Six days and nights of Hawaii: Day One

Day One, July 16 2008

I woke up at around 5:00 AM, which is tremendously early for me under normal circumstances, and was particularly early given I had been up so late the previous night. It's not every day (or month, or decade) that I get to fly to Hawaii, though, so I woke up in a timely manner, got a shower taken and my final packing done. I met Flowers and his gf, Ice, outside of Flowers's place and we hitched a ride to the airport with his mom.

This was the first time, actually, that I'd ever traveled to Hawaii, and I think that the plane I flew in was the largest. I've never flown over an ocean for an appreciable time (no European vacation for me just yet, and I don't really count the Gulf of Mexico) so I was surprised at the number of seats on the plane.

I was seated in row 35, iirc, and I was in the center set of seats, with two empty seats immediately to me left. Or at least they were empty for a minute. As soon as I started making plans to somehow sprawl luxuriously across the empty seats, a woman sat down.

Fortunately for us both, she was reasonably attractive. Knowing that she was changing seats without authorization, I was able to open with a "I'm sorry, miss, but I am going to have to see your ticket." It got a laugh.

We talked off and on through the flight. She was going to Hawaii for work. She was from Calgary. Currently living in Montana. Yadda yadda. She wasn't staying on O'ahu (as we were) let alone near Waikiki (as we were) but it was still pleasant companionship.

Two of my three Hawaii co-adventurers had made a trip to Mexico with me in early April... Flowers was in the early stages of his 'ship with Ice, but TM2000 and I had been ready, willing, and eager to meet new Mexicanas and, instead, got a goose egg.

I don't mean goose egg like we didn't get laid. Or that we didn't make out with any hot chicks. I mean that we (almost) literally spoke to no women. I got shot down once, iirc, and I was called "gay" by a gaggle of Sonorans, but for all intents and purposes we were entirely shut out.

TM2000 arrived in Hawaii some time before the rest of us, and he had been peppering me with txts and emails involving ... well, involving good stuff. I was looking forward to jinxing his experience with my arrival.

In any event, Mexico provided a baseline of sorts for me in judging Hawaii... if it was better (even given the low bar that had been set) it would be a success.

We touched down in Honolulu and TM2000 picked us up in his dad's orange 1979 VW bus... it was awesome. We stopped at L&L for some lunch plates (which involve a scoop of white rice, a scoop of macaroni salad, and a meat of your choice... all on (you guessed it) a plate)... although I had a couple of hamburgers (needing time to acclimate to the island).

After lunch we cruised to our hotel, which was right across the street from the beach in Waikiki (south of Honolulu, on the island of O'ahu). The beach looked great. The ocean looked amazing. Attractive people in bathing suits abounded. It was good.

One of my innumerable weaknesses as a human being is that I am a poor packer. I tend to wait until the last minute, and I tend to forget things on a regular basis. I invariably end up buying something that I already have two or three of at home, and this trip was no different.

In this case, it was swim trunks.

I already have two perfectly funcional pairs of swim trunks, but that they were nice and clean and folded up in my Seattle apartment didn't really do me much good when I was standing in my hotel room.

It was about 3:30 PM, and we had planned on hitting the beach. So I needed swim trunks, stat. I wandered down to an ABC Store (one of about 40 within walking distance) and picked out a new pair.

80% of these blogs seem to be me pointing out my faults, but given how my weaknesses define my life experiences, I must betray another one to continue to tell this story. This weakness? I have no idea what my waist measurements are.

Unfortunately, I had to learn the hard way.

Specifically, I looked at the 50 (or so) different swim trunks hanging up, and I picked the pair that I thought looked the best: they were pretty plain black, with a splash of red. I took them to my room after paying for them, and I didn't even look to see what size they were.

I got up to my room (TM2000 was out parking the rig or something) and I looked at the shorts. They looked good, but they were size 30.

"Hmm...", I thought, "size 30 waist seems like it might be a tight fit. Oh, well. I'll make it work."

When I pulled the shorts up past my calves, I knew I was in trouble. They didn't really want to go over my knees and thights, let alone up around my waist.

But I persevered. I had it in my head that if I could get them past my thighs they'd fit. Of course, when I got them around my thighs I had to squeeze my butt in there, and I literally scraped my left buttock because the shorts were so small/I had so much junk in my trunk.

Speaking of junk: I FINALLY got the shorts pulled all the way up, and they were tight. Like tight around the waist. Tight around my thighs. But worst of all? EXTREMELY tight in the groin region.

It was like I took some suspenders, threaded them carefully between my bits and pieces, and then stree-eetched the suspenders, fastening them around my neck. My crotch looked... well, it didn't look right. It was uncomfortable, of course, but the shock of seeing the way the too-tight swim trunks were pushing things in entirely unnatural ways... that shock was too much.

I peeled off the shorts (wincing as I had to re-scrape my ass cheek taking them off) and eventually swapped them for some that fit more appropriately.

It would probably be a good idea to go to the doctor to ensure that I'm still capable of producing children...

[more on my trip later...]

Excesses in Haircutting

My hair was getting out of control. Hawaii was getting closer (literally, because of plate tectonics, and temporally). Still I went back and forth about whether to get a trim, let it ride, or get it all chopped off.

After taking informal surveys the last couple of weeks (again: anyone who knows me understands that I'm driven by public opinion and poll numbers) I decided to get it cut. Short.

Saturday morning I called the salon where I've gone for the last couple of years (Seven) and asked for the stylist who helped me last time. I came to know her through (shocking, I know) Ozzies and she did a good job last time. If I'm going to pay an arm and a leg for a haircut, I'd rather have a friend end up with my arm, at least.

4:30. Saturday afternoon. With my friend. In their new location.

I had not been to the new location, which is on the second floor of Pacific Place downtown. Their previous location seemed reasonably functional, at least, with about 12 haircutting station thingies (a technical term) and a nice reception desk, with a couch and magazines to help one while away the time. There was also three changing booths, where people could put on fancy-ass robes.

I'd been told the new place was an improvement, and I had expected it to be larger. I didn't expect what I experienced, though.

At about 4:20 I rolled into the new Seven location and stopped at the reception desk. Unlike the previous location, which had the desk tucked in the corner, with all of the haircutting station thingies visible, this new reception desk was the first thing I saw. That was fine. I like clarity when it comes to salons.

I was greeted by a woman and I explained I had a 4:30 with my friend (we'll call her "Ellen", because that's her name). She handed me off (not literally) to another woman (who, incidentally, had worked at the other location and had been involved with me about my sexuality some months previously (to her credit, it was at Neighbors)). This second woman brought me around the corner to another woman and then promptly departed (without taking a shot at my affection/affinity for women... maybe she forgot or maybe I've started to exude more testosterone or maybe she just didn't want to mock customers whilst she was on the clock).

This third woman was a nice enough looking lady, but she wasn't Ellen. I was sort of nonplussed, and I apologized, thinking maybe I had been assigned to the wrong Ellen. She shook her head and said she wasn't Ellen, and then offered me a robe.

It clicked that, unlike the previous location where there were just a few booths to change in, there was now a dedicated Robe Distributor and, presumably, a walk-in set of booths to change in. I declined the offer of the robe, though, and was at that point handed off to a FOURTH woman.

This fourth woman brought me around another corner and asked if I wanted something to drink... SOP for Seven, and I was ready for this: I asked for a water. When she returned, she had a mini bottle of water and a piece of chocolate (that I promptly put in my pocket because it had the word "Sexy" on it... why eat chocolate with such brilliantly ridiculous packaging? (Don't even get me started on my Oral Fixation usage lately...))

While I was ready for the beverage question, I was not ready for the assault on the senses that kicked in as I turned the corner and took a seat in the waiting area.

First of all, I was surprised by the size. There were probably 50 haircutting station thingies. (Although the use of mirrors might have just given that impression, it was quite roomy.)

Secondly, there were a lot of people milling about. It was like the Death Star, where it wasn't just Darth Vader and the Stormtroopers: there are support staff and people that look like they belong but don't have readily apparent roles.

Two people stationed directly in front of the waiting area did have obvious roles, and I was a bit stunned at their presence. A DJ was spinning tracks. A barista was waiting to make coffee or espresso or whatever the caffeine addicts are drinking nowadays.

Many of the other employees were women, and many (perhaps even most) were... uh... hot. Not to be a lecherous old man or anything, but there were quite a few attractive women wearing fetching dresses (classy, but fetching). Some were standing, talking, dancing to the music playing (thank you, DJ!)

When Ellen came to get me, we walked the 1.2 miles to her haircutting station thingie, talked haircutting strategy, and then rinsed my hair at the sink in the glorious sink area about 40 feet from her chair.

It was upon the return from the sink to the chair that I did something I can't remember doing. Ever. It's a bit embarrassing and it makes me feel common, so of course I'm gonna blog about it.

We were walking back, with Ellen following me, when it happened.

You've all seen Three's Company. I'm sure that most of the readers of this blog studied it extensively... either in film school or as part of their postgraduate work. Three's Company had a portion of its intro where Jack Tripper is staring at a woman and crashes his bike... and another intro where he's staring at a woman and runs his bumper car into the wall (which is so ironic! His bumper car is uniquely enabled to withstand such a gaffe! It's almost as if he knew it was going to happen.)

So. Yeah. Three's Company.

I'm walking back to the chair. Ellen is behind me. There are lots of attractive women standing around, dressed appropriately but pleasingly.

One walked by and I looked at her and she looked at me and I ... I dunno. I stopped paying attention to anything else. I did not, however, stop walking.

At the last moment, I managed to swerve to avoid a crash into a pillar or whatever was in my way. If it had been Three's Company, I would have bumped into a stylist who would have shaved off half of Don Knotts's hair. And there might have been a tight zoom on his face, which might have looked like this:

The funny thing is that I don't remember what she looked like. Brunette, wearing a black dress. I'm pretty sure of those things, but the details are fuzzy. Maybe it was just the intoxicating effect of the new Seven location... knowing how excessive it all was. Or maybe they put something in my bottled water.

That thought makes me even less likely to eat my Sexy chocolate.

Tear of Rage

Time is ticking down towards my Hawaii vacation, and I've been getting some going outs taken care of.

With TM2000 warming up the islands for me, and Morpheus (is that his nickname? I thought I had a new one, but I can't recall it at the moment) was all, sick, or something... so I went out alone through LQA.

I had a couple of interesting things happen (naturally) but the highlight/lowlight occurred at about 2:15 AM, on the northwest corner of Mercer and Queen Anne.

First, of course, some context. There are two primary places I tend to frequent on Lower Queen Anne (aka LQA). First and foremost is Ozzies. Secondly is Chopstix, which is a dueling piano bar around the corner.

I'm not, truth be told, the hugest fan of Chopstix in the world, but other people like it and I am always prone to peer pressure and I conform at the drop of a hat.

Also, since I go to Ozzies so often, I like to mix it up by going Thursday nights to Chopstix. It's Ladies' Night on Thursdays, and if one is willing to wade through the chaff, there is occasionally wheat.

With all of that said, there is one guy who's there every Thursday. I can't make fun of him for that, both because (a) I'm at Ozzies much more often than he's at Chopstix, and (b) the only reason I know he's there every Thursday is because I am, too. He has sort of a flambouyant wardrobe, though (and this is from a guy who is mocked pretty consistently for his garb, remember) and he definitely stands out.

Thursday night he had a buddy with him. Maybe it had occurred before, or maybe it was a first... but he had a buddy. His friend was wearing a stone washed denim vest to go with stone washed jeans (is "stone wash" a single word? Hyphenated? Screw it; I'm keeping it as two words).

Why was he wearing this? It turns out that it was 80's night at Chopstix. That's right... Ladies' Night and 80's Night. I think they tried to work in a "Salute our Troops" angle, too, but two themes is the legal limit, as it turns out.

Unfortunately for Vest Guy, he and his buddy The Regular were the only two aware of the 80's night. (As an aside: while I find this amusing, I fell victim to a similar snafu at Ozzies Pajama Night in March of 2007.)

If this was all that had happened, I would not have blogged about it. Or, rather, I might have, but I wouldn't have poured so much of this fiscal quarter's advertising revenue into driving traffic to this blog.

No. That is not all that happened.

Ozzies closed. I wanted orange juice, so I walked to the Metropolitan Market to get some. Orange juice. Get some orange juice.

On the way back, I spied The Regular and Vest Guy standing on the corner about a block out of my way. We were, like, the only three people (at least non-invisible people) around, so I tucked my Simply Orange under my arm and went over to say hello.

Vest Guy was upset. He was pacing and he was staring down the street towards Ozzies. The Regular was making placating gestures, smiling and trying to calm Vest Guy down. I had to know what was happening... so I asked.

With a visible effort, Vest Guy stopped pacing and turned to face me. He looked upset. Angry and hurt and... well, upset. Because I didn't feel like getting punched, I prodded but gently in our succeeding conversation, which went something like this:

Me: Hey... is everything all right?
Vest Guy: You know sometimes people are just assholes.
The Regular: And sometimes people have too much to drink--
VG: They push and they push and they say shit and they--
TR: --and stuff gets taken the wrong way...
VG: --and you think...
Me: Woah. What's going on?
TR: We were outside of Ozzies, and--
VG: Outside of Ozzies, guys were talking shit and they were just so... ahh, FUCKERS!
TR: --like a dozen guys were talking. (To VG) You know there were like a dozen, right?
VG: I don't care... I say we go back and we...
TR: You know I was just trying to get you out of there, right?
Me: (Looking down the street towards Ozzies) Well, whomever they were, it seems they've gone... can you tell me what happened?
VG: You think you're doing well, and then they say something, and it's 8th Grade and Dungeons and Dragons, and...
Me: Oh, my.
TR: (Nodding) Yes... see?

I did see. I didn't need to know particulars to know that this young man, this young man who was wearing a stone washed denim vest with a sleeveless shirt underneath, I didn't need to know particulars to know that this young man had felt his entire adulthood and maturity ripped away from him... to know that the veneer of badassedness that was (presumably) only partially captured by his 80's Night adventure garb was taken away from him, and he was suddenly back to re-rolling 3d6 for Charisma because he really wanted to get a Cleric that could have a lot of followers.

What I did see, though, was a single tear rolling down his right cheek. A Tear of Rage.

We went on to discuss local politics and Sonics dancers and the state of the GOP in the state of Washington (and by "discuss" I mean that they talked while I listened, vainly hoping to build upon the Tear of Rage moment)... but nothing stuck with me like the emotion that Vest Guy exhibited.

Go go, Vest Guy. Rage on.

Random

OK. Random things:

1. I had a dream last night/this morning. No plot. No (clearly understood) insight into my life or the human condition, generally. The dream? A tight camera shot of a monkey's hand being fingerprinted. It was a monkey, rather than an ape... it had orange hair, like an orangutan, but since the point of view was so close-up on its hands I couldn't tell what kind of monkey it was (although I just knew it wasn't an ape). I also realize that monkeys tend to have paws, rather than hands, but since it was being fingerprinted, I think it's fair to call this monkey's paws, at least, hands. Maybe it was a monkey like this. I am not sure.
   
2. I don't like that the MySpace titles are so inconsistent. You might not ever have noticed, but up at the top of the browser window, it usually reads something like "MySpace.com - Ed 0. - 34 - Male - Seattle, Washington". When one is editing one's blog, it reads simply "MySpace". But when one looks at pictures, it reads "Myspace.com Photo Albums". Can a brother get an intercap, please? Either capitalize the "s" or do not. But you're trying my patience and pissing me off a little bit.
3. Today is Thursday which means, last I checked, that tonight is Thursday night. Of all the adventures I've had, the most interesting ones have occurred on Thursday nights. There's no guarantee that I will have any sort of adventure tonight (and no guarantee that, if I did, it could be objectively considered "interesting"), but it's still Thursday night and I hold out hope. Last Thursday night I wore a baseball cap cocked to the left... seemingly unironically. No adventure was had (by me, at least) but at least I was willing to look like a moron in the hopes of having one.
4. I'll be in Hawaii this time next week. I keep thinking about how awesome it is going to be, and how nothing can ever spoil the perfect vacation. I figure that if I set my expectations really REALLY high, then even if only 80% of the expectations are met, I will still be happy in relative terms. That's how expectations should be managed, right?

Stupid (or: My New Vacuum Cleaner)

When I was growing up, my mom was a "stay at home" mom. My dad had a job that evidently was enough to make ends meet (although when I started helping my parents organize their finances at age 12 or 13, I was a bit shocked to see how disorganized they were...)

I love that my mom was there. I love that she cleaned and that she cared. I hated that she nagged about my bedroom being a mess, and I didn't understand the near-constant "we can't have anything nice" refrain that was uttered when one of my siblings or a pet or I scratched/stained/spoiled a piece of furniture or carpet or hardbound Time/Life volume.

She let us have the run of our space in the house and she wasn't overly anal about anything, and any time she gave us grief--even if it annoyed me at the time--I understand it to be reasonable.

As an adult, I didn't have my mom to clean up for me. This is, as I reflect upon it, one of the reasons that my marriage didn't work. Chores were, perhaps, a symptom of other issues, but at a basic level I didn't WANT to sweep, I didn't WANT to make my bed, I didn't WANT to do dishes (even if "doing dishes" was merely rinsing them off and putting them in the dishwasher).

It's been over two years now that I've been on my own... actually almost 2.5 years. It's not just the gallons of hard alcohol flowing through my veins at the moment that make me ponder the way that time flies and consider how different my life is now than it was this time in 2005.

The point of this blog (such as it is) is not to wax nostalgic, nor is it to gloat about how great my life is, nor is it to express regret. Those are all too big for me to currently wrap my touchdown-addled brain around, so I'm focusing on a specific portion of my marriage and my current life.

That portion? House chores. Cleaning up. Specifically: vacuuming.

My ex and I had a nice vacuum. I don't remember where we bought it, but (as with so many other things that we shared) we bought the best and assumed we'd be sharing it forever. When I moved out, she kept the vacuum... which, given that I assumed the role of caretaker for our (my) three cats, was an interesting decision on our part.

I bought a vacuum a month or two after being on my own that was pretty well rated, but was definitely of limited quality. I think I paid $90 or so for it, and I had no idea how long it would last. My first apartment was approximately the size of a four square court, so I thought that it would be fine.

While it worked as advertised at first, about nine months in it simply stopped working. It turned on and sounded the same but the suction was for shit. (That's what he said.)

When it came time to replace the vacuum, I went cheap again. As with my first purchase, I did homework and got the best possible vacuum I could... but for under $100.

Last week my carpet was getting gross. Cat hair, cat litter, infected syringes, and Garfield comic strips were strewn from corner to corner. I roused myself to vacuum, and I cleaned/unclogged the tubes (not a euphemism for masturbation) in the vacuum and ... it didn't work. Again: it worked, but it didn't suck.

A vacuum without suction is like a chick at a bar with a wedding ring: might look good and give the right vibe but is ultimately useless.

I tried to vacuum a 4x8 foot portion of the floor and it merely scattered the falderol to the adjoining segment. In spite of going over it three, five, seven times, it didn't get better. It was a fucking waste of time and it was depressing.

The crazy thing is that I remember my decision making process regarding that vacuum perfectly: I knew I was buying a cheap vacuum, and I knew that it would only last a year or so (if I was lucky). Was I to be mad at past Ed O., or was I to look forward?

Past Ed O. is not perfect, but he's pretty badass. How could I stay mad at him?

So I ordered a new vacuum online. A Dyson, which is probably more vacuum than I need, but should last until global warming kills me (November 22, 2009 by my current climate forecasting model).

After spending a buttload (although not an assload) of money onlne, I was informed I'd have to wait 5-10 days for it to arrive. Given the state of my carpet and my cats' propensity to both shed and vomit with great aplomb and regularity, I clearly was hoping for closer to five days.

Fortunately, the Overstock.com gods (I believe their names are Rodney and Trilinda, oddly enough) smiled upon me. I received my vacuum today, FOUR days after ordering it. I brought the package home after work, eschewed a nap, failed to eat dinner, and vacuumed.

It was a housecleaning orgasm, basically. My new household appliance--nay, my new household amigo--performed flawlessly. One swimpe across the area cleaned it. It had some quirks, but I believe those idiosyncracies can justifiably be called "features". I think I'm in love.

Looking back at my recalcitrance towards chores both as a child and as a married child, I am a bit stunned. I wander around LQA with a stupid hat cocked a la C.C. Sabathia, and I drink and make a fool of myself in front of friends and strangers... I am entirely uncommitted in 95% of my life and feel like I've got some sort of fucked up Peter Pan complex going on... I don't know what I want to do in terms of career or my life in any sort of intermediate to long term. In so many ways, by any objective measure, I have regressed in maturity from three years ago.

And yet.

And yet I vacuum. I do dishes. I sweep. I do laundry (although sporadically, and with much cussing). I do things, especially vacumming with my new Dyson, not just because they need doing, but because I take some pleasure in making my place look just a bit more respectable.

Maybe there's some sort stack of maturity chits, and I can reallocate them to different areas of my life to where I take different things more seriously... I dunno. It's odd being 34 years old, living with three cats, not knowing what the fuck is going on in my life beyond work Monday morning and karaoke sometime soon but knowing that, as I pushed the new vacuum, I was grinning from ear to ear as it picked up kitty litter and other crap on my floor.