Kill Haole Day

"The worst thing I ever went through never happened," pt. 17

This is how they see us.

When white kids moved to Hawaii in the ‘70s, especially military dependents, they found out some hard truths from the other sheltered, sidewalk-wise “haoles.” The locals despised us, and “You like beef?” was not a food inquiry. When a native shakes you down for quarters it was called “hijacking.” If you said you didn’t have any money, they could invoke “search-take,” meaning he can go through your pockets and keep what he finds. 

Then they told me about “Kill Haole Day.” That’s the last day of school, when locals, an umbrella term for all brown people, beat the hell out of every white kid they see. And the teachers just watch! 

What kind of barbaric banana republic had we been stationed to?! In Idaho, where we’d moved from, it was scandalous if someone  came to school not wearing socks. At Aiea High School, everybody wore flip-flops (pronounced “sleepah”), and some of the guys would be shirtless by the end of the day. Oahu was just a weird place, where an inordinant number of kids kept quarters in their ears! 

Aiea High School junior year 1972.

Locals were masters at intimidating haoles, which didn’t take much, so the thought of Kill Haole Day was terrifying. My sadistic parents ruled against me staying home on the day designed to kill me, so after I got off the bus, I scurried over to Mabel's Crack Seed in the Aiea Shopping Center, where I hid out, reading magazines. That was the day I discovered Creem and National Lampoon, reading both cover to cover, standing up. Mabel started giving me stinkeye after a couple hours so I had to buy something, but crack seed- a sweet and sour preserved fruit snack- tastes to haoles like the big toe of a dirty sock, so I just left. Got a plate lunch at some “gravy all ovah” place, when a group of locals from school came in. Uh-oh, here comes the beatdown. But they just ordered and sat down. “Kill Haole Day” was a big lie! It turned out most of haole orientation was bullshit. The Island scarecrow was a Samoan in knitted Primo bucket hat.

I’d come back to Mabel’s every month to buy the new issues of Creem and National Lampoon, and I’d tell myself I was going to be the next Lester Bangs or Tony Hendra. That didn’t happen, but I did end up writing for both those magazines that poured my foundation. Neither were in their prime at the time, but how many other writers have been published by both? 

The Lampoon didn’t accept unsolicited manuscripts, but my “in” was Stephen Bruton, the late guitarist/producer who used to be in a bluegrass band with Michael Simmons, an editor whose father owned the Lampoon. Bruton sent Simmons a couple of my columns and he got ahold of me through the Austin Chronicle. I was numb with pride the rest of the day.

WAYS TO MAKE THE OLYMPICS MORE EXCITING

Second page of my first Lampoon article, made to look like a suggestion letter.

My first piece in the Lampoon was a redo of an old Honolulu Babylon article I wrote with Rollo, suggesting ways for the Olympics to be more exciting. It was pretty puerile, but I did have a dig at James Michener. My biggest article for the magazine, a four-page spread, was a fake ad for “Gimpels,” a department store for the handicapped, which sold a one-holed ski mask for the blind, and the Ampu-tees apparel line, which had a t-shirt that said “Shit Happened.” It was just one tasteless product after the other, but Simmons and Ratso Sloman, the editor in chief, liked it. Six hundred 1986 dollars, baby, four month’s rent!

But the folks upstairs ended up nixing the Gimpel’s ad, as even too offensive for the Lampoon. I got a kill fee of $150, but made a plea for the full amount, since it was originally accepted. But that wasn’t going anywhere so I offered a compromise: just put me on the masthead. When I saw my name in bold, boxed in with so many of my heroes, it was better than $450! Still my proudest achievement as a writer.

Second line of contributing editors

Here’s another thing I had in the Lampoon. It ran a lot longer, but it’s amazing how many things you thought were funny 40 years ago, aren’t.

If You Want to Be Happy for the Rest of Your Life, Never Marry Someone Who…

…calls Springsteen “the Boss.”
…laughs out loud at Andy Rooney.
…requests “Stormy Monday” to a band that has three guitar players.
…tells you the kind of things in hot dogs while you’re eating one.
…borrows money for pet surgery.
…owns a Doonesbury book.
…pronounces “croissant” the French way.
…overuses a Saturday Night Live catchphrase (ex. “Isn’t that special?”)
…claims to be a good chess player, then calls the knight a “horsey.”
…doesn’t understand that missing the game is not an option. (Her: “It’s always the fucking playoffs!”)
…drags you to see any comedian with a big gay or ethnic following.
…will go see any movie Diane Keaton is in.
…screws your best friend.

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