--A Show Remembered--

There we were, Fluid Floyd and I, sweating on all pores in the sauna-like humidity of the steamy South Pacific island satrapy known as Pookapooka. A hot jungle rain was pouring down dense as Victoria Falls; our plans for a town excursion were literally washed out. The only remedy was to slither our way over to the hut of our old pal Kid Cannibal, raconteur and bandmeister of the up-and-coming combo Kid Cannibal and the Crania. There, between sips on a fourth Mushroom Mai Tai, our desultory conversation had dissolved into a rambling mull concerning the political correctness of bringing back to the Civilized World one of the Kid's notorious monkey-skull marimbas, when -- but hold on, dear reader, let's back up a bit, shall we? All the way back, that is, to our mellow Honolulu homebase, and to a few full moons before in time's unwavering Vector.

There was no denying it. Both Fluid Floyd and I suspected things had reached a breaking point. Itchi "Skeibei" Mizuwari, our most zealous, dedicated and vociferous fan, had given it utterance. Last time we bumped into him, he had pulled us aside and confessed that he was "getting kinda tired" of our perennial show opener, the Bobbing Candle Dance -- you know, the one that brings Don Tiki's sultry, swivelly Restless Native Dancers into a stimulating near-brushby Close Encounter with fortunately-seated cabaret clients? Tired of it! Can you believe it? The selfsame dance that nearly incited a Confirmed-Bachelor Riot the last time it was performed! Well, in actuality, I suspected that old Skeibei was simply suffering the consequences of being too "chang" to buy any ticket other than the Onlooker/Lurker Peanut Gallery section of the cabaret -- but no matter. What if, heaven forfend, Skeibei was right? Was the Don moldering into staleness? Was our show now, gulp, "classic"? How, oh how, to inject just the right modicum of freshness into our winning formula? ... Think, o men of tiki, think.

Dangerously our maudlin misgivings spiraled, Fluid and I nearly allowing our spirits to be enmeshed by that old nemesis, American-style Anxiety. Once again, it lay poised to invade our carefully tended Fortress of Blissful Tropical Torpitude. We looked each other straight in the eye: were we naively adrift in a terrible Sea of Smugness, and if so, should we be madly scrambling about, trying to find a keel to set our little tiki-raft arights? Nah nah nah -- let all-knowing and compassionate Nature take her own course. Relax. Think of the happy mynah birds, singing and yakking their Earthly days away in the village banyan tree. Etc., etc.

Now, kiddies, it's commonly known that emptying one's self of Poisonous Irrelevance, and allowing it to flow of its own volition out of one's life-circumstance, engenders a mental state of limpid receptivity to positive vibrations and incipient inspiration. And so it came to pass, after enjoying a prolonged and relaxing micturation session, I found that Nature had indeed planted her seedling of thought into my emptied personhood. I remarked to Fluid: remember that high-spirited University of Hanoi Precision Marching Band halftime show we witnessed the last time we visited our pal Kid Cannibal? What about that intriguing Bamboo Glockenspiel being so expertly wielded on the football pitch? It had caught our attention even more than the quick sidestepping their football team displayed as they made short work of the host Pookapooka Agricultural Research Institute Slashburners. Maybe the Kid could give us a lead on how to get our hands on one of those wondrous instruments. Its massive trianglitudinous presence would surely cause a buzz of approval among our loyal fans as part of a new opening number. And hey, wasn't U of H returning to Pookapooka for a rematch this very week? Quickly, we gassed up the Donjet and zoomed South for a fateful Rendezvous With Fate.

Of course, ironically, fate was waiting for its rendezvous with us, not in Pookapooka, but in that mysterious gateway to the Ancient and Forbidden Kingdoms -- [cue Dragnet music] -- 'Nam.