The Battle of the Brides

Reporting from the Daily Battle of Brides at the Moana Surfrider Hotel in Waikiki, this is The Great Plotnik. Decked out in Full White With Veil, the brides are stacked up like incoming airliners in a snowstorm. There seems to be a distance requirement: until one bride leaves the area under the Banyan Tree, no other bride can move. There is probably a traffic jam on the Freeway to Osaka or Narita International Airport, because the bride standing at the hotel front door in Waikiki has to wait for the bride stalled at the concierge desk, who is waiting for the bride who is standing at the Vuitton/Gucci/Prada Box Collection desk, waiting for her mother to consult with her father about how many Hawaiian Host Macadamia Nut boxes they can possibly collect. Another bride is waiting patiently in the limo outside. They are very, very young.

Their grooms are all smoking cigarettes, shuffling their feet. They look totally confused when they're not talking on their cellphones. This Grand Production, to the Great Plotnik, who got married in Ducknik's back yard before God and a dozen people, has to be the Worst Possible Way to Begin a Marriage.

The Moana Surfrider Hotel is 80% Japanese tourists. Can Plotnik work up the courage to speak with any of them? Iie. This means Shit, No.

This morning on the crowded elevator, though, one Japanese man said 'Good Morning.' Plotnik responded 'Ohayoo Gozaimashita,' and bowed. Everyone on the elevator exploded with joy. 'Ha Ha! Ha Ha! Soo! Ohayo!' In other words, after four years of grammar and two semesters of Kanji, Plotnik can now say "Good Morning."

At this rate, he is only ten million bride-years away from saying "So, Kenji, how's the Missus?"

But, hey. He leaves the hotel and walks to the internet cafe, hidden deep within the International Marketplace, holding his fresh squeezed orange and pineapple juice in his hand.



Yesterday was a long bike ride up the Koolau mountain Makua (away from the sea) to visit Kawamoto's Orchid Nursery. It was a long ride up, punctuated by stops at the Aloha Shirt shop and the Portuguese Malasada Bakery (a Malasada is a big, thick Krispy Kreme-like Mass of yummy Deep Fried Fat). The Kawamotos laughed at Plotnik's bragging that his cymbidiums bloomed this year. "They're weeds," the older brother said. "Your grandma could grow cymbidums, hah," said his younger brother.

Back home was downhill, which would have been more fun if Plotnik didn't always think about Ralphie when flying down a hill, and if he hadn't also had a long talk the night before with one of Ducknik's conference mates, next to whom Plotnik and Ducknik had been seated two years ago at the same conference, but who now is permanently residing in a wheel chair because his bike went out of control like Ralph's. He is not a quadraplegic, he can use his arms somewhat, but he has no feeling below his chest, and Plotnik did not head down the hill yesterday without using his brakes.


Incidentally, Brian Wilson was right: See the high school age girl on the longboard, paddling out to the distant breakers on Diamond Head? As Plottie rested on the breakwater with his bicycle, this girl and her friend walked past him, threw their boards in the water, shouted 'take my picture!' and paddled off. Do You Love Me, Do You Surfer Girl?

No, Chef P., Plotnik has not eaten Spam, but he has, inadvertently, tasted of the Canned Corn Beef Product. Yesterday he saw 'corned beef, eggs and rice' on the menu of a Japanese noodle house. The corned beef tasted like...well, like...well, potatoes and some bread and maybe some reddish-meat by-products, vaguely reminiscent of corned beef. An inner voice told Plottie: "Corned Beef? You're not in Manhattan, Dingus."

Heading for a boat this afternoon. Good news from the BZWZ front. More on that later, as developments develop.