Like seeing your name in the paper?
Go hiking. Just head into the hills without directions or a map, wearing slippers instead of good shoes and a half-charged cell phone–preferably starting off late, in the afternoon, so you can be sure of getting stranded overnight. We’ll be reading about you for the next day or two and, best of all, the State will bear the cost of your rescue ($1,000 per hour) and helicopter flight out. Of course, you might die falling off a cliff before then or the chopper could crash. (See Helicopter Tours.)
Hiking (and trail-running) is the source of daily emergency calls. One look at our mountains explains why: vertical, steep-sloped, covered in dense vegetation and clouds, they offer some of the worst footing I’ve ever encountered. You’re always a couple feet from plunging down a ravine, so take it slow and easy.
Places to avoid if you want to live
McDonald’s at 3 a.m. Because it’s the last well-known place open after Waikiki closes down, Mickey D funnels drunks, methheads and wannabe UFC fighters into one well-lighted space. “Nothing good happens at McDonald’s at 3 a.m.,” said a cop after the APEC shooting. Not sure if he meant the Big Mac with fries, but Mickey D gets you one way or the other.
Parking Lots After Dark: Why would you go to a parking lot after dark? For most of us, because we got lost. For some other people, to engage in criminal behavior and, just maybe, to prey on those who get lost. We vote for the Pearlridge Shopping Center in Aiea as the scariest, because it’s easy to get funneled into a cul-de-sac filled with loitering zombies and nightstalkers.
The Iron Triangle of Kuhio Avenue: Mama, don’t let your sons and daughters hang around anywhere near The Shack and Club Zanzabar and the aforementioned McDonald’s, just a block away. These places may change their names, but you can bet new venues will open and the fighting, drugging, stabbing and hassling will just go on.
Fantasy Island: Like Miami, Las Vegas and Atlantic City, Waikikidraws sexy glamour from the idea that bad boys and girls are waiting to whisk you behind closed doors and fix you up. The fantasy is true enough, but the downside can be expensive–those $12 Cosmos, darling, do add up–when it doesn’t get nasty. Trouble can range from those boors who won’t take no for an answer and follow you out to your car, to Ecstacy-fueled cardiac arrest due to dehydration from too much dancing, to having your drink spiked with GBH. If the latter sounds too much like a recent episode of 5-0, you should know that it does happen and the HPD finds it almost impossible to prosecute. (The evidence often passes from the body before the stunned victim thinks to request a test.)
The thing about GBH is, to cite a Honolulu case in which a jury failed to convict, you can wake up having sex with somebody but no physical ability to resist. Or you wake up on the street with no memory of what happened and bruises where the sun don’t shine. So, girls and boys, who could be the bartender or server, never go clubbing alone. And to prevent someone (including the bartender) from slipping a colorless, odorless dose into your drink, order bottled water or beer and have it opened before your eyes.