By David Shapiro

Saturday, June 6, 1997

A funny thing happened
on the way home

I was driving home from work over the Pali this week, approaching Castle Junction, when an amazing thing happened.

There were two Generation X beach bunnies in swimsuits riding in the back of the pickup truck ahead of me. Nothing to get too excited about. Just your basic "another-crummy-day-in-paradise" kind of beauties.

Until one of them stood up. She rose slowly as the truck reduced speed in traffic and turned around to bend over the cab seeking the driver's attention.

The highway suddenly erupted in masculine sounds -- whooping, hollering, whistling, honking of horns. Brakes screeched. Cars swerved.

The young lady was wearing a very skimpy string bikini. Now that I think about it, I can't really say for a fact that it even had a string. For all practical purposes, she was baring her

sweet okole to traffic halfway up to the Pali Tunnel.

The uproar was incredible. There must have been 40 men hollering a surprising number of variations of "woo, woo woo." Cars going in our direction came dangerously close to bumping and grinding as drivers jockeyed for a better view. Cars going in the opposite direction skidded all over the road trying to slow down for a look.

The woman, as women often are, was oblivious to the commotion she was causing. She kept tapping on the window trying to tell the driver something. Finally she noticed what was going on and a look of disgust came over her face as though she just realized that everything she had been told about men being disgusting pigs was true.

We saw the look and virtually cried out from our cars. "Give us a break! We're not the ones standing on an elevated platform in the middle of the Pali Highway entertaining the evening rush hour with a panoramic view of our butts."

She made no move to cover herself. She defiantly cocked her hip and jutted her rear end even further into traffic. She was still standing there like that when the driver turned off on a side street.

Women have no idea what a big event this is for men. It's especially gratifying for those of us who don't go to the strip bars to look at surgically enhanced womanhood. To have the real thing so serendipitously drop into our laps, so to speak, is as close as some of us will get to religion. It makes us feel special, among the chosen. It reassures us that we're on our Creator's good side. It helps us see that there is real meaning to our time on this Earth.

I guarantee that the men who were on the Pali that day will be telling the story for the rest of their lives. And it's really not that bad a deal for the young lady in the truck if she thinks about it.

Like many of the rest of us, in real life her okole likely will be growing to lard-ass proportions as she matures. But in the memories of the men who saw her that day it will only get firmer, better tanned and more perfectly shaped every time they tell the story.

I don't know why men have a need to look at women's behinds any more than I understand why women have a need to draw attention to them. It's just our nature, I guess.

A couple of mornings later, I was stuck in traffic going the other way on the Pali behind a woman whose bumper sticker said: "I love my bad ass attitude."

Of all the words in that sentence, which do you think my mind dwelled on all the way down the hill? And what do you suppose I subconsciously tried to get a glimpse of when she pulled over and got out of the car?

It wasn't her attitude.

David Shapiro is managing editor of the Star-Bulletin.
He can be reached by e-mail at
Volcanic Ash runs every Saturday in the Star-Bulletin.

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