I’ve hung on to those pieces, which turned out to be fortuitous as the global interest in watch collecting has driven prices crazy—both up and down over the last 25 years.

I’ve gotten to know some of the biggest dealers to the trade and collectors, and have built friendships that have lasted the test of time. When I was living in Chicago, just out of UCLA, I got to know Howard Frum, the Rolex King. His shop in Chicago’s Wabash Avenue Jewelry Mart was my lunchtime hangout, and the place has maintained its funk vibe as part Cheers—complete with the regulars, and part museum. I’ve spoken to Howard at least 250 times a year for the last 25 years. My greatest finds have come from him and his partner Maurice Tal.

While I’ve remained committed to Rolex steel sport watches from the 50’s through ‘70’s, dabbling in other brands proved financially diseconomic. The exception being Patek Philippe. I like the weirder Pateks from the 1970’s and I regularly wear a Patek 3700 that was one of Howard’s personal pieces until I was able to convince him, it took about a year, to sell it to me.

As a member of the IWJG, I attend several of the organization’s B2B tradeshows a year, and Bobby Maron holds not only some of the best stuff, he makes trends. Last year, Bobby was wearing one of the coolest Pateks I had seen, a 1970 Swiss reaction to the Seiko assault on American wrists. The Patek Beta 21 has the cool vibe of era-specific cars that define the early 1970’s from platinum colored Lincoln Continentals to the long lines of one of my “grail” cars the Citroen DS. Another IWJG dealer found a Patek Beta 21 for me last year. A rare model in white gold, with a detachable white gold band. While often, and thankfully, mistaken for stainless steel, the soft matte finish of the unpolished Patek is perfect.

At last month’s Las Vegas show, there were a few Beta 21’s scattered around the show floor, but Bobby seems to have the market cornered.

Giving my friends visibility into these weird, parallel universes is dicey, but I knew my friend—skater, artist, surfer, design guru Natas Kaupas would appreciate the weirdies at the IWJG show. Natas scored a Patek from the ‘50’s, and he tells me he now has the bug as well. Natas and Howard actually collaborated on a custom dialed Rolex that was a present for 9X World Champion surfer, Kelly Slater.

For me, it’s more about the hunt, the people and the characters, than it is about the “stuff.” Every piece needs the story for it to matter to me. Who I was with, where we were, and what was happening; when the perfect piece was found.

Most college jobs are a fleeting afterthought.  A campus job, ticket taker at a theater, or whatever retail gig that happens to be available.

Luckily, a select group of friends and I had a magical experience in Westwood Village. ’80’s fashion evokes memories of New Wave Village Mews plaids, Flock of Seagulls Hairdos, or Dynasty shoulder pads.  But, it was also the time that Preppy got really big.  At Ease on the corner of Westwood Blvd. and Weyburn was ground zero for West Coast preppy.  With outlets in Orange County and Pasadena, At Ease owner Al Douglass had established his signature take on prep, with a California meets Tokyo twist.  While Pasadena played to the locals and their progeny, who had grown up on Atkinson’s signature red seersucker, Newport was all about SC frat rats in Dacron and cotton Reyn Spooner reverse print popover Hawaiian shirts, Biltwell khakis and Top Sider smoked elk lace ups.  But, it was the proximity to UCLA that made working at At Ease so special.  Selling trad gear to fellow students, studio exec’s, and anybody else we could hit up for the post graduation job, was pretty perfect—being able to clock in, work two hours, clock out, go to class, and clock back in, made it pretty amazing.

The merchandise was prescriptive.  I couldn’t imagine walking into a men’s store today with a pant wall that was 25’x10’ stocked in prefinished chinos in trad colors from khaki to banana yellow.  Price $29.50.  Belts were striped surcingle by Trafalgar and tailored clothing ranged form Southwick to Norman Hilton.  We had the finest sock selection in the world, backed up by Alden shell cordovan plain toe bluchers, saddles and the Alden LHS (Loafer Hand Sewn.) A recent chat with the current Alden rep put sales of the loafers at nearly 600 pair/year out of the Westwood store alone.

The At Ease sale was an annual extravaganza.  With hundreds of intrepid preps spending the night in line in beach chairs.  Think Best Buy on Black Friday, but with well dressed clothes horses looking for a decent markdown on Shetland sweaters and button downs.

Working at At Ease was all about family.  I’m still in touch with many of my co-workers, who became my dearest friends.  Joe Vasco, who rules Gary’s and Co. in Newport Beach today, and LA’s finest tailor, Paul Kaloustian, who operates Wilshire Tailors, is still known for his sublime hand sewn buttonholes and shoulder work on suits from Kiton and Thom Browne to J. Press sack suits.

All of this nostalgia came back incredibly strong in November as Joe Vasco organized the first At Ease reunion in honor of Al and Nancy Douglass.  At Ease first opened in Newport Beach in 1968, and was ultimately sold in 1984.  And while hundreds of employees worked there, it had a magical imprint on most of us. Nearly 100 former At Ease employees turned up for the reunion—all this for a store that has been closed for 26 years.  Joe had a lot of At Ease merchandise with the original tags in place, and he worked with former merchandisers to create time capsule displays of what we now realize was timeless clothing.

Detaching myself from “stuff” has been an attained goal in 2010.  But, I have hung on to several pieces from my At Ease days.  From shoe trees to a pair of the Alden loafers, I’ll never let them go.  Thanks Joe for bringing us all back together last month.

I made a choice years ago that even though a suit and tie weren’t always required, they were always preferred.  As you can probably guess I’m an archivist of traditional clothing items that I’ve owned, and many of my favorite ties have survived my selling days on the floor of trad emporium At Ease in Westwood Village.

At the height of prep hysteria, we preferred traditional Talbott repp stripes, narrow as possible, with a Gittman or Brooks Bros. OCBD’s (oxford cloth button down).  We also discovered and embraced the silk (summer) or wool (winter) knit tie as an alternative to fussier patterns.  While the silk are long gone, several thrift-shopped mohair Rooster knits have survived and are still in the rotation decades later.

As I strive to limit the amount of “stuff” I’m hanging onto in general, I seem to being wearing more and more of a uniform.  Suits, shirts, and shoes in multiple versions of pretty much the same thing—so much so, that only I can seem to divine the subtle differences from one shell cordovan “long wing” wingtip form the next.  Sure, some are dead-stock vintage Florsheim Imperials from the ‘60s, while others are contemporary Thom Browne versions aping the vintage examples.  Suits are either vintage Saville Row, Huntsman, Anderson and Sheppard, Henry Poole, contemporary Thom Browne, or Brooks Brothers sack suits updated by the keen eye of T. Browne’s work under the Black Fleece label.

I’ve written about my shirt source, the one and only Freddy Vandecasteele, who has been refining both a straight collar turn back cuffed version of the my white dress shirt, or what I’ve determined is the perfect button down in either a white broadcloth or pique version.

In the search for the simple tie solution, I’m still partial to two color repp stripes, but am really only wearing solids.  The knit tie choice isn’t as simple as it may seem.  They’ve gotta have some heft to them to tie up right.  Too thick and they’re silly, too thin and they’re ridiculous.   I’d heard that the J. Press silk knit was just about perfect, and the word on the street was right.

The J. Press black silk knit tie may be the only tie you need.  I’ve become a zealot on the subject of this tie, and have been proselytizing its virtues to those curious enough to care, those nutty enough to ask.

The tie has even gone pop culture.  In deep conversation with my new buddy Kanye West, we were discussing the aforementioned tie, and he’s made it not only his uniform, but the standard for his friends.  A couple of weeks ago, I was lucky enough to accompany Kanye and company backstage at Madison Square Garden for the Rihanna show, and then at a private show that Kanye had organized with his hometown partner John Legend.  The show was nothing short of amazing, and even at 3:30 am, Kanye’s Rosewood crew were looking damn great in fitted suits and The Tie –the only one they’re wearing now, and the same goes for me.



As I prepare for the move next door into my renovated beach bungalow (Project 137), I’ve started getting stuff together, going through the necessary items, and chucking, eBaying or Craigslisting the rest.

As part of the meditation, I came across my version of a time capsule: my wallet from my senior year at Aviation High School, 1979.

30+ years later I carry less plastic than I did as a home-based 18 year old, but I defend my vintage plastic with its connection to my spiritual home on Oahu, and an early understanding that establishing credit was a good thing.  Keep I mind, this was the pre-ATM card era.  I’m not sure what the Buffums card was doing there, but I remember the Liberty House card well.  Long since sold and rebranded as Macy’s, Liberty House was a Christmas-in-Honolulu right of passage.  Last-minute holidays gifts or something locally sourced to woo a hotel hottie kept the Liberty House card as my plan B.

While at first blush the Gucci business card feels wannabe status seeker, I remember trying to convince the local Beverly Hills store manager that a UCLA freshman would be the perfect stock boy with designs on the sales floor.  When I couldn’t close that deal, I headed across Wilshire, I proudly peddled Bottega Veneta and Judith Leiber handbags to Beverly Hills doyennes sporting blue- and apricot-tinged hair, just having it “did” upstairs at the salon.

The 1979 prom picture requires a deeper dive and a little more discussion.  While I’m not sure who the dude on far left of the photo is, front and center was my dear friend since Grand View Elementary, Gino Polizzotto.  Gino and I were thrift shopping, garage sale’ing, and trolling Aarrdvark in Hermosa way before it was fashionable.  We were always looking for vintage surf gear, competition jackets, hang-ten boardies, and rayon Aloha shirts (if we still had these Hawaiian shirts, they’d be bringing big bucks from Japanese collectors at Bailey’s in Kaimuki).  Luckily we were all prescient enough to identify black as the only color choice for a $15 tux, although I did own a bitchin’ shawl-collared off-white dinner jacket.  Unfortunately, you can’t see my shoes, which were thrift-shopped English pumps, which required some explaining to other prom goers, but were damn cool.  Gino’s choice of pre-Luxotica Wayfarers also pre-dated Henley’s “Boys of Summer” homage to the de facto Manhattan Beach shades.  Gino made a career of his personal style, first as a Beverly Hills hairdresser, then as an architect/developer.  I do like our unknown buddy’s Cazal–esque goggles, which, while pre-Run DMC, exhibit great élan with the choice of the brown tint.

I wish I could find the pictures with our dates from that night, not sure who Gino took in our white stretch limo, but I was definitely with high school GF, Tammy Heath.

Hot Rod Magazine and it’s sister publications have moved their offices and photo studios to nearby El Segundo, and in showing off their new digs, hosted Von Fink’s car show and pinstripe event right in my backyard. My current cars don’t lend themselves to Kustom, but what a chance to take advantage of having the world’s best artists in my backyard.

After six months of trial and error, I just received a resuscitated vintage Martin Uke that had been abandoned with a crazed finish to prove it. A meticulous friend and luthier, John Kallas, put together the proper mix of lacquer to turn my eBay rescue into the “chosen one”.

Although I had never seen a matte black Uke before, a matte black Martin guitar inspired by Johnny Cash’s favorite displayed at the James Perse store in Malibu inspired me.

Not sure what I would find, I took the Martin and one of my Kamakas to the Von Fink show where Phoenix native Tony Perez, was putting his handwork on a murdered out, matte black motorcycle helmet.

I knew Tony was the man to work on my ukes, and while a bit sheepish to even ask, I did, and the process was incredible, the results amazing. Tony’s a steady handed, cool cat, and with no sketching or planning, he took on the two ukes, gave them completely different looks and, and freaked out most of the onlookers with a fantastic job.

There are a lot of bloggers who’ve done a lot of research on artisans who are doing it the “old way”. American made denim, revivals of old favorites and car/motorcycle builders who are doing it their way, one at a time.

Yesterday’s show was a chance to look at the coolest rat rods, backyard projects, and million dollar “trailer queens”. I used to be the guy who wanted to figure out how to garage just one more car, but in a new found desire to edit, Tony gave me the chance to put a little Kustom Kulture in my trunk, in a couple of uke cases.

For the last five years I’ve been traveling from LA to Palo Alto in my work for the most exciting company in the world.  Hotels in Palo Alto are tough to come by, and expensive during Stanford basketball and football seasons, and in 2005, I was lucky enough to find 225 square foot “mother-in-law” unit in a great mid-century Eichler house in a cool tract of Eichler homes.  While my pad up north lacks a kitchen (I get by with a mini-fridge and microwave), I’ve come to realize that less can really be more, and super livable.  When Manhattan Beach became “disco” in the old New Economy, and charming beach cottages made way for lot to lot McMansions, my disdain for large and overbuilt increased like beach front square footage, and had me thinking about what you really need if you live in a place you really love.

I’m renovating a 1920s beach bungalow with these thoughts in mind—more on that in another post—, but I’ve tried to take the concept of physical domicile downsizing to heart in many ways.  I’m far from austere and my posts on the love of things tells that my soul is one of a collector.  But what separates a collector from a hoarder is curating.  And besides, editing is good for the soul.

I’ve been lucky enough to deal with Japanese uber-collectors of midcentury modern furniture and vintage workwear.  While acquisitive to be sure, their collecting style is a highly edited one, dictated by urban space constraints of home and closet.  Rather than owning four mediocre pairs of vintage denim, or multiple variations of the Eames shell chair, Japanese collectors search for the best examples, and stretch for that one great piece.  It’s hard for a hunter/gatherer like me to say this, but I see the wisdom in their ways, and am taking it to heart.

I’ve always over-indulged—or been sloppy with—my choice of luggage.  I always go for the best stuff (i.e. Filson), but I go large. Too large.  Same with the Dopp kit I lugged around—it was so big, it would only leave my bathroom counter as I headed outta town.  This is unnecessary.  While carry-on luggage is the badge of honor of road warriors, I’ve never lost a piece of super-sized rolling luggage that I’ve always been proud to check.

But last month I took a different tack.  I’ve always been intrigued by aluminum luggage, and went through the Zero Haliburton phase, when Sonny Crockett was chasing Colombians through the streets of Miami with Haliburton cases, chock o’ block with blow, and cash.  The real deal isn’t the American-made stuff, but Germany’s finest—Rimowa.  Created for trips to the tropics, the water- and humidity-proof Rimowa was adopted by Japanese jetsetters who prefer their pieces beat up, true to the Rimowa tagline that “every piece tells a story.”  There’s even vintage, tag-covered piece on display high above the new pieces at Rimowa’s outpost on Kalakaua Avenue in Waikiki.

To do this right, I bought the 22” carry-on Rimowa from Tom Park at Leather Soul Hawaii , and I’m amazed how much I can fit inside.  The luxury of packing multiple pairs of shoes is gone, but editing my travel needs is cool.  My new smaller case called for a smaller Dopp kit as well, in effect downsizing from a desktop to a netbook.  I discovered the GoToob travel containers, and am “rolling my own” , packaging my favorite smell goods and Kiehl’s products.  I picked a tiny Eagle River waterproof bag to put it all in, and instead of using one set of toiletries at home and away, “mini-me” stays in the Rimowa between trips.

While this may not seem like a big deal, and my partners in crime have always “carried on,” this is pretty new to me, and I like it.

It’s a good meditation on how I want to live my life, focusing on the stuff—literal and figurative—that matter and make the important things easier to achieve.

While not as exotic, I channeled my inner-McQueen and felt that the often tweaked 1997 Land Rover Defender 90 that I have owned since new, was now worthy of a trek of it’s own.  Having only driven as far as LA-SF-LA in the Defender, what I was about to embark on could have proven to be uncomfortable, daunting, definitely loud, but necessary.  I’ve had the Defender apart in so many stages of tweak and undress, that I figured—saving some internal combustion disaster, I could figure out anything that could go wrong, or at least get in touch with someone who could.

Recent updates have included the addition of a new 4.6L LR motor, built by Nigel at British Eurotech, the fiendishly complicated installation of a Safety Devices full external roll cage by Rob Phillips, and the already detailed full Dynamat and carpet treatment of 2009.

The plan was to head from LA to Sedona, AZ in day one, explore Sedona, then head to the Grand Canyon, and from there, to Vegas and home.

With two Pelican cases grafted to the Garvin basket on the roof, the trip to Sedona started off easy, without the increased wind noise I was expecting.  Taking Hwy 40, mirroring Route 66 as much as possible, things got heavy after dinner as I left Kingman, AZ.  Light snow got heavy around Williams, AZ and by 11pm, it was nearly full white out conditions, complete with jackknifed big rigs, unplowed interstate, and 40 MPH top speed.  Like many urban Defender owners, I hadn’t ever locked the Diff on the Defender, and with a solid clunk I was moving as the only vehicle for 50+ miles of snowy roadway.  I have newfound respect for the Defender, as we cruised down a very twisty Hwy 89A into Sedona, arriving after 330am.

With the Defender now thoroughly coated in mud, salt and grime, street cred was high as we explored some of the knee high mud bogs on some of Sedona’s famous jeep trails, we tried Soldier Pass.  With “fear of breaking something” the only thing holding me back, I continued to be impressed by the Defender’s nimble footing in pretty hairy conditions.   The dirt parking lot at San Onofre State Beach is as far off road as the Defender had previously been.

From there it was a bit of a backtrack, under clear skies this time, heading to the Grand Canyon from Sedona.  With lots of snow and ice in and around the canyon, hiking was as gnarly as the ride to Sedona, but the clear skies and single digit temps made for beautiful vistas.  After two days at the Canyon, with the Defender unmoved, and the El Tovar Hotel as base camp, it was time to head to Vegas, via the Hoover Dam and the Skywalk—a glass shelf that you can walk on out over the canyon—close to Hoover Dam than the South Rim where we were.

As I loaded the roof back up, and got in to leave, the beast wouldn’t start, and what I guessed was a faulty ignition, with no Land Rover dealer within 250 miles.  With a degree of indignity, I had the Defender towed back to Williams, where I found Alfredo at Sandoval Auto Repair, who within 2 hours, was able to jump fuses and get the Defender back on the road, headed to Vegas.

The tow, and Williams detour meant that the Skywalk was an impossibility on this trip, and while the Defender is quirky and prone to issues, that’s what a road trip is all about.  If I had done this in a modern sedan, I wouldn’t have made it to Sedona, wouldn’t have mud bogged there, met Alfredo, eaten at The Pine Country Restaurant, or had the respect of the 4X4 crowd as I rolled into Vegas.

Family road trips were LA-SF-LA when I was a kid, and in the McQueen book, there’s a shot of SM in Carmel in front of the same little Italian deli where we would always pick up sourdough bread, cheese, salami, and pine nuts to eat in the car on the way up/back.

My trip was as cathartic as I had hoped.

Clear head, great views, and without a radio from Williams back to LA, time to think creatively about the figurative road that lies ahead.

As you can probably tell, it’s the introduction to the things that I love that are as important as the things themselves.  I love the surf mats, because of the memories that the smell brings, or the feel of my father’s shell cordovan wallet.

The late 60’s IH Scouts have the same appeal, not because we had one—we didn’t, but because of my relentless and unsuccessful pursuit to get my dad to buy one.  The same can be said of the 1968 Mustang California Special that I really thought my mom should drive, and the near breakdown I had a couple of years later in a Santa Monica Ford Dealer, where I felt I was making progress to get my dad to spring for a 1972 DeTomaso Pantera as his daily driver… I was so close…

The Scout infatuation was really about the dealer experience.  Bob Hansen in Hawthorne, CA, just east of Manhattan Beach.  Hansen was a big game hunter, and the dealership was full of his trophies.  The most impressive of which was a giant polar bear, up on his rear legs in full attack mode.  There were many diversions by Bob Hansen’s to see his latest conquests, and we always found some reason to get our moms/dads to stop by and the way to/from a Cub Scout meeting/outing.

The IH Scouts were our favorites on the dealer lot.  Simple and functional, they reminded me of a more civilized army jeep, or the Revell half track models that I used to build.  I like that they were modular—some were hard tops, others were soft tops, or pickups.  The most romantic version was the topless Scout with the windshield folded forward—the perfect surf wagon.

One day we were driving down Rosecrans and my dad stopped without any whining from me.  On the marquee out front was a notice about the new Subarus that had just arrived.  The Subaru wagon was available for just over $1,500, and my dad bought one on the spot.  While not particularly cool, the fact that it came from the home of Polar Bears and Scouts is what made them okay.

In the last 35 years I’ve gone through different IH phases, looking for IH Travelalls, and always keeping an eye out for a Scout project.  For the last few years, I’ve been eying a rust-free, desert project.  I’ve penciled out what needs to be done, and even began the conversation with Hot Rod builder and Chip Foose alum, Rob Phillips on what it would take.  I talked to the owner, a proud lover of Scouts, and maybe we’ll figure something out.  What I don’t need is another impractical ride, but I’ve got to get one.

As a kid, I was in love with assembly lines.  Maybe it was the Cub Scout trip to the Rold Gold pretzel factory in El Segundo, the surfboard shaping and glassing bays of my teen years, or the industrial films that were shown on the rare rainy day recesses at Grandview School, but I love seeing how things I love are made.

On New Year’s Eve morning, 84 year old Fred Kamaka, Sr. was  leading the tour of the Kamaka Ukulele factory—holiday or not.

This is truly nirvana for the uke player, scion of the greatest uke maker, leading a tour of 10 through the small Honolulu factory, talking story, introducing us to his Ohana, all while detailing the amazing story of his father who started the business 93 years ago, and his brother who took over the business with Sam in the 1950’s.

You know by now that I’m an enthusiastic, but not outstanding uke player.  What I may lack in ability, I try to make up for in practice and constant proximity to a uke.  On any trip more than a night, I bring a uke with me, and had one with me last week in Park City for the Sundance Film festival.  Everyone loves picking up the Uke and Vice Magazine’s Eddy Moretti—an accomplished guitar player was hooked.  It’s the easy sound, and comfortable size and weight that makes the uke so cool.  A integral part of Polynesian culture, Tahitian ukes are rare, with a totally different sound and vibe.  Eddy’s partner, Shane Smith and his lovely wife, Tamika,  hauled a beautiful Tahitian uke back for me over the holidays.

The visit to Kamaka was made particularly sweet by Fred’s narrative, and old school toughness.  Clearly this guy was not only a taskmaster, but an ass kicker when it came to, and comes to doing things his way, the right way. Fred clearly knows how he wants things done.  The automation of things like cad/cam cutting of uke necks, are a product of the next generation of Kamakas.  And, while Fred seemed skeptical about the change from a one piece to two piece neck, he was clearly happy to no longer be producing vast amounts of what he calls “the world’s most expensive sawdust,” koa is $30 a linear foot.

The trip to Kamaka was akin to taking my girls to the American Girl store on 5^th Avenue in NYC.  Like Camille and Daisy with their dolls in tow, I had my tweed cased 1969 Kamaka Soprano over my shoulder. I was eager to bring the uke back home and for Fred and Co. to hear the sweet tone of a very special uke.  My ukes aren’t the prettiest, but I only keep the ones that have that sweet tone that I love.  Fred liked my uke, but didn’t gush over it the way a proud father hoped he would.  I was able to sneak off the tour and spend some time with Fred’s nephew Chris, who showed me some of the amazing custom work that only the Kamaka family members work on.  I have a couple of uke projects in the works, but nothing like these Kamaka customs.  After some prodding, I was able to get Chris to acknowledge my uke’s special sound.

It was a special hour on the last day of an amazing year.  Fred’s narrative centered me on the need to focus on the love of family, hard work, attention to detail, and old school appreciation of doing things the right way.  Like my father, who would have been Fred’s age; the islands, family, love, focus, respect and empathy are a big part of what makes Sam and Kamaka special.  They operate Kamaka under a simple motto, “If you make instruments and use the family name, don’t make junk.”

I’m a creature of habit in most things I do, from the prescriptive nature of the things I love to where I travel when I have free time. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’ve spent every Christmas holiday — other than the millennium year — in Honolulu.

Honolulu is a second home for me. And there are the things I do and wear in Honolulu that get me through the six months away, until I can’t stand it anymore and have to go back.

I’m lucky to rent the same house on the beach in Kahala, keep a small quiver of boards there, surf the same spots, and hang with the same friends. Though the neighborhood is super gentrified, my holiday house is a ‘60s throwback with a lava rock wall and pond, a spiral staircase, and white shag carpeting. (I also love the kitsch of a neighbor’s palm tree brace fashioned from car jacks. Classic.)

I don’t wear Aloha shirts much, but it’s all I wear when I’m here. My good friend Steve Rabineau has generously gifted his doubles to me, and I’ve added to my small collection with some select purchases from Bailey’s Antiques in Kapahulu. A god among Japanese collectors, David Bailey has the best vintage aloha shirts, he’s used his expertise to remake classic patterns so that four-figure shirts are affordable. Some of Bailey’s museum-quality collection are in Rin Tanaka’s book My Freedamn! Seven: Vintage Beach Fashions (legendary Hawaiian waterman Dale Hope’s definitive work on Aloha shirts is great, too).

As a kid, my family and I always stayed with friends at The Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Over the two-week holiday, we kids grew up there together — from kindergarten through college. I’m still in touch with some of those kids now, including Leigh Reichley, who’s now a coworker. We all surfed, gossiped, nightclubbed, made out, and hung out. The Royal just had an amazing renovation. It’s great to see the Pink Palace restored to its full glory.

Royal Hawaiian Hotel...Mid-70's..check out those custom Quiksilver boardies

Surfing plays a big part of my time in Honolulu, and I’ve been blessed with great surf on this trip and on an earlier trip here in June. June delivered south swell after south swell, truly epic double-overhead surf that looked more like Sunset than Queens. My local buddy Carnet Williams and I have scored Diamond Head and Queens on this trip, with perfect glassy conditions and head high peaks.

Food-wise, the best poke, boiled peanuts, and pickled Maui onions in Hawaii are at Fort Ruger market, just behind Diamond Head.

I’ve honed my Hawaii quiver down to a couple of boards, a mint 40-year-old 10’0 Surfboards Hawaii Model A, and a 6’0” Christiansen Fish. The first stop on the way into town from the airport is to visit Toru Yamaguchi at Surf Garage, where the Model A hangs out between visits. Toru has one of the coolest surf shops in the world, and provides a great board storage service for me and Japanese nationals who are fed up with $175+ one-way fees — dings provided for free — that the airlines offer. Surf Garage brings back memories of riding my super surfer skateboard from Manhattan Beach to E.T. Surfboards in Hermosa Beach. Shop owner Eddie Talbot always made us groms feel welcome and cool, especially after getting vibed by big shots at other shops.

The Kahala downtime is also a chance to work on my uke skills after listening to AM940′s traditional Hawaiian fare, and seeing great local musicians at the Halekulani Hotel.

Surf, family, great friends, perfect sushi, glassy head-high peaks, and playing the uke in a hammock… This is the fuel that gets me through the time between visits back to paradise.

Aloha.