namushakamunibutsu.

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dateline: a parking lot in waipahu

3 august 1996 11:43 p.m.

I completely forgot it was Obon season! Got a message on my machine last night (after a most wonderful feast... see below). It was mom reminding me that the Waipahu temple we used to go to a few million years ago was having its Obon service and dance this weekend. Not that there's a Buddhist bone left in my body, but I love bon dances. (You know, like that big party in "Karate Kid II," except no one really comes swinging down on a wire to beat the stuffing out of Ralph Macchio.) I desperately wanted to be depressed a little longer, but couldn't really. Not with the promise of malasadas, shave ice, faux kimonos and really grating, obnoxious Japanese folk music. I went (getting briefly lost, and almost parking in a cemetary by accident), did the whole incense-and-bowing thing, and hammed it up with my cousins -- almost grown up now, and a lot taller -- until the very last flute squeak. I was surprised I remembered almost three of the dances. I had terribly greasy fried noodles, spilled juice on myself, and got a mild headache from the high-pitched caterwauling we always dance to (I suspect they've used the same tape since 1972). I loved every minute. Then for no reason, mom gave me twenty bucks. Parents are cool. I feel a little guilty for not really knowing too much about the meaning of Obon, or for that matter about anything that qualifies as my "roots." I took Jen last year, and she kept asking all these questions about the tower and calligraphy and symbolism... I didn't know any of the answers. All I could say was, "Well, it's all about ancestors, you see..." Thing is, the hardcore Japanese stuff comes from my dad's side, and anything even remotely connected to him makes me a little uneasy. I had a passing nightmarish thought, of him somehow watching me in my gown, dancing under the paper lanterns with his relatives, and feeling proud of me. I could almost see him looking down from the street, with a smug look on his face. He'd be thinking, "I taught her well," when in reality I often find myself trying to define my life as the antithesis of his. Feh. They had the Hawaii Matsuuri Taiko Drum School perform this year, and they were just breathtaking. Relentless, thundering, frantic... you can feel every beat in your chest. I don't know how they can keep from accidentally cracking eachother's skulls with all the sweeping and spinning. One guy's headband flew off, and a little kid almost got stomped on running up to grab it. They even had the "keiki drummers" do a piece... couldn't make quite as much noise as the elder students, but boy did they try. Too cute. Turns out one of my cousins just graduated. I distinctly remember joking with her that she'd be getting into college just as I got out. Thankfully, she didn't remember my teasing... or if she did, she was good enough to chuckle to herself. So here I sit, fan on high, my red-and-white striped bon dance towel draped over my doorknob, with a half-eaten manapua sitting on a loaned monitor (friends who work at computer stores are also cool). Life could be worse. As for last night, I realize now that I should get fired more often. I was treated last night to an awesome Italian feast -- linguini with real clam sauce -- at Philip Paolo's (on Beretania, kinda out of the way, and highly reccomended). Nothing gets me out of a blue funk like bad-for-me food. Still, the smiles Derek kept nagging for (and eventually got) probably cost me ten pounds. We made too much noise, making jokes about Keanu Reeves and his new movie (where, absurdly enough, he plays a scientist). I was nervous at first, but the ranting about budget cuts and the idiots in charge was very soothing. It was weird, and embarrasing, because sometimes I caught myself looking at his face and simply trying to calculate exactly what I thought about him. Or what he maybe thought about me. It was like trying to nail down the base of a rainbow. Our next movie outing will probably be "Emma." He's gonna see "Joe's Apartment" this week, but I refuse to sit through that one. Flicking on the lights here first thing in the morning is about as elaborate as I want roach choreography to get.