you can't fool me, that's no duck.

< back | up | next >

dateline: oZwhacked

24 november 1996 1:07 a.m.

I've got a headache this big, and it's got "low hanging metal thing" written all over it. I'm a sight right now, let me tell you. Sitting here, a rolled-towel of ice strapped around my head with a rubber band, trying to type without getting shocked with all the melting water all over the place. Still, I'm feeling great. A brush with a minor concussion is worth a great day in the sun and, yes, another movie. Derek and I spent the entire day on the beach. We walked up and down Waikiki, looking at all the tourists totally thrilled to be here, remarking as we always do about how ironic it is that we live in a place we couldn't afford to visit. We catered lunch through one of the several million ABC stores -- two musubi, a bag of popcorn and a liter of Coke each. I think I ate as much sand as I did powdered salmon, but it was still a great picnic. We eventually parked ourselves in front of the surfboard racks by the police station. We sat and watched people fall off things, punctuated with the occasional tickle attack (a distressing new hobby Derek has recently developed). We swam a little, but I much preferred lying on the beach getting a very capably administered massage... The way the weather was today, you'd never know we were soaked to the bone a week ago. I couldn't get over it. The only sign of the storm was the suddenly healthy green vegetation on Diamond Head. We figured we'd walk a little, and we headed up Kalakaua. We passed the Bird Man, looked over a blanket of bead necklaces, and marveled at a new store that sold nothing but refrigerator magnets. I love this town. Then, we walked passed the Waikiki Three. Suddenly it was like Derek was a yuppie passing a sale at the Gap. The new Star Trek movie opened there yesterday. Though he was sarcastic about it when I'd first mentioned it, the minute we passed the box office and its big poster, his Inner Trekkie welled up from deep within his soul. One showing had just started, and the next one was sold out. By then, though, there was no stopping him (or me, to be honest). We jumped into line, hypothesizing which of those around us -- tourists and locals alike -- actually owned a pair of Vulcan ears. There were many likely candidates. "This is cool, we can just hang out at my place 'til it's time," I said. He bought two tickets to the last show of the night. Fast forward four hours... Our show was sold out too. Everyone was packed right up against the door for nearly an hour. Derek and I huddled under a bush, eavesdropping on more than one argument about Star Trek physics, remarking how the prostitutes seemed to be deliberately avoiding the people in that particular line. I invested a day's pay on drinks and "The Movie Mix" (a.k.a. popcorn and kaki mochi) while Derek went to save seats in what turned out to be the heart of the theatre's highest concentration of hardcore geeks. There was not one, but two of the same Star Trek shirt in the row in front of us. Apart from clapping (!) at the end, though, the section was well behaved. I thought the movie was pretty good, and Derek liked it too. Though the "time travel" thing has been done to death, it could've been worse. We adopted another conversation we heard on the way out, ranking the eight Star Trek movies in order of coolness. Me: II, VI, IV, First Contact, III, Generations, I and V. He: II, IV, III, VI, I, First Contact, Generations and V. Unlike me, he's obviously a fan of the old series (oh, sorry, I meant classic -- heh heh), though I only really know the films. But we're definitely agreed on the absolute suckiness of the fifth one. That's when Shatner proved himself to be worse at directing than he is at acting (or writing, for that matter) -- and that's saying a lot. We trudged out of the theater, bumped along like cattle, into the long closed International Marketplace. That's when I got the brilliant idea to weave through the city of carts and kiosks where, during the day, a million and one gaudy gold and wax things are sold. It was in the process of taking this shortcut that I cracked my skull on a rod sticking out of nowhere. It was more embarassing than painful. Though I'm not sure if the soothing ring that I heard immediately afterward was coming from my head or the rod. Damn, I know it's going to leave a bruise. "What happened," they'll ask. "Just a date," I'll say. Oh well. Let 'em wonder.