So we go to a bar in Honolulu one Tuesday. After playing some of the least respectful pickup it has ever been my (mis)fortune to be involved with. And there who should we see but a woman wearing a green t-ball shirt with the number ‘1’ on it, and the name (this is the important bit) ‘Eric’.
And do we have a man called Eric in our party? Of course we do.
And does Eric desparately need to wear this shirt – so much so that he wants us to negotiate with the woman wearing it to trade it for his plaid shirt? Of course he does.
And does it turn out that the shirt is actually her boyfriend’s (sitting next to her, and slightly bemused, if not passively hostile, to all this attention his girlfriend is getting), and that he has had it since he was 8 years old and is not exactly keen to part with it? Why yes, as a matter of fact.
Eric eventually succeeds in getting a photo of himself, and all of us, with him in his green shirt. The negotiators responsible for this outcome receive honorary doctorates in mediation.
Day 2 at Magoo’s (for such was the name of the bar), happens to be Jackson’s birthday. This time the assignment is rather more difficult. It requires all of our combined negotiating skill to convince two unsuspecting (or actually, extremely suspecting, one more than the other) that they should bestow celebratory (but appropriate chaste) kisses on Jackson. It was, after all, his last night in Hawaii. Happy birthday. I hope it was memorable enough, particularly once we added in the Martinis and that bar of extremely dubious repute.
I am pleased that we don’t have a third night here. I fear we are building towards a climax that I don’t want to experience.