Monday, August 04, 2003

Woke up yesterday at about 10:30 and got up and ate an onion bagel with cream cheese. Then I showered and then I gathered up the beach gear and got in the car, but I didn’t go to the beach, oh no, I was going to the movies. There was a noon showing of 28 days later that had my name on it. This would be my first venture into town since my return from the other side of the globe.

The movie was pretty criptopplis, I ain’t gonna say much more, I ain’t Roger Ebert, except that the alternative ending was I guess entertaining but you gotta sit all the way through the credits to see it and it’s really just kinda the opposite of the first ending. I don’t know, alternate endings are almost never as good as you imagine they might be. The whole “what if” idea is really only interesting if it’s just this outrageous scenario, and I guess any scenario involving disease infected zombies could be considered outrageous, but ya know, the envelope called and it wasn’t being pushed.

Anyway I digress and I don’t want to leave the impression that 28 days later is not a quality film which deserves your hard earned dollar or swiss franc, because it is, it deserves, it enriches beyond its price tag, it effervesces, so rush to your local Cineplex and plug into the mass media machine that has taken over this piece of English literature from the modern era and, effervesce (word of the day punks).

So after the movie I decided that NOW I was gonna go to the beach. So I drove through ala moana beach park and peeped the scene, but there was literally no parking to be had, peak hours, local kine anyshine, and so I figgered, no, I knew, I could find parking in Waikiki, and it actually sounded nice to wander around and blend in with the tourists and pretend I was on vacation again. If I could just find some French people to stalk I could pretend I was in Nice and that there was some really sophisticated industry types slumming from the Cannes festival, down for some amaretto sours and some high priced back rubs from imported Ukrainian spine dancers.

So I found parking on the ala wai like I knew I would, and then proceeded to change into my swim trunks on the dl. Then I strolled through the zone like a mackadocious playa. There was something in my strut that indicated I knew whut the fuk I was doing, but my hat with the big ol swiss cross on it spoke of a lad from a different land. My cover was perfect, the sun was shining, my supplies were in order, so I made my way to the beach. Then something happened which I had not calculated, at least in the frontal lobe. I was hungry, and not, like, just jamba-juice hungry, like, I needed something solid, something with meat in it. the problem was that nothing I passed by seemed satisfactory to my gullet. I even made it all the way to kuhio beach park, right by the po-lice station, right by the jackers jacking the jacks for they gripples renting long boards for $15. there’s like this little hamburger stand there, but there’s the world’s most ghetto jack in the box across the street from a beautiful beach, coincidentally, right across the street, so I went there, which I knew would make the story kind of suck, bringing down the sophistication level, but I had to risk it as cuz as you know if it don’t make dollaz it don’t make sense and after a complicated skiing accident in vail two winters ago with jack’s bastard granddaughter hazel, let’s just say that not only do I get free jumbo jacks, but there’s a kickback involved, so que sera sera and pass the fukn ammo as my auntie gertle is prone to say.

So anyway, from there I went to the bizeach, which was fukn crowded as, um, one of those really crowded events, like the republican national convention or some shit like that, but I still found a spot to lay my towel down and put the very last little bit of sun block in the pennyworth fortune on my white ass, and then soak up sun, swim, soak up sun, lather, rinse, repeat, and then it was back on the towel reading volume 3 in the never ending tale of the wheel of time and then back in the water and then I figgered that’s enuff of that. There was this foolio in the water with his daughter and they were trying to catch these little uncatchable waves, like the shore break, but sad, and it made me laugh, and then I felt like a wave snob, and then I realized that maybe I am a total and complete ass hole, and that made me cry, but not really, just the consideration of tears, and then I got up, changed in the handicap stall in the bathroom, did NOT piss all over the walls, walked back to the car, and knew in my heart of hearts that I was headed for the bar.

And at the bar, as if by a miracle, I did arrive. The Mai-Tai bar at Ala Moana mall, formerly home of the best happy hour on Oahu. I say, sadly, formerly, because, well, they fucked up the game, cuz. Used to be that on Sunday they started that shit early, we’re talking, like from 4 PM to 11 PM, just about everything is half priced, which means, fancy foo foo drinks like icy mai-tais, lava flows, raspberry margaritas, all that shit’s $3. well they fukn jacked that shit outta there, and now happy hour starts at 8 PM on Sundays, just like any other day. ah shit. fuk, ya know, it’s like they had the good idea to honor the lord’s day some cheap drinks for the alchies, and then, it’s like, fuk, do all dogs really go to heaven? And the cosmic karma at this place took another step when I noticed that the bartender that looks exactly like tony pierce was working. Every time I see this guy I want to ask him if he’s ever read the busblog, but I always decide that the dumbassness of such a comment will highly outweigh any cognitive positive end all to the arrangement for me and I decide fuk it, and you know, you don’t want to fuk up the bartender bartendee relationship cuz that shit’s crucial when you’re trying to get your tank on.

So I had longboard lager, which was on some special dillio for $2.50, and four beers later, I figured it was time to play stumbleaya to the auto, whereby who was waiting for me but none other than my trusty rabbit friend Harvey, valet not to the stars but to me, just me dammitt. He’s my talking rabbit chauffeur and if you want to borrow him the fee is 89 thou per mile so cough up the cheese please.

Suffice it to say that Harvey got my ass home by way of the original jelly’s where I grabbed a comic book and a couple cd’s. found a Jason Blakemore disc, but it didn’t have the “pure” track on it. if anyone’s got a copy of DJ Trance’s pure hey drop a gem on me. I’ll make it worth your while, but more in the Frankie Sinatra way and not the Raquel Welch fashion. Unless that’s what you’re into I’m sure I can have one of my associates contact a subcontractor and we can work something out.

I would mention herein some interesting tidbits about Harvey’s mental state and attitude during the journey, but he was strangely quiet, in fact I don’t think he said a word the whole trip. Usually he’s half off his ass on some substance which almost always causes him to yell and scream and hop around the vehicle, all while never losing even the slightest control of the actual driving task, but as said, he did not appear depressed nor elated, he did not appear to be in any state of mind that could be quantified or qualified by any type of verbage that I am aware of. Frankly, I’m a little worried about him. Harvey’s a strange rabbit, with behavioral patterns that have not been able to be calculated by any of a numerous amount of psychologists who have attempted said research, but I know him better than anyone, and he was acting akin to none of his various selves.

But he did get me home ok. Thanks Harv.