chase my tail to make you smile.

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dateline: oZnil

2 october 1996 8:27 p.m.

I've come to understand a very enlightening -- and probably well known -- truth today... bureaucrats get their best jollies from watching others squirm. After soundly failing the midterm for my accursed 8:30 a.m. class, I marched off to Hamilton, nabbed a phone and punched my way into the university's touch-tone registration system. Disembodied Voice: "You have reached Pa`e, the University of Hawai`i at Manoa registration line. Please enter your student I.D. number." Me: Beep boop beep, beep beep, beep bip boop boop. Disembodied Voice: "Enter your personal identification number." Me: Boop boop bip beep. Disembodied Voice: "To drop a class, press 2." Me: (Deep breath.) Bip. Disembodied Voice: "This option is not currently available." Me: "Bah!" I rifle through a desk, pull out a disturbingly damp course catalog, and read through the fine print. It was then I was enlightened -- though the words I used upon seeing the light were hardly uplifting. Here's the deal. To withdraw from a class, I have to go to the Arts and Sciences office and get a form. After filling it out, I have to get the signature of the instructor whose class I'm trying to get out of. ("Well, you see professor, circumstances beyond my control prevent me from remaining in your class -- namely, you totally suck.") Then I have to go back to the A&S office and make an appointment with the dean. When I meet with him (or her, though I doubt it), I have to provide a legitimate cause for wanting to quit the course. ("Well, you see Mr. Dean, I didn't anticipate when I first signed up for this class that it would conflict with my sleeping habits.") Ever quick to help, dear Jay wrote to say I only have a couple of weeks to conquer this academic nightmare. Perhaps as a consolation, he also informed me that he'd added me to his very humble web page o' friends. Yes, I've been added to the illustrious ranks of Those Who Would Beat the Crap Outta Jay. (And happy birthday guy... yours sounded like it was as exciting as mine.) I'm going to drop this class. I'm just going to have to sharpen my bullshit skills before I'll be confident I can wing it without cracking a smirk. I was so totally exhausted yesterday. I think I've redeveloped an immunity to caffeine. I tend to progress from two or so Cokes (or, if I have to, Pepsis) a day to four or five, before shifting slowly to multiple doses of Mountain Dew. Right now I've reached a point where three medium Dews don't do a thing for me -- other than keep me well aquainted with the bathroom. The Next Level involves Jolt, and I'd rather not take that step. It keeps me moving, don't get me wrong, but I get dangerous under its influence. The last time I had a Jolt buzz, I squashed my finger in a stapler twice in collating a single handful of reports, poured more water on the floor than into pitchers, laughed uncontrollably at even the worst jokes and came this close to swatting the butt of a coworker. I even balanced my checkbook during my dinner break. I'm pretty wired tonight, but I didn't get here with the assistance of any chemical besides adrenaline. Let me tell you, nothing slams your eyes wide open like realizing you just shot through a yellow light in front of a cop. At the moment I'm listening to "Salt Peter" by Ruby, which came highly recommended by several oZlets when I asked for music suggestions last week. Let me tell you, if her stuff speaks to you the way it does to me, you oughtta dig up "Portishead." Almost the same bite, but a little more ambient. I forgot to mention that Derek and I did make it to "Basquiat" on Sunday. I liked it a lot. Mildly pretentious, but then again, not only was it an art film, but it was an art film about art. David Bowie was, astonishingly, very good. Coupled with Dennis Hopper -- who for once doesn't play a raving lunatic -- he pretty much upstages the "star." One of these days I'll get around to writing a review. Not tonight, though. I've got to write out my rent check and pray for a miracle.