Posts Tagged ‘Hawaii


Curious me

Ever since a co-worker told me about what happened to a friend of his after a Jack Johnson concert I knew it was my responsibility to you, my faithful blog-readers, to investigate. See, the story I heard was that, this guy received not one, not two, but no less than THREE phone calls from female acquaintances looking to hook up following a show by the laidback, acoustic-guitar-strumming, Hawaii-livin’ surfer dude. (I’m not sure if the phone-call recipient even went to the concert.) Other stories I heard were that something like seven women showed up for every guy, and that Jack Johnson wears garlands in his hair and emits rose-petals from his ass.

Okay, the latter is an exaggeration, but that’s the impression one would get about the guy who did the soundtrack to the movie version of Curious George. So what did I find at Thunderbird Stadium, the Vancouver manure field at which he played last night?

Well, there were girls–lots of ’em, and in varying degrees of cute. They seemed to come in pairs and threes, and were pretty excited at the prospect of seeing JJ. With Wingy in the lead—he was, after all, procurer of the tickets to the sold-out, outdoor love-in—we hobnobbed with a few of these, including: Trystan, Judiete, and Janice, who were worried about their friend (turned out she’d bought an invalid ticket from a scalper and might not be let in); and Colleen and Jessica, who pointed out the fact, in case we missed it, that the Jack Johnson T-shirt she was wearing highlighted her boobs.

But there were, or so it appeared, nearly as many guys at the show. Maybe word has spread, and the dudes had heard that something about Johnson’s mellow surf-sounds acted like an aphrodisiac on the fairer sex, reducing them to quivering masses of good (i.e. horny) vibes looking for a surferman substitute. Even more disturbing, however, was the number of families in attendance. Apparently, if you’re going to record a soundtrack to Curious George, the hippie parents are going to bring their offspring and set up a tarp so that the whole family can share in the good times.

If by now you’ve reached the conclusion that Jack Johnson tunes do not dominate my iPod, you have read between the lines. However, this isn’t the place to malign his fans or dis the guy, who is doing more for the environment than I ever will and is a happily married family man while I am an embittered ex-music journalist who is just now entering into what might be termed a mature, intimate relationship. (Well, here’s hoping…)

At any rate, the evening ended, as these types of evenings are wont to do, at Bin 941, our favourite late-night hang. The food, including a prawn-and-scallop dish, a portobello mushroom dish, and a chunk of halibut with a potato-and-chorizo side, was delicious, and the company fine. Pearly and I had picked up our favourite sidekick, young Crystal, who endured our bantering and Pearly’s liberties and innuendo (“Can I show him the picture of you sucking a lolli[pop]?”) with long-suffering good humour. She and Pearly argued about who caused a ruckus over a decade ago when two members of the band Radiohead played a small club and stopped the show because of a couple of noisemakers. Crystal said she had it on good authority Pearly had nothing to do with stopping the show, whereas Pearly maintained he did: “I was there. I was the cause. I know what I do.” (Radiohead just played in town, hence the reason the band’s name’s been on everyone’s lips.)

I don’t know why Crystal puts up with us, and I keep trying to get her to write this blog to explain her point-of-view vis-a-vis what it’s like to hang out with us, but though interested, so far she’s resisted. If she doesn’t soon, I might have to try writing this blog from her perspective, just for fun.

Next: the girls from Sweet Soul Burlesque put on a bikini car wash. I expect to have the cleanest car in Vancouver by Sunday.


The Whole Arm Candy Role is Over-rated

I been thinkin’ on it a bit–well okay, I’ve been pondering on it nearly my entire adult life–and at last, at the ripe old age of 31, I’m going to tell you for certain: arm candy babes don’t have it as good as girls who can pay their own way. In fact, I’ll take that generalization and expand the scope to cover all women. Those who are dependent on someone else’s whims and bankbook just really don’t have as much fun as the sisters who, to quote my favorite buzz-cut ’80s rock icon of ambiguous sexuality, are “doin’ it for themselves”

They’re not as well-traveled either.

I came to this conclusion while in Cancun the past week for the launch of a new luxury resort development. There were many, many rich and powerful Latin American developers and businessmen–and closely following them, the requisite bevy of perfectly turned-out, rhinestone-belted, cleavage-sporting Latina babes.

I wasn’t at all surprised the girls were there…after all, what’s a party without gratuitous pretty women to act as floating arm candy? But here’s what shocked me: Though these girls live in Miami–an hour’s flight from Cancun–and I live across the continent, I’ve been to Cancun more often than they have. As we talked further, I learned that one girl–a Venezuelan–had never been to neighbor countries Chile or Argentina. To me, that’s like saying you’re from California but have never been to Hawaii or Vegas. It’s possible, but only if you’re singularly untraveled.

And this confused me greatly. Because…isn’t the whole POINT of being arm candy to wealthy men that you get to jet around and see all kinds of cool places and experience amazing things? Isn’t that one of the major perks?

The answer to this is YES, OSTENSIBLY. As a cute female, if you spend enough time surfing the online personals, or hanging out in wine bars in Los Angeles/San Francisco/Las Vegas/wherever, some man will invariably approach you with offers of travel and fancy meals and tickets to the opera.  That is how they reel you in. The thing is, they’re…not lying exactly, but grossly over-exaggerating. ‘Travel’ as arm candy means a trip to Vegas, or to Dallas/Chicago/other boring corporate hub… Caribbean or Cancun if you’re really lucky. And the whole time, you’re under pressure to sparkle and flirt and basically WORK IT… and you only eat, drink or have any fun at the whim of the man who brought you. 

Face it: Nobody wants to–or knows how to–spoil a girl as well as she knows how to spoil herself. Except maybe her best girlfriends or her sisters.

A man’ll buy you a pair of Wolford stockings and a teddy, and expect you to turn into a private porno pinup model in return. You can buy yourself a $300 Dirty Lingerie corset and wear it out clubbing, to a costume party, or  just keep it in your drawer to pet and fondle on rainy days.

A girlfriend will treat you to a spa day if she’s got the hookup, just because she thinks you need to relax. A man…well, one once offered a spa treatment, but it was in Vegas and I’d only just met him, so I politely said, Thanks, but that’s a little creepy.

A man will buy a bottle of champagne on a special occasion. For my sister’s bridal shower, the girls are buying a case.

I could go on and on. The point is this: The life of an arm candy girl seems sweet, and men always come with the big promises. But in actual fact, it’s a round-the-clock job where you don’t get much respect, and  usually don’t get a salary either (unless you’re a full fledged ‘sugar baby’ which is exponentially sketchier).

If you want to travel the world for real, splurge madly on lingerie for no reason, order $100 worth of sushi with no one questioning you, and really enjoy every moment, then girl, you gots to do it for yourself.


September 2019
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