Last week I said that I would continue my “Early Days” saga, and tell you all what happened when I moved back to San Francisco seven years ago. And I will, eventually, maybe in some sort of strange sequencing inspired by the Star Wars series. For now, I’ll just catch you up on what I’ve been doing lately…
A few Fridays ago, I invited Sasha out for an intra-island adventure. My plan was to leave the Moroccan Bayou in Wailuku, head over to Compadres in Lahaina to see Zero Tolerance and Corpse, then to Neptune’s in Kihei to see The Easy and finally, over to Paia to catch Catastrophic at the SandBar and Gomega at Charley’s. As long as she didn’t have to do all that driving, Sasha was game.
I was sober but still, all I remember of that night is that by the time we left Lahaina, Sasha was so drunk she needed a kickstand.
The next day, I went to the beach in front of the Four Seasons Wailea. Lounging on the sand, I was just minding my own business, gawking at all the 40-something women in tremendous shape and catching up on my reading when none other than Mr. Big—the Mr. Big, Chris Roth of Sex and the City!—walked by me. Me!
I’d love to insert a little scenario here of how he strode up to me, cocked his head and smiled suavely, using those lips of his to ask if he could sit on my beach towel, to which I replied, “Abso-fucking-lutely!” and then we whisked off in his limo to the airport so that we could dine in Paris, have drinks in New York and make mad, passionate love in St. Barts.
But yeah… none of that happened.
He merely jumped into the heavy shore-break, swam around a bit, got out, shook off and walked back towards the hotel. Later, I hung out in the lobby, reading, while the resort musicians set up. Some guests walked by and asked if I would be hula dancing with the band later. I told them it was hard to say.
The Wednesday after that, I had lunch with some friends and co-workers at Compadres. We had all finished work early and were celebrating with margaritas and beer, as we do. Mainly, it was a gripe session.
One of our buddies—“Dude”—will probably never live down his reputation as a wild man, a party boy and a Casanova. He’s a good-looking kid, a surf instructor with a wry sense of humor and generally, an all-around nice guy. But he used to tear up Lahaina with his house parties and drunken antics. Plus, there’s that story of him flying through the front window of the Hard Rock Cafe.
But anyway, he was at lunch lamenting about a houseguest’s out-of-control peeing. As in, the guy was having trouble with his aim. Eventually, our friend had to have a heart-to-heart talk with him on toilet seat etiquette.
“You know when I sit you down to lecture you,” said Dude, “you’re really in trouble.”
The following Friday, Kim—a.k.a. Paris Hilton or Chaka Bong, depending on whether she’s lugging her requisite six bags for an overnighter or she’s asking to borrow the neighbor’s paraphernalia—came over for the weekend. We met up with Sasha and her hottie visiting friend Neil at the Ale House in Kahului, then we ambled on to the SandBar and eventually up to Casanova in Makawao.
It was there that I resumed a nasty little habit of telling guys off after a couple of tequila shots. But actually, they always ask for it. As in, “Sam, why do you think I’m stupid?” I guess I feel that’s it’s my duty to tell them. But then I just go on and on and I feel like such an asshole the next day. It’s really not as gratifying as it should be. I just wish they’d stop asking.
On Saturday, after the Ulupalakua Thing, the same group went over to Elan’s house in Paia for dinner and a Surfing Goat cheese-fest. Then, while Sasha, Neil, Kim and Reed were snoring on the couch and/or “watching” The Incredibles, Elan and I snuck away to the SandBar to catch the metal heads of Anesthesia.
The next day, Kim, Reed and I tagged along with our dinner-making, congas-playing friend, who was invited to a party in Ulupalakua. It was at a beautiful house with spectacular views, a 10-piece jam band on the lanai and many earthy, parental-type people dancing and having a good time. After making several older male friends, Kim and I went looking for food and found it in—of all places—the kitchen, where we promptly set up camp.
After a while, a bespectacled gentleman came into the kitchen, looked at me, looked at the food behind me, looked at me again then walked away.
“I guess I scared him off,” I said to Kim, laughing. The man turned around and smiled.
“I wasn’t scared,” he said. “I just didn’t see anything I wanted.”
Samantha Campos is down with alienation and methodical anonymity, as long as she doesn’t spill her beer. MTW