Yesterday evening at a Polynesian bar a few blocks off Las Vegas Boulevard, I hoisted a tiki mug (or two) with a dear old friend. A couple of hours in, I excused myself to the ladies room and as I was fussing over my lipstick in the mirror, a woman lurched in and beelined for a stall behind me. Signs pointed to her...not being well.
Can't say she hadn't been warned. Each drink's potency level is demarcated on the menu; two cartoon skulls means a gentle buzz and five - hold onto your kula shaker. My grand total for the evening was a five, and judging from the distress I overheard - and the bucket I noted the bartender toting over to the dark dais where her party had been whooping it up - she netted out at a 10+.
One red-eye flight and a bumpy cab ride back to Brooklyn, I'm fresh as a daisy. I cannot imagine this day is being similarly kind to to our wounded Wahine.
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