Hawaiian Reeves

Hawaiian would just like to say that he is seriously, deeply, and possibly permanently… tired on this most unmemorable of Memorial Day weekends.
So basically, the past few weeks have not been the best of times (and nor, thankfully, have they been the worst of times) and I therefore have not been up to the challenge of sharing that which goes on in my head with the few of you who might choose to read it. To recap: my spring nonfling flew to the other side of the country for three months, my favorite linen pants developed an unfortunate and irreparable hole, the guy who stood me up at the airport last fall resurfaced in a relatively unwanted way, an actual wanted date didn’t surface at all, and Taylor Hicks won American Idol. Yes, all of this, and yet we’re still not even nearing what I might consider “the worst of times.”

I think I’ve been living with some sort of long-term hangover lately. It’s hard to describe, really, but if I were to attempt to capture the sensation for the rest of you, it’s almost like my eyes have been taped open, and I’ve been forced to stare at a picture of (more…)

Today, Hawaiian is still 29.

But in just over a month I’ll be in a new decade where my hair loss will be expected, the development of jowls will be inevitable, and my complete willingness to watch anything with a commentator will seem par for the course. And while I’m not exactly dreading the number itself in any real way, I also recognize that it definitely marks the end of an era.

I recently had a date with a guy who had skipped two grades as a kid, and was particularly proud of this because it made him part of “a club of people who do things on their own timetable without regard for the norms and pressures of society.” I suppose I could say I’m part of a similar club at this point, the only real difference being that my friends and I are now unlikely to ever again do anything ahead of schedule. Retirement, heart failure, Alzheimer’s, and moving to Florida are the my only remaining options for precocity, and the least likely of those is also the only one that I find at all appealing. Even erectile dysfunction is no longer a surprise at my age, and while I don’t have that particular affliction, my doctor has been very kind to let me know that I should feel free and not ashamed to mention it should the problem ever (not) arise.

In honor of this new era, I considered a Pucker Up and Blow theme for my birthday, with gift bags of party favors to include my favorite lip balm, Sour Patch kids, some Big League Chew, Blow Pops, $100 bills edged with powdered sugar, a kazoo, and a framed copy of my favorite picture of Nicolette Sheridan, but it turns out that I’m too lazy for that. In fact, it’s possible that I still have a few thank you cards to send out from Christmas, so the only giftbags at my birthday party should be ones with my name on them. And since 30 is really the last year it’s even remotely acceptable to expect or accept gifts from people who don’t share your bed, your DNA, or know things about your past that allow the two of you to blackmail each other in perpetuity, I’ve decided to put together a wishlist just in case some of you are feeling generous, have connections that you’ve been hiding from me, or need to be entertained.

So here it is… a birthday wishlist served up Hawaiian-style. And since it’s a big birthday, I might as well list the big-ticket items first.

At the top of the list is definitely the gift that would keep on giving… (more…)