Brian Michael Bendis, �Daredevil: Underboss�
[Ed note: Sorry it�s been a while. Again. The big news is that I moved. I am lesbianless. But that entry is going to have to wait, as I already wrote half of this entry before I moved, and it�s time to finish it up. Sorry if you were worried after the bleak tone from that last entry, but as of right now, at 10:54 on December 5, things are pretty good. Hopefully I�ll be able to catch up soon enough to explain why. And this is loooooooong. I probably should have broken it up, but I didn�t. So there. Grab a snack...]
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I don�t know if that last entry about my sickly father is completely honest. Everything written down was true, but the initial stroke thing I described happened just over three weeks ago. Things are continuing, I�ve been shuttling him back and forth between the hospital and doctor appointments, and there really isn�t anything new to report that I didn�t already put down. It just took awhile before I had the time to write it all down.
But I�ve also been really busy (obviously) for the last two and a half weeks, and it�s been a kind of busy that�s actually allowed me to have some fun. A little over two weeks ago, I had a friend come to visit and soon after, I returned to California to try my hand again at working one job instead of four. I�ll save the trip back for another entry, as I�m sure there�s plenty of things I can think to write about the person who visited me.
Though there�s about twenty people who keep threatening to come visit, this girl actually pulled through and came from what has to be close to the farthest away you can get from Hawaii and still be in the United States. I�m probably wrong about that. Geography isn�t one of my strong suits. Hell, I didn�t know England was an island until I got there. In any case, she came from New York. Or, �BROOKLYN!!!� like all those crazy rap songs go.
If you�ve read a fair amount of this site or my book, you know I have a penchant for handing out nicknames for people. It took a while to figure one out for her, but I think I�ve decided to go with Clompy, as she looked pretty much the same as I did when she got off the plane, all dressed in black and wearing big doc marten�s and she followed me around making that clompy sound.
Anyway, when Clompy got here I had been so busy with work and school that I never really had time to seek out cool places to go to, and she, having never visited the islands before, had no idea what was of interest. And all that left us with were the tourist spots. But I didn�t even know about those. Instead I drew on memory of places that I went to as a child.
And so the first spot was the hike up through the inside of the volcano crater that is called Diamond Head. Oahu has no active volcanoes, so you can think of this spot as a volcano museum if you like, though that would probably make you lame.
Anyway, the volcano has been dead for quite a while. It�s so dead that the U.S. military had already tunneled through portions of the crater and lined the rim with lookout points in the early 1900s, just so those same military people to look up in the sky in 1941 and say, �Hmmmm. I think those are Japanese planes headed right for us. Neat.�
I can�t tell you how many times I�ve hiked this stupid crater, both from the inside, which is the designated trail route, to climbing up the face just to see if I could do it. I�ve been up and down this rock so many times as a kid that I started seeing how many times I could race to the top and back down to the base before the rest of the people in our group completed the hike. My best time was four times up and down the entire trail to the rest of the group�s one.
Obviously, Ritalin hadn�t been invented yet. Also, I hadn�t started smoking as of this time. And mom, that�s not an opportunity to attempt a �I told you so� about smoking, �cause smoking is more fun than climbing Diamond Head.
Not to denigrate the place, because the view when you get to the top is spectacular. But when I was living there, and making all these pilgrimages, Pac Man had just made his first appearance. There were other things I wanted to look at, and it wasn�t seaside views. But in any case, yeah. Seaside. Purty. Can I get a witness? How about this, which I took on this most recent trip:
Well, I would show you the picture, but either my picture is apparently retarded, or I am. Sorry. Trust me, it�s pretty. That reminds me � Hey Pretty Witty Kitty, can I bribe you with a book to make up a banner for this site? I have some ideas, but no skills.
But I digress.
In any case, up we went, and I couldn�t help but notice all the areas that I used to cut across to make the hike go faster were now fenced off with chickenwire, signs hanging off the edges pleading for people not to leave the designated trail to stem the tide of the massive erosion of a landmark.
Whoops. I think I caused a lot of said erosion. Sorry. You should have installed some video game consoles along the route.
Most depressing, however, was they chained off the paths to the other lookout points, probably due to some dumb kid racing back and forth along the lip of the crater only to go tumbling down. As a child, that was my favorite part of the hike, aside from sprinting past the fat people who thought they were going to die while climbing the 99-step staircase.
Clompy and I jumped the chain and caused more erosion.
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Next up � snorkeling. I love doing this, and I haven�t had the chance to do it since I arrived here in August. Problem is, I don�t know of the good areas to swim with the fishies, since most of my snorkel time was spent in Kauai. Thus I was left with the one spot that everybody knows of � Hanauma Bay.
Hanauma Bay has been where fish of all shapes and sizes can run up the bell tower and shout, �Sanctuary!� for almost 40 years now. You know... if fish did that kind of thing. Which they don�t. But they do know that they get a free ride in this area, so much so, that many of them can be downright aggressive. �Well, hello,� they say in their weird fish language. �You must be another pasty tourist person who didn�t know of a more isolated spot to see wildlife on the island! Got any bread crumbs?�
Or at least that�s how I remembered it. I went here dozens of times as a child, primarily because it was free. Though I�ll admit something � I never ventured very far during these visits when I was younger. I think it was seeing the barracuda up close, along with witnessing a school of manta rays with 20-foot wingspan headed for shore that put me off exploring for a while.
Or maybe I was just a pussy when I was 11.
In any case, I�m back, and no longer scared of big ugly fish. Time to go grab on to some manta rays and go for a ride! The biggest issue was that Clompy had never put a snorkel mask on in her life. I didn�t think that would be a problem � I taught two other people how to do it from scratch, and they did fine. But what I didn�t realize until just now, as I type this, is that both of those other people got their first start behind a breakwater barrier, while my current guest had to brave the waves and the current, and she didn�t fare well against them. Her mask was leaking water as well, something that can be scary for somebody who never put their head underwater and kept it there. Sorry about that.
And so the snorkeling never really materialized. That�s OK. What I was really bothered by, however, was the incongruities of the place. See, it�s a designated nature preserve, yet in the time that I�ve been gone, they�ve built a snack bar, a ticket taker booth, and a theater to explain how important it is that you don�t alter or damage any of the landscape of the area. They require visitors to watch a video on how to conduct yourself in the reserve. Nevermind that I have a local ID. Nevermind that I�ve been here dozens of times before any of this was built. Nevermind that ever since the Nirvana album, I�m unable to write nevermind as two words, and I don�t even have a copy of that album.
The tour guide shepherded us in. �Anybody need a different language interpretation?� She hollered in her shrill voice.
�I feel kinda festive today,� I said. �Do you have any in Spanish?�
�I think I do,� she said, adjusting a headset for my Spanish audio pleasure. Our film followed the Elmo school of documentaries, showing schools of fish with a bouncing ball at the bottom as they broke into song.
Don�t feed me
We have plenty in the sea!
Oh, dear god.
Twenty minutes later, we were still in the theater with the fish doing their own satanic version of the song with different variations of the same theme: Don�t (feed, touch, step on, have sex with, challenge to a duel with pistols at dawn) me...
As it turned out, what with all the problems with her gear, they needn�t have bothered with all the warnings in songs (and the songs weren�t in Spanish, even with the translator headgear. Whatta rip-off). The entire presentation seemed rather pointless and retarded. Why make us watch a bunch of fish swimming around when there are actual fish just down the hill from this movie theater? Couldn�t they simply make a PowerPoint presentation, or better yet, a simple sign saying �Hey! Tourist! Don�t fuck with the fish or the coral, got it?�
Then I remember that I probably caused a lot of the problems they�re just now getting around to trying to prevent. Whoops.
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We also tried to hit Pearl Harbor, the one tourist spot that I haven�t been to. My father, being a Navy man himself, simply had no interest in going to look down on a submerged boat that�s full of see a bunch of other dead Navy men. I didn�t either, unless they were gonna let us go through the boat. I mean really, it doesn�t look that deep, can�t they give us scuba gear and have us go through on our own? Instead we waited around the lobby, surrounded by fat tourists and American flags.
And sure, I�m a dick, but it seems like an odd, even ghoulish thing to go check out. �Hey! Lets see where the military made a major tactical error, costing hundreds of people their lives and laying the groundwork that will eventually subject us to another lousy Ben Affleck movie! Fun!�
Apparently, that�s exactly what they thought, for this place was packed and on a early morning weekday. I had to take my father back in for some tests at the hospital, so we never got to go on the memorial, instead simply looking at the memorial from shore, noticing all the new restrictions due to heightened security alerts. Because, you know, if terrorists were going to strike again, they�ll obviously go for the national monuments. Just like Independence Day.
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We also hit Iolani Palace, which fortunately had a special going at the time where residents get in free, She, however, had to pay 20 bucks.
Not worth it.
I knew things were going to get weird when they issued little blue fabric shoe coverings for us to shuffle around in, like visitors to a psycho ward. I clomped around in my doc martin boots, with the blue fabric stretched to the limit to cover the soles. Our tour consisted of about 20 people led by a woman whom I suspect has much experience with these shoe coverings, both in the palace and in the psych ward. A middle-aged honkey with blue eyes and a patchouli oil stench began her speech in breathy awed tones about the magic and wonder we were about to witness and led us inside. From there, she turned into our Dungeon Master, and this place doesn�t even have a dungeon.
�You arrive at the front of the gates in your horse drawn carriage,� she began, eyes swimming mistily back to a time long gone by. �You and your entourage exit the carriage and ascend the staircase, where your presence is announced by the servant, and you are introduced to dignitaries. A horn sounds and the King appears, making his way down the staircase to greet you...�
I lean in close to Clompy�s ear. I can�t help myself. �He tells you that the road ahead is fraught with Orc rebels.� I whisper in her ear. �He asks if you be needing some armor before you set forth on your journey. Roll the multi-sided dice to choose your path.�
Our hippy-dippy guide gets breathier and her eyes practically swim with tears remembering the injustices against the queen and a simpler time when not shaving your legs wasn�t considered odd. Her manner gets more intense, in a hippy burnout sort of way. Before every room, the doors shut, she launches into her version of Choose Your Own Adventure, only my choice would have been to run screaming for the exit. As we wait outside of one door, she stops abruptly breaking her own speech, sighing peacefully.
�This room is filled with Aloha.�
Now, I�m a literal kind of person. Or at least I am when it allows me to be a sarcastic asshole, and this is the perfect chance. Aloha, literally, is supposed to mean both �hello� and �goodbye.� Thus, when you say a room is filled with Aloha, I expect a room full of little tiny menehunes (the Hawaiian version of leprechauns, proving that all cultures all over the world are scared of short people), jammed in like a phone booth near a frat house. And when the guide throws open the double doors, I expected a huge chorus.
�Hi! Hi, hi! Hello! Bye! Hi! Hi, hi, hi! Bye-bye! Hi!�
Instead we get a room with a quilt. This is why the tour isn�t worth the 20 bucks that they charge � there�s nothing left in there. Most original artifacts were looted or destroyed when the Americans took over the palace, and so they spread what artifacts they have left into different areas; a vase in one room, a book in another, and end table here and painting there. Other areas claim to be exact replicas of how it would have looked in the 1882. That�s why I was so shocked when we turned a corner and piled into an elevator.
�They had elevators?� I exclaimed. �They must have been the most advanced society in the world! Either that or they were sorcerers. SORCERERS!�
We get to the last room � the Ballroom � and our guide�s eyes get more distant, and crazier looking. She instructs us to all line up along the huge mirrors.
�The evening comes along,� she says, �and you have all dressed in your finest silks. I�d like you to take a look at yourself in the mirror to your side.�
Nobody moves, probably afraid to take their eyes away from the crazy woman.
�Indulge me,� she says.
�No,� I reply simply.
She ignores me launching back into the next level of her D&D spiel. �The king enters through that door on the side, and the band begins, and he walks up to the first person in the line and takes their hand and leads you forward.�
She takes two steps toward us. I have to fight myself not to take two steps away.
�He leads you to the center of the ballroom and you dance...�
She sways back and forth, shaking her ample hips, one blue wrapped foot rising and falling on the floor to a beat only she can hear.
�...And dance... and dance... and dance...�
She�s no longer looking at any of us, lost in the thought of her dancing with the king.
�...and dance... and dance... and dance...�
Even the older couple who seemed to think the woman was quaint seems nervous. The woman seems to have hit a scratch in the record and is now stuck.
�...and dance... and dance... and dance... and dance...�
I tap Clompy on the shoulder, who seems on the edge of screaming. I channel the Pee-Wee Herman voice.
�And knitting... and knitting... and knitting...�
Clompy covers her mouth to giggle, and that seems to break the dancing spell on the woman. She tells us that our journey has now ended and that she hopes we take some of the Aloha from this place and spread it over the island.
It�s Clompy�s turn for a comment, and being from Brooklyn, she mutters, �Yeah, I got your Aloha right here.�
And that�s how I figure I can break out of my Top Ramen eating rut. With all the cheeziness geared toward tourists who think people wear flower lei�s every day of their lives, even when they aren�t working at the hotel, and noticing the trend of people wearing shirts with mean-spirited messages, I need to make a shirt that says, �Aloha This, Motherfucker.�
It�s perfect. The locals will buy it because they hate the tourists, the tourists will buy it because they think it�s cute, and I�ll be rich, rich as Nazi�s. Too bad I don�t have any idea on how to market things. Anybody wanna go in with me for this endeavor? Oh, and you�ll need to come up with the start-up cash, �cause as I�ve said � I�m eating a lot of Top Ramen.
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On the last full day we had, we got up super early and headed toward the upper northwest side of the island for a boat trip. Not knowing any of the reputable companies, we picked at random, concentrating on which company made the biggest promises for in-water experience with dolphins.
I�ve mentioned before about my desire to hang out with the dolphins, and so far, out of all my times on the islands, I�ve only seen them from shore, and from the deck of a boat. I wanted to be in the water with them. I wanted to hang out. I wanted to join in on an bicycle horn version of The Blue Danube. I�ve been in close proximity with barracuda and the manta rays; it�s time to hang with the good-looking crowd.
Of course Hawaiian Spinner dolphins aren�t interested in performing, and I�ve had other boat guides tell me that they stop swimming and let themselves drown if they are captured and put into an artificial setting. They�re not going to kiss us on the cheek or let us ride on their back while they pull a harness.
Bastards.
We find out in fact that�s we�re really not supposed to be swimming with them, and that�s it�s actualy illegal to do so. As Clompy and I are the only ones on this boat of about 20 people who speak English, he pulls us aside.
�Since it�s illegal,� the guide tells us, �to swim with dolphins, you going to do what we call a �dolphin float�, meaning you�ll get in the water and stay still, and they�ll swim past you. If you start trying to swim with them, they�re just going to move away from you and they�re a lot faster than you are. So just stay still and they�ll pass right by you.�
We gear up and I�m the first person in the water. I look to my left and there are three dolphins, two adults and one baby lazily swimming past me. The baby rolls onto his back, exposing his underbelly to me, probably dolphin body language for �Aloha this, motherfucker.� But the other people on the boat aren�t practiced with slipping into the water and make big splashes, and the dolphins, using that high-pitched criiiick sound, send out a warning.
�Shit! Japanese tourists! Run!�
�Run?� the other dolphins ask quizzically.
�I mean swim! Fuck off, you know what I mean!�
It�s soon obvious that the dolphins have all fled with such speed that they probably tangled themselves in some tuna fishing net a mile down the ocean. The boat gathers up all the tourists and we try again. People are quieter getting into the water this time and another ten or so dolphins swim past, keeping their distance. The boat picks us all up once more.
The third time, Clompy and I are the first ones off the boat, and I pull her away from the exit path, swimming further away from the crowd. Scanning the horizon of the water, I lead us right toward the oncoming school, and after a few minutes, a pack of 40 to 50 dolphins swim right past our face.
It was awesome. Thanks, Clompy, for giving me the opportunity to do this. Now what the hell am I supposed to do with this bicycle horn?
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Of course, it wasn�t all nature hikes and tourist spots, and Clompy and I went several places for drinks. And I even got to combine work with play, getting another review in the Honolulu Weekly.
Clompy�s in the middle of the photograph at the top. So see? Come to Hawaii and I�ll get your picture in the paper. Although, yes, Nelson, I know my pictures suck.
