It is the afternoon of Thanksgiving day. I am on my flight back to San Francisco, somewhere over the Pacific. If you are reading this online, I arrived safely. If you are reading a hand-written page hastily stuffed into a mini-bottle of scotch and found bobbing around in the ocean, I did not.

Overall, it has been a fine trip. I didn’t find the sleaze I thought I would, but perhaps that’s all for the best. There is no shortage of that at home.

When I first arrived, I thought I would be made to feel self conscious about my whiskey gut and pale white legs. I needn’t have worried. For one thing, the locals don’t seem to give a shit. Even if they did, there were far more laughable visitors than myself. Waikiki is awash in human dumplings visiting from the mainland.

I did the usual tourist things: hiking up Diamond Head, partying with the fallen at the USS Arizona Memorial, ogling surfer chicks. I also bought three Hawaiian shirts. A blue and white one, which I call the “Hawkeye Pierce,” and a green one and one festooned with beer bottles dubbed “Saigon Press Corps” and “Frat Boy Retard” respectively.

As for my goal of discovering my inner Jack Lord, I’m sorry to say it didn’t happen. I am no Steve McGarrett. Heck, I’m not even a Thomas Magnum. Now Higgins, there’s an attainable goal. On my next trip, I’ll be sure to bring an ascot and a fake British accent.

Just an FYI. Since Meatmarket has left, pulp reviews have been moved to Monday. Mark your calendars, write your congressman, and put the word on the street. Mahalo.