misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

My overly-dramatic blog intro written in the style of a United Airline's in-flight magazine: With shark-teeth mountains biting the sky, feasting on a meal of jungle and sea, thick clouds scampering across the landscape to escape the wrath of the tropical sun, scents of candied guava and polished teak wood soaking the wet air, today's Maui is not all that different from when the first indigenous settlers paddled upon the shores sometime in the 17th century.

Yes, I'm in Maui.

As much as I enjoy reading Lee's travel blogs eighteen months after he's actually traveled, I thought I'd try a novel approach and put down some thoughts while actually traveling. In this case, I write to you upon my fifth day in Lahaina, Maui (the west side), having taken two flights (on United) and about fifteen travel hours to get here in time for my former work partner's wedding (Ben, aka my old classmate/art director/prague-liver). He was married this past Saturday, and as part of a new formula I've weaved together from the threads of the past few destination weddings I've attended, I'm spending a majority of the time here in Maui after the wedding, rather than before. Traditionally, when the wedding is on a Saturday, you'd arrive the Monday before, and depart the morning after the wedding. There are three primary problems with this method. Firstly, and most apparent, is the "hangover flight," which I've incurred one too many times. Assuming you spent your time wisely at the wedding, drinking every liquid you can find for either as long as you can remain awake or until your girlfriend threatens to leave you, the next day should be spent in bed, not stuffed next to fat chick that smells like enchiladas for eleven hours while bouncing around the sky in a composite metal tube. Secondly, when spending the bulk of your time at the destination before the wedding, you are primarily obligated to attend scheduled events each night .. These events consist of all wedding attendees getting together at a local bar or restaurant every night and getting to know one another (usually aunts/uncles/cousins of the bride and groom). I have nothing against this tradition, and often quite enjoy it, although ultimately you lose your vacation to others, as you have neither the time or flexibility to plan your own days and nights. By staying after everyone leaves, you solve this issue, as you regain control, and can let the days after the wedding unfold at your whim. The third problem is harder to solve: Part of a vacation is escape, feeling as if you've left your life back home, and are somewhere special. That's harder to feel when everyone you know also happens to be at that same vacation. It is like home, only if home was suddenly transported three thousand miles away.

So that brings me to today, two days after the wedding, watching Monday Night Football from my hotel room (which I'm sure some of you find offensive, to be inside at 5 PM watching football when in Hawaii, but then you don't have hundreds of dollars riding on Westbrook's performance tonight. While I'm at it, I also want to inform you first meal here was at Round Table Pizza).

I'll give Maui credit: I know some of you have raved about it for years (K-Ro immediately comes to mind) but I privately always feared it would be a touristy, developed, resort-filled, expensive place. Like Cancun. Fortunately, those fears were based only in fiction. Maui is surprisingly authentic, unique, and native. Obviously, there are resorts (I am at one myself, the Westin at Kaanapali), but the land itself still has a surprising amount of open pineapple and sugar cane farms, meandering coastal roads that go as fast as the people, and desolate stretches of intense wilderness. I've hiked the 10,000 foot high dormant volcano known as Haleakala (by hiked, I mean drove up it and by dormant volcano I mean a place surrounded by fog with a visibility of two feet), snorkeled in Kapalua (by snorkeled I mean get sunburned while blowing salt water out of my nose every seventeen seconds) and bathed in waterfall pools (by pools I mean shallow water dumps filled with rotting guavas). All of this broke up the hours laying under a grass hut at the natural stone pool, of course, and the time spent watching the Chargers get robbed by Ed Hoculi.

Lahaina is a small town literally built along the edge of the Pacific, which is unusually docile here because the island of Molokai behind it absorbs most of the surf. It is causal and slow and, from my haolie view, with thatched-straw stores and open-wall bars, Lahaina is the vintage island town. Once the capital city of the Hawaiian empire, Lahaina now features the obligatory Bubba Gump Shrimp, Cheeseburger in Paradise and T-Shirt shops, but because of regulations, the architecture, colors, and layout all fit in with a general theme of island chill. Which brings me to an important point: Regulation. Having been to the Caribbean islands and Mexico so many times since I was last in Hawaii, I had forgotten the importance of regulation. All of Maui seems to have been built with the help of a smart urban planner and preservation society. The roads are safe and nice but not intrusive, the farms roll right up to the Pacific, the towns are modern but merge perfectly into the landscape, the vast stretches between towns is groomed, the beaches are clean, the road signs are clear and helpful, the airport is efficient. Compare this to the Caribbean or Mexico, which is basically organized chaos. In between the resorts are mounds of garbage and livestock; road signs, if they exist, are misleading; restaurants are risks, as the idea of food inspectors hasn't made it to some particular countries; airports are barely functional; the locals hound you constantly to buy things like gum and aloe; there are no Carl's Jrs. Now, I'm not knocking this, as sometimes it is exactly what I am looking for .. something more adventurous and cultural. That said, Hawaii is cultural as well .. With the native Hawaiians, it could easily be its own country. Which makes it so great .. It is kind of like its own country, but with the sanitation and urban planning standards of the mainland.

So, all in all, to K-Ro and Kohli and everyone else who has raved about Maui over the years, I officially endorse your views.

My overly-dramatic blog outro written in the style of a Lonely Planet Guide: Welcoming locals, delicious cocktails, and lush landscapes, Maui demands several weeks of happy exploration. But no matter how long you visit, you'll always feel cheated when you finally have to leave.

I don't need to provide particular details about my feelings towards cats, as I'm fairly sure I've written a blog or two describing my position. In summary, since I was in 6th grade, mauled by my aunt's cat in an attempt to pet it, I haven't trusted any cat i've ever come across. Cats are bitches. They are disloyal, boring, selfish, unappreciative, and, most importantly, untrustworthy. You can feed and provide shelter to a cat for twelve years and, on the first day of year thirteen, the cat will rip out your eyes and piss in your skull without a second thought. I am certain of this.

Problem is, Jill doesn't feel the same. She likes cats. She had one growing up. For the past two years, she's asked me every day if we could get one. Knowingly, I refused. A centaur would enter my apartment sooner than a cat.

Unfortunately, Jill doesn't respect a goddamn word I say. On Tuesday, she IM'ed me to say that her friend had found a four-week-old kitten in shivering in front of a Kinko's on 56th street @ 8th avenue, and that it needed a home. Without consulting me, she told her friend that we would take the kitten. After a night spent at a shelter, where it was examined and given all necessary shots (no Feline HIV or Feline Leukemia. Maybe I'm a cat-hater, but the thought of a kitten with AIDS simply doesn't do it for me), Jill brought the alley kitten to my apartment.

Ultimately, I somewhat respect any young creature that can survive for four weeks at 56th and 8th avenue without any cash, identification, or parental supervision (I certainly couldn't). Perhaps this little furry survivor deserved the benefit of the doubt.

Without futher ado, let me introduce you to "fifty-six" (name still pending):

I personally find fifty-six a bit ugly, if I am to be honest. Her lower-jaw is too narrow, making her look like her dad was a possum. And, as you can see, she's got random colored hairs everywhere, as if she was the result of a feline gang-bang .. A little bit of everything went into her making. I'm also struggling with the fact that I didn't get to pick her. I didn't walk into an animal shelter or pet shop and find the cutest kitten there. I'm a particular man. I like particular things. Had I had a choice, I wouldn't have picked this particular animal.

But here it is. Meowing from the bathroom as we speak (it lives in the bathroom for now, until it grows a bit and stops getting caught behind our appliances .. Suffice to say, she doesn't appreciate my morning fecal deposits).

As much as i've warned Jill, I fully expect to come home in a few weeks to find my tv and laptop missing, with a note from the kitten as follows:

"Thanks for letting me crash the pad, humans. Sorry about the TV and laptop, but a cat's got to eat ... See ya on the flip side .. "

If that doesn't happen, i'm quite sure i'll come home to find her and her friends drinking my beer, playing music way too loud.

Cats are not to be trusted. Ever. Especially this one:

So when I come home next week, and all my shit is gone, I can't say i'll be surprised. In the meantime, any name suggestions are welcome. Fifty-six simply isn't cutting it, and Jill has flat-out denied my other suggestion: Criminal.

In 1989, I took $200 dollars I had earned busing tables at the Remington Club in Rancho Bernardo and opened a savings account at Great Western Bank, on Bernardo Center Drive. A year later, after growing my bank account by 50%, I took out that same $200 dollars to buy two 12" woofers to fit in the back of my Hyundai Excel (along with a 200 watt Linear Power amp which lasted four chest-pounding years before being stolen by a group of San Diego rebels).

In 1997, Washington Mutual purchased Great Western Bank for $6.8 billion dollars, 500 dollars of which was mine.

I received a new account number, ATM card, and branding colors.

I've stayed with Washington Mutual since that time, not because it was particularly good, but because it reminded me of Rancho Bernardo, and with direct deposit, changing banks is a bitch.

Earlier tonight, Washington Mutual failed, was "closed by the U.S. government" and sold to JP Morgan for $1.9 billion dollars ($2,000 of which was mine. In 19 years, I've managed to quadruple my net worth).

From Great Western, to Washington Mutual, to JP Morgan.

A quick reminder that even if you don't seek change, change will seek you.