Columnists to Royko:
(This column is written in honor of Mike Royko,
Get well, ya mope
who is recovering from a serious illness. Hang in there, Mike.
From your fellow columnists.)Ipulled my truck into a Honolulu Airport loading zone, but before I could turn off the engine, he had already jumped in and slammed the door. "Hit it, kid," he said. "Let's get outta here."
I was a little stunned. After all, it's not every day I get to pick up a celebrity at the airport. And this was Slats Grobnik, Chicago columnist Mike Royko's famous make-believe sidekick.
I was going to get you a lei, I said, as I pulled onto the freeway.
"Forget it. Whataya think I'm running from? Some doll tried to throw some flowers around my neck when I got off the plane. Who wants flowers hanging all over them? It ain't natural."
I thought we'd go by the Aloha Tower first, then take a spin through Waikiki and see Diamond Head, I said.
"No way. Let's find a nice quiet bar. A dark one. I'm gettin' a headache from all this, whataya call it, light.
Sunshine.
"Sunshine? This ain't sunshine. We got sunshine in Chicago, it's kind of yellowish brown. This is somethin' else. This hurts."
So, this is your first trip to Hawaii, Mr. Grobnik?
Yeah, and I wouldn't have come except Mike made me. Bought the ticket and practically shoved me on the plane. Said he needed to rest and recuperate. But I don't get it."
WHAT?
"If he needed R&R, why'd the mope push me on the plane? Say, what's that thing over there, that pole with the green stuff on top?"
It's a coconut tree.
"Get outta here. That's a tree? And what are those bowling ball things?
Those would be the coconuts.
"No way. We got coconuts in Chicago. They're about the size of softballs and hard."
That's just the inside of the coconut, after you take off the husk.
"What good are coconuts anyway? No one eats 'em. Pineapple, either. We've had the same can of pineapple chunks in our cupboard since '58."
Come on, Mr. Grobnik. Hawaii's not that much different from Chicago. Heck, we even had a pro baseball game here last weekend.
"The Cubs were here?"
Not the Cubs, the Padres and the Cardinals.
"The Padres? You mean those mopes from San Francisco?"
San Diego.
"Whatever. Still some tofu-eating California team. That ain't baseball. What's all that blue junk over there?"
Uh, that's water. The Pacific Ocean.
"So that's the Pacific. I was right, it's not such a big deal. Kinda wimpy-looking. I like my water with some substance, like Lake Michigan. Now there's water you can walk on. Even in the summer. Why is everyone sittin' in the dirt naked."
They aren't naked and that's not dirt. It's sand. They are sunbathing.
"Sand is just fancy dirt in my book. Hey, what's going on. We drive through a sprinkler or something?"
No, just a quick rainstorm.
"Rainstorm? The sun's still out, for cryin' out loud."
Yeah. We call it a Hawaiian blessing.
"I call it wimpy. Didn't even flood the gutters. What a joint, this Hawaii. Now, when we get rain in Chicago, it don't let up until houses float away. That's a rainstorm. And in the winter, the rain turns to sleet. And the sleet turns to hail. And the hail turns to snow. That's weather, buddy boy ... Hey, what are ya doing?"
Turning around.
"What? We miss a banana bush or something?"
No. I'm a big fan of Mr. Royko's but I'm taking you back to the airport.
"Why?"
Sorry, Mr. Grobnik. I need some R&R.
