Spent New Year’s Eve on the North Shore, when there was still a SandBar, a DJ to crush on and a reason to believe a grown woman should take mushrooms in the middle of a cleared-out rainforest on the same evening she resolves to simplify her life. A move from Lahaina to Wailuku meant the Sly Mongoose got replaced with Idini’s, where I endured the infamous “tortilla face” incident and met the dive bar’s one and only epidemiological specialist. A study in Bar Pickup-ology revealed surprise turn-offs are compliments and honesty. Narrowly avoided group sex at Milagros, adopted Freddy Mercury the fish and Sasha and I decided against tongue piercings.
Sadly said goodbye to DJ/piercer/rebel rouser Miah. Took a whirlwind, three-day trip to San Francisco on the great non-gay T-shirt hunt. Asked bartenders on Maui what they knew about love on Maui, discovering that getting your potential partner drunk is key, as well as the use of handcuffs. Drank gin, attended the Jason Mraz/Makana show with Maui’s screechingest high-school girls. And maybe I went on a date.
Had dancing girl parties and tequila shots with she-devils. Confessed to being a former espresso junkie while working as a barista in Northern California, had a birthday, did some Mind Erasers, went for a tattoo consultation, did my first radio show, crushed on Marty Dread, saw Margaret Cho, met a beautiful but wasted Gutter Rat, did some Jager shots and had the indelible words of Linda Goodman implanted forever in my head: “The Pisces writer may be tempted to lounge for years in bars, telling himself he’s gathering material, when he’s really just gathering moss and unpaid bills.” Temporarily lost my mojo and sought advice from guy friends, who said things like, “You don’t look dumb enough” and “Dating is like fishing… pull ‘em in the boat, hit ‘em over the head and take ‘em home.”
Looked back at the movies that shaped my expectations of men, my first time as set assistant for a fashion shoot, followed by an unfortunate placement in the middle of an all-out, chairs-flying brawl at the SandBar. On a hot date, jazz went to my head and lingered like a haunting refrain. BJ’s “Evil Warrior Hooker Prom Queen of the Damned” get-up for a Superheroes & Villains party got her knocked up. Also, a didactic on when to scream in bed.
Tried to unlock the secrets to connubial bliss, discovering that it has something to do with prenuptial agreements to take the trash out. Also divulged my previous life as a domestic house-girlfriend and marine bio student, as well as my reasons for moving here. Continued the saga with a hedonistic return to San Francisco, only to recruit The Trainer back to Maui. Got Sasha drunk.
Let you in on my rock ‘n roll past as a kid hanging out in Beverly Hills and Las Vegas in the ‘80s. Sasha and I spent more time in Idini’s. Hated on San Diego, just in time for another Association of Alternative Newsweeklies convention—although TJ still rocked, as we downed taco after taco in the search for authentic Mexican wrestling masks and a velvet, blacklight-friendly Bob Marley for Kim.
Confessed my dork-obsession with books at Borders. Gave you an alphabetic rundown of my past two years’ hook-ups.
Spent one day working in a lingerie shop, then ranted on the ridiculousness of most “self-help” dating books. Finally expelled my nipple rings, attended a little-people KISS tribute concert, went on a romantic date in a hostess bar, hiked through a lava tube, and supposedly did something involving a chimp and a Zippo lighter.
Attempted to defend the role of casual sex in the lives of single women everywhere, gave you the embarrassingly endless list of past jobs I’ve had, and explained the complex trappings of my relationship with the enigmatic Mr. X.
Compiled a Harper’s Index-style breakdown of the Holoholo Girl column over the past two years, emptied intimate notes from my little blue book, gave a voyeuristic look into a typical bar conversation amongst friends and briefed the events leading up to my landing this Holo-gig.
Went on vacation to the Pacific Northwest, contemplated personals ads, and met a sailor at Polli’s.
Told you 31 things about me maybe you wish you didn’t know, reported on a hot Paia art party, revealed early sexual curiosities and developments, pondered close friendship and the need for space, and wrapped it all up in a tight little by-the-month review. Just for you!
Happy New Year!
Samantha Campos cannot believe she’s told you all this crap about herself. MTW