This blog chronicles the shenanigans of two NYC SHOW-STOPPERS as they entertain themselves through fleeting, fun, yet ultimately futile attempts to overcome their boredom with corporate America, and life in general.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Waikiki...Wha???

Hawai-i. Just the mention of that magical, mystical archipelago in the middle of the South Pacific conjures up soothing thoughts of balmy ocean breezes, Don Ho's dulcet tones, and the Brady boys' epic quest to return that damn tiki necklace to the ancient burial ground before any more bad luck befell them. Having been invited by one of my best friends, Katers, to tag along to Oahu while she attended a conference, I was excited by the prospect of exploring this paradise on earth for the first time, and the potential stimulating new experiences awaiting me there.

Sadly, upon arrival in Waikiki Beach, my dreams of an idyllic, pristine tropical nirvana were quickly smashed to smithereens, much like coconuts falling to the pavement from a windswept palm. And judging from my observations of the locals, coconuts must rain from the trees often here, pummeling the heads of the entire population repeatedly and rendering them, regrettably, several pineapples short of a bushel.

A typical day in the life of most Hawaiians seems to start with the shredding of a tasty wave or 40, followed by 10 joints, a 3-hour meditation session on the beach, a fast food lunch (in Hawaii, fast food seems bigger than the Big Island) consumed while still in the lotus position, an afternoon of serious bong hits and a friendly visit to a neighbor's basement meth lab, and bed by 8pm. Not a bad deal for an island dweller, but a frustrating scenario for a displaced New Yorker who, judging by my antsiness, is more neurotic and impatient than I realized. Where the hell does a gal get a decent blowout in this town? Blimey!

Knowing full well that only a free-flowing river of (hard) alcohol would sustain me through the duration of the trip, I ventured out with Katers on Saturday night in search of a lively local watering hole, ideally brimming with Argentinean polo players and/or hunky Aussie surfers. We walked into an open-air bar in the heart of the beach district at 11pm and gazed around at the 12 other people in the place. Bewildered, I asked the bartender where the party was on Saturday night in Waikiki. "This is it," he said stoically, smoothing his ponytail while standing beneath a giant black-and-white image of Laird Hamilton. "Hawaii," he continued, "is a daytime state."

Um...apparently, among other more colorful adjectives.

Surveying the street urchins of Waikiki—who make the crew in Key West's Mallory Square seem like a high society gathering on the banks of the Seine—I quickly gathered that I wasn't in Kansas anymore.
[Enter pasty, disoriented TOURIST—likely from Kansas, ironically—staggering bewilderedly down the main drag. Nearby is a barefoot, leather-skinned, heavy-lidded LOCAL, in desperate need of shower and shave.]
TOURIST: Excuse me, can you tell me where the Hilton is?
[LOCAL, dazed and presumably baked, stops weaving palm fronds into necklaces and stares intently into the middle distance in the general direction of the hotels.]
LOCAL: You got it, brah...you see that guy wavin' the "Free Hugs" sign? Just down from the dude with no pants on lassoing the trashcan? Make a right at that corner.
TOURIST: Hhmmmm...you mean where the band of pigeon-toed men wearing the "Jesus loves me!" t-shirts and the fresh flowers behind their ears is standing?
LOCAL: You got it, brother! Aloha. [Flashes peace sign, returns to studious weaving.]
A few days of this blank-stared, slack-jawed, lackadaisical interaction was about all I could take, despite highlights like a visit to the island's stunningly beautiful North Shore and the tasty, potent margaritas in the bar of our otherwise scary hotel. Waikiki Beach is also a reeeaaallly hard place to get around in, as every street name has at least 7 "k"s and "i"s in it, and sounds exactly the same. (Hotel concierge: "A decent Japanese restaurant? Sure, just take Kapiolani to Kalakaua, make a right on Kaiulani and go straight to Kanekapolei. Right there on your left." Me: "Uhhhhh...whaaaa?")

Daydreaming of the Big Apple as I waited in the Wolfgang Puck Express for 25 minutes for an egg sandwich (I was one of three people there, and there were five cooks behind the counter), I envisioned SWF, fair as an Irish rose, on these strange shores, sweetly disintegrating into a pile of ashes under the sun's nuclear rays, and a tear came to my eye. It was time to get the hell-akalani out of here.

Having raced to the airport only to find my flight delayed by three hours (naturally!), I schlepped to the food court, where I was promptly accosted at the Pizza Hut Express by a Panamanian gentleman wearing a t-shirt bearing the mantra "Growth Through Excellence" (sure, sounds like as solid a tactic as any). He kindly inquired if I might be interested in being a spokesmodel for his fledgling cosmetics company, and requested that I watch his sales video for the line. Despite my deep skepticism (something tells me this isn't quite how Claudia Schiffer got her start in the modeling biz), I agreed, as he was sweet and eager, it seemed like a fitting conclusion to this zany trip to Bizarro World, and I still had six minutes to wait for my personal pan with pepperoni. Whipping out a laptop, he proceeded to show me a video of a woman hurtling through space in a time machine, rubbing various potions on her face as evil foes of youthful complexions everywhere (smoking! tanning! drinking!) flashed ominously on a Jetsons-like dashboard display. When she began to magically and creepily transform into a waxen, peach-colored harpy, presumably thanks to these elixirs, I quickly thanked Panama Jack and told him my people would be in touch, should I decide I was interested in coming aboard the mothership.

1 comment:

MmmmYah said...

Hahahahah I likikilikey your blog! Hilarious.