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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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 … Continue reading In Lei Man’s Terms<\/span>