Mitchell Kuga

My only hope during the first ever Honolulu Weekly bar crawl, which boasts a proposed itinerary of 16 stops, is that it end with neither a bang–the sound of my flailing, inebriated body hitting the floor–nor a whimper–the sound I tend to make when my head’s in the toilet. For a week, like an athlete training for a marathon, I turned my beer-with-dinner ritual into a cocktail, beer and a glass of wine with dinner ritual. Stamina baby–that’s what it’s all about.

We’re crouched around a table at Big City Diner in Kaimuki, studying the merits of our newly acquired treasures. Margot selected a “toadally awesome!” pencil, presumably for reasons of practicality (she’s a writer), and, in her words, because “you can never have too many.” Adrienne’s triceratops stamp prompts a discussion of our favorite creatures gone extinct. My kitties-playing-with-balls-of-yarn-in-a-basket tattoo goes on clean, with all its blues and reds shining iridescently in the 4 o’clock sunlight peering through the big glass windows.

I digress. Let’s get to the drinking. It’s Thursday, meaning tonight’s drink special is $5 Steinlagers, though what sticks out is the Big City Diner Golden Ale, a light, springy ale that we later discover is brewed in Kona. I’m tempted, though a refrain from the puke-soaked hallways of my college dorm days whispers ominously: beer before liquor, never been sicker.

The server comes over to our table, which offers a pleasant view of Waialae Avenue, and asks for identification. Ragnar is flattered, and excitedly pulls out his driver’s license before exclaiming, “Look, mine is so old they don’t even make this one anymore.” Without missing a beat, the youngish-looking waitress replies: “Eh, I get that one too!”

Apparently, the girls have never heard of the beer before liquor warning and order the BCD ale, while Ragnar and I stick to fruity concoctions–a “tangotini” for me, which turns out to be deceptively strong for such a saccharine confection–served in delicate martini glasses. Ragnar and I also have pink moleskins to the girls navy blue because, well, we’re just that fucking progressive.

It’s a pleasant first stop, equipped with cozy, wood paneled walls and tasty multicolored chips and salsa. After staying a little past our proposed goal of 30-minutes-per-stop, we exit and trek down the scorching hot pavement of Waialae Avenue, toward our next destination: town.

They don’t open until 5:30.

We venture a little farther down Waialae to 9th Avenue Rock House.

Closed until 5:30.

First rule of bar crawl: check times and start later.

Or not.

After fumbling for a few minutes around Kaimuki, entertaining the possibility of brown paper bagging it at the nearest Chevron, we unhinge the creaky doorway of Top of the Hill, and enter into an empty darts and pool bar, with a smiling Asian woman greeting us behind the bar. It’s silent, save for the din of a football game on the wide screen television set. We take a seat at the bar, which has been open since 3 o’clock.

A friend studying Industrial Design recently told me that design today is all about anti-design. I’m not sure if this is what he meant, but scanning the hodgepodge of misspelled signs (“pool stiks”), an enlarged Frank Sinatra print, old Christmas lights and an assortment of Asian embellishments, design wise, Top of the Hill is seemingly very “in” at the moment.

I order a bottle of Newcastle as “You Talk Way Too Much”–Ragnar’s jukebox selection–streams through the bar, breaking the silence.

By the time we leave, at 5:35, the bar is almost full with the pau hana crowd–men clad in brown leather boots and oil-stained T-shirts. A game of pool is starting. Soon there will be karaoke.

We leave, and after a five-minute walk, settle into the cozy bar of 12th Avenue Grill–a juxtaposition in ambience so jarring, you’d think we had traveled to another country–or at least another nieghbrohood. Unlike the anti-design of Top of Hill, 12th Avenue Grill has the studied aesthetic of a designer both meticulous and delicate, yet resists feeling stuffy. Soft lighting gives the restaurant a romantic, dreamlike aura, which prompts Adrienne to admit: “I’m totally fantasizing about having every single date for the rest of my life here.”

The Craft Bar–fancy term for happy hour–lasts from 5:30–6:30 and offers half-priced cocktails and discounted tapas. The catch is there are only about 10 seats at the bar. From our view we can see the chef–men with broad, tough looking expressions, who stare as you eat, seemingly waiting for your approval.

The lemon ginger mint martini, a seasonal drink, is about as refreshing and tasty as it sounds, with shades of a particularly zesty mojito. The blue cheese bacon burger is heavy on the blue cheese–a good thing, considering how sharp it tastes–and cooked to perfection, rare enough that flavorful juices ooze with each bite. A pickle slice, marinated in a lip-smacking, sweet/sour sauce, proved to be the perfect complement.

Ahhh, Manoa Garden, a seeming haven for UH Manoa slackers hoping to spark a revolution. Again, the juxtaposition is jarring. Beer comes courtesy of plastic cups–delicious Dead Guy Ale that goes down smooth. We sit on folding plastic chairs, and looking around, spot the requisite caricatures on any thriving college campus: the longhaired beach bum clad in a tank top and surf wounds; the flannel shirt wearing skater; the fashionista decked out in boots and oversized sunglasses.

It’s open mic night, which means every aspiring musician down for the cause has a chance to solve the world’s problems via acoustic renditions of Rihanna’s “Umbrella.” At 6:39, the lanai proves to be a breezy, easygoing setting to watch the day end. A passionate beat boxer drops beats between a cover of Tenacious D and Shayla Kaai, a singer/songwriter in skinny jeans I recognize from her performances at Indigo. A public, large-scale art project is taking place to the right. As the sun sets, the night feels young, the possibilities endless.

It’s been four months since graduation but it suddenly feels like I never left.

Unattributed quote on the walk back to the limo: “Dude, you don’t understand, in college, I was so down for the revolution… I went on a hunger strike for Asian refugees.”