Boys’ Night Out

Ron Nagasawa
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Wednesday - March 11, 2009
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Recently one of our high school buddies flew into town on a recruiting trip for his company. His being in town gives us an excuse for a mini reunion, where we call up some of our other school cohorts - aka the Leilehua geeks-and-losers class of ‘76 - to get together for a night on the town.

My wife is pretty good about letting me go, although it depends on who it is. I guess you can have bad-influence friends and good-influence friends, so when I go out, although it’s a mix of both, I only mention the names of the good-influence friends.

I think she knows better, but I’ll take the shore-leave pass and run. We decided to go to wherever our Mainland friend wanted to go. For whatever reason, he suggested we meet up at the Aku Bone Lounge. I had never been there, so as I left work, I mentioned it to a co-worker.


She said it was a hardcore local biker bar. Yes, biker, as in Harley-Davidson. I laughed, and was the first one to arrive. There was no indication of the clientele except for the pierced eyebrow of the young and pretty bartender. She set me up with a brew, and I waited at the bar for my friends to show up.

The place went from empty to completely full and, yes, a bunch of bikers came in and consumed all the floor tables. Our geek survival antennae went up, but the bikers were quite a civil bunch, and we ended up buying each other rounds.

That was until one of the girlfriends of the bikers seemed to be paying more attention to me than her leather-clad date. I think it was because she recognized me from MidWeek, but either way, I wasn’t about to fight over a biker chick, as I’m happily married.

That was our cue to head over to a tamer atmosphere, and one of our friends suggested a jazz club, JAZZ MINDS. At the door they stamped the back of our hand with the name of the club, and we kicked back to the soothing sounds of a talented woman named Joy.

When I got home, I decided not to mention the biker bar and said that we listened to music at a place that looked like a living room library, thinking that would downplay my night. She was looking at the stamp on my hand.

The “J” had rubbed off, and the “ZZ” looked like “SS.” My wife exclaimed, “What the heck kind of club was that?” I should have gone with the biker-chick story - I could have gone to bed a lot sooner.

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