Yeah, when I was only seventeenGet the MP3 from the upcoming album here.
I could hear the angels whispering
So I drove into the woods and wandered aimlessly about
until I heard my mother shouting through the fog
It turned out to be the howling of a dog
or a wolf to be exact,
the sound sent shivers down my back
But I was drawn into the pack and before long
they allowed me to join in and sing their song
So from the cliffs and highest hill,
yeah, we would gladly get our fill
howling endlessly and shrilly at the dawn
And I lost the taste for judging right from wrong
For my flesh had turned to fur, yeah,
and my thoughts they surely were
turned to instinct and obedience to God
You can wear your fur like a river on fire but you'd better be sure, if you're making God a liar
I'm a rattlesnake babe, I'm like fuel on a fire
So if you're gonna get made don't be afraid of what you learn
On the day that I turned twenty-three,
I was curled up underneath the dogwood tree
When suddenly a girl, her skin the color of a pearl
she wandered aimlessly but she didn't seem to see
She was listening for the angels just like me
So I stood and looked about,
I brushed the leaves off of my snout
and then I heard my mother shouting through the trees
You should have seen that girl go shaky at the knees
So I took her by the arm, we settled down upon a farm
and raised our children up as gently as you please
And now my fur has turned has turned to skin
and I've been quickly ushered in
to a world that I confess I do not know
But I still dream of running careless through the snow
Through the howling winds that blow across the ancient distant flow
that fill our bodies up with water till we know
And you can wear your fur like a river on fire
but you'd better sure if you're making God a liar
I'm a rattlesnake, babe, I'm like fuel on a fire
So if you're gonna get made,
don't be afraid of what you've learned
I think this describes every guy I know, from the age of 17 till 30.
Also, go here to download J.Tillman's "Steel On Steel" (Tillman is part of Fleet Foxes)
We have dressed for many a night “out on the town” and never have we looked in the mirror and thought, “You know what this dress is missing? Pants.” - re: last night's PR darling, Terri, and her dress-over-pants eveningwear. The Vulture blog, NYmag.com
Today's post will be about adornment of another kind (i.e. not clothing or shoes, which are the usual subjects of my posts): jewelry.
I thought it fitting since I am most definitely channeling Givenchy today with a pile of metal chains (5) and bracelets (55. Yes, 55).
Without further ado, here are some recent jewelry designers who have piqued my interest as of late.
Digby + Iona. I don't think much needs to be said here. Just LOOK at some of these pieces:
And another favorite, Maison Martin Margiela:
Sarah Van Gameren (this piece is inspired by the wearer's family tree, with the closes members being placed closest to the center of the necklace):
And, finally, a necklace from Urban Outfitters that is both completely swoonworthy and completely inexpensive:
(I'll take one in creme, please. You know my address.)
There are two amazing quotes from last night's episode of Project Runway, the first of which I'm going to butcher entirely except for the punchline: Blah blah blah blah blah "I was criticized for being too creative." Quoth the dullest designer in the bunch, Leanne. Okay, I told you I'd butcher that. On to the next!
Tim Gunn fussily waving his hands and calling out, "Holler at your boyyy!"
I actually squealed when he said that.
The clothes were less so, but there were a couple of great pieces. This was my favorite:
What they didn't show last night were those amazing shoes! Good gracious. The whole thing is lovely, from the necklace on down. I guess Leanne finally figured out how to harness all that ca-raaaazy creativity. Also, notice all the smudgy footprints on that seamless white? I know, girl, I know. Footprints on seamless is MY LIFE. But seriously, somebody should clip that ish before submitting it to the judgment of The Internets.
Anywho, Kenley's winning look wasn't one of my favorites simply because it reminded me so much of SP08 Balenciaga. Anyone? Concur?
I guess I'd have chosen Leanne's dress as the winning look because, though it's a little black dress, it was flawlessly executed and didn't immediately remind me of a far superior designer's (very, very recent) work. Know what I'm sayin'?
Well, before PR started Mike and I were restlessly trying to decide what we should do for dinner and we found ourselves in uptown Whittier in search of his favorite Japanese place. What we found instead was the Whittier Farmer's Market, in full swing at 8 p.m. Brilliant! One chicken and one beef kabob later, we were stuffed and happy and vowed to go back next week. I stated right then and there that next week I'm eating funnel cake for dinner.
On to the last bit of information for the morning: Awesome, brought to you by Andy and Laurel
(click the pics to see dialogue full size)
Oh, and did anyone feel the mini-quake last night?
3 great things, fairly simple, but great enough to remind me that I could have been BURIED ALIVE IN RUBBLE yesterday:
1. Strawberry poppyseed salad from Panera Bread. It's refreshing and it has both vegetables and fruit and it's $5 with a large drink. Who could complain about that?
2. $1 mini cup from Golden Spoon. The almighty dollar doesn't go very far these days, unless you spend it at Golden Spoon. Say, which reminds me of a recent Seinfeld episode I saw about non-fat frozen yogurt.
3. Speaking of how far you can stretch your dollar, $1 Tuesdays at the La Mirada Dollar Theatre, featuring (for a limited time only) the entirely adorable, hilarious and awesome Son of Rambow. See it. I know you'll love it.
"I don't know. I need a drink. All my pictures are crooked on the wall. Maybe the quake dented my brain. This fug is brought to you by the letter AAAAAAAARGH, the glass of Bailey's I'm about to drink, and the hyperactive tectonic plates of Southern California. I guess America Ferrera can at least say that what she wore to the Hooray, Magic Pants: More Trouser Magic premiere made the Earth move." - Go Fug Yourself, regarding America Ferrera's choice of frock
I hate hate HATE earthquakes. I hate them. They can burn and die along with ironic grandma glasses.
So, if you didn't know already, we had a 5.8 just now.
Yes, I'm okay.
Yes, I'm mad as hell because I hate earthquakes.
No, I'm not going to move to another part of the country because Oregon is on a fault line, too, for all you smug Oregonians reading this. But I am alive and well and nothing fell on my head, so we're good.
Here's the scoop.
A few years ago (3-4 tops), I went to Hawaii for the first time with my parents. We went to the island of Oahu, and since I was new to the whole tropical island vacation thing, I was under the impression that in order to be considered a real Hawaiian person (R.H.P.), one must participate in more than a few activities to prove one's propensity for Hawaiian behavior such as kicking back and hanging loose. Activities included attending a luau, wearing a lei, drinking an unlimited amount of mai tais at said luau, eating pineapple for every meal, and snorkeling.
I've never been an enormous fan of aquatic activity. I like floating, provided that I have assistance in the form of an inner tube or other floatation device that typically sells for $50 at Costco. I like treading water sometimes. I'll get my feet wet at the beach. Occasionally, when no one is looking, I'll even swim. I know a few different strokes. But on the whole, water and I have never really been all too compatible, a fact which Water and I have spoken about and have determined, "I'm okay if you are."
But I thought, you know, snorkeling is a classic Tropical Vacation Activity. I like animals. I like the zoo. I like viewing creatures in their natural habitat, and The Little Mermaid is my favorite Disney movie, which means I'm also okay with our aquatic friends down under (the sea, that is). So I strapped on my mask and shimmied into my flippers and waddled into the Pacific Ocean thinking, perhaps, I'd see a mermaid that day. As soon as my face hit the water I grew increasingly concerned over how unnatural it all seemed. I don't know what I expected, but I suppose I thought I'd at least hear Oscar-winning music being composed down there and I was most disappointed and unnerved that the only thing I could hear aside from the crushing pressure of the ocean depths (5 inches from the surface) was the sound of my breathing. Well, that and the sound of my heart gasping for fear of exploding and shooting bloody arteries through my nose.
All this, mind you, was within the first 30 seconds of submerging myself in the water.
So I flippered about the shallow parts and got used to breathing without giving myself an aneurism. It was going (PUN ALERT!) swimmingly; I was one with the sea. My flippers were an extension of my legs and I plundered on, slipping noiselessly through the saltwater, thoroughly enjoying myself until--
A fish, not more than the size of my outstretched palm and pale yellow/white in color slipped by, 2 feet in front of my face. My lungs seized and I sucked my mask up into my sinus cavity in sheer panic. FISH? THEY NEVER TOLD ME THAT FISH WERE INVITED TO THIS SEA PARTY. The possibilities of what could happen (fish nibbling off my limbs, eels eating away at my face, death by ravenous octopus) flashed through my head as my breathing did all the talking for me: WHOO--EEEE-GHHHHHHWHOOO-EEEEEE-GGHHHHWHOO-WHOO-EEEE
Abort! Abandon Ship! Turn this mother loving ship around and get the hell out of the ocean! I immediately spun around and used my flippers to propel me back to shore, splashing messily onto the sand, flippers spraying water in all directions, my mask still suctioned to my face.
It's about that time I realized I'm not a fan of fish. As Ham put it this weekend, "They don't blink. It's not natural."*
And this, I agree, has been the longest introductory anecdote in the history of mankind, because the point of this post was not to regale you with stories of how I'm a lilly-livered pussywillow. Rather, I'd like to introduce you to a site I discovered recently. A site whose quick wit has put me in stitches multiple times, and no more than with the following post, about sea cucumbers. The basic schtick is that they rate animals. They give animals a grade. A+. That sort of thing. And in short, it's absolutely brilliant.
Here's a quote:
"Choosing to defecate its own organs as a defense technique is surprising and would appear, prima facie, to be much less useful than, say, actually doing something. Apparently the goal is to make a predator, no matter how famished, sick to its stomach and lose its appetite. Failing that, shooting its very own guts out of its very own anus is just so pathetic that even the hardest of predatory fish will give it an awkward pat on the back before making up an excuse to just get the hell out of there."
*I will point out that Ham's statement of unnaturalness was in direct response to why he won't eat fish, because they don't blink, and I, while hating our aquatic frenemies of the deep in their natural habitat, will gladly eat them with nary a thought of their zombie-ish unblinking eyes. I'm just saying.
Posted by laurel at 12:52 PM
First things, first.
"Don't fall prey to WebMD." Jen admonished me over iChat just now.
I've been somewhat sick for the past week, a weird stomach bug that seemingly triggers itself ex nihilo, or for no fricken reason whatsoever. Thanks, stomach. No, really. I feed you. I give you Diet Coke whenever you want it. And this is how you repay me. Scorching heartburn, debilitating nausea, a general feeling of sourness at the very presence of food, as if to say, food? How DARE food enter the sacred chambers of the unknown. I don't need food, by God, I'm THE STOMACH! HEAR ME ROAR!
I've heard you, stomach. Trust.
Of course, before consulting WebMD I called my mom for some advice. I'm not exactly sure what I hoped to accomplish by calling her, as though she would know instinctively whether this were some weird strain of the flu, or if I was just trying to get out of going to school again. Bahhh I feel feverish. Instead, my ever-so-helpful mother commiserated with me for a moment and then remarked, "You know, one of our pastors recently had his gall bladder taken out. When they opened him up they discovered it was gangrenous. It could be life or death."
So onto the next most reliable source of self-diagnosis available at my fingertips: WebMD dot com. According to the Good Doctor, it could be stomach cancer. Or ulcers. Or chronic pancreatitis. Or pregnancy.
Oh, not THAT. Anything but that.
In a fit of insoluble self-pity, I asked Mike if he would still be my friend if I had no stomach and ate intravenously, which is quite likely given the symptoms? He replied, "Yeah, maybe. Depends upon how gross it is."
I assured him it would be just like another accessory: Scarf, necklace, bracelet, feed bag.
So, about the weekend.
Friday night we BBQ'd at J's house, and fun was had by all.
Shortly before the beer dribbled down into my hair. Beer-hair. Gross.
Shortly after dinner, we ate ice cream and the Mikes were in full effect, to the point where, as pathetic as it is to admit this: My abdominal muscles were actually sore the next day from laughing. Either this means that when I really get going, my laughter is spastic and damaging, or I really, really need to keep up with those sit-ups.
After the BBQ, Jody and I begged and pleaded until we finally convinced Mike to slumber party at our house that night. There were the usual slumber party hijinks--underwear pillow fights, M.A.S.H., Truth or Dare, hair braiding and nail painting and pillow talk--along with a slightly disturbing development when we walked in on Mike and discovered this:
Saturday was a fairly uneventful day. My stomach decided to join us at breakfast in the morning, so while Jody and Mike enjoyed a bountiful spread from Eggs, Etc., I nibbled dry toast and slurped down Emitrol like it was my job. Later in the evening, Jody and I met up with The Mikes for dinner at Chen's and a stroll down to the 4th Street sidewalk sale.
Afterwards, I took the kids up to Signal Hill to show them the view of the city. It's one of my favorite spots in Long Beach because the view is unbeatable:
If you look closely in that photo, you can see fireworks going off in the distance. They were exploding north of where we were, and I made a comment that I wondered if they were from Disneyland, since it, too, is north of where we were. Ham nearly choked on the balmy nighttime air. "Laurel," he said, "Disneyland isn't north of Long Beach. It's south of Long Beach."
"I'm pretty sure it's north of here, Ham," I said evenly, shrugging it off as a misunderstanding. Ham looked at me as though I'd just told him California shared a border with Spain.
"Oh, Laurel," He began in a pedantic and condescending tone. "Disneyland is in Orange County. Orange County is south of Los Angeles County. It's an honest mistake, but I think you have your directions mixed up."
"Ham," I protested, "Disneyland is absolutely north of where we are right now." I swiveled around to the black expanse of the ocean. "And the ocean right there? That's SOUTH of here."
At this point Ham nearly lost it with a patronizing guffaw. "This is why they didn't let women get driver's licenses for so long," he sneered to Mike and Jody. "Laurel, you are confused. The ocean is west. Disneyland is south. Those lights right there are San Pedro. And over there, that's east."
"Do you want to make a bet on that, Ham?" I asked defiantly, because if there's one thing I pride myself on living down here in Southern California, it's that I am a veritable human GPS when it comes to the geography in my area, especially the coastline.
Ham, unaware that I was, in fact, irrefutably right and superior in my claims, foolishly accepted my bet and wagered $5 that Disneyland was south of where we were at the moment, and that the ocean was, in fact, west of us. Much trash talking ensued.
Upon returning home, I pulled up the map and pointed out the cold, hard facts:
Silly, Ham. Don't mess with human GPS.
"[Suede] continually talks to no one in particular about how he wants to go home and cry, referring to himself in the third person a hundred thousand times. This is profoundly annoying and makes us too want him to go home and cry." - The Vulture NYMag blog
Laurel feels like referring to oneself in the third person should be outlawed, along with Ironic Grandma Frames.
(But no. Seriously. Just, no.) (Seriously.)
(And also, did anyone else feel like Suede's utter disaster of a frock looked like an unfortunate Original Lifetime Movie Event? Lifetime Presents: Hit-and-Run: Roadkill Edition: The Dark Side of Lady and The Tramp: Post-Spaghetti and Chianti Binge. Anyone?)
"I discovered early that men are human and have found they respond well to that understanding."
And women, ostensibly, are what? And respond precisely how? But okay, I'll give her that much: As a human, I would respond positively if people finally understood that I am, in fact, human. As opposed to a unicorn. Or a mermaid. Get it RIGHT, people!
"I also noticed during the past 20 years or so that the culture was hostile toward males and, well, I'm a mom. Don't mess with my boys."
Riiight. Because nothing emasculates faster than a mom going to bat for her widdle pwecious boys. Who you gonna call? Ball Busters!
- Kathleen Parker, author of Save the Males: Why Men Matter; Why Women Should Care, as interviewed by Real Clear Politics.com
"And listen, let me be clear, I am not judging what boobs do of their own God-given volition. We've all been there. What I can't figure out is why she wouldn't give her goods a boost. Every girl in the world mocks the pencil test until the day she fails it, prompting her to binge on Doritos and investigate whether a boob lift is prohibitively expensive. But you know what helps? UNDERWIRE. It makes cleavage smile. So why let nature take its course without even TRYING one of the many helpful detours? Hell, I'm about two seconds away from putting on a second bra just to balance out the universe a bit. For God's sake, FEAR GRAVITY, girl, because it does not fear you. "
-Go Fug Yourself, Re: Maggie Gyllenhaal's apparent lack of underpinnings at the Dark Knight premiere
I say, hell hath no fury like an undergarment scorned.
When I was a kid, my Grandma found a turtle in her backyard. It was a box turtle, similar to this one:
We adopted the turtle, who seemed to wander in from the middle of nowhere and didn't have any owners in the neighborhood to claim her. Jody more or less adopted her as her own and named her Phoebe. Phoebe the Turtle.
Phoebe was okay, but after awhile I started noticing that Phoebe and I didn't really get along. Whenever I came close to her, rather than retract her scaly little beady-eyed head into her shell, as most turtles are thought to do, she would hiss at me, rattling her teeny turtle tongue in my direction. Hiss? You say. Yes, hiss. Less guttural than a growl, more menacing than a purr. It was a hiss.
Anyway, we eventually let Phoebe go in a creek near our house because in addition to being surprisingly high-maintenance pets, turtles also carry a high probability of passing on salmonella at some point, a risk we weren't willing to take.
Good riddance, I say, though I'm sure Phoebe is stomping around hissing the living daylights out of all sorts of woodland creatures in the Oregon countryside. Nevertheless, turtles can be mean, but that doesn't mean turtles can't also be hilarious:
This little guy will stop at nothing to defend his territory. Seeing him motor about like a tiny gray robot has been the highlight of my day. And it doesn't hurt that Mr. Turtle and I share something in common: A loathsome distaste for felines.
Many of you are familiar with the hilaaaarious website Stuff White People Like. For the uninitiated, the website posts explanations about stuff white people like. Examples include outdoor performance clothes, music piracy, grammar, gentrification, and Michel Gondry. Other examples include Sushi, New Balance shoes, and shorts. The website is hilarious and at times so dead-on you'll feel like the author has been following you around, making note of your behavior.
So what's the beef? Well, I'm not the only one who thinks Stuff White People Like is funny. In fact, as is the trend I've noticed lately, bloggers are parlaying their blogs into book deals. Seems like a good thing, right? You blog for a living, you are a struggling writer or whatever the case, a publisher takes notice, and bam! Stuff White People Like, list price $14.00, Your Price: $11.20 (save: $2.80 20%)! At Borders! At Barnes and Noble the deal is somewhat less lucrative: Online price $12.60 (save 10%), members pay $11.34. In theory it seems like a fantastic idea: lump a group of blog posts together, slap a softcover over it, give it a BIN number, and slap a $14.00 price tag on the inside back cover. But what of the blog itself, the web address I frequented to get my kicks making fun of my kind?
I submit to you the hard and cold facts:
Stuff White People Like posts for the month of February 2008: 32, with a few "White People In The News" posts to boot, bringing the number closer to forty, or, one + per day.
Stuff White People Like posts for the month of June 2008: 3, with numerous posts regarding booksignings, audiobook availability, contest winners, and other random articles. The post total for the month of June is 14, which equates to one post every other day.
I'm happy for Christian Lander's success with the book. I really am. Will I read the book? No. I've read the blog. That's what the blog is for. I've never been one to hop on the blog-as-book bandwagon because I think it dilutes the form--in both directions. The problem, of course, is that the blog itself--the entire reason for the book's existence--has suffered subsequently. I rarely check the website anymore because the posts are so few and far between it hardly seems a good use of my time. Case in point? The post count for July as of today is 4. Four posts. Only one of which is a typical White Person post. The other two are writer appearance schedules and one shoutout for a Stuff White People Like Facebook App.
A Facebook App?
It's true that white people like their blogs, their books, and their Facebook, but when you combine all three?
No thanks, I'll pass. That's one thing this white person doesn't like.
If ever a band spawned more noteworthy expats into the collective music subconscious than Toronto darlings Broken Social Scene, I've yet to find them. In fact, if any name pops into your head, reader, then please, don't withhold. Share and share alike: Who would it be?
Taking the idea of a 'scene' to the next level, BSS is responsible for no less than 20 side projects, solo efforts, and aural experiments. Of them, and most notably, Leslie Feist has arguably reached more popularity as a monosyllabically-named solo chanteuse than she garnered singing BGV's in BSS. Nevertheless, Jason Collett, Do Make Say Think, Metric (and Emily Haines' solo efforts), and Stars among the 20 have all released admirable work apart from the rest of the Scenesters. Last year, BSS co-founder Kevin Drew released his solo album Spirit If... as the first volume of a new kind of collective under the moniker Broken Social Scene Presents. The result was one of the best of 2007, a floundering, woozy romp through the muddy backforests of Drew's psyche.
And now, in 2008, Broken Social Scene presents us with another of its finest: co-founder Brendan Canning's ...Something For Everyone. Canning's influence in the formation of Broken Social Scene's signature sound is as evident here as it was with Kevin Drew's Spirit If..., if not more so. Dirge-like trumpets wail amidst drippy strings and a tangled mass of percussion, the noise of it all punctuated by Canning's smooth-as-milk vocals (slightly less warbled than Drew's, but no less engaging). And there is no shortage of guest vocalists here, as well. At times it's easy to forget that this is Brendan Canning and not the whole gaggle of Toronto kids he's normally surrounded by.
Throbbing beats and revved-up guitars smash into breathy vocals on "Hit The Wall," a song whose melodic hook immediately reminded me of Klaxon's "Golden Skans." Nevertheless, it's one of the album's booty shakers, or at the very least, modest head boppers. Canning immediately transitions to delicate finger-picking and Elliott Smith-like enunciation on "Snowballs and Icicles," one of ...Something For Everyone's more stripped down affairs. "Churches Under the Stairs" revs right back up again, sprinkling tom hits into a mushy soup of guitar squalls and staccato falsetto (this song is the album's resident foot-shaker).
"Love Is New" sashays into vintage porn soundtrack territory with it's funk-infused bassline and bom-chicka-bow-wowww Bee Gees vocals. "All the Best Wooden Toys Come From Germany" delivers 2 minutes and fifty-three seconds of hopeful instrumentation with a scattering of cymbals thrown in for good measure.
For existing fans of Broken Social Scene et al, ...Something For Everyone does exactly what it promises and offers a worthy distraction from BSS's notable absence from the album making process, inasmuch as it doesn't distract at all. Rather, it's a punch-drunk reminder that being called a Scenester isn't an insult if you happen to be one of the countless talented members of Broken Social Scene.
Taro fields near Hanalei, the north side of Kauai
For those of you familiar with Alex's blog over at Mad Rasputin, you'll note his topical features align with the days of the week. Wednesdays at Alex's place are for wagonwheels, the day wherein he gives us all a grand overview of our glorious 50 states. He's been to every one of them...except Alaska and Hawaii. Last week he covered Idaho, sadly skipping over the Aloha State, prompting me to make a proposal: Let me guest blog Hawaii. I've been three times and I have pictures. He seemed to think this was a good idea, so without further ado,
Wagonwheel Wednesdays: Hawaii, Aloha Laurel Edition
The Aloha State truly does have something for everyone. Like shopping, laying on the beach, soaking up the 'vibe' and drinking too many mai tais? Try Honolulu (Hawaii's capital) and neighboring Waikiki, both cities are packed with all of the above. They're also packed with tourists (mostly from Japan), which make elevator rides both interesting and terrifying. How many humans can jam themselves into a bullet moving through the barrel of an elevator shaft? More than you'd guess, actually.
While the island of Oahu is fun (especially the North Shore, where you really can find empty beaches and thundering surf), and historical (I suppose Pearl Harbor counts for something), the sleepy, green isle of Kauai is more my speed. Like lush jungle foliage, miles of pristine white sand beaches, and scenery in spades? Then Kauai will definitely satisfy.
The highest point in Kauai receives more rainfall annually than any other place in the U.S., even more than Oregon. Even more than Seattle. I know. That is, in the words of Dylan, buckets of rain. Because of this, trees grow thick and lush and vines grow over trees, and you'd be hard-pressed to find more beautiful natural scenery than in Kauai. It's a tourist island, to be sure, but the tourists coexist peacefully here, instead of choking strands of man-made beaches (Yeah, the beaches in Waikiki are trucked in. Sad, right?).
There's a surprising amount of things to do in Kauai for an island whose natural habitat seems to gobble up everything in sight. If you like activity, try a jet boat or catamaran tour with Captain Andy's. On those tours (I've done both; one is relaxing, the other is hanging on for dear life. I'll let you guess which one I enjoyed more), you'll see views of the famed Napali coastline (most notably passed off as Costa Rica in the seminal favorite Jurassic Park) amidst schools (gangs? groups? cliques?) of dolphins, and if fishes are your thing, you'll be able to snorkel with the best of them. If land mammals pique your interest, give horseback riding a try.
If leisure is more your speed, then check out Hanalei Bay, a temperate 4-ft-deep turquoise bay where tourists are surprisingly minimal. Hungry? Eat at Bubba's Burgers in the town of Hanalei and wash it down with a Hawaiian shaved ice (my personal favorite is rainbow flavor with macadamia nut ice cream). And by God, do not leave Kauai without trying a puka dog. If natural wonders are something you're into, be sure to check out Waimea Canyon State Park, the Grand Canyon of the South Pacific. Drive all the way to the end of the road for views like this:
Same location, different vantage point, one year apart
I could wax poetic about Kauai all day long, so if you really want all the details you can email me. But in the interest of saving time, I'll move on. Maui rides the fence between the big city of Honolulu and the quaint hillsides of Kauai. There's a bit more people, but also a bit more to do. Be sure to check out the giant banyan tree and take the road to Hana. There's also a vineyard, and the pineapple wine is puh-retty tasty.