One week down, two to go. I haven't seriously injured myself, I haven't starved myself to death, and most of the apartment is still navigable. It's a little too early to call, I know, but I think I'm going to make it.
![[ Click thumbnail for full-size image. ]](http://www.lightfantastic.org/gallery/albums/200104/29show.thumb.jpg) | |
![[ Click thumbnail for full-size image. ]](http://www.lightfantastic.org/gallery/albums/200104/29mom.thumb.jpg) | |
![[ Click thumbnail for full-size image. ]](http://www.lightfantastic.org/gallery/albums/200104/29show2.thumb.jpg) | |
![[ Click thumbnail for full-size image. ]](http://www.lightfantastic.org/gallery/albums/200104/29breathe.thumb.jpg) | |
![[ Click thumbnail for full-size image. ]](http://www.lightfantastic.org/gallery/albums/200104/29breasts.thumb.jpg) | |
![[ Click thumbnail for full-size image. ]](http://www.lightfantastic.org/gallery/albums/200104/30uhband.thumb.jpg) | |
![[ Click thumbnail for full-size image. ]](http://www.lightfantastic.org/gallery/albums/200104/28computer.thumb.jpg) | |
![[ Click thumbnail for full-size image. ]](http://www.lightfantastic.org/gallery/albums/200104/28pool.thumb.jpg) | |
![[ Click thumbnail for full-size image. ]](http://www.lightfantastic.org/gallery/albums/200104/30shore.thumb.jpg) | |
![[ Click thumbnail for full-size image. ]](http://www.lightfantastic.org/gallery/albums/200104/30shore2.thumb.jpg) |
After locating his humble abode, tucked at the deep end of a narrow Mo`ili`ili lane, we walked over to Magoo's Pizza on University. As we walked he introduced me to the sporty DickMobile parked nearby, and I marveled at how great he looked (goatee and black-rimmed glasses and all).
I do believe it was the first time I'd seen him in person since 1994. Though we kept somewhat in touch, there were gaps of years where nary an ASCII "Eh!" was exchanged. But while there was a lot — I mean, a lot — of life lived on both our parts since then, I was immediately at ease.
We grabbed a table, he grabbed a beer (and got me a cola), and hollering over thumping Eagles and Primus tunes, we caught up on the last six years. Of course we also talked some shop, exchanged epiphanies on love and life, examined the state of personal storytelling on the web (and conspired to try to bring some of the local folks together someday soon), and basically tackled anything and everything.
Of all the good stuff dissected, half ended up deemed "off the record, trade secret, proprietary information," and the other half fell under "put that in your journal and smoke it." Unfortunately, ultimately, I forgot what went where, so everything goes with me to the grave.
Well. This one tale has to be told:
While we were sitting there, chatting and sipping, a guy came over from another table and asked Rich about his Tiki Lounge T-shirt. When Rich asked if it really existed, our new friend started to explain, "There's actually this street here called Kalakaua Avenue..."
Rich, of course, is more a local boy than I am. It was like trying to tell William Holden about this road in California called Sunset Boulevard. We enjoyed a chuckle.
The T-shirt query, though, was just an icebreaker. As it turns out, he came over simply because he had to "get the story" behind the two of us.
He proceeded to paint the picture. There's Rich, with his shorn scalp, his stroke-able goatee, his thick-rimmed glasses replete with patches of tape, his T-shirt and comfy shoes, working on his third beer and "smoking like a chimney." Across the table, me, straight from work, "full-on Reyn Spooner action," dress slacks and shoes, nothing in front of me but half a Pepsi and a glass of water.
"Talk about total opposite ends of the spectrum man," he said. "It's like... an accountant meets the Unabomber."
"Unabomber! That's a first," Rich chortled, practically falling out of his seat. "The Unabomber!" he repeated. (I think that's when the aforementioned "and smoke it" phrase was first uttered.)
"It's official," I moaned over Stairway to Heaven. "Every last drop of cool has been completely distilled out of me. And there wasn't much there to begin with!"
Later in the evening, we were joined by Cory Lum, also a way-back Ka Leo alum, and now a very accomplished shooter over at the Honolulu Advertiser. Although working for competing papers, Rich and Cory were photographers first, and there was lots to talk about, from equipment to favorite shots of the week. I mostly sat and listened in, feeling slight pangs of jealousy in watching two old colleagues who were still deeply passionate about their trade.
Of course the topic of the month was the upcoming Asian Development Bank meeting, what might happen, and how the media would cover it. I restrained a simmering rant about the budding protest movement, and shared simply the sentiment that as exciting as the worst-case scenario might be, it's also less likely than many people think.
Suddenly it was midnight, and we decided to call it a night. I walked Rich back to his place, then drove home and crashed in bed, deaf, exhausted, and smelling like a college bar. A great evening.
Random note: There was an accident just now right outside the building. Another idiot was tearing up the street, but it was raining and he lost control, spun out, and slammed into a parked car. He quickly restarted his dark blue, late-model Ford Mustang and fled the scene, leaving behind bits of plastic, glass, and fortunately, a witness who got his license plate. There were cops on the scene in less than two minutes, and I hope justice will be served.
Having clearly not learned our lesson last year, mom and I decided to spend Sunday afternoon at the Spring New Products Show at the Neal Blaisdell Exhibition Hall.
It was more of the same, a patchwork tradeshow featuring a mix of big companies, local craftsmen, small businesses and scrappy entrepreneurs. They don't even pretend to be a showcase of "new products" anymore, and it's clear every exhibitor there intends to make a buck, making it all the more ridiculous that the public — potential customers (or victims) — has to pay to get in.
Every cellular phone provider was there, as was a number of roofing companies, solar heating system vendors, car dealers and vacuum salesmen. In many cases there were several folks running franchises of the same company — "subluxation" spinal massage, "magic" garden hoses, "miracle" fertilizers.
Fortunately, there were some gems. I ran into Officer Eddie Croom of HPD, curator of the department's museum, who I remembered from a tour I took with the UH Journalism Department. Giggling, I picked up an application to join the force — 2,599 a month as a recruit. There were a few crafters there, and mom was able to nab a nice Chinese charm bracelet. The food vendors had their regular array of free samples out.
And, on one hand there was a booth for Breathe, Honolulu's first trendy "oxygen bar," and on the other, "Wonder Breast," a mix in a bottle that naturally grows your bust by 40 percent or more! (It was one of the busiests booths there.)
Having sampled everything, and having entered every giveaway we could find, we walked out, pleasantly amused. It wasn't Disneyland, but it beats an afternoon of "Walker: Texas Ranger" reruns any day.
Overall, I'd give myself a C in the productive (or at least rewarding) use of reclaimed free time.
This past weekend, I ran a number of errands, both for myself and for mom. We got all sorts of stuff done that we'd been meaning to do for months, from getting my car serviced to getting various household appliances repaired.
Monday night, I joined mom at McKinley High School for the annual UH Symphonic Band Concert (the conductor crossed the picket line and continued practices during the strike), in which Todd's girlfriend Heidi had a brief solo.
And I treated myself to a "movies you missed thanks to parenthood" film festival. So far, "Magnolia" (highly recommended by Wayne), "The Perfect Storm," and "Erin Brockovich" (Jen's allergic to Julia Roberts anyway). I plan to continue with the rest of the "Recent Releases" shelf at Diamond Head Video, as most of the movies in theaters now, sadly, suck. (Except "Memento" — anyone wanna go?)
Jen and Katie are really enjoying their time in Florida, and of course Jen's parents couldn't be happier.
They're going to Virginia to visit Jen's brother, his wife and their son tomorrow. Instead of a twelve-hour drive, they opted for the more reasonable option of air travel (which I unreasonably dislike). They'll get to visit for three days, and I know Katie and Erik will make a connection.
I miss them terribly, though. It's an ache that's sad, and yet affirming at the same time. I feel like I'm surviving, but not living, with a vital part of me missing but not lost. I hate waking up and going to bed alone, and I hate not walking in the door to a shriek, a running leap, a smile and a hug.
It took a while to adapt to being apart from Jen, usually the sole sufferer of my foolishness, and the only source of my daily allowance of warmth and understanding. From the instant they left, I was writing e-mail daily, furiously, but that tended to burn up all the latest news, reducing our phone calls — also daily — to almost token checkups. Suffering from domestic chat withdrawl, I cut back on the writing, and thankfully now our last few conversations have been natural and fun.
And Katie. I can just sense she's growing at light speed without me. When we talk on the phone, I notice every new nuance, every new quirk, how she says "yeah" and "uh-huh," and how it's exactly how Jen talks. There's a longstanding debate over whether Jen and thus Katie have a southern/east-coast accent, and while it may not be noticable in Hawai`i, it definitely surfaces when she's over there. It's cute and disconcerting at the same time.
Katie's a Hawai`i girl. I used to say so just because I hoped it was so, but now I think I know it's so. She belongs in the golden sun, on the beautiful warm beaches, among our diverse people. The moment I got the first pictures of her running around on Daytona Beach — bundled in a jacket and sweat pants and surrounded by grayness — I frowned. It just seemed unnatural. I thought to myself — knowing fully that I was just hearing my naive, inner small-town, rock-bound self — that the rest of the world is just something you visit. There are incredible places and remarkable cultures, but home is home, and there's just nothing like these islands.
Man. What the hell am I saying.
Family trumps all. As long as Jen and Katie are with me, I'd live in Siberia. I'm just babbling, fending off madness, watching footage of a hijacked bus on CNN... don't mind me.
Twelve days, five hours, six minutes.
![[ PGP ]](/pgp.gif){kind=small}