Archive for May, 2012

Huh?

Thursday, May 31st, 2012

When you move to Hawaii, you learn another language. It’s kind of like English, but it’s not…English. Well, not any more than British English is English, which is to say not English as American mainlanders know it anyway.

Huh?

What

Mainlanders?

That’s this new English I’m talking about.

My own mother – God bless her – has started answering her calls from me  (on HER phone. In Alabama.) with “Aloha!” She’s embracing my new found motherland: I love it. However, today she asked if I was going to be coming back “to America” soon. Oddly, I’ve accidentally referred to the mainland – the proper term when Hawaii-based – as the same thing lately, so I had to laugh. It’s America…but it’s also an (occasionally third-world) foreign country.

But I digress… as for the other other white meat known as  Hawaiian Pidgin, let me illuminate my point a bit more clearly:

Today the cable guy came over to take a look at my wonky internet connection and my dog tried – and succeeded, really, to a certain extent – to make out with him.  For better or worse, the dude wasn’t into it, so I had to get some raw cow bones (or “freezey bones” as I call them because I put them in the freezer for him and because, yes,  I am one of those [ashamed] people who coos to their dog like it’s a baby) out, lure Dozer onto the front deck, and hope he would rescind and hang out there. Upon seeing this, the (very nice and ten times more competent than the fool who installed my cable and internet the first time around) Time Warner Oceanic Cable guy exclaimed “Oh, he’s got some grindz!”

(Grindz = food)

Example #2: a  common series of sentences you might hear here, and which confused the heck out of me the first few times I heard the expression:

“It’s small kine lobster.”

“Mo bettah, da kine”

“I like to surf da kine.”

“My ex…you know…da kine.”

(da kine is anything you’ve forgotten the word for or “the thing” or – and this is just conjecture – whatever the hell you want it to mean. I’m going to start inserting the word “kine” randomly and see how it goes over…

“Pass me the potato kine.”

“Do you want go to the Rocky Horror Picture Kine with me?”

“I’m on da kine transplant waiting list.”

“Da kine don’t kill people. People kill da kine.”

“Will you da kine me?”)

Or then there’s “shootz,” which – when properly articulated is pronounced “Shoooooooooooooooooots,” and more or less means “okay” but occasionally – and semi-fathomably – “shoot!” or (what I would paraphrase as) “darn it!”

This is sooooooo Hawaii: cracks me up.

Do not underestimate “broke da mouth” which sounds like a terrible and expensive visit to the dentist, but actually just means that your grindz (see above) were super ono (good in Hawaiian).

And I’ll never forget how, when I registered Dozer with the local animal control, I had to laugh when the form inquired about “breed” but then stated – in all caps – POI IS NOT A BREED! A poi dog is a term for a mutt (usually a pit bull/terrier) typically used for hunting. What amuses me is that something so “local” makes it to official paperwork.

So anywho, if you lived here you may get an invite or two or ten to meet up, get some coffee, and talk story. I happen to love the expression “talk story” but probably that’s because I love stories. And talking. And talking stories. Which kinda is a (way) cuter way to say “shoot the shiznit” but somehow hasn’t caught on countrywide the way shiznit has…which is really too bad. When said with the proper lilting local accent, “talk story” sounds like the loveliest invitation ever.

Similarly, I love me some British accent. Nonetheless, I’ve experienced similarly startling lessons in the variations of the spoken word we call “English” during my efforts to work with a British partner. Sometimes I pull it off seamlessly – I think/hope/try – but other days I look up Employment Solicitors and learn that’s not actually someone trying to get you a job – like a headhunter or employment agency – but an attorney specializing in business law. You had a job: now you are going to retire comfortably because someone at said employer sent you some dirty text messages. Work it, girl/boy.

As for “solicitors,” it probably wouldn’t have mattered terribly if I’d have gotten the translation wrong, but seeing as the only time I really feel inclined to utilize the verb “solicit” is in conjunction with the noun “prostitute” it probably is a lucky stroke, as well.

That stated, if I launched a local effort to get the term “solicitor” to catch on as a euphemism for hooker or tramp, I bet I could get some traction.

Presuming the world doesn’t end in six and a half months (it better not! I’ve got hopes, dreams, goals, food to eat, asses to kick, fantasies to realize, New York Times Bestseller lists to dominate, and one life to live), England-based, future Maui visitors beware: “da kine solicitor no broke da mouth.” probably doesn’t mean that the nice lawyer has good teeth.

Consider yourself warned…

 

 

 

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It’s a dog’s life

Tuesday, May 29th, 2012

It’s a slippery slope.
I chose to err on the side of love.

Let’s consider the circumstances:
1) he is a “snow dog”
2) I am his sole caregiver
3) I hate snow
4) He eats Blue Buffalo Salmon flavor – look it up – and has been (and will be) catered to all his life.

And yet people occasionally guilt me – or try to. Guilt requires an opt-in to work – that he’s “suffering” here in Maui.
Perhaps he is.
I hope not.
I love him like a bad habit.

 

Exhibit A

 

Exhibit B

 

 

Need I state the obvious?

 

I rest my case.

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There isn’t an app for that

Sunday, May 27th, 2012

Attention, app developers! They often say it’s all been done before, but they are wrong. Watch and marvel as I present a list of (my) needs that haven’t (yet) been met. Get in on this action and watch the $1.99s minus whatever Apple takes roll in…or at least count on my $1.99 minus whatever Apple takes off the top.

1. There is currently no app that can tell me whether certain items in my fridge have gone bad or whether they’re supposed to smell that way.

2. I couldn’t trim my dog’s nails with my iPhone if my life depended on it. Somebody work on that.

3. Surely someone can get a tracking device onto a few celebrities. People would shell out to know what even B-List or long forgotten celebrities like Corey Haim (is that the one that’s still alive? I don’t remember. If not, then how about a grave cam!?) or Mr. T were doing this very second. (My guess on Mr. T is that it involves a cash for gold, but what do I know?)Truth be told, I like to think I wouldn’t shell out $1.99 to spy on Mr. T…but I probably would. Strong maybe, anyway.

4. There should be a retinal scan that looks deep into someone’s soul and can alert me right off the cuff as to exactly how crazy they are.

5. How about a meow translator? Imagine how much good advice Fu has given me that I didn’t understand. Sure, he’s a cat, but I’m also starting to think he’s a rinpoche or at least a lama of some kind.

6. Or how about something that would generate consistent good ideas for this blog!?

Oh. Um. Turns out that does exist, well maybe not the “good” modifier, but consistent anyway. Some of the apps ask mind-bogging questions that I suppose one is supposed to answer like, “What happens when lifestreaming captures ridicule?” Um. Huh? What? What’s lifestreaming? Is that like when there’s a cam in your house? I had this one app that dialed into public cameras all over the world, and some of the most popular ones appeared to be pointed at the kitchen table of a fat lady in Denmark or similar “observe my boring life” type stuff. Who does that!? (And, as a side note, there is your lifestreaming ridicule right there…)

I just downloaded one called WordDot. Its suggested topic for today was “Nonprofit musician.” Generally speaking, is there any other kind? They don’t call it starving artist for nothing…

Anywho, clearly I love my iPhone. I love it so much that I would shell out to replace it if – be still my heart – something tragic should ever befall it. Granted, I am not made of money, so no doubt that event would result in a search for iphone 4 deals or relentless whining to you guys in the hope you’d take pity and send me your old one or something, but so long as the technology and I were eventually reunited, all the bitching would be worth it. No really. It would. At least for me.

Libatique 73 lens and Kodot XGrizzled film.

You can’t imagine the misery otherwise. What would I do without Stargazer, the app that for a while there I thought might kill me? (HOT TIP: Do not put the top down on your Jeep and run that app – which shows you all the constellations and satellites and whatnot – at the same time. Car accidents or even death will ensue!) Or the bartender app I’ve never used once? Or those ridiculous ghost hunter apps I was briefly obsessed with? Or the games I am currently obsessed with? Or Hipstamatic, with which I just took a photo of me sitting on the floor and writing this very blog. Or the Shirdi Sai Baba one where I am instructed to:

1) Think of what bothers you

2) Think of a number between 1-720

3) Type the number that crossed your mind

4) Get Shirdi Sai Baba’s answer

In this case, it was “Keep faith. Work will be done during the period from the day after new moon to full-moon day. Things that never happened in the past will happen.”

Hmmm… I’m not sure how that’s relevant to what bothers me, but I’ll take it. Meanwhile, I could go into a big Sathya Sai Baba (who I guess claimed to be the reincarnation of Shirdi Sai Baba and I just realized died about a year ago. Guess that’s why he’s not manifesting any ash onto my altar) digression, but I’ll save that for another post and file it under “Yay! Blog fodder!”

On that note – armed with encouragement from Sai Baba (and having gleaned from my calendar that June 20-July 18 work will be done and things will start happening. New things. Things that never happened in the past. Hopefully good things… Now that I am a Maui-based freelance writer, I can only hope.) and a story to tell you next time – I bid you adieu.

 

 

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Blind, But Deadly

Thursday, May 24th, 2012

***LOOK AWAY IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH!!!***

This is what happens when you take off your glasses, start washing your face, and innocently take a step backwards.
I’m not quite sure whether I felt something under my heel or heard the crunch first, but either way, I was unprepared for the in-your-face projectile vomit opportunity that is/was this squashed gargantuan cockroach.

20120524-231433.jpg

We apparently have 19 species of roaches here in Hawaii. Super. I’m familiar with two. That’s 17 surprises to look forward to…and who doesn’t love a surprise?

Excuse me while I puke…

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Complete and Total Randomness

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2012

Okay.

I am not proud of this.

Whorish bride

Gypsy wedding party. Thank you friends whose weddings I have been in for not making me dress like a whor....um....like this.

But I have a burgeoning obsession with this totally wacko show “My Big, Fat Gypsy Wedding.” This stuff is CRAZY. These chicks marry at 12…okay, I exaggerate, 17 and 18 (BUT STILL!?!?!) and dress like street walkers yet have never kissed anyone, and they bedazzle EVERYTHING, and somehow the men are all straight out of “Jersey Shore” (in so many disturbing ways) and they brush their teeth with bleach and…

***breathless***

Brace yourselves. At this rate, we are ALL going to end up starring in a reality TV show on TLC.

Mine is probably going to be called “King of Hawaii” or “Fit for a King” or some nonsense both related to Elvis and my ridiculous, self-important, pig-headed, gorgeous dog…and that will be partly my fault because he is one of the more consistently interesting things about me.

I’m okay with that…mostly.

The reality of my reality is if I”m the focus of a reality show on my own, it will be about the jerk neighbor never ONCE taking the trash out (and you’ve already heard that story, although not the part where I fell down on my butt under the weight of it the other day: the driveway is STEEP) or  me constantly breaking these cheap-ass poorly refurbished internet modems Time Warner Oceanic gives me. “Please don’t make me talk to India” I pleaded with the guy today.

Gah. India. They always blame my laptop.

Maybe they’d mix it up with an episode about my obsession with this salad I’ve created (I’m prone to salad obsession. We all have our weaknesses) or the terrible gas mileage of my Jeep or my burgeoning singer/songwriter efforts or…WHAT IS WITH THIS HAIRDO WHERE THESE GUYS COMB IT STRAIGHT UP FROM ALL DIRECTIONS??? Is there a universe where that’s attractive?

So in contrast, my dog is regularly interesting…so to speak. I don’t call him “Mr. Piss” for nothing.

Back to the gypsies:

I think this speaks for itself.

OMG. This 40-something lady is remarrying the horrible redneck “gypsy” baby daddy she already divorced once. And he makes moonshine. And he was clearly wasted at their wedding and interrupting constantly to say his pathetic vows even though they were nowhere near the vow part. And now he’s “belittling” her outfit (“Big white dress” – TLC called it belittling in a voice-over so I’m sticking with their opinion although I suspect she wasn’t all that offended considering she married the jerk TWICE) and picking his teeth with his fingernail and…these people may call themselves gypsies, but I think the sad reality is that they’re really just rednecks. Inbred, train wreck, can’t quite look away but I think this – my third episode – has cured me from ever looking again, rednecks.

 

In other news, I almost cooked up a chicken with cancer tonight. Trust me: any details beyond that will make you puke.

All I will tell you is: BEWARE FOSTER FARMS and check for tumors. ( I’m no cancer doctor, but go with your gut on this. If it makes you want to projectile vomit, don’t roast it.)

In other OTHER news, I’m supposed to include a natural sentence involving the phrase bespoke fitted wardrobes and after consultation with six – six! – other Americans, we all realized we have no idea what that means. God help us, we are Americans. We got mad about tea taxes and launched a big fuss and have become increasingly ignorant ever since. We don’t understand the Queen’s English. We are shockingly checked out, really. Say “fashizzle my nizzle” and my 90-something grandmother could probably identify the source, but “bespoke”? We’re clueless.

Thank you Wikipedia, for saving me from my Kardashian, Jay-Z, Jell-o, Snoop Dog, SPAM, Jersey Shore, Red Bull and vodka, Big Fat Gypsy/redneck ignorance: “Bespoke is a British English word meaning an item made to a buyer’s specification (personalized or tailored). While it is applied to many items, including computer software and luxury cars, the term historically was applied only to men’s tailored clothing, footwear, and other apparel, implying measurement and fitting.

Armed with this knowledge, bespoke fitted wardrobe makes a TON of sense. And sounds quite nice. Go get one for yourself if you can.

In addition, and in tandem with the title of this post, I have recently discovered that in the event you have no real limes, RealLime (alleged) lime juice in a plastic lime is an excellent substitute, especially if you like your food to taste a little bit like poison.

And poison (I’m guessing) tastes all like chemicals…and bad.

Todders in Tiaras Traven

No comment.

In conclusion, if you’re both fascinated/repulsed by “My Big, Fat Gypsy Wedding” stay far, far away from “Toddlers & Tiaras”. I just watched a six-year-old boy (BOY!? He’s named Traven. He’s a nightmare. He competes at the pageants with the girls and acts like Beyonce on crack.) SHRIEK at his mother about how he’s an adult and don’t tell him what to do…and I realize I may be capable of assassination. That little punk needs a beat down. Seriously.

My god, America: GET YOURSELVES UNDER CONTROL.

I appreciate you’re clinging to some old roaming/fortune-telling culture or think kids in full Tammy Faye makeup is cute, but seriously: this is just plain, old embarrassing.

In the words of Tiny Tim: God bless us, every one.

 

p.s.

Now people are bring out babies – boy and girl – dressed like fairies.

I’m going to do us all a favor and say nothing.

 

p.p.s.

NO COMMENT.

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