feel the rays of summer just a little longer.

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dateline: oZmosis

2 september 1996 9:46 p.m.

Geez. I never even had a chance. Assorted nibbles, grapefruit juice with a little something extra, live Hawaiian music, a lighter-waving crowd... Derek and a big blanket on a huge grassy field, with nothing but stars and a cloudless deep-blue sky above. I don't know where to begin. He came over ten minutes early, robbing me of my theraputic pre-outing ritual of running around like a chicken without a head. Though inside I was still going completely nuts, I played the gracious, talkative host while stuffing food into my backpack and scurrying around trying to figure out what to wear. Record highs lately, so definitely shorts and one of my few million tanks. He liked the first one I yanked down (of course), so I changed to another one. He liked that one too (of course). Which one was better? He couldn't say (of course). Number three also met with his approval. Training. If Derek's going to be spending any more time with me, he's going to have to get used to this kind of stuff. Or, he's going to have to learn to be eternally late. Like me. It was exactly the kind of weather a three-day weekend deserved, which was a relief after Friday's "flood." A little too hot, actually -- we walked down Kalakaua and I ended up paying an obscene amount of money for two liters of some weird local brand of bottled water along the way. We did in fact wander through the Okinawa Festival. Crowded, obscenely hot, but still great. Derek already ate lunch (that cad!), so he just followed me around to the different booths. I skipped the andagi, hot dogs and Huli-Huli chicken and went straight for the Hawaiian Plate. Laulau and kalua pig combo, perfect rice and somewhat bland lomi lomi salmon. Filled me right up. Next time I'll have to fast for a week before going, so I can try some of everything. Derek wandered in vain to figure out where everyone was getting their free Japanese-esque paper fans (did I mention it was hot?). I, meanwhile, waited patiently in line for a shave ice. I guess we missed all the drummers and dancers, but there were more than enough craft, art and plant booths to file through for the hour or so before the concert started. We filed into the Shell early. Others had apparently started their fun even earlier; we sniffed and smirked at the expected odor of pakalolo wafting from somewhere upwind. We staked out a prime plot of green, far enough from the pot-heads to avoid a contact high but still directly across the stage. You see, the Waikiki Shell has two sections of seats down in front, then a huge lawn. Most real locals go and sit on the grass, where it's cheaper and -- more importantly -- you can stretch out. Halfway through any show, half the people who paid for chairs crawl up and flop over on the lawn, and half the grass-squatters sneak into seats closer to the stage. It always works out, somehow. Since Derek brought some sort of huge comforter to sit on, we just rolled up my towels to use as pillows. Then we unpacked the food. Derek, per our plan, brought the token chips and dip, chicken (from Safeway) and ume musubi (not exactly triangles, but at least he made them himself). Of course I brought some warm Coke to start off with. I also packed some bread with Oscar Mayer's Super Deluxe Variety Pack of Sandwich Meats. Then, figuring I had to make something too, I made my second-ever batch of hummus. It's Egyptian. Sound exotic and hard to make? Derek thought so. Too bad it's not. Just get yourself some pitas and cut 'em up, and your half done. For the "special dipping sauce," you mush up some chick peas with water, throw in some garlic and lemon juice and add any spice you can't pronounce. Voila, international cuisine. We ate a little (most of the food is still sitting in our respective fridges), listed to everyone else mutter about the heat, and started in on my trademark picnic beverage -- ice-cold vodka and grapefruit juice (very little vodka, I promise). Then the concert started. I can't possibly describe the music to anyone who hasn't heard Hawaiian music, but all the groups were wonderful. The line up (if I can even remember now): Makaha Sons of Ni`ihau, Na Leo Pilimehana, Robi Kahakalau, Bruddah Walter, Fiji, Israel Kamakawiwo`ole, Darren Benitez and Ka`au Crater Boys. Again, Hawaiian music isn't my forte, but I do know enough to know that these were big names, and they played well over my expectations. An outdoor, live concert in itself is impossible not to enjoy, but the music was awesome. In short, the afternoon was a wholly unfair conspiracy towards romance. By the second band, I'd taken to leaning back against Derek. At first it was a struggle to really relax, being insanely conscious of little things. Like his breathing, or resting my elbows -- then my hands -- nonchalantly on his knees. I noticed he was still using his "fancy cologne" (Eau de Gillette). Every time he bent down to say something... it was a thrill to hear his voice right there, by my ear. Eventually, I mostly chilled out. The music mesmerized everyone, including me. A lot of the performers hollered for the audience to holler back, and I did my best to be heard. Surprisingly, even Derek cheered on occasion. It was hard for anyone to resist getting swept up. Between acts, we both stretched out and blinked at the sky. We couldn't see the sun go down, but we could watch as the "roof" quietly shifted through a billion shades of blue, and follow wisps of gold and crimson that hung on the edges of tiny clouds that passed overhead. When Fiji took the stage, I saw the first star. I rested on my elbow and poked at Derek as he contemplated the travesty of taking a nap. We both yelled and sang when Fiji covered a Marley tune, and laughed when he switched "pakalolo" for "colitas" in the Eagles' "Hotel California." As Fiji did another Marley song as a hana hou (encore), I rested my head on Derek's arm. Then Fiji's set was over, and the stage was quiet. We tried to find more patches of stars, listening as the family next to us played a noisy game of cards. Now, I was almost ready for a nap. We turned to look at eachother -- for some reason, I remember seeing some kid's "glow stick" dancing around as a reflection in his eyes. I felt overwhelmed, and propped myself back up on my elbow. He smiled a tiny, sighing smile that I'll never forget. Then something huge, inside, seized me. And I just let myself get swept up. Through several songs, off and on. Like wave and shore, drawn and swayed by tides. The whole night seemed a swirling, dizzying dream. It was like... like being deep underwater. And I can't explain why. When Israel ("Bruddah Iz") came on, we sat back up. I had Derek's hand. Iz sang his famous song, about the lost Hawaiian kingdom and the sorrow of the elders who now see paradise paved over. All the lighters were lit, everyone in front was standing, waving their arms slowly in the air. I cried, like I always do when I hear that song, and Derek gave me that smile again. The last two songs were happier, of celebration. The audience stood up, and the crowd on the lawn started dancing and clapping. Derek and I stood, barefoot on cool thick grass, and watched it all. Then we walked back up Kalakaua, kids who'd gotten drunk at the concert stomping past on their way to various clubs. I was dazed, sunburnt, limiting conversation to whether or not we had a good time. We agreed that we did. I walked him back to his car. We talked quietly, making plans. He's going to take me off-campus for lunch tomorrow, to plot our next movie outing. We said goodbye, I kissed him on the cheek, and concentrated hard on walking back to my building. I couldn't help glancing at the corner; he'd watched me the whole way. I got home and fidgeted, refusing to even write this until today. I put on my Na Leo Pilimehana CD and read the lyrics, coming to the conclusion that I'm glad I never paid attention to them before (totally saccharine). Then I went to bed only to stare at the ceiling until 2 a.m. When I finally slept, I slept deep and long. I woke up at 1 p.m. And now it's 4 p.m., and I don't know what else to write, and I'm going to the beach right this minute because if I don't I'm going to explode. This has definitely been one of my better Labor Day weekends. The water was so warm, and the beach wasn't as crowded as I thought it would be. As the sun started to set, I came back, did the dishes, washed a load of laundry, started on my homework only to realize I left the textbook at work, turned on the television... and here I am. I'm actually glad I didn't go to tonight's UH women's volleyball game. It was over before it began. Despite the fact that I know a lot of UCLA folk populate the same corners of the 'net I dwell in (Hi, Michael!), I still have to take the moment to cackle cruelly and loudly. Please stand by. . . . Ah, such sweet victory. The only thing that feels better than squashing the snobby Bruins (15-5, 15-2 and 15-9) will be crushing them again at the NCAA championships. That's if UCLA even makes it this year -- they've still got the pouty blonde faces, but that magic just wasn't there tonight. Mark my words, in 1996-'97, Hawai`i will be the epicenter of college volleyball.