ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

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9 june 1997

12:26 a.m.

Dear diary, Barely a week goes by without my thanking the fates I didn't go to a private school. One of Derek's cousins graduated yesterday from Punahou, and I went with him to the ceremony at the Blaisdell. I was then subjected to the most painfully pretentious two hours I've ever experienced in my twenty-two years. For the record, I have never meet a well-adjusted Punahou grad in my life. While the same pretty much goes for any other private academy in this state, in my experience, Punahou kids have an unbroken record for being creepy, maladjusted or downright dangerous. The sheer metered civility and affected sincerity of their commencement exercises only further proved my harsh judgments. A part of me now admits, though, that the students aren't entirely at fault for their condition. In any list of credit or thanks, the almighty great lord god was always first. And while they were politically correct enough to use lots of Hawaiian, they weren't sincere enough to even try to pronounce any of it correctly ("We're the most decorated class in the state of Hah-why!"). Every speech -- whether solemn, humorous or inspirational in intent -- was delivered with the same formula of pomp and melodrama. Every song sung -- with such moist sappy titles as "Side by Side" and "No Tears of Regret" -- was written and composed by students. Every metaphor was more Hallmark-esque than the last. Even the final hurrah -- in which students "break out" by screaming and hurling confetti, balloons and beach balls -- was carefully timed and engineered. I'm not saying public school commencement ceremonies don't have corny songs or speeches. But we never worked so hard at believing half the things we said. We never actually took phrases like "forever" and "legacy" and "taking flight" seriously. All I was thinking at my graduation was, "Is this stupid hat going to blow off?" (And when we "break out," we really "break out." I'm surprised none of my classmates were injured. My friend's graduation that same year ended in a full-blown, chair-throwing riot.) No doubt 90 percent of the graduates I saw last night will end up at expensive colleges on the mainland. Forty percent will end up lawyers, another 40 percent as doctors, and the remainder will filter into any field with a median income of $60,000 or more. Ultimately they'll marry each other and send their own kids to Punahou. Will they be happy? Who cares, as long as they're successful? As long as they die having had their name on a ballot, building or scholarship... After the ceremony came the trial universal to all Hawai`i graduations, public or private: giving leis to the graduates. Everyone was herded into the exhibition hall to find their respective honorees, who were in turn missing because they were busy trying to find and give leis to each other. Fortunately, Derek found his beaming cousin and her extended family quickly. I say fortunately, because the chances of finding the graduate you want to lei get slimmer and slimmer with each passing minute. With every lei, less and less of any given graduate's face is visible. Within half an hour, nearly every graduate's head is buried completely under rings of flowers, tea leaves, candy and condoms. By then, you can't tell any of them apart. Everyone took pictures of everyone else, I got a couple of totally random hugs, and the crowd started to thin. Eventually, the Flower-Headed People started gathering each other and heading out the door. "What's up?" I asked. "Group picture? One last prayer?" "Project Graduation," a happy mother chimed. Other parents and relatives smiled satisfied smiles. I rolled my eyes. Project Graduation. Post-commencement drug- and alcohol-free parties funded (and moderated) by the respective schools. I'd see news stories on it every year at around this time, but I never thought anyone actually participated. I figured it was another expensive, slickly-packaged state project that gives the impression of being socially responsible while being ultimately ineffective (a la DARE). I guess not. They got Punahou, at least. Without exception, every single shiny happy graduate was being loaded on a bus to be hauled as far away from trouble as possible. No alcohol, no drugs... nothing but good, clean fun (moderated, of course, by teachers, school administrators, parents...). Pathetic. True, when I graduated, there was some sort of keep-kids-in-line event. If I recall correctly, it involved a catamaran, lots of hip-hop music, and presumably three hundred gallons of watered-down punch. I envisioned sea-sickness, deafness and endless getting-to-know-you games. I didn't go. Neither did most of the kids I associated with at the time. We ended up on Kailua Beach, like most recently-graduated ruffians of our time, giving our lungs and livers one of the roughest nights they'd ever have. That is to say, although the Responsible Graduation Movement was around, most of the people I respected followed the proud, time-honored tradition of raising hell. It was a final final exam of sorts... only those that survived truly learned how to live during (and despite) the preceding twelve years of institutionalized education. I just got word that the "Chemical Brothers" are coming to town. Even though they're part of The Next Big Thing as far as MTV and corporate rock mavens are concerned, I still want to go. Trendy or not today, I've loved any form of electronic music -- from Ray Lynch to Ministry -- since "Axel F" was cutting-edge. I will admit, part of me wants to go just to fluster Sean, who insists any music that doesn't involve "real instruments" (I guess Korg synths, MIDI or what have you don't count) isn't really music. "All you have to do is push a button, make the same sound over and over again," he says. "There's no art to it." Certainly any type of music has its good artists and its bad artists, and I'd say there's probably more "bad" techno out there than "good." But I think he just hasn't given it much of a chance. I've offered to lend him my highly prized "Hackers" soundtrack, but so far he balks at the suggestion. He considers the growing popularity of electronic music to be the ultimate end of "real" music. "Imagine where human culture would be if Beethoven had a computer instead of a piano," he cries. Frankly, the thought excites me.