If you don’t know DIY Days, then simply put it’s a free conference for people who really want to do shit — or, as I apparently said last year, “Make Shit, And Make It Awesome” (via mighty Guy “The Dread Pirate LeCharles” Gonzalez). This is a crowd who doesn’t want to sit on their hands. Who doesn’t want to kowtow to gatekeepers, who has no interest in asking for permission. Many are storytellers, but just as many are the makers of the tools that help storytellers tell their stories. As Guy said yesterday in a tweet, the energy there is different than at other conferences, and because of that, feels more inspiring.

I was afraid I wasn’t even going to make it to the conference, honestly. Night prior I spent awake every hour or so with stomach problems — morning came and I felt hollowed-out. Like a gutted pumpkin. Could barely drink a cup of coffee, ate like, 1.5 pieces of sourdough toast. But I felt better than I did at night, so the wife sent me off with cookies and Gatorade (a good substitute for meth and Four Loko in a pinch!), and I drove to Jersey to catch a train into the city.

On the train, got to hear two strangers have a conversation, which is a thing that I love to witness. A Latino man and a black woman had a long conversation about all kinds of things — Facebook, child predators, gang initiations, how gangs used to leave civilians out of their business, movies new and old, etc. At the end of the train ride, they’d formed an actual connection as like, temporary friends. She asked him his name, he hers, they shook hands. She said to him, “God bless you,” and he to her. It was this kind of neat, connective moment — which, perhaps unexpectedly, sits nicely in-theme with DIY Days.

City was great. Weather was — *mwah* — so good. Fifty-five, sunny. Fuck yeah, Spring. Put your earthen boot on Winter’s icy neck and press down until you hear the crinkly snap of an icicle spine.

Still, got there later than I wanted. Missed Lance’s talk about Storytelling Pandemic, though one supposed I didn’t really need to see that talk given my involvement.

First person I met was Jeanne Bowerman — a truly rockin’ Twitter pimp if ever there was one — and this would unfortunately be my only real encounter with her for most of the day. Actually, this is a theme: I met a number of people and really only got to spend so much time with them. Next time I’m in the city, I need to somehow earmark more time to actually be in the city. Which probably means staying over somehow. *makes note — start collecting couches in NYC and LA on which I can crash* I met Iris Blasi, Caitlin Burns, Nick Braccia, and of course Guy Gonzalez, Andrea Phillips and Jim Hanas. Dave Turner — @electricmeat — is an officer and a gentleman. Jonathan Reynolds — @therealjohnny5 — was not lying and did indeed sneak me a little bottle of 15-yr Glenfarclas. Fortunately, not before my talk.

Some takeaways from the day’s events:

• Data can tell a story, says Nicholas Diakopoulos. Though, to play Devil’s Advocate, does it really? Is that how data is intended? Human nature is such where we must draw connections — in many cases, narrative connections — between two unlike things to find understanding and context. But that also doesn’t mean that human nature is correct. Data may tell a story, but seems just as possible that we create stories out of data, or find data to fit our stories. Or something. Here’s some data for you: I wear pants only 35% of the time. What story does that tell? Either way, engaging presentation with some really awesome visuals.

• Mistress of the DIY Empire known as “Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art School,” Molly Crabapple, is awesome and full of snark. She tells you how to deal with haters by imagining that the best and most wonderful artist that you love has, when Googled, someone out there calling them fat or telling them they suck or whatever. You would then respond, “That person is crazy,” which is how you should envision your own haters — as crazy people. Love, too, that Dr. Sketchy’s is basically an art-school version of Fight Club, with “franchises” worldwide. Doubly love that she makes sure the franchises pay their models. Finally, she notes that too many artists spend too much time on the “swoosh” in their logo and don’t get down to business. This is true for writers, too — some writers become so obsessed with [fill-in-the-blank] (platform, strategy, worldbuilding, etc.) that they forget they need to actually write something and then get it out there.

• Brian Newman says that if you get involved in any one issue, let it be Net Neutrality. He notes that the name “Net Neutrality” sucks, and if you want to help fix it, then as an artist and a creative human being it’s your job to help re-frame that problem in a way that people understand it. Because, right now? They don’t. Also, don’t let it be DIY — let it be DIWO. Do It With Others. Which sounds sexier than intended.

• Michael Margolis helps you reframe your bio online — the short form takeaway here is “Character Trumps Credentials.”

• Ted Hope and Christine Vachon had a very organic back-and-forth: love the idea that somewhere in the middle of art and business is where we find the way to get our work out there. Like too that neither producer is afraid of digital work, and notes that some of the work being done in that arena is better, sharper, stronger than what you find amongst Oscar hopefuls. Sidenote: if you haven’t watched it, you really need to check out the SUPER trailer (Rainn Wilson, Nathan Fillion, Kevin Bacon). I want to see that pretty badly — in reference to it, Ted noted that girls are taught to be supermodels and boys are taught to be superheroes, and from this kind of diseased mindset comes the movie. Another true notion: creating art and putting your craft out there is an act of running full speed at a wall and praying for it to open. Sometimes, it does open for you.

• Andrea Phillips — of the excellent Deus Ex Machinatio — noted, in her Ethics of Transmedia talk, that her work has been denounced by NASA. This is awesome in ways that cannot be described. I long one day to be denounced by NASA. That’s good press, right there. NASA’s had it too good for too long. Also, in private conversation, Andrea and I talked about how what’s important in fiction (whether in transmedia or in gaming or in the written word) what’s most important isn’t realism so much as it is authenticity. Stay true to the story you’re telling and the world it lives in. Don’t be so concerned with reality and fact.

• Transmedia is becoming an overused word, say some.

• From Faris Yakob and Brian Clark (who probably now thinks I think he’s Mike Monello), an interesting idea: charge as much as possible for half your time so that the other half of your time you can create what you want to create. Basically, become your own investor.

• From Scott Lindenbaum, of Electric Literature and Broadcastr: “When not monetized, creative endeavors are mere hobbies. It’s crucial we protect them as professions.”

• Further proof why nobody should let me speak out loud to other human beings: I will discuss teabagging and hookers. Thankfully, Greg Trefry was there to balance me out. Greg’s an awesome dude. In fact, he’s the kind of awesome dude who runs roleplaying game sessions for his students and asks me questions like, “How important is it that they get to roll their own dice?”Anyway. I think our talk went well?

Overall, the theme of the day orbited around the democritization of creative tools — where once it was expensive and prohibitive to create music or film or transmedia endeavors, it’s getting cheaper and cheaper. This mirrors the publishing world, obviously — where once big publishers were necessary to do X, Y, and Z, we’re seeing a Renaissance (for good and bad) of DIY storytellers saying, fuck it, I don’t need to pay the gatekeeper, I don’t need to ask for permission, I’m going to do as I like — I can hire my own cover and book designers, I can get my own editor, I can find my own distribution channels online. The trick is, democritization of tools does not also mean the democritization of talent. There is in self-publishing communities the idea that the cream will rise to the top — what you might call “Talent Will Out” — but I don’t know that this is proven yet. Which to me shows that the most important component to balance the democracy of tools is filter. We need more meaningful filters across the ‘Net. Vast procedural filters from Google and Amazon and so forth just don’t cut it.

Final takeaway:

Be energized. Get creative. Find a way to put your work into the world. And don’t let me speak in public unless you want to hear about ramping a mini-bike over 100 hookers.

Thanks, as always, to Lance Weiler for putting this thing together.

Why Hawaii?

Hawaii, from the Northeastern United States, is not, erm, the easiest trip you’ll ever make. Flight time is 12-13 hours, but that doesn’t include the hours spent in the airport (and traveling to and from the airport), which essentially confirms that your entire trip is going to be a 20-24 hour turnaround. The way we did it cut a lot of this out, because we hopped to San Francisco and then actually left the airport for a couple-few days. Even still — it’s not Japan or Australia, but Hawaii remains a destination that isn’t exactly next door.

Besides, can’t one get the same experience from going to the Caribbean? Much closer, after all. Now, to be clear, I have never been to the Caribbean, so I can’t comment.

What I can comment on is that Hawaii is, for me, like no place on the planet. It’s American, yet it’s Asian, yet it’s Polynesian, yet it’s ultimately Hawaiian. No state in the country has its own language, has its own mythology. No state in the country is 2000 miles out in the middle of nowhere, either — at a distance, on a map, it looks like a few crumbs from a malasada donut sitting in the Pacific Ocean.

Hawaii (and Kauai in particular) has its own weird bamboo vibe: a kind of slightly unhinged motif, yet unhinged in a way that engenders relaxation — imagine a screen door hanging literally off one of its hinges, leaning back, the wind whistling through its mesh. Not a care in the world. As they say: hang loose.

Hawaii is old world opulence meets new world riches meets a hard-working middle class planted in paradise meets shantytowns and lean-tos and a sense of decay smack dab in the midst of sub-tropical beauty.

Hawaii is a place where everybody belongs, but nobody belongs: even most of the plants and animals aren’t native. The native Hawaiians may not have even been the first there — what of the Menehune (once thought to be weird little fairy creatures), or the giant Marquesans who landed? More modern history is equally fascinating: Pearl Harbor and missile tests and Russian forts and kings and queens and bloody massacres.

Hawaii has beaches, yes, but it also has mountains and rivers and volcanoes and Martian dirt and black rock and swamps and rainforests and pine trees and deserts and, yes, even snow.

Hawaii is sad and happy and beautiful and strange.

That’s why Hawaii.

Now, all that said? Time for the trip report.

This time, we hit the island of Kauai. Landing in Hawaii always offers an eerie sense of emergence, a kind of giddy freedom, and this time was no different. You’ve been flying over a blank blue ocean for five, six hours, and next thing you know — a little set of islands arise, and before too long out the one side of the plane you’re flying alongside the green peaks and then you see trees and all that blood-red dirt and — wham.

You land.

We landed in Lihue (only real option), and stayed down in Poipu — in specific, at the Sheraton Kauai. We picked up Grandpa Buick from the Budget Rent-A-Car, then took a short drive down to the southern shore of the island, passing by dry meadows of tall grasses, passing the Kilohana Plantation, the little junction at Puhi, the cathedral of trees (some eucalyptus, I think, trees that once knitted together at the top until Hurricane Iniki face-raped the island back in the 90s), the intersection at old Koloa Town, and then –

Hey, welcome to paradise.

Poipu is a great area, mostly resorts, admittedly, but it’s hard to find a prettier and more idyllic “beach location.” We stayed at an Ocean Deluxe room (got a crazy good package on flight, hotel and car), which quite literally overlooked the ocean, as you’ll see in this picture…

What you’ll also notice: this room was well-placed to watch the sunset every single night, and further, that couple sitting there? In moments, he will ask her to marry him (and she will say yes, and cry a lot).

Don’t forget about this picture, too:

So, the Sheraton? Totally recommended. Some of the best beach-side real estate you’ll find. The grounds are nicely kept. The staff is friendly, except for the housekeeping lady who felt the need to eradicate the coconut-scented air with an almost profound bowel movement (see post, “I Put My Hoowili In Her Hoonani“). The restaurants onsite, I dunno. Only tried breakfast and some bar food by the pool. Bar food was — well, it was good since we were starving, but in retrospect “cold nachos with gluey cheese” are only so ideal. The breakfast buffet is actually pretty darn tasty but is criminally expensive ($25 per person), but if you neglect housekeeping for a night, they’ll give you a coupon for one free buffet, and you can do this a number of times during your stay.

Let’s get into the nitty-gritty. What did we do? What did we see? And, importantly, where did we eat?

(If you want to skip all that shit, just scroll to the bottom to receive the “sum up.”)

Things We Did (In No Particular Order)

Poipu Beach Park: Hey, listen. I’m a little hydrophobic. I’m not full-bore pee-my-swim-trunks-if-water-gets-on-me, but I don’t really like water in my eyes, and I damn sure don’t like the ocean (I know, I know — why go to Hawaii, then? Shut up). But Poipu Beach Park is right up my alley. First time I’ve been in the ocean in — wow, 10, 15 years. Warm like bathwater. Waded out to the sand bar. Watched some douchebag traipse on rocks that read KEEP OFF then go back and not-actually-tend to his nightmare children who were basically ruining a rented umbrella with their sticky jam hands. Good times. Oh, the douche in question:

By the way, there exists a persistent douche factor in a place like Hawaii because, hey, tourists are going there. We went to Spouting Horn and — well, I’ll get to that.

Waimea Canyon: Mark Twain famously called this the “Grand Canyon of the Pacific,” which is a fascinating thing for a guy to say when he’s never actually been to Kauai. Oops. A total myth, that story. Still, Mark Twain rules. Where was I? Oh, right. The canyon. It was beautiful. Epic. The rich red canyons carved from green valleys and blue rivers — it’s totally worth the long drive up. The first half was populated with lots of fat (and often old) white tourists, mind you. And we also had to make the drive in Grandpa Buick, whose brakes shuddered as if they had suddenly manifested a bad case of automobile Parkinson’s. Still, you get to the end, the Kalalau Lookout and… wow. Hard not to gape. A shot of the canyon right here:

North Shore: Part of me thinks we made a mistake staying on the southern shore. The north shore is beautiful. Wet jungle, cerulean blue coast — loved it. More the look I envision (or at least desire) when I picture Hawaii. Had a more laid-back vibe, too, which is something you don’t get in the Poipu resort area. Image of the Hanalei lookout…

Allerton Gardens: This is a massive botanical garden where they happened to film movies like Jurassic Park and Pirates of the Caribbean. It’s a beautiful journey; requires a guided tour, and our tour guide was a laid back, top notch dude named *coughcoughJoeJimJerryIforgetbutitmayhavestartedwithJ* — ahem. Big white beard. It’s a tram ride up to the gardens, then a two hour walk. Meanwhile, you get the whole history of Hawaii’s biodiversity as well as stories about those champions who fought (and are fighting) to keep it safe and sane. Still, this is a pricey experience — $45 per person. Worth it, probably, but it still feels like gouging when they then ask for tips. Might just be me. Maybe I’m a cheap jerk. Anyway — want to see those trees were Alan Grant in Jurassic Park finds the raptor eggs? Here you go.

Limahuli Gardens: Another set of gardens, these from the north shore. Cheaper than Allerton ($15 per person, I think) and purely self-guided. Also not that impressive. Pretty, and maybe better at different times of the year — but it feels a little ill-kept and uncertain. Nice enough if you’re up in that area, but it was a hot, hot day and that probably dinged our enjoyment a wee little bit. Pic:

Opaekaa Falls: Ennnh. Okay, yes, it’s a very nice waterfall. You’ll hear me spout off about this more at the end, but really, I thought the Big Island had infinitely more awesome waterfalls. This one was tourist-choked and viewable only from a very far distance. Can’t say I was all too excited. I may be jaded. No picture because my images from this just weren’t impressive.

Wailua Falls: A much nicer pair of waterfalls. But, I should add: still tourist-choked. Hard to maneuver. Like rats or cockroaches, these tourists. (I was not a tourist. Shut up, you.) Image:

Spouting Horn: Ahh, yes, another douchebag story. So, Spouting Horn is a shelf of lava rock where water blasts through these holes and fires up in this crazy ocean cannon. BOOSH. Sometimes it makes a noise, hence the term “horn.” Anyway, the dude in the image below is wandering around all over the lava shelf, meandering far too close to the edge and worst, stumbling about on the wrong side of the holes. See, sometimes the ocean sweeps up over the shelf? And it has, in the past, pushed many a dipshit into those holes. Sometimes, it kills them. One girl got sucked out to sea (dragged through the lava tunnels) but managed to live. Others have not been so lucky. So here’s this asshole traipsing about and acting like a ham-fisted shitbrick. Good job, jerk. Sorry you didn’t get sucked into the ocean’s hungry maw.

Luau: We bit the bullet this time and shelled out the greenbacks for a luau. This one, at the Sheraton. I had previously opposed the idea but suddenly got a real hankering for the whole kitschporn of Old Hawaii, so a luau was right up our alley — even moreso since some of our original plans and options had gotten nudged aside because of the wife’s morning sickness. The luau, emceed by Dicky “Schecky” Chang, was hella fun. Recommended up and down the pike. The drinks were shit (well drinks that largely consisted of blah mai tais and nuclear-Windex Blue Hawaiians), but the food was incredible, the entertainment was fun, and the host was funny. Though, be advised: you have no reason to shell out for the upgraded experience. Those people got largely the exact same experience but paid almost 40% more for it. (Oh, I ate poi for the first time, along with pipi kaula. The two together are a total win. Salty pork plus very slightly sour taro goo. Yum.) Images of the Fire Knife dude:

Shipwrecks Beach and Lithified Cliffs: Nice beach. Not so much for the swimming or the walking, but for the hiking up onto the fossilized sand dunes and standing in the whipping wind and looking out over the ocean. Primal stuff. Completely recommended.

Kilauea Lighthouse and Bird Sanctuary: The lighthouse — on the north shore, in Kilauea — is not super-impressive, but they’re working on it. The view all around you, however, is priceless. Also great is that it’s a bird sanctuary, so you will bear witness to gulls and albatross and, yes, finally, the Canadian-Goose-That-Got-Lost, the Nene. Also cool was that it was time for the Shearwater nestlings to hatch, so all around were these burrows of these (actually really big) fuzzy gray baby birds. Cute stuff.

Places We Ate (In No Particular Order)

Josselin’s Tapas: This is easily one of the most lauded restaurants on the island, and — can I say it? Easily one of the most overrated. I know. I hate that word, but there it is, floating like a turd in the ol’ punchbowl. Josselin’s is a tapas — i.e. small plates — restaurant, and it approaches these tapas not from the original Spanish/Mexican style, but rather from the Asian fusion direction. We ate a tuna sashimi sampler, the scallop pillows, oxtail ravioli in pho broth, some ramen noodle softshell crab concoction, and a couple others. Had some drinks, too — didn’t try their sangrias, but this whole trip saw me on a ginger kick, so I had the ginger pina crush, which was delicious. Can’t say the same for the food. The servers were great, the atmosphere was elegant, but the food was woefully underseasoned. Even just a little salt would have gone a long way to kick up the dishes, which were so subtle as to be boring. The presentation was beyond elegant, but the taste just didn’t live up. Last comment: we have tapas place in Doylestown called Honey, and it is heads and shoulders above anything we had at Josselin’s. So, there you go.

22 North: On the other side, you have a place like 22 North, which is a total farm-to-table institution (used to be Gaylord’s), and it may have been one of the finest meals had on the island. We had friends who visited Kauai in the past and told us that they spent many nights eating at Gaylord’s, and if it was anything like 22 North, we get why. The food was elegant and lovingly prepared — they dropped off a complimentary ham-and-cheese gougeres (think puffed pastry stuffed with ham, cheese, fennel-honey butter) as we noodled the menu. I had a “red veal” piccata that was delicious (though with a very strong sauce), and the wife had a grass-fed beef tenderloin that was dizzying — so lean, but juicy and flavorful without the toughness that you sometimes suffer with grass-fed. Also had a kabocha pumpkin squash soup which was warm and bacony and the very epitome of the hearth. Odd, though, to be eating that in the warmth of paradise, but still? Delish. Drinks were top notch, too. A starfruit capirinha (I now adore the starfruit, so good) did backflips in my mouth, and a African blue basil Hawaiian plum “mojito” (not-a-mojito) was savory, weird, and fantastic.

Merriman’s: This is how you — from a customer service perspective — take a frown and turn it upside-down. We arrived at Merriman’s thinking, “This is going to rule” because, hey, it was our best dinner on the Big Island. Finding out that they have a second location on Kauai was a winner winner lomi-lomi dinner. Problem, though: they’re still a little rusty. They overburdened our waiter, I think — he took our order late, and then we sat for 40 minutes without anything but a single boozy drink. Meanwhile, other tables of his got bread baskets, appetizers, and so forth. So, I set out my iPhone with a timer on it — not just to be a dick and show them, “Hey, I’m timing your slacker asses,” but also to ensure that my impatience was fair. I could wait two minutes and think it’s ten, but a stopwatch keeps my ass accurate. Anyway. Finally, the hostess came by and asked us how “everything” was, and — I was nice about it — I said that everything wasn’t good because nothing had arrived. Instantly she went into repair mode. Free drink, free appetizer. Free drink had fruit flies in it. Then she came back with other bad news: the dish my wife ordered? No longer possible. So, they fixed it and gave her extra food, and on top of it they also gave us more free drinks, and two free desserts. And the waiter came over and apologized and was suddenly very friendly and attentive. The only final black mark was the dickfaced bus boy who came over and saw me looking at my phone (I was taking Hipstamatic shots) and said, “What? Are you timing me?” Okay, asshole, ha-ha, fuck off. But herein lies a critical customer service lesson: you can get a lot of mileage out of going beyond the call of duty to fix the problem. The night became memorable and wonderful because of that. Oh! Right. The food. Chocolate purse was out of this world. Malasadas were good, but tasted inexplicably boozy. Bacon soup was wildly awesome. Wife’s scallops shrimp over corn and bacon and asparagus was out of this world. My rib-eye had great flavor, but was a little sinewy.

Beach House Restaurant: You ask me, folks have one reason to go here: the sunset. That’s it. The food is fairly nice. The wait staff is friendly. The prices are… well, maybe a little high. The drinks are okay. (Had a honey caipirinha which was a bit of an A-For-Effort, F-For-Execution deal — big golf ball hunk of honeycomb in the center of the drink made it very hard to actually imbibe the drink, and when you did, you got wax bits in your mouth.) My monchong was actually phenomenal, while the wife’s scallops were merely okay. The Beach House ceviche was also good: a little luke warm. Again, let me say: phenomenal sunset. Right over the ocean. Very lovely stuff. Worth it for that. Evidenced by the fact that, at 5:45, everybody and their mother comes rolling into the restaurant. Another downside: valet parking only. Still, you have to do this one time whilst in Kauai. It is, as they say, mandatory.

Puka Dog: This? Is just a hot dog stand. But it’s a tropical hot dog stand. Don’t get me wrong — by the time you’re done a week-and-a-half in Hawaii, you’re going to be burned out on lilikoi and pineapple thrown onto every meal, but before this happens, it is vital you get yourself a Puka Dog. They take a big hot dog? Then they slide it into a — I dunno what you even call it. A bread pocket? It’s like a Snuggie, but for a hot dog. And then they have various sauces and mustards (lilikoi mustard and original garlic sauce for me, please) that they ooze in there with the doggy. It’s delicious. It’s not exactly the cheapest hot dog, but for Hawaii, it’s a low cost lunch.

Tropical Burgers: Ehhh. Ennh. This is somehow “part” of Puka Dog. It’s smack dab next to it. We ate here for breakfast and it was — fine? I guess? Macadamia nut pancakes were tasty, I guess. My wife had eggs which were solid, though her potatoes did have some kind of hair in them. And by hair, I mean “pube.” Okay, probably not a pube, but still — wiry, kinky dark hair wound right around hash browns. Mmm.

Plantation Gardens: We ended up here on a lark, having tried most of the other restaurants in the Poipu area. They were fairly quiet (it was a Sunday night, if I recall), and a lovely breeze was coming in through the surrounding garden and over the deck tables. Very nice atmosphere. The food was — you know, it was fine, I guess. I wouldn’t say crazy memorable, but solid upscale food just the same. Very small menu. Lots of seafood. Corn fritters as an appy were a great start (but I won’t lie: my corn fritters are better). I had the local catch, which was tasty. Wife had ribs which were fall-apart tender.

Keoki’s Paradise: This might’ve been the only place we ate twice (outside of the buffet at the hotel). Listen, this place? It’s Hawaii kitsch porn. It’s that goofy non-existent and never-existed “Old Hawaii.” But let me tell you, you go at night? And the torches are lit? And the wind is blowing in? (The whole place is effectively outside; Hawaii often has restaurants at least partially outdoors.) And the big tall drinks inside the glass skulls of obviously-murdered tiki gods? It’s fun and relaxing and a great place to just shake free the stress. Plus the food? Really delicious. Had fish both nights (the opah, or moon-fish, is out of this world), while the wife ate little Australian lobsters which were sweet and buttery as good corn. Of course, the best thing there is the Hula Pie, which is a glacier of macadamia ice cream cake. Guhh. Drool. Slaver. Gibber. I am simultaneously wetting my chin and my pants while thinking of it. It’s bigger than a human baby, though, so be prepared to eat with a friend. Or a football team.

Kalaheo Coffee Company: Good sandwich, but really? The smoothie. The smoothie. Generic fresh fruit smoothie with a mighty host of fruits put into play: pineapple and apple and mango and passion fruit, and so forth, combined with orange juice and yogurt. Amazing taste. You could taste each fruit. Best smoothie of all time. Here, go on, have a sip, I don’t have cooties (I totally have cooties):

Java Kai: And now we have an award for “weirdest smoothie.” Stopped here on our way back from Hanalei, was thirsty, drank something called a Lava Lust. It had raspberries. It also had raspberry seeds. Approximately 100,000 seeds per square inch. Listen, I don’t like drinking something and having to stop constantly to pick bits out of my teeth. Ennnnh. Wife liked hers, though.

Bubba’s Burgers: Think “upscale McDonald’s,” and you have it. They, uhhh, “relish your buns,” which is to say they have a kind of sweet oniony relish that goes on every burger. It really is like the best McDonald’s burger you’ve had — grass-fed beef, might I add. I really enjoyed the burger, it totally hit the spot. And we walked by the place a couple nights in a row and each night they had a line out the door. So, obviously this is a popular joint to eat. Oh, the Bubba’s I’m talking about is the one found in the Kukui’ula Shopping Center. In Poipu.

Hanalei Dolphin: You ever have one of those right meals at the right time? Just hits the spot? We’d been driving an hour from Poipu to check out the north shore and we were pretty dang hungry. Ta-da! Hanalei Dolphin restaurant. I tweeted to everybody that I was eating dolphin tacos, but no, no, that’s not true at all. Just delicious deep-fried fish tacos (ono, if I recall). And a killer beer, too. Once again, we sat on the deck, awash in the breeze and warm air. Mmm. Wish I could snap my fingers and just — boop! — teleport back there. Michelle had a fried shrimp sandwich, by the by. In her words? “Yeah, it was really good.”

Kokee Lodge: Ate a hearty loco moco here — oh, if you don’t know, this is the restaurant up in Kokee State Park on the way to the Kalalau Lookout. Anyway. It’s the only food choice up here, and as a choice, it’s not a bad one. I wouldn’t give them any awards, but the loco moco was meatalicious. And gravytastic. And ricetacular. Wife had a turkey club. However, best thing about this place? All the chickens outside (a 2-year-old was going apeshit insane chasing chickens) and all the kitschy knick-knack decor inside. Which allowed me to take this, one of my Top Ten favorite photos in Kauai:

Ahhh, unrequited love between toad and human. Where was I?

Joe’s On The Green: We were seeking an alternate non-hotel breakfast choice and tried this place. The service was spotty, we were besieged by flies and birds, and they got our orders wrong. (They also shorted me an egg on my second loco moco of the trip.) That said, the food was fine enough, one supposes, so — ? Do what thou wilt. We didn’t go back.

Ono Family Restaurant: Another drive to find an alternate breakfast joint. This one was a little more successful. Ono Family Restaurant is up in Kapaa, north of Lihue. It’s a family-run joint with a big menu. Wife had corned beef hash about which she was a bit iffy, but that may very well have been because of the persistent morning sickness and uncertain tastes in food. I had eggs over fried rice with Chinese sausage (think greasy, sweet chili-garlic Slim Jim — so delicious), and really enjoyed it. Worth the wait, I’d say, but a bit of a hike from the Poipu area just for breakfast.

Sueoka’s Snack Shop: Plate lunches. I had “fried chicken” which was really just chicken wings, but they were greasy and good and sitting on a mega-clump of white rice. Also had the Hawaii potato salad, which is sweeter and features pineapple bits. Wife had, I dunno. Some kind of burger, if I recall. This food is cheap. This food is easy. And the place was busy — people dig it. You won’t find gourmet cuisine, but you will find a belly-filler.

Brennecke’s Beach Broiler: Eh? Had a breakfast here and then also had a “shave ice” as big as my head. I don’t think it was good shave ice, really. Sticky syrup over crushed, not shaved, ice. The macadamia nut ice cream on the bottom was fine. This place will do in a pinch, but it has to be a damn tight pinch.

Lappert’s Ice Cream: They do ice cream, which is tasty, but if you go at the right time (night, before closing), then bakery goods are half off. When the girl told us that it was like a revelation. EFF YES BAKERY GOODS NOM NOM NOM. Macadamia nut cookies and lemon bars and cappucino brownies and — oh, yeah, diabetes. Good stuff.

To Sum Up?

Obviously, we loved Kauai.

Thing is, we didn’t really experience Kauai the proper way. I got a cold. Michelle was pregnant and morning sick (i.e. sick all day). Couldn’t really hike, couldn’t really kayak, couldn’t really do most of the things you’re supposed to do on this, the most wild of the Hawaiian islands.

So, we missed out a little bit.

Didn’t help that it was fuuuu-huuuu-huuucking hot, either. Way hotter than I think it was supposed to be. We’re talking 85-90 degree temperatures (a week after we left, it was 75-80, goddamnit).

I wouldn’t trade the trip for anything. The sunsets were spectacular. The food was far better than anyone said it would be (Kauai has a reputation for having shitty food options, which is not true now and may never have been true). Falling asleep with the ocean crashing outside your lanai door is an experience that, right now, I long so bad for it makes my teeth hurt. My heart is sad in a way watching winter coming.

Still, and don’t let this be a slam against the island — we liked the Big Island better. It’s a bigger island. I think it’s prettier, too. Feels more like natural Hawaii — uncrowded, unpretentious, unconcerned. And so much to see — jungles, mountains, lava flows, cattle ranches, and so forth. Part of it is, duh, Big Island was our first experience in Hawaii and it is forever branded upon our brains. It’s just more our speed, I think.

Plus, fewer chickens.

Love Kauai, would go back and try to do more of the things we were supposed to do (hike part of Na Pali, kayak a river, take a helicopter ride).

But next time, when we go back, I think we might hit the Big Island again.

Our hearts live there, I suspect.

]]> http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2010/11/10/mahalo-for-your-kokua/feed/ 11 http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2010/10/31/epic-trip-report-of-uttermost-epicness-part-one/ http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2010/10/31/epic-trip-report-of-uttermost-epicness-part-one/#comments Sun, 31 Oct 2010 14:05:37 +0000 terribleminds http://terribleminds.com/ramble/?p=6372 You want a trip report? I got your trip report right here. No, no, avert your gaze from my crotch; I wasn’t being sarcastic. I literally mean that – “I have your trip report right here.” And by “right here” I mean, “Hey, it’s right down there, seriously, just drift your gaze lower – lower – looooower…”

Hah! It’s my crotch! Sucker! You just got burned! By my balls! In your vision! My testicles cause cataracts. True story. I’m forced to carry a warning around with me at all times.

Okay, no, seriously. The trip report is right here on the page. I mean, c’mon. Stop staring at my junk.

A warning: this is a long post. That’s just how trip reports roll, son. Feel free to skim to the tasty parts, like where I wrestle King Kamehameha on the lip of an active volcano, or where I steal some velociraptor eggs and the two mommies (stars of the children’s book, Raptor Has Two Mommies) come and hunt me down and me and Kamehameha (now allies) battle two angry dinosaur parents.

Let us begin.

The Journey

…goes like this: San Francisco for four days in order to attend Bouchercon 2010, then off to Kauai (Hawaii) for nine days, then back to San Francisco for three days (only one full day, really).

Why break it up like that? First, attending Bouchercon made that a necessity on the first leg. But then, on the second leg, we had the opportunity to do a full red-eye midnight blitz from Kauai to Pennsylania (likely with about seven stops in between) — and can I tell you something? That sucks. That sucks lead paint chips off the wall, chews them, eats them, then dies from the resultant lead poisoning. Word to the wise and weary traveler: if you’re going long distances, do not subscribe to the “It’s Like A Band-Aid; Just Rip It Off Quick!” theory of traveling. Because traveling 15-22 hours is not a “quick” rip. Stop along the way. Get off the plane. Get out of the airport. Hunker down in a different city for a night or two. Not only does it break up the monotony. Not only does it break up the clots surely forming in your legs, clots that want to shoot to your brain like clumpy blood bullets. But it also lets you travel a little more broadly, experience a bit more mileage out of your trip.

Just my two cents.

Details: Airlines

Mostly United except for the last two legs, which were with American Airlines. United was probably the winner in terms of clarity and timing — always got us off and on the ground early. Still. Flying is for assholes, as evidenced by the many assholes who fly — see accordant post, “Air Travel Is For Assholes.”

Details: Other Travel

From San Francisco, took a SuperShuttle from the airport to the hotel. They had the wrong address and took us to the wrong hotel, so on the reverse trip I called them three times to confirm that, “Hey, you have the right address this time, yeah?” They said they did.

So, lo and behold, when leaving San Fran (for the first time), nobody shows up.

I call and they say, “He’s two minutes away.”

Five minutes later, I call and they say, “He’s waiting out front.”

He’s not. Turns out, he’s waiting out front of the wrong hotel. He’s at the hotel they tried to drop us off at earlier despite my thrice-confirmed address. Then the dispatch tries to tell me that I was supposed to wait at a certain “corner” to be picked up, which makes no sense since he’s at a hotel? Then they tell me they’ll “make an exception” and have him come directly to my hotel. Which is what they said he’d do all along, but they’re just trying to make me look like an asshole.

Finally, he shows up.

The van has two seat belts for nine passengers. We are already running late and he has — drum roll please — picked up zero other passengers. By the time he wanders the city looking for the next one, it is very apparent we would not make our flight if we didn’t leave for the airport now now now, so I told the dude this. He said he knew, that we would probably miss our flight, and that SuperShuttle would “pay for our airline ticket.” He then proceeded to insult dispatch. They are his oppressors and thus we shall be late.

Uhhh. Okay? Except, howzabout you just not make me late to begin with? That’d be sort of awesome. So, acting on a gut whim, I told him to stop the van and let us out. As I rescued our luggage, the wife hailed a cab which then whisked us away to SFO — and got us there on time.

We’re still trying to get our money back, by the way.

Avoid SuperShuttle.

On the second leg to San Fran, we used Pleasant Limos, which was as cheap as SuperShuttle and totally awesome — town car, free water, comfy ride, and so forth.

In Hawaii, we used Budget, which was ehh, mehh, pbbt, iffy. Got us a “full size” ugly-ass gray Buick, which we nicknamed “Grandpa Buick” for the remainder of the trip. Then we’d say things in an old man voice like, “GRANDPA BUICK NEEDS TO PUT HIS COLOSTOMY BAG ON THE ARMREST.”

Details: Photography

I took about 2400 photos. Maybe 1700 of them were from the DSLR, which is actually a reduced number from our last (and shorter) Hawaii trip. A few reasons for this? First, I didn’t want to get caught up in all the mechanics and time it takes to snap incredible vacation photos — all the lens changing and metering really just reduces my enjoyment “in the moment.” Second, the camera is bulky. Third, I had the iPhone with me, and while normally I would suggest that the iPhone camera is a piece of technological sadness, it is made infinitely more awesome with the inclusion of Hipstamatic.

I took about 500 Hipstamatic shots, for instance. While in San Francisco, I took nothing but Hipstamatic shots. Captures the grungy retro weirdness of a city like that. But it worked for Hawaii, too –

This shot, for instance, appears utterly retro and vintage, but I took it just last week:

You can see the rest of my Hipstamatic shots here at my Flickr photostream.

I took this shot of a gecko with my DSLR, and I’m pretty darn happy with it:

You can find a slowly-growing collection of DSLR photos over here, then (note: it’s slow-growing because I have to process ‘em with Photoshop before I upload).

Details: Dear iPad, I Love You Lots (Kisses On All Your Ports And Buttons)

The iPad is an elegant travel computer.

It earned its merit badges due to plane travel alone. On planes I was able to: read Joelle Charbonneau’s Skating Around The Law, start Hilary Davidson’s The Damage Done, watch episodes of Terriers (awesome show), play games (like Little Things, Cut the Rope, Plants Vs Zombies), take notes and make outlines for two novels, read some Jane Austen, and so forth.

Then, when at the hotel, it increased its awesomeness.

I was able to: make reservations, look up maps and directions, take more notes on writing work (using Plaintext and Index Card), use Twitter, write emails, open and sign contracts (with my finger as the pen and the PDF as the background! — using Note Taker HD), download new episodes of Terriers for the plane (oh, and the Mad Men finale), and blog. (Though, a fair warning that the WordPress app for the iPad is a stinky car-crash of an app — I mean, it works, but it doesn’t work so hot.)

I did not bring a laptop with me. This was difficult for me, but actually, I suspect, the right choice. My laptop is heaaaavy. The iPad is light. The iPad does most (and more) of what I want done on a vacation, and it does it more swiftly, to boot (my laptop is also slooo-hooo-hooooow).

So: iPad as travel computer?

Total win.

Leg One: Bouchercon 2010 (San Francisco)

I’ve already written a little bit about this part of the trip (blog posts here and here), but, I know, I know. You greedy jackals want more. With your slavering jaws and your gnashing teeth.

San Francisco is, in case you didn’t know, a city of hills. Or, rather, one big hill. So, when I think, “Our hotel is not that far from Bouchercon, we can totally walk it,” this is accurate insomuch as, yes, the actual distance is not that bad. But the distance is complicated by 45-degree inclines and declines. Up is hard, but down is a killer, too — it feels like your calves are guitar strings pulled too taut, so taut in fact that they might snap and recoil and whip you in the eyes. The thing is, it’s not like I didn’t know San Francisco is a City on a Hill. I’ve seen the movie. Hell, I’ve been to the goddamn city before.

And yet, I was a younger lad then.

Anyway, so it goes. We did a lot of walking because cabs are hard to come by.

Places we visited on this leg of San Franwacky:

The Jejune Institute: If you ever had the feeling, “Gosh, I think I’m special. Maybe even psychic.” And your follow-up thought was, “You know, I could really use to become part of a cult scientific organization along the lines of the Dharma Initiative,” then boy howdy, do I have the experience for you. The Jejune Institute is a… well, I guess it’s an ARG, a live (and free) experience in San Francisco that begins with you entering a very nice building and going to an abandoned floor of that office building and then getting a key and sitting down for an, erm, orientation video. What happens from there is both fascinating and secret, and thus I shall not tell you of your experience except that it will require you to wander several blocks around that building, following a story and solving ciphers based on the city itself. Very cool, very trippy. We did it in the rain, which was, erm, less than pleasant, but still cool enough where we finished the experience. Except, you never really finish the experience…

Thad’s Cozy Cafe: Dang, yeah, no. This was near to our hotel and was just a little coffee counter with a small breakfast menu, and I thought, “Wow, this is refreshing. It’s a totally non-ironic, non-hipster joint with biscuits and gravy on the menu.” Mmm. Uh-oh. Wandered in and had what was easily one of the worst breakfasts of my life (which I snarfed down like a dying man because I was famished). Burned potatoes, hockey puck biscuits, watery “gravy,” and coffee that tasted like the inside of an old burned-up bourbon barrel (not as appealing as it may sound). Guy was very nice, but — ehhh. No. We were treated to some fascinating overheard conversation, though, typical of the madness that is San Francisco: some old dude wanders in and starts asking Thad for legal advice because he’s going to be on some kind of… gavel-banging judge show on TV? I dunno. Thad, not breaking a sweat, offers legal advice that is both dubious sounding yet full of confidence. Then, some other weird dude wearing a helmet (not a bike helmet but a “your head is a little too soft to survive the rigors of modern living” helmet) runs in and needs to talk to the old dude, and they proceed to hurriedly get a corner table and babble at each other. Good times. Oh! And this place is a good example of why reviews on the Internet are not always tip-top: people on Yelp seem to really dig this place.

Modern Thai: Absolutely, without a doubt, the best Thai food I have ever had the pleasure of sticking in my gluttonous craw. And I have eaten the unmerciful hell out of some Thai food. We went here the first day we got to San Fran just an hour before the dreadful calf-destroying walk down to the Embarcadero, and the noodle dishes were so warm, so comforting, they made you feel so good, obliterating a day of travel. So when the time came to honor our reservations two nights later at the hip and upscale Le Colonial, I said, “Hey, eff that in the ear,” and canceled. Then we went back to Modern Thai. On that second trip I ate what will likely remain one of my Top Ten Dishes ever. It was a green papaya salad, but the papaya was shredded and deep fried in this really light, crunchy batter. The dressing, a kind of lime-fish-sauce-citrus-something-or-other, was — I — guh! Gibber. Drool. I don’t even have words. It was so intimately satisfying, this dish. A nigh-sexual experience. The rest of the food was top of the pops, too, but nothing knocked this crispy papaya salad (which was as big as a football helmet, for the record) off its pedestal.

Slanted Door: Ate here for our “Team Decker” dinner, and it was phenomenal. Food is very often about context, so I assure you that part of the pleasure of this meal comes from the company kept (Super-Agent Stacia Decker, Dan O’Shea and his lovely wife, Joelle Charbonneau, Seth Harwood, and of course my own loverly wife), but the food really was delicious. Modern upscale Vietnamese. Tried oysters for the first time (well, raw — had ‘em fried prior to this). Good. Briny. Unlike anything else I’ve ever had in my mouth (except dolphin penis). (What?) (Shut up.) It was during this dinner, by the way, that I learned the grim truth never before told to me: I am a clone (and let’s be honest, a diminished clone due to some greasy lab error) of Dan O’Shea, as evidenced by this picture. Anyway. What I’m saying is: froofy atmosphere, great company, solid food, and even the excitable Giants fans in the crowd could not diminish my pleasure.

Boccalone : MEAT CONE MEAT CONE MEAT CONE. Okay, I’ll stop now. No, wait, once more: MEAT CONE. Boccalone: great Charcuterie joint in San Francisco’s Ferry Building. Their motto is, awesomely and appropriately, “Tasty Salted Pig Parts.” They will, for around $3-4, put a bunch of homespun salumi into a paper cone and give it to you. It is some of the greatest meat product ever. Stacia bought a shirt. And a hot dog. You’ll have to ask her about the hot dog.

Miette Patisserie: Wife and I both consumed these delicate little ice cream sandwiches here — one was peanut butter, but the other was a creme fraiche ice cream between two slabs of graham cracker, and that was the distinguished winner. The rest of their confections looked fantastic — actually, most of the food joints in the Ferry Building made me weak in the knees. I saw mounds of cheese and racks of fungus. I wish I had a teleporter just so I could bop in and out of there. Oh, but one restaurant — Mijita – wasn’t good. Blah Mexican food, very expensive for tiny portions. Meh.

Anywho. That’s it for now — part two (and maybe three?) of the trip report coming, uhhh. Tomorrow? Tuesday? You can’t pin me down. I’m like an eel. Slippery and uncertain.

That, by the way, should be read in the cheesiest, radio-most voice you can manage:

And we’re baaaaack!

Then, someone pushes buttons and makes fart noises, monkey hoots, and plates breaking.

Yes, that’s right. We here at terribleminds (and by “we” I mean me, myself, and my tapeworm) have returned. No thanks to the joyful rigors of air travel, mind. Sure, you’ll see a more cogent “trip report” from me in the coming days, but for now — whilst I’m properly addled on cold medication and jet lag! — it seemed a most excellent time to unzip my fly and deposit a golden stream of wisdom on the heads of airline travelers the world-around. Pssshhhhh. Feel that? Tastes like wisdom. Smells like Sugar Smacks. Mmmm.

Now, you might think this post will be about the airline industry itself. After all, traveling is usually an event that contains as much pleasure and efficiency as a prostate exam performed with a rusty egg-beater. Sure, you get shoved in a metal can and sling-shotted through the air. Yes, you must endure the bitter sting of disgruntled airline employees. And of course, there’s that whole thing where you get wadded up into a very small space like a pair of used panties stuffed in a half-crumpled Pringles can (“Here is your pre-defined square foot of wiggle room with proscribed borders clearly defined by your inability to move at all, ever. Please do not struggle, or you will be anesthetized and flushed out of the plane via the aircraft’s vacushittatorium. Enjoy your flight, Mister Wingding”).

Thing is, though, traveling was fine enough, at least from the industry perspective. It was blunt. It was not exactly friendly. But it was functional. Planes left on time, always got there early (and in the last two weeks I’ve been on six different planes of various sizes). I got my free drinks. Life goes on.

No, what amazes me are the absolute douche-donkeys that travel the airstream these days.

See, anybody can buy a ticket. Which means that flying no longer possesses any of that Mad Men magic where you see dudes in suits sipping Manhattans next to pretty ladies clutching big purses. Now, it’s right on par with bus travel. You know how hobos can wander onto buses? They can wander onto planes, too. So that’s what this is. This is an ode to all those shitheads, to all those fuck-for-brains, to all those asstacular wankernecks who somehow ended up on a plane seated somewhere in my general vicinity.

Creepy Perm Guy With Dubious Credentials

We’re sitting at O’Hare, waiting for the last leg of our journey home to board, and we’re sitting across from a trio of… well, unemployed faux-pagan Ren Fair types in their late 40s (I’m not stereotyping, this is all information I learned while sitting there), and who should wander up but some too-tan, bug-eyed white dude with a greasy Jheri curl slash mullet combo-pack going on upstairs. His jeans, like his posture and overall demeanor, are simply too tight. The guy is stock straight. And he just wanders up into the middle of us and stands there. Then kind of totters this way and that, always looking at the world with his eyes bulging, his head cocked, like he’s an alien who hasn’t yet parsed the vagaries of Earth living.

Later, when the flight has boarded and we’re mostly full, he wanders onto the plane. Again with the sense of, “What is this strange Earth conveyance? It is nothing like our Martian spice-gliders!” feel. He wanders around trying to find a seat when finally the itchily-nervous flight attendant accosts him and asks him to sit, and the guy shoves a piece of paper in the attendant’s hand — the flight attendant says, “This is just a piece of paper, you need to go get an actual boarding pass.”

And greasy perm guy wanders away.

I’m like, “How the fuck does he get onto a plane without a boarding pass? How does he even get to the gate without one?” Is he some kind of air travel ninja? Puff of smoke, the whiff of hair gel, and there he is?

Eventually he wanders back on, shows a boarding pass, and sits down. Then he read a magazine. Or, as I like to think of it, “Telepathically communicated with his cosmic masters.”

Old Asian Dude Who Wants To Rest His Head On My Pillowy Thighs

First flight. Old Asian guy in front of me jacks his seat back far enough where he almost crushes the iPad resting delicately upon my seat tray, and then leans back further — so far, in fact, I assume that he wants to give me a goodnight kiss or maybe some oral favors. The top of his half-bald head is, quite literally, five inches from my mouth. Fine. I decided that, for the remainder of the flight, I would cough (with mighty spittle release) upon his scalp endlessly. And I also thought I would massage him gently by constantly punching and kicking the seat.

Dude, that seat isn’t a cot. We’re not sleeping in bunk beds. Get off my crotch.

Goulash Guy and the Kimchee Twins

Explain this to me. If I bring in a bottle of water — sealed! — from outside the airport, I can be detained and my rectal cavity might be searched for bomb-making components.

And yet, if I really want, I can bring my own food — in a dirty-ass Tupperware container, no less — onto a plane and nobody will bat an eye? How is that bloody reasonable?

On the one flight, and I think I mentioned this in an earlier post, some grumpy old dude wheels out a massive Tupperware container of goulash, then proceeds to unwrap massive hunks of crusty bread and sop up this heady broth with naught but his hands and the bread. Then, on another flight, caddy-corner to us sat a trendy punk Asian couple, and they were eating — I’m not kidding — a fuckton of kimchee. And these really strong-smelled sesame crackers, too. And these were not the only culprits! People all around us, chowing down on food they could not possibly have procured within an airport terminal.

Listen, I’m sympathetic. I know that inside the airport, you need to tap a line of equity just to buy a bagel. So, seriously? I get it. It’s just — here’s the thing. First, I don’t know why you’re allowed to bring on a bucket of gruel, but I can’t bring on a bottle of factory-sealed water. Second, newsflash: we are all trapped in a very claustrophobic aluminum tube together for four hours. What you’re eating? I’m eating. Were you to, say, bring on some kind of stinky concoction, then we will all smell your nasty corpse-foot soup.

You seriously couldn’t just make a ham-and-cheese sandwich? You absolutely unequivocally had to bring onboard pickled herring stuffed with gorgonzola cheese?

The Russian Kickdancer Kids

First flight, who should sit directly behind us? Two adorable little twins. So ginger! So cute! You know what else is cute? The way their parents pay zero attention to what their children — currently sitting in their goddamn laps – are doing. What they’re doing, by the way, is kicking the shit out of our seats. Now, listen. I won’t hit a child. But I will hose him down with Bear Mace. I think chemical sprays are the best ways to teach a child anything. Flash cards with math problems? Spelling bees? Life lessons? Confirm with pepper spray or bear mace. Teaches ‘em every time.

Actually, I was amazed at the number of children traveling. Hey, that’s your bag, but I can’t imagine wanting to take my one-year-old child on a 6-to-12-hour journey to Hawaii. You think that kid cares he’s in Hawaii? He doesn’t. To him, swimming with a tire in a murky sinkhole is just as much fun (or of equal horror) as frolicking with dolphins somewhere. You’re the ones who want to go to Hawaii. The kid sure doesn’t — after all, listen to him scream! For six hours! Bear mace! BEAR MACE.

The “Hey, Thanks For Making Me A Racist” Terrorist Cabal

I’m generally pretty good in that I don’t usually play the “OMG TERRORIST” card. I see a Sikh, an Indian, someone speaking Arabic, I don’t freak out. Air travel is a cultural soup — people of different colors and creeds are on every plane, and that’s a good thing.

And then you have yesterday.

I walk into the gate and see what you’d describe as “shifty dudes.” They’d be shifty regardless of race — dark clothing, leather jackets, huddled together, looking nervous, whispering, always staying away from people. You get too close, they totter away. Coming, going. Rarely blinking. Then, add onto the situation a generous dollop of, “Hey, they’re also whispering in Arabic, and they look like every photo you’ve ever seen of the 9/11 hijackers,” and next thing I know, I’m suffering a full-bore racist meltdown.

My brain, ping-ponging: holy crap, terrorists! Right here! I could foil their plot. I could go tell somebody. Except, that’s wrong. Right? Wrong. Assumptive. Racists. I’m an asshole. A total asshole. I hate myself for thinking this. But then, but then — where’s the line? If I say something and it turns out these guys are actually terrorists, I’m a hero. If I say something and they’re, I dunno, vending machine salesmen from Jersey City, then I am a giant honking racist dick-mouth. Such a fine line! Should I damn cultural sensitivity? As they’re blowing up the plane, will I think, “At least I remained politically correct?” Or, as they’re being dragged off the plane, stripped of their vending machine catalogs and freedom as hoods are shoved over their heads, will I think, “Perhaps I made a horrible error?”

Then as we’re getting on board, two more shifty gentleman get on. One of them, a younger guy, maybe 21, is really nervous. He keeps swallowing noticeably. And he’s looking everywhere on board with darting eyes. It’s equal parts of, “I don’t want to be found out” and “Who will resist my martyrdom?” and “Could I stick a bomb here in the toilet? Maybe, maybe.”

Then I see these two shifty dudes sit with the other two shifty dudes.

Then I think, “Wow, if they’re terrorists, they’re awfully ballsy. I mean, they’re all sitting together.”

Then: “And, if they were actually terrorists, wouldn’t they be a little less conspicuous? I mean, sure, that guy who tried to explode his underwear was a bit obvious, but this really takes the cake.”

And finally, “I wonder if the reason that they’re nervous is because everyone thinks they’re terrorists.” That kind of constant scrutiny and racism from shitheads like me would make anybody shifty and anxious.

Half-hour into the flight I get up and wander back to the bathroom and see them all back there sleeping like mouth-breathing babies. Seriously: heads back, mouths open, heavy snoring. If they’re terrorists, I think, they’re awfully lazy. It occurs to me then that, hey, I’m kind of an asshole. I’m not saying they couldn’t have done a little more to appear less terroristic, sure, but who am I to judge? I mean, Jeebus only knows what I look like. People probably think I’m a crazy person half the time.

Sorry, not-actually-a-terrorist cabal. We’re all a little sensitive these days. Just know that we’re trying not to be total racist smackbabies. We white people suck at it, but some of us try nonetheless.

Hobo Joe And His Buttcrack Delight

And finally, the piece de resistance.

Hawaii to San Francisco, a big dude gets on board. Not fat, just lumbering. He’s an older guy: wisps of gray hair, a scraggly beard, spectacles. A little hobo-hippy chic. Some combination of MC Hammer-slash-sweat pants adorn his tree trunk legs, and his bare chest is exposed because he has not bothered to button his shirt. You can, at times, see his nipples ringed in gnarly gray chest hair.

I’m aisle. Wife in the middle. Hobo Joe by the window.

Hobo Joe proceeds to make the six-hour flight completely unpleasant.

First, he’s unaware of his own physical margins. He’s constantly bumping into the wife — *elbows and knees and jostle jostle jostle hip check steal armrest adjust balls jostle jostle shake*

Then he spills coffee on my wife’s hand.

Then he needs to go to the bathroom. Not once, but several times. He doesn’t just walk out of the seats like a normal human, ohhh no — he crawls over them. Seriously. And his nasty lice-caked sweat pants fall down around his butt so I catch a half-moon of his pale assyness.

Then he takes his shoes off. Puts his bare feet up on the armrests.

His pants continue to drift downward. He is not wearing underwear. You can see the mudslide shelf of his gut. You can see the flabby stretch-mark expanse of the skin that surely leads to his balls, balls that are probably home to various rodents and broken Christmas ornaments and old Band-Aids.

Sometimes he tries to talk to us. Mumbling. Then he gets excited about the Dallas Cowboys. The wife and I go back to playing a game on the iPad (Little Things, totally worth it) and he’s still over there yammering away to — who? Us? We’re not listening to you, Hobo Joe. Scratch your testes at somebody else.

Finally, we’re starting our descent and he decides this is high time to get his giant duffel bag (shouldn’t even be allowed on the plane). Why? Because “his keys are in it.” I don’t know what this has to do with anything, because it’s not like gremlins are trying to steal the keys, but whatever. He fetches the bag and — the guy already has a laptop with him — then tries desperately to shove it under the seat in front of him. Meanwhile, I’m standing up because he’s taking up our whole aisle trying to accomplish this epic and impossible task, and since we’re descending, we are experiencing turbulence. Turbulence no longer bothers me except when I’m not buckled in because that’s how people end up with brain contusions and shit — plane drops suddenly, I’m not affixed to any part of the plane, and thus I shatter my tender skull on the plane ceiling.

Finally I just snap at the guy — “That will not fit under your seat, dude. Stop trying.” He asks me, “Are you sure?” The wife and I both confirm: “Not going to fit.” And it’s not. I can barely fit my laptop case under the seat and this guy is trying to shove a dead pony under there. He finally says, “I’ll trust your judgment,” and then hands *me* the bag because now it’s my job to put his stinky hobo accouterments up in the bin.

Fine. I do it. We sit. He tries to babble at us again and we ignore him. We land and get far the fuck away from Hobo Joe. How’d he get onto a plane? I dunno. He’s probably an eccentric billionaire. But even if that’s true: one thing is money has not yet bought him is a pair of goddamn underpants. Dude, if you’re out there? Reading this? Buy underwear. Just one pair. For important occasions like, say, the Prom. Or riding on planes with other human adults.

People on planes are such assholes.

I now demand your worst “Asshole-On-A-Plane” story.

Go.