kick the baby!

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12 august 1997

11:41 p.m.

Dear diary, I'm so cool, I gave myself a surprise birthday present. I got a letter in the mail yesterday from my bank, accompanied by a stack of forms and a government-esque brochure, saying if I don't cash in my passbook before the end of the month, they're going to presume the account abandoned and hand it over to the state. Did I have said passbook? No. Do I remember even having said passbook? No. To be honest, I'm still not exactly clear on what passbooks are, or what they're for... I haven't heard the word since 7th grade Home Ec class. The lesson went in one ear and out the other, along with savings bonds and the wonder of baking soda. Still, they said they were holding $251.48 of my money, and I wasn't about to let Ben blow it on a koa wood pencil holder. So, after fumbling through the stapled-and-folded makeshift instruction booklet, I filled out an ugly green certificate that essentially said, "I lost the passbook, give me the money, and if someone tries to cash it in later, I better be sorry." This morning I went down to the bank, handed it to the teller, and -- after revising the "amount" line and initialling it (it was earning daily compounded interest... a whopping three cents) -- got handed a thin but crisp set of bills. I'm at a loss as to how a passbook, apparently purchased in 1992, had my name on it. My best guess is it was a graduation present that I left in the envelope and accidentally threw out (I lost a $500 check from my grandmother that way a couple of years ago). I'm not going to burn too many brain cells trying to figure it out, though. Looks like I'll be getting that Zip drive after all. The older I get, the more I forget. Derek and I hit the Farm Fair on Sunday, and in my senility I forgot a little something called "the survival instinct." We met up with Sean and Mary and a whole slew of mysteriously mirthful government employees -- it has to be the state holiday coming up on Friday -- at sunset... undeniably the best time to show up at a carnival. Sunset. The masses, afraid of the heat, were still an hour away from flooding into the Aloha Stadium parking lot. We found ourselves in an only moderately warm, moderately packed fairground. There wasn't a line for as far as the eye could see. The giddy sense of freedom clouded my senses. "Music Express!" someone screamed. "Music Express!" returned the hearty crew. "Yeah," I said, caught up in the frenzy. The whole group turned, and Derek -- smiling innocently and wrapping his arm around me -- pulled me along. Two steps later, I was climbing a rattling metal ramp. Normally at this point, I'd be thinking, "What the hell am I doing?" But everyone seemed so excited, and Derek seemed so happy, I just laughed dumbly as four tickets were placed lovingly in my hand. I listened to the horrified screams from the people already on the ride. Normally at this point, I'd feign nausea or a headache or an ear infection and graciously return to terra firma. But Derek was saying something about how he was surprised I was getting on, and that it's simple fun and perfectly safe and oh how I'll love it so. I didn't hear exactly what he said, but kissed him on the neck anyway. It seemed the right thing to do at the time. The crowd ahead of us suddenly lurched forward, and while I was trying to keep from mashing my face into someone's butt, a big hairy hand pulled the tickets from my grasp. Derek pulled me up and led me around to a little plastic car, the construction of which reminded me somehow of a flimsy plastic toddler pool I nearly drowned in when I was a kid. "Sorry I'm late," said my senses, suddenly dropping into my skull with a thump. "So, what'd I miss?" All of a sudden I thought I was going to throw up, and the thing wasn't even moving yet. I looked out toward the sunlight, and saw Mary grinning and waving. "Something's wrong here," my senses said, stating the obvious. "Aren't you supposed to be standing over there with her, holding someone's drink?" My senses promptly bailed out, leaving behind a hearty chunk of "fear of death." As Ving Rhames once said, fuck pride. I wasn't going to have family members placing flower arrangements by the Squeezy Lemon Cart (where, undoubtedly, my violently separated head would come to rest). I pathetically begged Derek, who in his cleverness managed to latch the restraining bar without the help of the circling grunt, to please please please let me off... please I don't think I can take it please please? First he didn't think I was serious. Then he was surprised that I was serious. Finally, he determined I was just being silly. I'm going to love it. Promise. Before I could protest, the monster machine started turning. I closed my eyes. I solemnly prepared myself for the afterlife. The music -- insultingly bad hip hop -- started blaring. The ride turned faster. Our car, riding on shopping cart wheels, was being pulled tightly around and over a series of rough, angular ramps. The ride turned faster. With each peak, I was convinced I'd broken my neck. The violent lurching disoriented me so much, I couldn't have thrown up if I wanted to. And the ride turned faster. I finally opened my eyes. It was like being trapped in a Nine Inch Nails video. Flashes of sky, dim curtains, a fat guy in a glass box, a crowd of faces with blank stairs, a fat guy scratching his ass... It was hell, vividly recreated in the heart of `Aiea. If the song they'd been blasting had been that "Puff Daddy" Police rip-off I would've cracked. But, surprisingly, I could take it. I resigned myself to that "plane takeoff" mindset. I told myself, "This is horribly unpleasant, but it'll be over soon. Well, within a few minutes, at least. Just wait it out... and don't let go of that bar." I took a deep breath. I looked over at Derek's grinning face and couldn't help but smile back. Maybe, in a nearby universe, this could be fun. Maybe. Then came The Voice. "You wanna go faster?" fat guy in a glass box boomed. "If you want to go faster, you better scree-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eam!" Wouldn't you know it, everyone locked into that sadistic contraption -- Derek included -- screamed. And in exactly half a second, our speed increased from just over 60MPH to something nearing mach one. I'm dead serious. My flesh was being pulled from my face, the world was a blur in the glow of red shift, and Derek was being crushed under 15,062 pounds of my centrifugal self. I screamed, and didn't hear it 'til we came 'round again. I died. Miraculously, I was revived with an overpriced space-bottle Coke about half an hour later, with absolutely no recollection of what happened in the interim. Though Mary did say something about the big Ferris wheel and how you could see people skating through the windows of Ice Palace, more than a mile away. I managed to avoid getting dragged on to anything else, and Derek -- somewhat concerned over my sudden transformation into a clammy albino woman -- was thankfully very understanding. After walking around and stuffing my face with a four-foot billow of cotton candy, I was having a good time again. I've been watching way too much television lately. I know because a lot of what's on my mind these days revolves around television and its many wondrous offerings. One, I'm really looking forward to "South Park," which debuts tomorrow when I'll be busy being taken out to an expensive dinner. I think Jay mentioned it a while back. It's a cartoon, technically, but it makes "Beavis and Butthead" look like the "Monchichis." For crying out loud, the commercials get a "TV-MA" rating. They should, too, what with the gratuitous vomit, blood and infant abuse. Secondly, I'm thoroughly fascinated with the concept of M2. It's a sister network of MTV on which they show nothing but music videos. They're trying to get T.V. addicts nationwide to harass their cable providers into making it a permanent service. I like it, but not enough to write nasty letters. What kills me, though, is "nothing but videos" is what MTV was for in the first place. Break up that acronym, folks -- remember your roots? I barely stop through when channel surfing, because most of the time I see either fat frat guys and bimbos around a pool hooting needlessly or whiny twenty-somethings wondering if bumps on their gay boyfriend's penis means they're not ready for marriage. One thing I have noticed, though, is that "electronica" -- despite the brisk sales of Prodigy -- doesn't seem to be doing it for the music industry. I don't think it's catching on like corporate bigwigs hoped... and I'm not really surprised. It takes a particular mindset to appreciate eight-minute songs based on a looped four-second sample. I'm disappointed that the sudden rise of electronic music didn't stir up interest in industrial music, which is to me the raw, non-pop predecessor of the latest Chemical Brothers sound. Frontline Assembly, Ministry, Front 242, Einsturzende Neubauten... man. Just listing the names takes me back to high school, when at times I was so creepy I scared myself. Those bands were downright primitive compared to the pasty guy on the cover of the latest Rolling Stone, but frankly better in my opinion. So "electronica" is just a flash in the pan, and goth-geek hybrids can soon return to enjoying their music in peace. What's next? Hair bands. I shit thee not. Just ask Matt Pinfield. Warrant is hot again (now with oh-so-90s Gap haircuts and goatees). Mötley Crüe is back together and touring. My bet is within the month, Poison will be featured on MTV's Buzz Bin. You know, it's inevitable. Humanity will ring in the new millineum with disco. Shoot me now.