Cities Of Memory

Takashimaya New York

“Will you miss anything?”

It was one of the final evenings of 2008, and one of my first evenings out after returning to New York following a ten year absence. Two of my dearest friends were treating me to dinner and conversation at the Firebird Russian Restaurant on 46th Street in Midtown. Guests at an adjacent table, oiled with imported vodka, were speaking loudly of New Jersey property taxes and the rising costs of psychotherapy sessions. I considered the question, asked by one of my friends regarding Honolulu, the city I had just left, as I spooned wasabi-infused ova from the flight of caviar spread before us onto a buckwheat blini.

“No,” I said finally, emphatically, before popping a forkful of the caviar concoction into my mouth and relishing the bursting of the eggs on my palette.

My dinner companion scoffed at me incredulously. “Come now,” he chided me, “you’ll miss nothing about Honolulu?”

I cocked my head and furrowed my brow in mock deep thought before saying, again, “No. Absolutely nothing.”

And for the duration of the dinner, and for nearly an hour afterward, I actually believed myself.

THE BENTO BOX

I remembered the Shirokiya bento box several hours later, walking home, alone, at three in the morning, through a bleak and deserted section of Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. Following the conclusion of my fabulous dinner with friends, several shared Marlboros on a 46th Street sidewalk, and laughter, I had agreed to meet someone I considered a potential romantic interest for drinks at The Ritz, almost right next door to The Firebird. The meeting had not gone anything like I had imagined it would, but as I did not care, because I was home, with or without a potential romantic interest, I left Manhattan early, dashing off into the night in the middle of 46th Street to do something I always remembered doing when I had lived in Brooklyn years before: walk home.

After taking the L train until I was across the East River, I memorized the major surface streets on the subway map on the station wall, and spent the next hour walking home, alone with myself, and my thoughts of the evening, and my memories of years past. Of course when I had walked home in my Brooklyn of years past, it was in Sunset Park, and my walk had been better memorized. It was also done in the summer. So it was not long before my teeth were chattering in the chill December winds, and I remembered the Shirokiya bento box.

One of my favorite places during my final months in Honolulu had been the Japanese department store Shirokiya, in Honolulu’s Ala Moana Center. Because their bento boxes of rice, gyoza, and katsu were inexpensive, I would buy one for lunches, along with several pieces of variously-flavored mochi for dessert, and eat them, in the sun, on the beach at Ala Moana Park. On some days, if it was warm enough, I would strip down to my board shorts, tanning myself as I smiled up into the sun and wiped tonkatsu sauce from my chin.

“All right,” I conceded to myself, aloud, into the crystalline Brooklyn morning. “I will miss the bento box lunches on the beach.”

I chuckled, fired up a Marlboro, and continued on my way until I reached home.

ON THE CORNER OF PERRY STREET AND YESTERDAY AVENUE

My friend’s question, however, “Will you miss anything?” continued to haunt me over the next several weeks. Did I, would I, miss anything about the city I had just left? Was it wrong in some way for me to feel, as I continued to feel, that I did not miss anything about it? And, perhaps a more intriguing question, why was I not missing anything about it?

I did not find that out until several weeks after my dinner at The Firebird, when I met my dear friend Rowland for my first Power Lunch since returning to New York, at Perry St. All the way across the Village, at the West Side Highway and the end of Manhattan, I was treated to a divine lunch and inspired conversation in the Richard Meier-designed building, and literally could not remember being happier. Following an amazing dessert, coffee, and a handing-off of one of his sets of the first season of “Battlestar Galactica” on DVD so that I could catch up, my friend hailed a cab on Seventh Avenue to return to his office.

And I, once again, began walking.

Alone, with no appointments nor responsibilities for the rest of the day, I wandered through the Village, through Gramercy, and through memories. I did not dare stop to brandish my Nikon to capture photographs, since I feared I already looked enough like a tourist, wandering as if lost, yet feeling perfectly at home, looking up at the facades of each of the buildings that I recognized, that I had been in, years before, lips stretched widely in goofy smiles prompted by memories of this city, and of myself in it, of years before.

Even its bad memories made me smile.

Several hours later, I realized with a start that I was hungry again, and was even more startled to realize that I had walked quite a ways uptown, nearly to Central Park. Glancing across Fifth Avenue, I smiled wistfully as I saw the front of Takashimaya, Manhattan’s higher-end version of Honolulu’s Shirokiya, and I dashed across the street to have tea with an old friend. Because I remembered that even during his frugal, meager days as an Editorial Assistant at HarperCollins, he would treat himself to a Takashimaya Tea Box lunch, every payday, all by himself. And I remembered that, by the time the final course of dessert rolled around, no matter what worries he had nor problems he faced, he was always assured that he would be all right, one way or another, as long as his city was all around him.

Much like the variously-flavored mochi, following my Shirokiya bento box lunches, always made me feel, way back in Honolulu.

And although this time the dessert, a single wedge of tangerine jelly served in a tangerine peel, was far more elegant than any variously-flavored mochi, it still made me feel the same way. And I realized, finally, why I did not miss anything about Honolulu: because, much like that young man of years before, who sat with me, ghost-like, as I made my way through my Takashimaya bento box, is still with me, so is my old Honolulu, right there alongside my old New York.

Because past cities, like past selves and past loves, are easier to not miss when they are so faithfully, poignantly, impressed on one’s memory.

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BLOGGER’S NOTE: This piece was largely inspired by, not only my own memories and experiences, but also losing myself this weekend in the stories of City Of Memory. An interactive urban story map, it is a repository for all of New York City’s greatest stories and experiences. If you are as much a fan of the city as am I, I highly recommend taking an hour or two (or, if you are me, an entire weekend) to explore its brilliant archives of stories, the majority of which are considerably less esoteric than the one I attempted to tell above.

Filed under: Food, New York, Writing , a-list, being servicey, cityofmemory.org, defining moments, firebird russian restaurant, home, linkage, love each day, memories, needful reminders, perry st, takashimaya, urban appreciation

Filling In The Blanks

“What’s your street address?” the funny voice asked me via trans-Pacific mobile. When I hesitated, it continued, “I’m filling out your entry in my Outlook address book. I don’t like blanks.”

I laughed.

Whether the funny, already beloved voice that I had known only for a few weeks belonged to a potential stalker ax murderer who would somehow find me and see to my demise as I slept, or to, as I thought at the time, The Love Of My Life, this was a rather effective way to obtain my street address.

Because I don’t like blanks, either.

“Two three three three Kapiolani Boulevard,” I said, still chuckling deeply, until my new love had all of his blanks properly filled in.

“Thanks!” he said, satisfied with his accomplishment. “Now,” his voice grew lower, more intimate, “how was your day, Babe?”

As I told him about my day, I couldn’t help but smile at the immensely whole, loved feeling that I felt, simply because I had filled in his blanks for him. Several years would pass before I would realize that I had amassed an impressive collection of my own blanks to fill in.

Because I had lost so much of myself along the way.

“I LOVE YOU MORE THAN __________.”

I thought about this particular ex-boyfriend yesterday morning. Quite happily bobbing my head to Liz Phair’s “Extraordinary,” inhaling sugared black coffee and Marlboro Reds, I rushed through my RSS feeds at the kitchen table, anxious to get to posting my traditional, annual online Valentine’s Day greeting of that dead Cupid that never fails to make me LOL for like days, no matter how many times I see it. Until I stumbled across an entry from Design You Trust that made me pause: “I love you more than __________ is an exploration into the wonderful world of love.”

Really? “Wonderful”? I scoffed, and clicked through to an online experiment at Paperwhite Studio that asks visitors to fill in the blank of that sentence in honor of Valentine’s Day. Before my jaded cynicism kicked in and caused me to exit the site without further exploring it, I began noticing the variety of responses to this particular query. The responses ranged from the eyeroll-inducing (“I love you more than Twitter”); to the silly (“I love you more than Chris Brown (prior to his Ike Turner-like actions)”); to the poignant (“I love you more than I hate you for all you’ve done”). I chuckled, guffawed, and smiled wanly, as appropriate, to each response, until I reached one.

“I love you more than myself.”

I was stunned, initially. But then I actually began playing it out in my head, attempting to fill in the blank myself. Would I, if I were in a relationship, be able to honestly fill in this blank? Would I be able to say unequivocally, “I love you more than my blog”? (My blog? That which represents all of my writing over the past six years? Hell, no.) “I love you more than my first cigarette and cup of coffee in the morning”? (The nearly ritualistic way in which I begin each of my days? Hell, no.) “I love you more than a bowl of warm peas slathered in butter following three days of not eating”? (A dish that reminds me of my bestest BFF in the whole wide world? Hell, no.)

I love you more than…myself?

No. Way.

Perhaps it is, in fact, my jaded cynicism in all things concerning romance. Perhaps I really am still bitter when it comes to love. Or, perhaps, I am simply being realistic when I state that I truly cannot imagine filling in this particular blank in any meaningful, honest way with future lovers.

Perhaps I no longer feel as if I have those types of blanks to fill in.

SLOUCHING TOWARDS SELF-RESPECT

Still contemplating blanks, I rose from the kitchen table to refill my coffee mug and empty my ashtray. I suddenly found myself thinking of another, different ex-lover, and of his one criticism of me during our breakup conversation that still makes me wince to this day: “You’re not confident enough. Where is the self-confidence I fell in love with before I even met you?”

It stung. But I realize in hindsight that he had a valid point, because the persona I used to hide behind online was for a long time far more confident than was the actual man behind it in real life. Because, I’m fairly certain, the actual man was looking to fill in some blanks in his own life with romance, with a relationship for which he was not ready, with love from someone else before love from his own self. It seems odd that it should have taken me so much time to figure myself out, and so odd that I had to read it from Joan Didion, of all people, on Eric Spiegelman’s Tumblr yesterday morning, after returning to the kitchen table and firing up another Marlboro Red.

To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference.

If we do not respect ourselves, we are on the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out – since our self-image is untenable – their false notion of us.

We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gist for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course I will play Francesca to your Paolo, Helen Keller to anyone’s Annie Sullivan; no expectation is too misplaced, no role too ludicrous.

At the mercy of those we cannot but hold in contempt, we play roles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the urgency of divining and meting the next demand made upon us. It is the phenomenon sometimes called “alienation from self.” In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game.

Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves – there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect.

Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

— Joan Didion, “On Self-Respect,” Slouching Towards Bethlehem

It’s difficult for me to pinpoint precisely when that old self-confidence of mine, that old self-respect, eventually returned. But it’s not so difficult to realize that it is its return that makes me actually not so bitter on this Valentine’s Day as opposed to others. That it is its return that makes me able to revisit past relationships in a more positive way than I’ve ever been able to achieve before today. And that it is its return that made it sublimely easy for me to, quite recently, kiss yet another potential love interest on the sidewalk, before dashing by myself into the middle of 46th Street without a care as to whether or not anything would become of him.

Because, really, all that mattered was that, to conclude with Didion’s metaphor, when I ran away to find myself, I found myself right there, at home.

Where myself had not been in a very, very long time.

HEART-SHAPED BEETS

I stumbled across the recipe I intend to make for myself, this evening, for a dinner of one, at Emily Magazine yesterday afternoon. I love reading Gould because I can go to her, as I needed to yesterday, for unapologetic references of old “Sex And The City” episodes, and never feel guilty for doing so. (Additionally, I pick up some really tasty recipes.) The recipe is for a warm beet salad, flavored with dill and shallot, and in keeping with the red / pink tradition of St. Valentine’s Day I intend to make it with red beets.

When I mentioned my intended menu rather obliquely on Twitter this morning, a friend asked if I was going to cut the steamed beets into heart shapes. Initially, I scoffed at the suggestion. But now I’m thinking I actually might do that. Because I can’t think of a more perfect metaphorical punctuation mark for my Valentine’s Day dinner. Prepared all by myself. Consumed all by myself. With every confidence that it will be perfect, because I alone made it.

And, perhaps most importantly, with no blanks at all left to fill in.

(Of course this doesn’t mean that I’m not still posting that old annual Valentine’s Day greeting anyway. Because, like I said, of the LOLing for like days.)

Filed under: Books, Food, Relationships, Writing , a-list, alucina, defining moments, dick lit, egreetings, home, linkage, love each day, memories, needful reminders

Like Caviar Licked Off A Nipple

It all began with the prosciutto.

It seems odd, I realize: that my ruminations regarding the conclusion of 2008 and the beginning of 2009 should have started over three weeks ago, during my final ten days in Paradise, over several slices of Prosciutto di Parma.

But they did.

Because it was at one point during that time, on a sultry island afternoon, following a break for cigarettes and coffees in the cool trade breezes, that my best friend for life, surrogate little sister, and general partner in crime, AV Flox and I actually…paused…over prosciutto. Here’s all that happened: we returned to our hotel suite, decided to dine on a light snack before returning to our respective desks, laptops, and writing, and each reverently folded delicately thin slices of Prosciutto di Parma onto water crackers before simultaneously popping them into our mouths.

And we…paused.

The moment I felt the silkiness of the ham on my tongue, the second I tasted the meat’s salty richness, I immediately closed my eyes to better savor the sensual experience in its entirety. After a few seconds of culinary orgasm, I opened my eyes to see that AV had been doing the same thing. We both began giggling throatily, and after we had finished chewing and swallowing, she asked, exasperated, “Why don’t more people do what we just did? Why don’t more people just…stop, and truly savor, the tastes and sensations in their mouths?”

“Dude,” I said, laughing, “I dunno, but I’m taking the time to savor another slice of that pig like right now.”

She joined me in laughter again, and as we laughed I couldn’t help but marvel to myself how truly simple my basic needs and requirements had actually become over the past twelve months. The first taste of bitter, sugared coffee every morning. The comforting smoke from a cigarette on the back of my tongue, around midnight. The cured saltiness of pork flesh against my sensitive palette, at two o’clock on an island afternoon.

It would be these things that I would think about, three weeks and 4,968 miles (7,996 kilometers) later, as I welcomed the new year from my new home.

SEX IN A TUB OF ROSE LASSI

I was still thinking about this experience of the sensual, this experience of taste, of texture, of truly appreciating and savoring the sensual experience, when AV and I walked into the Honolulu sunset early that evening for our usual dinner at Café Maharani. Our dinners at the South King Street Indian / Pakistani restaurant had slowly become our own personal tradition whenever we were both in Honolulu at the same time, and we always delighted in ordering our tried favorites, while mixing things up a bit and ordering dishes we had never before tried.

This time, we ordered Indian Rosewater Lassis to start. A traditional yogurt-based drink originating from the Punjab region of South Asia, they arrived, frothy and innocently pink, to placate us until our plates of hot and buttered Tandoori Paratha arrived. We each wrapped our lips around the plastic straws at the same time, sucked the sweetened cream to the backs of our mouths and…paused.

[I was actually going to type "came" there, because that is really a far more accurate description of what we did, but for the sake of parallel construction I decided to stick with "paused".]

We closed our eyes as we sipped, slowly savoring the slightly rose-sweetened froth, swallowed, and opened our eyes to grin at each other.

AV emitted a seductive chuckle and said, “I have decided I need to have sex in a tub of rose lassi,” before picking up her mobile to Tweet said missive at that very moment.

Our conversation evolved radically and passionately, as it never fails to, over course to course, addressing the cuisines of different cultures, and desire, and sensual experiences of all kinds, and the importance of being open and receptive to all such experiences. It reminded me a great deal of a passage we had discussed months previously, from Anthony Bourdain’s 2001 novel, A Cook’s Tour.

“Think of the last time food transported you. Your first taste of champagne on a woman’s lips… steak frites when you were in Paris as a teenager with a EuroRail pass, you’d blown almost all your dough on hash in Amsterdam, and this slightly chewy slab of rumsteck (rump steak) was the first substantial meal in days… a single wild strawberry, so flavorful that it nearly took your head off… your grandmother’s lasagne… a first sip of stolen ice cold beer on a hot summer night, hands smelling of crushed fireflies… left over pork fried rice, because your girlfriend at the time always seemed to have some in the fridge… steamer clams, dripping with drawn butter from your first family vacation at the Jersey shore… rice pudding from the Fort Dee Diner… bad Cantonese when you were a kid and Chinese was still exotic and wonderful and you still thought fortune cookies were fun… dirty water hot dogs… a few beads of caviar licked off a nipple…*

“‘A few beads of caviar licked off a nipple,’” AV had written at the time. “What a simple, gorgeous celebration of touch, and of taste…”

It would be a conversation I would think about often over the coming three weeks and 4,968 miles (7,996 kilometers), particularly when asked about my resolutions for the new year.

“GOODBYE” TO LOVE FAILURES AND LONELINESS

In my first New York cab ride in over ten years, from Newark International to my new home in Brooklyn, I couldn’t help but stare out of the windows, in the chill and brightness of a nearly January day, and marvel at how the leafless winter trees, which I had not seen in years, seemed so much more vibrant, alive, and full of stories and promise, than any of the perpetually green flora I had left back on Oahu. I exhaled my Marlboro, and smiled widely when I realized that the white vapor issuing forth from between my lips was no longer carcinogenic smoke, but instead that of my own breath, visible on the wintry air. My smile grew even wider as my cabbie slowed the car to a stop at the still-familiar final light before entering the Lincoln Tunnel…and the still even more familiar first glimpse of Lower Manhattan upon emerging from it. I blinked, nearly in disbelief, at the numbers “212″ on storefront windows, and awnings, and signage.

The feeling that was swelling my chest and forcing my lips wider across my face only grew when I stepped across the threshold of my new home, La Casa de Awesome, and glimpsed, in my peripheral vision, a Linzie Hunter illustration hanging on my roommate Damien’s wall that read, “Say ‘Goodbye’ to Love Failures and Loneliness.” There was something about that sentiment that just seemed so…right, and made me, well…pause.

Because it was only then that I realized what that feeling was: the knowledge that I was, finally, “Home.”

I guess I’m recording these rather inconsistent and highly imperfect thoughts as a preamble to finally answering that question that’s been on the lips of so many acquaintances and friends lately: “What are your New Year’s Resolutions?” Because the truth is? I don’t really have any. And if I were pressed for any they would be only these: to smile as I say “goodbye” to love failures and loneliness; to always pause to savor the full sensual experience of licking caviar off of a nipple, of swallowing a slice of Prosciutto di Parma, or of the touch of someone else’s flesh against my own; and to always, always, run laughing into The Abyss.

But I think I primarily wanted to record them to remind myself, years from now, just how perfect it feels to be back Home, and just how much I never again want to leave it.

So those are my ruminations, over three weeks, and 4,968 miles (7,996 kilometers), later, shortly after midnight, on a January Bushwick, Brooklyn, New York morn.

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* Note: As cited in AV Flox’s 11 October 2008 piece, “Uncommon Sense,” at OMG. OMG. OMFG!

Filed under: Art, Food, New York, Photography, Writing , a-list, alucina, defining moments, dick lit, emotional landscapes, erotica, hawaii, home, honolulu, humor, linkage, love each day, memories, needful reminders, oahu, urban appreciation

On Mavericks And Mavens

So ZOMG you guys do you all know who you are going to vote for in exactly two weeks from today? OMG I know, right? Me, too. I totally feel the same way. Anyway this blog entry is not going to be totally political because I do not really roll like that up in these “Curious Affairs” but it definitely will have some political elements involving humor, sarcasm, blonde female conservative right-wing talking heads, and lots and lots and lots of girl-on-girl and guy-on-guy hot homo love. (Also it promises to be a highly random entry, political or not, as I have The Writer’s Block / Malaise and feel like writing in a quirky and humorous style in order to hopefully get me out of this cloudy funk that has apparently covered my entire creative world as of late. Except for photography. I did shoot a lot of incredibly cool images of birds today. But I am saving those for tomorrow’s Hitchcockian entry and are you not just the luckiest readers ever to have that to anticipate?)

HOT HOMO LOVE

Let’s start right off with the hot homo love, shall we? After all, I do indeed have The Gay but so infrequently discuss it here unless I am whining about past lovers who have penises and in fact have been known to write not-so-well-argued pieces in the not-too-distant past regarding my at the time not-too-popular opinions on gay marriage, but as I myself have proved this year people can change and so can their opinions, so this is all about celebrating those of you who have found That Special Someone to have and to hold and blah blah blah forever and ever even though I have not and likely never will.

Anyway, there is this ballot initiative in California called Proposition 8 about which you may have heard should you live in California / America / not under a rock and just to nutshell it for you it would amend the California State Constitution to revoke the rights of same-sex couples to marry that was afforded them by the State back in June. I know, Double-U-Tee-Eff, right?! Now obviously I do not live in California, but since half of my BFFs do, as do a large constituency of my blog’s readers for some reason, I thought I would do my part to pimp the various fabulous resistance efforts regarding Proposition 8.

Choire Sicha has a fabulous piece up over at Radar Online in which he collects a whole slew of the ridiculous / horrifying / jaw-dropping-in-a-bad-way television advertisements in favor of Proposition 8, interspersed with his as usual inimitable commentary on such. It is called “Meet The Hip Young People Who Hate Gay Marriage” and it is well worth a once or twice or thrice over, allow me to assure you.

Additionally, This Girl Called Automatic Win is participating in “8 Against 8: 8 Lesbian Bloggers, 8 Days, 8,000 Dollars,” a coalition of eight amazing lesbian bloggers coming together “in a coordinated effort to help place the discriminatory ballot initiative called Proposition 8 in its rightful place in the dust heap of history.” Which, hey, that sounds fabulous to me. You may learn more about the collaborative effort in that linkage I so thoughtfully provided above, as well as participate, pimp out, and generally support the efforts of these amazing women. Also, check out Auto-Win’s inaugural 8 Against 8 article here, and follow her progress on the project here.

MAVERICKADE!

Following a lovely luncheon this afternoon at the edge of the Pacific Ocean (and the aforementioned and highly random avian photography), I picked up some snacks at my former favorite Liquorette Mart and motored it to the Harbor to relax and watch the sunset. Except I very rarely relax and I am always reading everything so I scanned the back of my Jagged Ice flavored PowerAde (WTF does “Jagged Ice” taste like, you ask? Why, grape, of course. Duh!) and was shocked to discover that The Coca-Cola Company apparently endorses McCain / Palin! Yes, right there on the label, in formidable ALL CAPS AND EVERYTHING! “PowerAde is liquid fuel to feed your MAVERICK SPIRIT!” I know. I was shocked, as well. Because I am a Coke Person and not a Pepsi Person and now I am going to have to switch, G-d damn it!*

Anyway then I remembered a piece I had read and viewed on Jezebel earlier this morning entitled “Elisabeth Hasselbeck Is Full Of Shirt” and was suddenly sick of hearing about her and her female wood for the McCain / Palin campaign and the conservative right-wing in general. Because she is kind of stupid about it, you know? I mean I realize that part of that is because she is on “The View” which I never watch with a bunch of female liberal sympathizers, but really? That whole t-shirt that Hasselbeck “designed” for the McCain / Palin campaign? It totally reminded me of this scene in the classic film “Drop Dead Gorgeous” (1999, dir. Michael Patrick Jann) in which Kirstie Alley’s character is interviewed regarding her various themes for a small Midwestern town’s annual beauty pageant that she coordinates.

Documentarian: So what was the theme of the pageant last year?
Gladys Leeman: Last year? It was, “Buy American.”
Documentarian: And the year before that?
Gladys Leeman: “U.S.A. is A-okay.”
Documentarian: Can you remember the theme of your favorite pageant?
Gladys Leeman: “Can I? I’m Amer-I-Can!” People ask me where I get this. I don’t know, it’s, maybe a gift from God or somethin’.

Yeah. “Or somethin’.” Anyway, that is what I think of Hasselbeck and her “Great AmeriMcCain Hero” t-shirt “design.” Also, does the conservative right-wing not already have a beautiful blonde female talking head who, um, does this kind of thing a whole hell of a lot better than Hasselbeck? Oh right! I thought so.

Anyway, you should also check out Alex Pareene’s “Five Real 2008 Election Winners” over at Gawker, as well, should you, like me, have been eating up the media coverage of the election season over the past several weeks and simply loved it but also have no energy, desire, nor inclination to delve into the punditry / analysis yourself in your own blog.

So that is likely the last anyone will read of politics in this blog until my historically epic rage entry (not drunken this year, thank Hera) liveblogging the actual Election Eve. Which, well, you will just have to tune in to see how it goes.

BEAUTIES AND THE BEAT

But speaking of beauties and the beat, and by that I mean the journalist’s “beat,” and in this case that beat is The Internet, I thought I would also take this opportunity to point your browser toward two amazing pieces I have read in the past week concerning beauty, popularity, and respect on the internet. Regular readers of “Curious Affairs” are likely familiar with my rather obvious love of these two female writers’ work, but I found their latest pieces to be particularly amazing and insightful. AV Flox’s latest, “Hot On The Web: Pageviews vs. Respect,” is a cogent commentary on gender, beauty, popularity, and respect on the world wide web. Emily Gould’s latest, in MIT’s Technology Review, “iTube: Why 23,201 People Care That Justine Ezarik Just Ate A Cookie,” is an interesting profile of the self-proclaimed “I Am The Internet” vlogging personality and the internet fame phenom in general. Both are excellent pieces.

REMEMBER THAT OTHER ELECTION?

Ha ha ha! You thought I meant the Presidential election in 2000, did you not? Fooled you! We are finished with politics here until 04 November, remember?

Anyway, no, I meant that voting thing for the Hot Blogger Calendar that I wrote about back in August, and totally pimped myself out because I had been nominated and asked that everyone who read me go over and vote for me now, damn it? Yes, that one. Anyway, I did not “win.” (The final count had me at 24th place, so, you know, if it was a two-year calendar I totally would have been December 2010, which numerology-wise could have been pretty awesome, but alas, etc.) But since I was honored just to be nominated, and totally heartened by all of the votes that I received, and beat Perez Hilton in the final tally, and none of my readers wanted to see a slutty yet artful photograph of me anyway, it’s all good. However, I am totally pimping the project again.

As the proceeds will be going to a variety of charitable organizations, and as I am a huge fan if not outright BFF of several of the featured bloggers, I must humbly request that you head on over to the site once the calendars are available (likely in a few weeks) and order one or a few for yourself / friends / parents / pets / etc. From what I have already heard, you will not be dissatisfied by all of the blogging hotness.

So, yeah, that is it for this installment. Stop back by tomorrow for a return to the usual nostalgic, emo, non-political fare of “Curious Affairs”.

This time with birds!

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* This is humor, obviously. I’ve no idea which campaign, if any, The Coca-Cola Company endorses, and quite frankly I am such a Coke Whore that I am not sure I would switch refreshing cola beverages for political or any other reasons. Also that Kirstie Alley publicity still was so not taken by me, but instead is copyright 1999 New Line Cinema Productions, Inc.

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The AB Remainders: The Loveliest Island Anchored In Any Ocean

Today here at Curious Affairs we are purposefully ignoring the recent unannounced hiatus of “The AB Remainders” and proceeding without comment to announce a slight deviation from the usual content of this featured column to present our list of Oahu’s Top Ten Absolutely Not To Be Missed Sites, Events, And / Or Activities For The Potential Visitor. Think of this as one final, unofficial “Lonely Planet“-esque guide to the island; as gentle suggestions from one who has lived here for ten years, to hopefully make one’s time spent on The Gathering Place infinitely more memorable than a cheesy Polynesian Cultural Center luau would make it; or, as it actually is, a self-imposed penance for not dragging a dear friend to each of these places when she visited several weeks ago.

Wow. That was exhausting. I forgot how annoying I have always found it to write in the first person “Royal We”.

Anyway, yes, without further ado or any more extravagant run-on sentences, what follows are my picks for what no visitor to Oahu should miss during their sojourn on the island. I have purposefully attempted to stay away from the more typical travel guide fare to include those things not usually found there (although obviously I realize this is not the case in all instances); hopefully, I have succeeded.

And should you have additional ideas along the same lines, please definitely leave a comment with your suggestions, so that I and other interested readers may benefit from your wisdom!

Now. Shall we?

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ONE: Flash & Matty Boy’s Legendary Skyline Parties. Honolulu boasts many successful parties, and an equal number of party promoters, but none can compare, in my opinion, to Flash & Matty Boy’s events, particularly the twice-monthly “Skyline”. Set high atop the heart of Waikiki in Sheraton Waikiki’s Hanohano Room, the party provides panoramic views of Waikiki outside, as well as panoramic views of Honolulu’s Beautiful Ones inside. Well-known for its cutting-edge DJs, its guests’ classy attire, and insanely low-priced yet high-end vodka cocktails, “Skyline” is a party you will not want to miss. (Bonus points for you should you happen to stumble into “Skyline” for one of its themed evenings, e.g., The White Party, The Black Party, Heaven And Hell, etc.) Should you want the V.I.P. treatment (and why wouldn’t you?!), Flash & Matty Boy definitely make it available to you, to make an already fabulous soirée that much more fabulous. [Special Note: Ultra-swank dress code generally strictly enforced, even and perhaps especially for those on the V.I.P. list. Photo Credit: F/M Present.]

TWO: The Lanipo Trail Hike. Everyone hikes up Diamond Head Crater. [snores] Boring. All right, perhaps not boring, but would you not rather hike a trail that provided you even more of a challenge and even more stunning vistas to behold? I thought so. This is why you should check out the Lanipo Trail, “a grinding out-and-back ridge hike with more highs and lows than than the Beckhams and Brangelina combined”. The seven-mile hike, which is considered “Intermediate / Advanced”, takes one along the Mau`umae Ridge all the way to, if one follows the trail to its terminus, the summit of the Ko`olau Range. The views of the valleys and mountains, Ka`au Crater, and the entire island of Oahu, really, are well worth the effort that the trail demands. Click the title link above for more information, video, and directions to the trail head at the very top of Maunalani Heights. [Photo Credit: Terenceweis's Flickr.]

THREE: The Byodo-In Buddhist Temple. Located in the back of Oahu’s peaceful “Valley Of The Temples” is the Byodo-In Buddhist Temple, a replica of the 900-year-old Byodo-In in Uji, Japan. The temple grounds are nestled in what in my opinion are the most tranquil surroundings on the island, so it is worth a visit for that alone, but one may also visit the nine-foot Lotus Buddha and five-foot, three-ton brass Peace Bell inside the temple, the smaller Meditation House also on the grounds, or simply feed the koi fish in the two-acre koi pond. [Special Note: This is a religious area; please be respectful and quiet while in the Valley of the Temples. Remove your shoes before entering the temple. Most Awesome HDR Photo Credit: Shayan (USA)'s Flickr.]

FOUR: The Pu`u O Mahuka Heiau (a.k.a., “The Hill Of Escape”). This heiau, or Hawaiian temple, is one of the better preserved heiaus on Oahu, covering over five acres of a North Shore hilltop overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was considered a powerful place for the kahuna, and one of two places where wives of the ancient chiefs gave birth; it may also have been used for human sacrifice. I have written about this place in this blog several times, so suffice it to write this time that this is a rather humbling place, with a rather spectacular view of the ocean. [Special Note: Heiaus are sacred to the Hawaiian people and should be treated with the utmost respect. Do not move or remove anything from these sites. Do not climb or walk on the rock walls and platforms. Photo Credit: My Flickr.]

FIVE: Snorkeling / Scuba Diving At Shark’s Cove. One of the most memorable experiences I had on Oahu was during the autumn of 2006, when my roommates kidnapped me for a day of snorkeling at Shark’s Cove on Oahu’s North Shore. Accessible from March through October when the sea is calm, this stunning reef cannot even be seen during the high surf of the winter months. The unusually clear water and the underwater tunnels of the reef are perfect for exploring the lush marine life in the cove’s waters. One may even be lucky enough to spot a turtle. (Or a white-tipped reef shark, but they won’t bother you if you pay them the same respect.) Top off the day with a stop for a huge plate of shrimp from the famous Giovanni’s Aloha Shrimp Truck, and you have a day on the North Shore made in Heaven. (Or Paradise.) [Special Notes: Due to the sharp coral and rock formations, shoes should be worn at all times; the ocean drops off to about 25 feet at the end of the reef; and observe but do not disturb the marine life. Photo Credit: Phil Hilfiker Photography / PhilH's Flickr.]

SIX: The Ka`ena Point Trail Hike. Unfortunately, HawaiiWeb does not profer a very lush description of this hiking trail to the westernmost point of the island of Oahu, which I think is a shame, for it is a beautiful hike that ends in a breathtaking, almost spiritual place. “Ka`ena” may be translated as “the heat”, and this is no joke, as the rather lengthy trail is generally bereft of the trade winds that grace the rest of the island, and the sun is usually merciless. But the scenery and native plants and birds specific to this region of the island are well worth the heat. What’s so spiritual about it? “Some ancient Hawaiian folklore states that Ka`ena Point is the ‘jumping-off’ point for souls leaving this world” (via its Wiki). [Special Note: Bring lots of water; and, although the point may be accessed from either the north side or the south side of the island, the south approach is recommended. Photo Credit: Super-Structure's Flickr.]

SEVEN: Kaneaki Heiau. Again, one of Oahu’s best restored heiaus, Kaneaki Heiau is located on the Waianae Coast near Makaha. The temple, built in the 17th century, is in the center of Makaha Valley, and was originally dedicated to Lono, the god of agriculture. Full historically-correct restoration was accomplished by the Bishop Museum, which added two prayer towers, a taboo house, a drum house, an alter, and images of gods. Pili grass from the Big Island and ohia logs were also used. Although situated in the back of a valley instead of perched on a precarious North Shore cliff, The Kaneaki Heiau is every bit as breathtaking as The Pu`u O Mahuka Heiau mentioned earlier. [Special Note: Heiaus are sacred to the Hawaiian people and should be treated with the utmost respect. Do not move or remove anything from these sites. Do not climb or walk on the rock walls and platforms. Photo Credit: Jmcd303's Flickr.]

EIGHT: A Savory Brunch in Chinatown’s Maunakea Marketplace Food Court. Metromix Honolulu’s concise review phrases it perfectly: “Absolutely no pretensions — like the crowded, noisy kitchen in your grandmother’s house just before Christmas or New Year’s.” Pick up a cheap plate or bowl of whichever of a myriad of cuisines you may be craving, and make a stop for a fantastic coffee at the coffee cart just outside on your way to a spot in the courtyard, and you have the makings of a sublime culinary experience in the heart of Downtown’s Chinatown. [Photo Credit: 'Ono Kine Grindz.]

NINE: ARTafterDARK At The Honolulu Academy Of Arts. Should you be lucky enough to have scheduled your visit to Oahu in time for the final Friday of the month, you are virtually required to take in whatever festivities the talented and creative party-throwers of ARTafterDARK have planned for their monthly event that occurs from six to nine in the evening at The Academy. Composed of a dynamic group of young volunteers dedicated to exploring the arts, the group’s evenings are always a vibrant mix of themed music, exhibitions, food, and drinks, and are only $10 for non-members (free, should you happen to be a member). [Photo Credit: Sakara Blackwell.]

TEN: A Beach. Any Beach. At Sunset. At Midnight. With Someone You Love. Or All By Yourself. It will be one of the most wonderful evenings you have ever experienced. I promise. [Photo Credit: My Flickr.]

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