Has anybody come up with a good reason for why Hawai’i has an interstate?
Honolulu is something of a unique city—once you are there…you’re there. Tokyo means nine hours on a plane headed east, Los Angeles is almost six to the west. Its relative isolation from, well, everywhere else and a Polynesian heritage entirely different from America’s European-inspired traditions allows for a distinct Hawai’ian spin on everything it does. When they say Honolulu has its own culture, it’s no lie. If Los Angelinos are laid back, Honoluluians are laid back to the point of being in a happy-happy-joy-joy liquid state.
Now, before I even get into this, I’m going to start off with the “kicker”: Will there be music? Yes—Hawai’ian music. Will there be parties? Yes—Hawai’ian parties. Will there be celebrities? Yes—Hawai’ian celebrities. See a theme?
Which is actually kind of refreshing. No offense to the Prides of New York, San Francisco, or even Miami, but aside from a little local flavoring, they can seem a lot of like. Of course all of Honolulu’s gay clubs (Bacchus, Wang Chung’s, Tapa’s, etc.) will be pumping out the latest Gaga tracks, but this is a pride event unlike any other in the USA in that Honolulu Pride is Honolulu’s Pride.
To a point, anyway. Running during the last week of May, in which are a film festival (at the Doris Duke Theater), the Mr. and Ms. Gay Pride ceremonies, Honolulu Pride is a tropical feast for the eyes, coming to a head on June 1 in the form of the parade. Winding through all the main drags of the city, starting on Ala Moana Boulevard and running down to Kalakaua Avenue to Kapiolani Park, Honolulu Pride explodes with sarong-clad muscle boys, tons of leis (I’m avoiding the obvious pun if it kills me), swirling grass skirts, and muumuus that—swear to God—look stylish. Anybody who thinks Nomi Malone cornered the market on hip thrusts (if you don’t know who she is, how DARE you call yourself “gay”) obviously never saw a real hula. Unlike other Prides, the Parade is not the grand finale—the Pride Dance Party at McCoy Pavilion at the beach-side Ala Moana State Recreation Area is the official final blow-out.
A couple pointers: 1) Check spellings. See, the native Hawai’ian alphabet is all of 13 letters long, which leads to street names looking a lot alike to haole (“mainlanders”). 2) Because “mahalo” is engraved on just about every trashcan in the city, visitors think it means “trash”— it actually means “thank you.” 3) A traditional greeting is a fluttered fist with the thumb and pinkie sticking up, not an invite for you to call them.
If only it were that easy.
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