toys made of corn suck.

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1 august 1997

5:11 p.m.

Dear diary, It's a wonderful feeling, being able to breathe again. When the week started, it felt like I -- along with this entire city -- was under two hundred feet of murky, warm water. The gurgling remains of a storm passing south of the islands were making surfers happy, but the other ninety-nine percent of the population was sticky, miserable, and short tempered. Humidity, poverty and PMS are a dangerous combination. Example One. I had dragged myself down to the McDonalds on Kalakaua to try and find some relief in a chocolate shake. Waiting in line, I was buzzed several times by a hyperactive, screaming snot-nosed brat who apparently picked the Tazmanian Devil as his role model. What's worse, I think he was a German snot-nosed brat. The seething hatred generated by his constant yelling was intensified by the fact that I couldn't understand a word he was saying. As he would take a break every ten seconds to pound relentlessly on the plastic case that housed the McToys of the Week, I can only guess he wanted to eat George of the Jungle. After a particularly fierce Taiko performance, he started spinning, preparing for another strafing run. A second later, he was off, tragically choosing my spot in line as his flight path. Before I could even think about what I was doing, I stuck my foot out to trip him. Fortunately, he wasn't a stupid snot-nosed brat, and successfully evaded my attack. He certainly noticed, though, and soon after attached himself to the hairy legs of his mother. And I wasn't done with my bad mood yet. As I continued to wait, melting in line, I noticed the manager -- a lanky Korean man with thick glasses named Sam -- scurrying around trying to step in and help at every register while managing only to confuse his staff. But what really got to me was his service style. With each new customer, he delivered an obnoxious karate chop-like salute and with a goofy grin boomed, "Aloha!" I saw the performance six times before I got to order. "Aloha!" By the time it was my turn, there was no turning back. "Aloha!" "Whatever, Sam," I said, mustering as much contempt as I could. "Chocolate shake, please." He flinched. "Chocolate shake," he yelled to no one in particular, as he headed off to make it himself. It gave me just enough time to engineer another bitchy remark. When he came back and took my money, I asked him: "Sam, do you know how to speak Hawaiian?" He paused, obviously disturbed at hearing his name spoken with such dripping sarcasm. "No," he said, still smiling. "That's right," I said, and stormed off. Example Two. Derek and I decided to cook on Tuesday, and made the mistake of choosing the Foodland at the top of Kapahulu to do our shopping. The parking lot was practically gridlocked, so Derek ran in while I circled -- all the while trying to resist the urge to run down a senior citizen. Finally I got a space, and headed in to find Derek. He was already waiting in line at a register, though, so I stood waiting for him at the door. I noticed he was visibly perturbed. And a few seconds later I realized why. The person in front of him was accompanied by her daughter, a textbook ShIT. The girl's obvious ShIT qualities weren't the problem, however. It was her choice of toy. See, there are actually two toy crazes sweeping the state this summer. There's the Tamogotchi and its dozen knockoff cousins, which beep sporadically but are otherwise fairly harmless. The other fad, however, drives me to many a homicidal thought. I'm not sure what they're called, but they're simple enough to explain. Metal hoops, about a foot in diameter, with ten or so metal or ceramic washers strung on them. They're no more complex than a yo-yo, and proof that local kids would buy and play with sacks of horse manure if someone declared them cool. You play with them by spinning them. If you rotate the hoop at just the right speed, the washers vibrate and spin and suspend themselves up along one side of the ring (rather than just sliding to the bottom). That's it. That's the fun. The problem is the noise. That pack of vibrating washers make a sound that is, in my opinion, just a shade less grating than a dentist's drill. Imagine someone pulling a metal chain over a metal railing, constantly. Endlessly. You know how some people mindlessly crack their knuckes when they're bored? This is a gazillion times worse. So, there I was. Tired, hungry, and in the midst of a hormone flare. Watching Derek watch this kid spin her damn hoop minute after endless minute. And the noise was getting to everyone there. It came down to either silence or ten to fifteen years with no possibility of parole. I strode up to Derek, saying loud enough for people to hear: "Hey Derek... kill anyone yet?" I looked down at the kid, who was looking up at me. The cashier chuckled. The ring stopped spinning. In retaliation, I got the deadliest kiddie pout I'd ever seen. Part of me felt like I'd just burned Santa Claus in effigy, but at least everyone else around us was smiling. The tradewinds finally returned yesterday, thank god. Now, the annoying youth of Hawai`i can once again rest easy. Very little progress on the "legitimate" job front. Sears called back, but of all things they asked if I had any automotive experience. Tower just plugged all their holes, but since one of those plugs is Jen, I can't hold it against them. While desperation hasn't quite set in yet, Walt did take it upon himself to call and tell me the next semi-monthly civil service exam is on Monday. I'll have to kill him for putting the thought in my head; though the pay is only decent, those fed bennies are mighty tempting. Mom had to help with the rent this month, again throwing me into a brief self-pitying fit. Since I agreed to help her clean out the garage (a.k.a. our on-site storage locker), though, she considers it an even deal. But for someone who's unemployed, I'm pretty damn busy. I finished LawyerGuy's page on Wednesday, but not before I'd been introduced to and quickly hired by his "old friend" (wink wink) LawyerGal, who in turn handed me over to a niece who wants to start a balloon animal company. LawyerGal doesn't want to put up more than an oversized business card, but figured $75 was reasonable anyway. Her niece had considerably more ideas (and an album's worth of party photos she wants scanned), but has a considerably smaller budget. We settled on $35, and I'll just "innovate" and work until I think I've earned it. I've also been promised a balloon sunflower. Obviously, I still haven't come up with any "scalable" rates -- per page or per hour (which LawyerGuy strongly recommended). I just look at what they want and pull a number out of my ass for the whole enchilada. Neither of my latest clients tried to negotiate much. What does that says about my pricing system? I hope it's not too obvious I haven't a clue as to what I'm doing. Turns out independent web designers are a dime a dozen in this town; my mom said her office gets hit up at least twice a month these days. She gave me some of their "brochures," which range anywhere from a badly-photocopied-and-faxed stack of six painfully repetitive "hire me" pages to a tri-fold glossy brochure with a free mouse pad and matching foil-embossed business card. Is it like this everywhere? I figured in most markets, companies went hunting for webmasters, not the other way around. Not that I'm looking for a huge pool of clients. As Derek pointed out on Wednesday -- when I skipped out on seeing "Air Force One" to finish LawyerGuy's site -- it's summertime. If I'm ever going to have any fun, it's now. Besides, I like these "friend of a friend" referral gigs. Less pressure. I got my computer back on Monday. I'm out a few bucks, but on the bright side, I netted an extra power cord. With "Artemis" (its name for the moment, courtesy Sean) safe at home again, I was all set to grab myself one of those cute Zip drives... but now the balloon job has me looking at a scanner. They're considerably cheaper than they were a few years ago when I first dreamed of getting one, especially seeing as how even the bare-bones models do just fine for web work. The worst resolution you can get is 300ppi, and I only really need 72. On the other, other hand, though... a small voice is telling me I really shouldn't be buying anything other than Macaroni and Cheese right now. Practically the only thing left to eat in the house is half a case of "Sapporo Ichiban" ramen. I'll probably have to sell my Tamogotchi carcass for food.