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It's always the little things that get you.
While I was at the SOS rally yesterday, I sat down to chat with Amy Agbayani (and made a complete ass of myself, accidentally addressing her as a member of the Board of Regents), and put my name on a list volunteering various services for the cause.
As I scribbled away, Star-Bulletin photographer George Lee took a couple of pictures and asked for my name and Katie's name. I told him, then chatted with him a bit, about my friends at the paper and the legacy of former Ka Leo photojournalist Cory Lum. All told, we talked for maybe a minute before he was off, scrambling around the room and on the stage getting hundreds of other shots.
I barely remembered the exchange, given everything else that was going on. Besides, I thought, journalists don't run photos of other journalists unless they have to. Professional courtesy, some say, but mostly 'cause it always seems a little incestuous.
Well. I found out this afternoon that I no longer register on the J-o-Meter.
I got the first heads-up straight from the newsroom, webmaster Blaine Fergerstrom shooting me a note that he'd just put up a picture of us on the website. That alone made my day. But it was just the tip of the iceberg.
The adorable 21-month-old Katherine Ozawa, and her everyday citizen dad Ryan Ozawa, made the print edition too. The front page. Center art, four columns wide, in color.
It was a kid shot. Journalists love kid shots. Now that it's my kid, though, I don't know quite what to think.
Well, I'm tripped out, that's for sure. Not even two years old, and Katie's first foray into civic activism is formally documented. Twenty years from now, she'll be doing research in the newspaper archives, and her own name will be indexed.
Too cool.
Of course, the ribbing in the office has already begun, and lord knows what Brislin will have to say tomorrow.
Mom and I went to the Blaisdell Box Office during our lunch break today to pick up her early birthday present to me: Tickets to the Cameron Mackintosh production of 'Miss Saigon,' now playing at the Concert Hall and recently extended through Thanksgiving.
It's going to be a scene. I've exorcised every ounce of high-art snobbery, giving up my long tirades comparing various productions like 'Les Miserables' and 'Phantom of the Opera.' So what if it's based on this and borrows liberally from that. It's a big, dramatic, loud, rousing spectacle. It's fun, flashy, and a great way to spend an evening with my sweetheart.
Thursday night, Row E (orchestra, fifth from the stage), just left of center. Jen and I can't wait.
After I got back, I went to Regal Travel just downstairs to pick up another set of tickets. These will whisk Jen, Katie and I to the Big Island, which is where we've decided we'll quietly greet the new millennium.
(And don't get me started on people who beat everyone over the head with that "2001 is the real new millennium" business.)
Hilo. The slow, spiritual, wet little town where Jen and I met five years ago. No crowds, and considerably less smoke and general mayhem. We'll be there from Dec. 30 to Jan. 2, with a rental car (I'll be 25, after all), a room at the Naniloa, and absolutely no formal agenda. If we just hit Hapuna Beach, Volcano, Kona and Ken's House of Pancakes, I'll be a happy man.