it's all so clear in the embers of reckless years.

[ back | up | next ]

dateline: oZmicile

23 october 1996 11:45 p.m.

Steak day! What else can I say. I'm easily pleased. (And if you believe that...) Didn't sleep too well last night, and I was lying awake by 6 a.m. In trying to get more zeez, I played The Clock Game. When I'd open my eyes to peek at the bright red digital readout on my nightstand, I'd close them again and try to resist looking again until the number changed. I rarely won. I crawled out of bed and stared around my apartment for a while. After pretending to study for another midterm this Friday, I just decided to go to campus early. I discovered Manoa is a totally different creature at sunrise. I often take the campus for granted, especially when I have to speed up five ramps to get the last parking stall two minutes before my class. Today, though, I had to pause a moment and think, "This place is just beautiful." Just the way the air is crisp and cool; I missed that. The light of day just seems cleaner, lighter. It was clear and quiet, and the striking relief of the huge mountains that form Manoa Valley -- in the lap of which my school sits -- made me want to pick up oil painting. I then ate breakfast for the first time in I don't know how long. A real one. The food, of course, was barely worth feeding to a party of drunk flies, but it just felt so good to have eggs and corned beef hash and orange juice... Well, it felt good for a while. I didn't eat much. On my way out I bumped into Greg. The first words out of his mouth were, "Just who I've been looking for." A bad sign. He said he'd been working on something, for me I guess. Something I'd really like. Really. Wink-wink-nudge-nudge. Then he just smirked through the interrogation he knew I'd unleash, remaining totally silent. Frustrated, I complimented his bagel. It was a very nice bagel. An awesome golden toast job, buttered just so, with a smell that would be deadly were it combined with that of good coffee (which thankfully Mariott never serves). I'm not a bagel person, but boy, his specimen would be worthy of the cover of any restaurant menu! And I told him so. And I asked again what he was talking about. And despite my skilled flattery, the devil wouldn't talk. Instead, he tried to give me the bagel. "Fine," I said, and walked off. And broke down and bought a bagel. I swear, if he succeeds in getting me addicted to something else... Now I'm just going nuts trying to figure out what he's up to. Lately all he's been sending are spelling nags and HTML bugs. My worst fear is that he's writing up some review of my page. On the other hand, it could be a music piece, which I once joked about and he said he just might write one... (Yes, Greg, you're totally evil... and thank god for that.) Going to UH volleyball games lately feels like going to the Roman Colosseum to watch the lions dine on heathens. Not that I'm complaining. Barring Roseanne Thomas (or Arnold, or Barr, or whatever) singing the National Anthem, we're probably going to easily shred Notre Dame tomorrow. There's probably a really good Irish metaphor to be made here, but I'm too tired to come up with one. I've already set my price -- dinner at John Dominis (where a dinner roll costs ten bucks) if Derek's ever going to get another Macarena out of me. Otherwise, I'll just close my eyes and imagine myself with a high-powered rifle when it comes on...