absolutely barking stars.

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dateline: oZpad

21 august 1996 5:22 p.m.

Whew. It's been a bizzare few days. Leonardo DiCaprio, ex-boyfriends, useless facts, futile exhibitions of masculinity and a would-be suitor. On Sunday, Derek, Gen, Vance, Jen, Ryan, Nate and Jaimee (I do need "cast" pages, don't I?) slowly trickled to my place over the course of two hours. Derek had to call from the corner, because he'd come all the way down before realizing I'd never told him what my apartment number was. Oops. They were the largest group of people I'd ever had crammed into my place at one time, and it got stuffy quick. In fact, they were my first sit-down visitors in months, and I realized how lousy a host I am. No drinks besides my infamous Waikiki tap water. No place to sit besides my ratty, nabbed-from-a-curb couch. Junk all over the place -- magazines, boxes of books, half-folded laundry. Totally embarassing. I didn't even think to hide all my "icky stuff" in the bathroom until Nate joked about it. It was the first time I met Vance, Gen's cohabitative hunk. Hapa (half-Japanese, half-haole), tall and lanky. Gen called him "birdie," and explained its 'cause Vance looks like an ostrich. She was right. Very un-Genlike -- stoic and quiet. A Mr. Spock to her Tazmanian devil. That thing about opposites at work again. He was a Machead like me, though, spending most of the wait thumbing through my really, really old MacUser magazines. We eventually filed out and spilled noisily onto the street, with the specific goal of playing it by ear. We walked to Lewers Street and decided quickly against Moose's (too crammed with sweaty Marines) and The Jungle (too dead). We decided we were hungry, and walked down to The Scariest Jack in the Box in the World. Open 24 hours, and the definitive late-night hangout for the homeless, drug merchants, twitching addicts and assundry crazies. I've been there when one nut leapt over the counter and everyone in back scrambled for the door. No such excitement this time, 'cept for a drunk couple looking for a bathroom (not a good idea at this restaurant, lemme tell ya). In addition to various nibbles, every single one of us ordered one of them new fangled ice cream shakes. I think the guy behind the counter was going to cry. I had no idea it was so much trouble to make those things. Made right on the spot, three minutes of whizzing and mixing for each sixteen-ounce cup. Still, they were great (and we told him so). Super thick, totally unsuckable. Real bits of Oreo in every spoonful. We kept walking, finally figuring out where Eurasia ("Sports bar and night club!") was. Flashy, noisy, but no thanks. We walked about the full length of Waikiki, and still hadn't found anything interesting to do. ("No way we're going to Hard Rock," said Jen). I wasn't about to wait an hour to pay $12 for a small sandwich, so Planet Hollywood was out too. A video? Nate said he'd just finished "Basketball Diaries" (the book, Carroll's autobiography), and wanted to see the movie. No other suggestions? Fine. We were just down the street from Jen's anyway, so we headed over there. Her apartment was smaller than mine, but less cluttered and she's got a huge television. I went with Derek to rent it at Diamond Head Video (explaining that Blockbuster sucks), Nate managed beverage service. We popped the tape in at about midnight, Coronas all around. Derek and I shared the couch with Gen, who had apparently gotten into a tiff with Vance, who took a chair in the corner. The two other couples spread out on the floor. Good movie. Catholic school boys and heroin -- what else do you need? Like "Trainspotting," it was an unapologetic picture of addiction. While I'm not nuts about Jim Carroll's music, just from this flick I imagine his writing must be pretty good. Jen got first dibs on Nate's book, but I'm next. (A CNN movie reviewer just used the word "boffo." Groovy.) Everyone was tired, no one got drunk, so after trying unsuccessfully to throw together a list of movies with heroin as a common theme, we called it a night. I walked everyone back to their cars, but since I went to help Gen and Vance find theirs (furiously debating 'puter stuff with Vance) I inadvertently let Jen win her counter-bet. Chances that an adolescent American boy has been intentionally hit or kicked in the genitals: 1 in 10 Chances that the perpetrator was a girl: 2 in 5 Source: Harper's Index, September 1996 I'm pretty sure both those stats were a little higher at Washington Intermediate (probably the first middle-school to get a child care center). Yes, I'm a proud survivor. Gods, those were the days. I bumped into not one, not two, but three exes on Monday (and really, what day could have been more appropriate?). I made the mistake of going up to UH to get another schedule of courses. Coming out of the parking structure, I ran into Joel riding through on a bike. Hey-what's-up, take-care, yeah-see-ya. Soft-spoken, tall, one of my favorites. "How weird," I thought, crossing the street. "How totally weird." "Hey, you weirdo." It was Jason. Still cute, but just as obnoxious as always. He disappeared into the bookstore. What was even weirder was that I bumped into them in the order I'd dated them. I'm on good terms with all my exes, sometimes hanging out and sometimes going months between bumping into them. "Two in one day," I thought, "Far out." I nabbed what I needed, then headed into Campus Center for a soft pretzel (cravings are strange creatures). I dropped a bunch of pennies in the mini-mart, apologizing to a veritable team of Japanese tourists who jumped in to pick them up for me. Heading out, I weaved between two guys sitting on the steps. "Not even a crack about my hair?" I almost, almost heard a laugh track. Why, it was Greg! Accepting that it was going to be a Twin Peaks day, I turned around and obliged him. He waved his Icee at his friend, introducing... someone who wasn't Stan. A little older, disconcerting green eyes blinking at me nervously. He abruptly hopped up and excused himself (probably phobic of pretzels). Greg and I went to lunch. Same table, same damn katsu. He pointed out this tall Chinese guy. "No," I said. "Yes," he said. "Oh," I said. He asked what I thought about Matthew McConaughey, Mr. "Sexiest Man Alive." I shrugged. Turning the tables, I threw a long list of actors back at him, taking notes. We agreed (either way) on several: Denzel Washington Cute. Antonio Banderas Nope. Brad Pitt Nope ("A cat," Greg says.) Tom Cruise Cute (Acting ability irrelevant.) Keanu Reeves Nope. Micael Weiss Cute (Load a good that does me.) I felt a little guilty when I said I'd liked the movie "Jeffrey" (I'm a Patrick Stewart fan), and Greg said it annoyed him. Then I realized that self-conscious thought was ridiculous. I live for those moments. When you're petrified over making a faux pas then realize you didn't. That you've got your own opinion, and hey, no one's even trying to dismiss it. Greg said things aren't so hot with Stan. Mr. Green Eyes was why. I'm sorry, my otherwise awesome journal-keeping peers. I just can't stomach "The Real World." Not even in small doses. I cringe just flipping past it. Is there ever not a token model, black person or unemployed baseball-cap-wearing slob on this show? Is it really that hard to find six twenty-something people with jobs? Or serious relationships? Or any personality? Y'know, they should cast this show at the Waikiki Jack in the Box. I'd watch it then. Fade in. Exterior, beach park bathroom, night. Two men loiter under a streetlamp, one feeding a stray cat. A woman lurks in the background. Music: Skinny Puppy, or an Ace of Base track played at half speed, backwards. Itchy: The black helicopters! I seen 'em! Hairy: Aw, shaddup. What, you been snortin' sand again? Itchy: No, man. It's true. The voices said. They come from underground, inside volcanoes, huge caverns where the government has toga parties with aliens. Hairy: I hate the government. Bambi: (Walking up) Hey, either of you wanna date? Itchy: (Not hearing her) Do you ever, like, have, like, whole days that you can't remember? What about the music? Always make me sing to the music. Rubbish! Rubbish! Bambi: (To Hairy) Shit. What's he on? Hairy: Crack. He's on crack. Bambi: Really? Trade you a... date for some. Hairy: Not happening. (Pulls out the rotting french fries Itchy stuffed up his nose) We ain't got no more. The freakin' pigs took it. Itchy: Fnord! Fnord! Geez... five straight minutes of whining over how fake the fashion industry is. Now, Mike the Lazy Guy gets a job (and he'll lose it by the end of the hour). Ugh. They might as well take the "M" out of "MTV," already. (I can die now. I've seen everything. Dennis Rodman in a Victoria's Secret ad.) Today at work, the shift manager lost the key to one of our filing cabinets. Down the elevator shaft -- stylish. We had get into it though. "Call a locksmith?" Nah. We'll crack it open. The cabinet is the run-of-the-mill three-drawered metal kind, with a small oval lock at the top. Maintenance sent someone up with a tool belt. He nonchalantly pounded a screwdriver into the keyhole, then tried to pry the lock out. It wiggled out about an inch, then got stuck. Out came the hammer. In a hushed, quiet hospital. A whack, and everyone cringes. Another. And another. Nothing. "Let me call in," the guy grunts. He whispers over the walkie talkie. Two more guys lumber up, with two more tool belts. The three of them tip the thing on its back and scratch their chins for a while. The hammer again. Only after the entire wing had walked past to see what the commotion was about, the lock came out. They stood the cabinet back up, and tugged at a drawer, one guy grinning at me as if to say, "No sweat!" It didn't open. One of the guys, a husky wannabe-ATF agent, stomps off and comes back with a drill and about five miles of bright-orange extension cord around his neck. Turns out there's a plug right there. He hooks up the extention cord anyway. The other two guys step back in reverence. Drill Man kneels, cracks his knuckles, and lets 'er rip. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. He kept the drill whirring noisily away, obviously intent on letting the thing run until he heard something break or struck oil. A clunk, then a few hundred loud clangs. He'd broken what he wanted to break, but now there was something stuck on the end of the drill. The three guys take turns looking in the hole, scratching their chins some more. Finally they just yank on the drill 'til whatever it was falls off. I get the same "no sweat" smirk again, with a wink as an added bonus. It opened. We give 'em a small smattering of applause, sadly a few of my coworkers apparently sincere in their admiration of their mechanical prowess. We send one of our volunteer high-schoolers off to fetch some drinks for our heroes. At least they kept their pants up. Tim followed me to lunch again, with another nicked flower. Ah, the famous "Hawaiian Plate" at the cafeteria -- chicken long rice, pork lau lau with sour poi (the best kind), salty poke (small chunks o' octopus) and a small lump of namasu, topped off with haupia cake (ick). Tim kept offering me chips. Then he asked me out. I smiled. My pager went off. "Um," I said. "I gotta go." Saved by the yuppie curse. Ironic. (Overheard at 4:31 p.m. -- "So, are we going to lock this anymore?") All right, provided I don't get smart or anything, I'll register for classes tomorrow. And just to be true to my nature, I'll do it via the web.