so much depends upon a red wheel barrow.

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dateline: popokiolani hale

7 october 1996 8:20 p.m.

I assign point values to pedestrians while I drive. Lately, kids with backwards hats and baggy pants are the most tempting targets. I'd rate them at least 20 points, maybe 25 if they're smeared while goose-stepping and making pointless hand gestures. Parents jaywalking with impressionable youth are 15 points, double if you paralyze the parent but only scrape the kid. When it comes to clusters of buzz-cut jocks riding dorky little mopeds in huge un-Harleyesque packs, scoring depends on how many you take out in a single sideswipe. (Hey, I'm so twisted, I used to root for the logs in Frogger.) Coming home today, I nearly racked up about 15 points. That would be three skinny, white-and-black dressed Japanese tourists with matching backpacks. There's something very satisfying about brakes that lock. I'm never going to own a car with those wimpy anti-lock brakes (which by extension means I will never own a new car, which is perfectly fine with me). The sound of a good, long skid -- coupled with the choreographic wide-eyed skip-and-scurry of your near-victims -- just makes me want to laugh out loud. I almost did, except I was busy fighting off a heart attack. At least once a week, at the same corner, stupid tourists do the same stupid thing and nearly turn into (desperately needed) pothole fillers. Every day, heading home down Kalakaua, traffic gets backed up as drivers stop and let idiots cross back to safety. I resist the urge to run them over by chanting "Darwin! Darwin!" under my breath. Usually they're lost, looking for Waikiki and heading in exactly the wrong direction from the Hard Rock. The problem is they're building the convention center literally right across the street -- a gazillion-dollar fortress taking up a whole block at the one intersection on this island that doesn't need more traffic. There aren't any street signs, which is a problem, but there also aren't any crossing lights, or a sidewalk for that matter. Silly me, I presume that if you're thinking about getting across a six-lane street at a major four-way intersection, you'd take a moment to make sure there's someplace to cross to. Instead, whole groups of them collect on the opposite corner, wait for a break in traffic, then run across the street... and smack dab into what has got to be a eight-foot tall sign that says, "SIDEWALK CLOSED -- DO NOT CROSS." Then, they either try and slink along the wall -- which is hilarious to watch, since the wall is right up against the road for a few hundred yards in either direction -- or stumble into the intersection itself and nearly get hit by irresponsible, impatient speeding drivers with slow reflexes... like me. What a gyp! There's supposed to be a new "Journey" album out. Last week sometime. Their first album since "Raised on Radio," which must've come out at least eight years ago. What's really cool is that it's going to be the old "Journey," the same guys that were behind their definitive '80s cheese stuff -- remember "Faithfully"? Instead, the day the album's supposed to be out, all they do is start playing one song off it on the radio. And I always only catch it in the middle, and I just love what I hear (Steve Perry's voice -- which is only getting better -- just makes me all mushy), but I have no idea what the name of the song is, and I don't have the guts to call the station and ask them like some giggly teen. (True story: the one time I ever called up a station, I wasn't listening at the time, and I apparently caught them right in the middle of a contest. The chaos that followed -- and I only remember saying, "Sorry, this isn't on the air, is it?" -- traumatized me forever.) Take my word for it. With fans like me, the 80s will never die. I mean, even Ozzy Osbourne is big again. In fact, the bat-muncher himself is coming here in concert this month. I can't help but wonder how many of the old Kalaheo High death-metal gang will be there. I think the best part is the name of the tour: The Oz Fest It's a funny thrill, hearing the commercial with the big, echoing voice going, "The Oz Fest is coming to Honolulu!" I half want to go to the concert, just to hear a huge crowd chanting "Oz! Oz! Oz!" But, that's just my Leo streak rearing its ugly head again. Sunday. What can I say about Sunday? I actually cleaned up the place and had Derek over. I'd like to say it was all romantic and cuddly, but at first it was just plain awkward, and in the end it was just relaxing and quiet. I sometimes wonder if I've got a little bit of Cancer in me because I feel funny sharing my space (my mom's a Cancer, and she's the very definition of territorial). I half don't believe myself, but I'm pretty sure the feeling I got the minute he stepped through the door was a defensive one. I even felt strange letting him use the bathroom. For a while, I was actually thinking it was easier struggling through a dinner with his family without making a pig of myself. We ran out for pizza and put together a video marathon: "Fargo," "Moonlight and Valentino," "Carrington," and "French Kiss" (sadly, they were all out of "Mystery Science Theater 3000"). We watched "Fargo" first. I guess it was a little too strange for Derek's tastes -- "different" was his one word review. We spent much of the last half of the movie thumb wrestling, discovering that I'm much better at it than he is. "French Kiss" was a better pick... didn't require too much brain power. Kevin Klein is great -- and makes an excellent obnoxious Frenchman. (We didn't get around to "Moonlight" and "Carrington," but I'm watching the latter now. Emma Thompson is too awesome for words.) Derek headed off, almost reluctantly, and I went to bed way too early. I also left the pizza out, so I'll have to forget living off leftovers this time. I think I've come to the conclusion that I'm just not much of a hostess. I'm wondering whether hanging out at my place, after all, is more or less entertaining than a root canal. Maybe, in the six, seven months since surviving a brief nightmare of cohabitation, I've just metamorphed into a hermit.