birthday for the books.

One of the worst pick up lines ever laid down...

It’s Saturday night and I decide to be less nerdy than the previous evening. First I head out to my old stomping grounds, the hotel I lived in at the Ohana West Waikiki. They have a surprisingly decent roof top bar there with an odd mix of locals and tourists (since it is a bar within a hotel). I show up and the bartender, Mike, recognizes me. He even remembers my name. I feel like I just walked into Cheers and I’m grinning like an idiot. He even remembers my drink. This is the best bartender ever. We get to talking and he says, “I know why you’re here. He goes on at 8.”

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.