Rainy Days

Ripped from the headlines of the Honolulu Star Bulletin, Hawaii's oldest daily newspaper:

"Bad weather again flooded roads, caused sewage spills and even prompted a tornado warning on Kauai...The rains picked up as Mayor Mufi Hannemann, touring flood-damaged areas on Oahu, said it's likely Honolulu suffered more than $2.7 million in damages since Thursday."

(2.7 million is a significant figure, it's the threshold amount that triggers aid from the fine folks at FEMA).

Disclaimer: I am not complaining about the Hawaiian "sunshine" we've been having since Thursday. I know it's freezing at home AND raining. However, I post these pics, taken from my porch (the lanai), just to show the sheer awesomeness of the rain and how cool palm trees look when they're being blown around. That and I was finally able to work into a blog that the Mayor's name is Mufi. Fist pump.

Greasy Daze

When I first started co-op the very first day was an orientation with HR. During this time I learned about the generous nature of the firm, the great benefits, the firm philosophy and oh yes, one final thing…that as newbies, Travis and I would be singing at the holiday party. No pressure or anything.

The theme was “Greasy Daze” and suggested attire included anything from the movie, Grease, which wouldn’t you know it, poodle skirts and greaser outfits were not exactly easy to come by on a tropical island. The holiday party was to be held at the Honolulu Hard Rock Café and it was there under the records of the Big Bopper and Elvis that we would perform “Oh Those Late Trial Nights” set to the sweet sweet strains of “Summer Lovin’.”

Over the next two weeks there were numerous clandestine meetings with the other newbies to practice, and well…we were just awful, I mean really terrible. And then the new associate, Blaine joined us (yes newbie attorneys had to do it too), and even though he wouldn’t cop to acapella experience in his college days, he got us all in tune. It was nothing short of a miracle.

As the party drew near I would see strange things around the office, a cut-out milk shake that was as tall as I was, poodle appliqués, old-fashioned coke glasses, bobby socks left on a desk…the excitement was growing and I could tell we were in for something big...

Well the big day was this Friday and to be honest, despite feeling that our singing would be so atrocious that they would cancel the newbie singing tradition forever and probably ask Travis and I to get back on planes and go home…the party rocked.

In no particular order, the highlights: The firm’s paralegals. They made their own satin poodle skirts and Rydell sweaters with matching pom-poms. Then there was my clean cut officemate, Travis, who with the help of a wig, transformed himself into a pretty passable greaser. Finally, mad props to our partners who also good-naturedly (donned jeans and leather jackets (in the case of the men) and skirts and scarves (in the case of the ladies).

Okay, so maybe our table didn’t do quite so hot at 50’s trivia, considering nobody at our table was over the age of 30 and couldn’t tell you whose nickname was “Mr. Television.” (It’s Milton Berle. But I got all the baseball questions right, such as whose first hit as a Giant was a home run? Oh, I’ll just tell you. Say hey Willie Mays, naturally. Boo-yah!) But at least everyone got these great mix CDs made by the firm featuring such fifty faves as “Wake Up Little Susie,” “Mr. Sandman” and “Great Balls of Fire.”

Then came time for our newbie song and proud to say, I think we may even have outdone Travolta and Olivia Newton John, who let’s face it, cracked on the high notes at the end. Not that we did that. And not that anybody called for an encore. But we had dance movies, baby. And heart.

All snark aside for a moment (a true rarity), I was kinda touched by the camaraderie effort everyone in the firm put into the holiday party. Coming from New England, I think we've all felt the cut back on holiday festivities because of the PC effect. No Christmas trees. No menorahs. Nothing. Out here at least one firm has figured out how to still have some fun...albeit in cuffed jeans and tees. Snark Snark Snark.

Anywho, enjoy the pics, and in case you’re wondering, Travis and his brother actually curled his wig to get it that way (not to embarrass Travis further or anything,but the secretaries in our office were actually squealing in delight when they saw him in all his coiffed glory). As always, runner-up photos, not quite blog-worthy, are on facebook.

Diamond Head

Diamond Head is a large volcanic crater that is believed to have formed over 300,000 years ago during a single eruption. The crater spans approximately 350 acres, its depth greater than its width. Originally called “Le’ahi,” which means “brow of the tuna” or “too damn hard to pronounce” garnered it’s most current name from…who else…gullible British sailors in the 1700’s, who upon sailing around Oahu shores, mistook the calcite crystals embedded in the rock for diamonds. But you won’t hold this against them since they likely all had scurvy.

Along the way you encountered a rather smattering array of exotic birds, volcanic rock, and dumb Japanese tourists. You shouldn’t pick on the Japanese, really. But who else voluntarily hikes up a volcanic crater in high-heeled sandals and Hello Kitty tube tops?

You climb a series of switchbacks which afford gorgeous views of the island and then come a punishing amount of stairs (77 on one flight, then 99 on the next, but who’s counting?) The super fun part is a dark passage through a 225 foot long tunnel which if one has an overactive imagination, one can swear she hears bats (but such is not the case). For those of you who are coming to visit (Da, Petit, John, Lawless, O Town, and Aaron), if you are claustrophic, afraid of small dark places, then maybe we leave you at the cabana that day with no judgment passed.

Eventually you crouch and pop out this crawl space and forget the stairs, the creepy passage way and dumb Japanese tourists because you are standing 761 feet up, the gentle trade winds are hitting you erasing the semi-arid sweat you are covered in and you can see miles and miles of turquoise ocean in front of you and green hills that have pockets of houses spilling down them like lava flow behind you.

You wind around until you can spot the Diamond Head Light House, Koko Head, Waikiki and Chinaman’s Hat (I’m not being un-PC, that’s what it’s called). And at the top of the lookout you find yourself listening to the one person using his cell phone on top of a natural wonder, wrecking everyone’s quiet enjoyment and you know, even before the accent really comes through, that you are standing next to a New Yorker.

Luckily, you are wearing your green Irish Red Sox t-shirt that your dad bought you, and lucky for you, you have a sense of snarkiness that surpasses even this New Yorker’s. So first you thank a higher power for this opportunity, then you wait until he finishes his phone call, and you walk over to him with the biggest friendliest smile you can manage and ask him to take your picture. At first he agrees, and then you can see his eyes moving down over your shirt, and he is immediately annoyed. Smile real pretty for the camera. Then you ask where he’s from, he replies “Manhattan” in a sulky tone, and because you are your father’s daughter, you pause, wait and then ask innocently, “how bout them, Yankees?” Then you retrieve your camera and skedaddle down the mountain before he can throw a battery at you.

(Also, more pics on facebook in Hawaii album, the blog only lets you post 5 per entry).