Those lines from Rudyard Kipling's "IF" are running through my head even though no one is particularly blaming me for anything, and I have no specific fondness for that poem. (For those of you unfamiliar with it, it consists of a list of arduous situations, with the revelation at the end that if you can manage all those things, you'll "be a Man, my son!" Yeah, blow it out your hair-do, Kipling, you old imperialist know-it-all. I don't want to be a Man.)

The Keelhauler is working on our boat's transmission, a mystical (to me) process that he keeps trying to demystify, in between tossing corroded pieces of iron out through the hatches. He is mostly Keeping His Head while those around (me) blame it on him. This is what makes him the Man and me the One Who Buys Shoes and Perfume.

Today, though the sky is sunny and clear, feels obscurely ominous. I think I can trace this feeling to the events of Friday night--an evening at the Polynesian Dance Revue, every bit as spectacular as you might imagine--that culminated with the Keelhauler losing his wallet. It's not my wallet, but I feel unsettled. It's out there somewhere. Who has it? Why won't they send it back? Do you know? Will you tell me?

The Polynesian Dance Revue, on the other hand, was outright in its ominousness. You should all go to it. It takes place every Friday and Saturday night at 9:00 p.m., at the Hong Kong Inn in Ventura. Eat before you go, and sit in the bar, where you can, as we did, order gigantic bowls of flaming booze served with long straws that encourage dueling. Things get a little crazy at the Polynesian Dance Revue, or PDR, as we call it.

During the day, the Hong Kong Inn is a normal Chinese restaurant, but on Friday and Saturday nights, the accordion-pleated fake-wood room divider rolls back to reveal a full band led by a throaty-voiced woman with flowers in her hair, and a host of dancers in faux-coconut bras and feathery skirts. I am no judge of Polynesian dancing, but I enjoy the show and the spectacle of the smiling girls in their giant headdresses and bright skirts that represent the latest in challenging wearability. I do not know that I could manage the rapid shimmy these girls achieve while wearing a faux-conut bra and a belt of abalone shells, never mind a headdress of three-foot-long peacock feathers. But mine is not to dance onstage, mine is to sit in the darkness of the lounge, yelling loudly and clapping and inhaling giant bowls of flaming booze. (See illustration)

ILLUSTRATION

The Keelhauler and I hadn’t been to the PDR in several years—not since The Incident--but my brother’s in town, and we thought we’d give it another shot. My brother is a reasonably urban and adventurous sort, and seemed to be fine with the flaming booze the Keelhauler and I ordered, but halfway through the show, he texted me from across the table, This is awesome, but surreal in an almost David Lynch kind way! I looked around and realized that he was right, and that I appeared to fit right in.

I did not get up onstage this time, having learned my lesson on my last visit. When the nice dancer girl came around to invite people to join them onstage, the Keelhauler demurred. The dancer turned away with a polite smile, accustomed to rejection from patrons who are totally 100% unreasonable in their refusal to dance onstage in front of strangers, accompanied by a hula band, Keelhauler. All my yelling and coercion and sweetness would not budge him from his seat. It’s just another of life’s unfair and bitter disappointments that I enumerate when I lie in the dark at night, out of reach of sleep or Phenobarbital.

So, perhaps it is becoming clear how the Keelhauler’s wallet disappeared, what with all the yelling and the dancing and long straws and fruit garnishes. Still, if you see it, can you please let me know? It’s made of cloth from the mainsail of the Oracle-sponsored America’s Cup boat, and it’s striped gold and black. He would really like it back.

I know everything will be fine once my new perfume arrives. I ordered it from the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab, which is normally a little more goth than I'm used to, but I was sucked in by the description of roses and green grass. It's called Two, Five & Seven, from their Mad Tea Party collection. It seemed appropriate.

In other news, I have started writing about my little neighborhood of 93001. Stop by and check it out!