Friday, Jan. 31
Foreshadowing what would be the nastiest office flu outbreak since I've been at the hospital, two PAs called in sick, leaving only me and one other guy on shift (not counting the RN, who's generally useless anyway).
Other Guy proceeds to get sick, losing a Zippy's spaghetti plate in the process. He takes off two hours early, leaving me to close all the reports.
(It later turns out that both PAs who called in sick had mono -- the snickering hasn't subsided to this day.)
Suddenly stricken with insanity, Derek and I went to see the new-and-improved "Star Wars" at Kahala, after both evening shows at the Waikiki Three sold out. We sat in the second-from-the-front row, netting me a neckache that lasted three days.
The geek in me ate up all the new CGI, but the purist in me couldn't entirely accept some of the changes. There was a real charm to the old clunky models and firecracker-esque explosions. I argued assorted points with Derek over a Bubbies' banana split 'til I was ready to pass out.
Sunday, Feb. 2
Derek and I looked at three places, an experience that turned out to be a lot more exhausting than I thought. All three realtors assumed I was in on the apartment too, and one actually tried to sell me on the size of the closet.
Notably, all three places had parking -- making me immediately jealous.
Apartment One was on Wai`alae, within earshot of the freeway. The house was probably 80 years old, and smelled strongly of mothballs. It was also insufferably hot. The rent, $600 a month, wasn't enough incentive.
Apartment Two was on Kapi`olani, also coincidentally within a stone's throw of the freeway. There were several pluses, including its own washer and dryer and a gas stove, but it just didn't look like the safest of neighborhoods. We realized upon departing that it's also across the street from a cemetary.
Apartment Three had promise. It was on University, about three blocks makai (seaward) of the Varsity Theater (and Bubbies'), nestled among dozens of identically innocuous, four-story walk-up apartment buildings. It was actually pretty big for a one-bedroom place, with a seperate kitchen and the nearest thing to a tub we'd seen all day.
Satisfied, Derek filled out an application. (We heard a few days later that someone else got the place, but two more units in the same building are opening up come March).
Monday, Feb. 3
At 12:15 a.m., my Macintosh IIsi died at the ripe old age of five. My neighbors were kept awake by the startup chord sounding every thirty seconds, as I lay down a carpet of muttered curses that'd make Howard Stern cry.
I stayed up attempting to revive it, eventually missing classes for the day. I crashed in frustration at about 10 a.m., only to wake up three hours later to go to work.
There, I was reprimanded for missing entries in the previous day's reports, and muttered "Well, why don't you fire me," almost too loudly. My coworkers whistled in awe.
Walt came down to ask if $80 is too much to pay to have a dozen red roses delivered to the fair Kellie. Refusing to resort to logic diagrams, I failed to convey to him the iffy nature of having something delivered to the home of someone who never officially gave him her address.
Wednesday, Feb. 5
I choked my way through a breakroom conversation that actually included the phrase, "Tucks... you know, it's like Stridex for your ass."
(That's all I've got in my notes. It must've been a bad day.)
Thursday, Feb. 6
I spent my day off on the phone trying to find a good used Mac.
(Well, truth be told, I spent most of the afternoon getting up the nerve to call people in the first place.)
I made exactly four calls, leaving messages for two and catching one at home. She was a graphic designer who frequently had to tell a shrieking parakeet to shut up. I think I've found my new baby.
|
POWERMAC 7100CD, 16MB RAM, 1.1G HD, keyboard, 28.8 modem and 17" monitor. Includes cables and lots of software. $2,200obo.
|
I made arrangements to pick it up Sunday morning, only to freak out moments later. I call Derek, lowering myself to begging to convince him to come with me. In exchange, I had to go with him that night to see "Gridlock'd," starring the late Tupac.
I ruin his sadistic fun by enjoying it.
The music, given the chosen genre, could have been a lot more irritating. Tupac's acting isn't half bad for a dead guy (he actually says the line, "Sometimes I think my luck is running out..."), and I always like Tim Roth.
Saturday, Feb. 8
A very very old friend called me at 7 a.m., catching me in mid-dream but talking like we'd just jogged around the block together. She asks me to take her to Sand Island to pick up her car, which was towed there the night before.
"Wow. Where were you parked?" I asked.
"I didn't park. I hit a truck and got arrested for DUI."
A silence to end all silences followed.
During the drive over, she told the story, starting at Restaurant Row and ending in a prison cell. The ordeal, the details of which made me sick to my stomach, ended with her short one sweater and three hundred dollars in debt to her boyfriend's mom.
She also confessed that apart from her boyfriend, I'm the only "real friend" she ever had. Considering that I hadn't even thought of her for almost exactly four years, I have no idea how to respond.
Her car, which belied a collision far more serious than the one she described, started smoking about a mile out. She putters to a service station, and I spend the rest of the day driving her all over creation getting things sorted out.
During the final errand -- getting a rental car at the airport -- she gave me a card, flowers, and a long hug that left me shaken for hours.
Sunday, Feb. 9
Derek and I spent half an hour in the remote reaches of Manoa Valley trying to find the home of Gwen, the reclusive MacMerchant. We eventually find it at the bottom of an insanely steep, tree-shrouded driveway which reminded me of the entrance to the Bat Cave.
Loading the computer in the car while it was tilted at nearly a 45 degree angle was a mild adventure. We realized that the monitor wasn't going to fit in the trunk only moments before I nearly assasinated it with the lid.
After agreeing to accept a couple of warm Cokes, it only took me ten minutes to turn my tank around and aim it back up toward the street.
We hauled it up to my place -- well, Derek did the hauling -- where he then nearly strangled himself trying to unhook my deceased frooter (derived from Jay's name for the Fairer Platform) and put my new pride and joy in its place.
After some thought, I named it "Gwenhwyfar" in honor of her former owner and a character from "The Mists of Avalon." Derek cringed, preferring "Dogbert." (I'll probably try that next week.)
I played with it for a while, mostly marveling at the CD-ROM drive. I'd never owned one before, but the only thing I had to put in it were some music CDs with computer tracks on them (like the latest from "Barenaked Ladies" and the "Romeo and Juliet" soundtrack).
Fearing that Derek was going to shrivel up from lack of attention, though, I shut it off and we spent the remainder of the day at the beach.
We walked all the way down to The Wall, watching well-crisped bodyboarding kids jump into four-foot surf, then headed back. As the sun descended, evolving through rich shades of orange, we plopped down and said absolutely nothing for half an hour.
Sitting there with hot sand between my toes, I had a brief, blissful sensation of everything being right with the world.
We headed back to my place after dark, but tragically missed the "all-new episode" of The X-Files.
|