Boobs, not Bombs
June 02, 2005
A few weeks ago, I got a frantic call from my ex. He was leading a troupe of our friends who were visiting from the mainland for a wedding later in the week but were currently terrorizing a bar in Kihei.
And they weren't so much "terrorizing" as they were just piss-drunk and couldn't give a rat's ass about anything but having a good ole time—ah, visitors! Basically, to the good people of the South Shore, they were a large group of meddlers intent on getting 86-ed from as many bars as possible. That's how they roll on the mainland, you see.
Naturally, I gathered from the anxious tone in his voice that he needed my help. He told me everyone was heading towards Hapa's and he sounded afraid. Hey, it was gay night and he was from Sacramento. I decided to rush to his rescue.
And so it was that when I arrived, the ex—who heretofore had been somewhat of a homophobe—found himself being merrily objectified and ass-pinched from bar to dance floor. In fact, he didn't seem to mind so much after all.
At one point, a couple of tall, attractive, hard-bodied men in leather stopped me, apparently wanting the 411 on my date.
"Lemme guess," said one, hip cocked to the side. "He's straight?"
"Afraid so," I replied.
"Mmph, that is too baaad, honey," he said. I giggled an apology and scurried away to collect my boy, who was performing a complex break-dancing maneuver onstage in front of the big screen lava-lamp visuals alongside two male go-go dancers.
Maybe a week after the visiting friends left, I went back to Hapa's. This time, for DJ Mark Farina. The girls and I decided to dress it up in full costume gear, and I relished the opportunity to go incognito. While BJ looked like a Swedish disco renaissance hooker with her bustier and blonde Afro, Kim took on Parisian elegance with her dreads neatly wrapped under a lace scarf. I went for British spy-beatnik.
But it was all in vain, for it was my corseted boobs that gave me away. Apparently, the wig and the hat and the shady smirk did nothing to hide the signature goods on display.
I worked a lot this past weekend, kinda forgetting that most people would be celebrating the three-day extension with beach parties, drag racing and camping in Hana. So I don't really have anything interesting to report on for Memorial Day weekend. Sorry.
I did hang out at Jacque's in Paia on Monday night—something I don't normally do, as you know. Usually when I walk past the crowded bistro, I'm too intimidated to enter. It's not like I'm scared off by the supermodel-like beauty of its patrons, their seemingly inherent preoccupation with windsurfing or that pesky language barrier—hey, I know the Language of Love, right? Right. But, well, yeah… just like with those years of Spanish I took in grade school, I understand more l'amour than I can speak. And my accent is atrocious.
Anyway, the truth is that I never hang out at Jacque's because I'm lazy. And I just want to ogle people with my booty firmly planted at the bar. Is that so wrong? And so this time I did find a seat at the bar, except there wasn't anybody I could ogle because they were all eating dinner and that's just disturbing to make eyes at someone while they're slurping soup or stuffing crab cakes in their mouth.
It's okay, though, 'cause the dynamically dreamy duo Dr. Nat and Dustin gave me sufficient pause to swoon with their seductively smooth, sultry music…
Oh geez… see, I was there only one night and already I'm a cheeseball. But seriously, those guys were good.
I was only momentarily stirred from my reverie when the Pakistani-born, English-bred man next to me said, "The thing about Americans is... even the dumbest people here are smarter than the dumbest people in Australia."
Samantha Campos will host a solo exhibit this summer in New York, featuring Barbie doll renditions of all her former roommates, pending litigation from Mattel. MTW
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