Money-Whipped Steer-Job Three-Jack Give-up Artist - Dan Jenkins - Hardcover - 1ST ED,

1 Say hello to your light-running money-whipped steer-job three-jack give-up artist. This is pretty good. Man talking to himself. But it's me, all right. Your no-heart Mother Goose who blowed about $80,000 in the last round of the Hawaiian Open today. Lost my swing, lost my tempo. Tempo Retardo. Also, I played too fast. I mean shit, the way I raced around out there you'd have thought I was a pickup truck on the way to happy hour. You don't have to stick a thermometer up my ass to find out I shot a fever-running 73. Just look at the scores in tomorrow's paper and you'll find a dunce named Bobby Joe Grooves tied for nineteenth over here at Waialae Country Club in Honolulu. "Over here," by the way, don't get it done. Not when you're talking about Hawaii. The first time I came over here I didn't think much about it. I just hopped on a plane, flew to Honolulu, got off, inhaled a bottle of perfume, golfed my ball, hauled ass. Perfume is what the air in Hawaii smells like when it don't smell like suntan lotion. Then one day I looked at Hawaii on a globe, and whoa--it ain't near nothing. There's about six thousand miles of lateral hazard on all sides of it. You're seriously off the fairway when you're over here, and I think that's one reason nobody in Hawaii knows anything about what's going on anywhere else in the world, especially in America. Your basic Hawaiian wears shorts, sandals, and a shirt that looks like Granddad ate dinner in it six times. He'll light a torch, paddle a canoe, and grill a fish for you. And at the drop of a mai tai, he'll sing to you about a Waikiki moon, which, for my money, don't look much different than the one that comes up over Fort Worth, Texas. But he's nice and sweet-natured and wants to take you to see his fern grotto and his slippery slide and his Killykooky Canyon. Yeah, right, Punchbowl. Wait till I get this lei around my neck and I'll go with you. One thing they have over here is good souvenirs, though. I say you need to remember where you been in your travels. Souvenirs do that. Souvenirs and photos of yourself with movie stars who've since shrunk up. The other day was I was poking around in one of those Waikiki gift shops and I bought me this old dinner menu. It was from the Royal Hawaiian Hotel and dated December 7, 1941. Not exactly an incidental date in your history of mankind. Dinner that evening at the Royal Hawaiian consisted of a fruit cocktail, consomme soup, hearts of lettuce salad with French dressing, chicken casserole with glazed carrots, string beans, and fig fritters, and coconut layer cake for dessert--all for $1.25. The menu also says that the EVENTS OF THE DAY are going to be a sunset serenade by the Royal Hawaiian glee club, a modern hula exhibition by Annie Annini and her Six Hula Maids, and music by Rollie Beelby's Royal Terrace Orchestra. That was all canceled, of course, when the Yellow Peril showed up for breakfast. Too bad. Those glazed carrots and fig fritters might have knocked down some Zeros. You can't talk to most haoles over here either. A haole is your white guy dropout from the Mainland. He's generally too stoned to talk at all. Or if he has a surfboard under his arm and the only thing he can say is "Grab your stick, dude, there's a swell at Pipeline." You hear that the Tahitians discovered Hawaii. Okay, I've looked at Tahiti on a globe too, and I'll tell you what--it was uphill all the way. I was talking about it the other night with this haole bartender, name of Denny. A scruffy kid with a far-off gaze. Looked like he was working his way through dopefiend school. I was in a waterfall joint on Kalacomma Boulevard, hydrant water washing down from the ceiling behind the bar indoors, make you think it's raining outside. Tropical shit. These types of bars are all over Hawaii, and to be honest, they're what I like beJenkins, Dan is the author of 'Money-Whipped Steer-Job Three-Jack Give-up Artist - Dan Jenkins - Hardcover - 1ST ED,' with ISBN 9780385497237 and ISBN 0385497237.