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dateline: oZview

14 september 1996 8:44 p.m.

The Big Mele must be over by now. Yep, I missed it. Last night I was contemplating a last-minute mad morning dash today to pick up a $30 ticket and race out there, and when I feel asleep I still hadn't made up my mind. When I woke up today at noon, the decision was made. You see, the concert started at 11 a.m. I'm not too bummed, though. Either that or I'm doing a good job of rationalizing everything. I might be more upset if, when my friends see me next, they rave about how great it was. I will admit it was a tragedy to miss the "Mighty Mighty Bosstones" and "No Doubt." And it would have been nice to see "Dance Hall Crashers" again, and the "Presidents of the United States of America" don't annoy me that much... But come on... is all that really worth a two-hour drive, mass mosh-pit molestation, overpriced water, warm beer (served in a fenced-in corral), smoke from all varieties of plants, skin cancer and a huge, sweaty crowd of everyone from bellowing Marines to wanna-be-punk Pearl City High School kids? Well, maybe. Okay, Mr. Rogers, I did learn an important lesson today. I learned about "procrastination." I learned, again, that it is very, very bad. Can I spell that? I'll get around to it, I promise. I kept putting off getting a ticket so often, I think I knew already for a while I wasn't going. The thing was, although I knew a lot of people who went, most of them were going with a bunch of friends I didn't know, or were camping out the night before. Sharing a rusty Aerostar with nine stoners isn't my idea of a "fun pre-concert party." Or maybe I just lost interest after Derek said he couldn't go? Shit, I know I'm going to regret missing it. (I'm most definitely not going to hear the end of it. A while back I was a walking commercial for the whole thing.) Then again, it was too nice a day to get depressed. There was a parade through Waikiki this afternoon, along Kalakaua, so I went down and watched from atop a mailbox by the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center. I still think the "Rainbow Dancers" (the "dance" team from UH, essentially a group of synchronized cheerleaders who aren't blondes) pretty much suck, but they were enthusiastic. A nearby herd of tourists sure liked them. It was the 50th anniversary of "Aloha Week," so it was unusually elaborate and long. I love our parades, though, because even though they're very Hawaiian, there's a wonderful mix of other cultures... Japanese, Filipino, Korean. And the people who come out to watch are just as colorful. Hawai`i is the rockingest place... the audience cheered for the dancers and marchers and horse-riders, of course, but the horse-poop scooper crew also got a round of applause. Topping off the reasons to be happy, I'm seeing "Feeling Minnesota" with Derek tomorrow, and we are going to see "Les Miserables" (and I get to go shopping for a fancy dress befitting the occassion)! It's a quiet night, but I need the rest. I need to rot my brain, too. I just watched my first whole episode of "My So Called Life," and "Ren and Stimpy" are on MTV now. I just heard "The Tick" will be on Comedy Central, too. All I need is an I.V. of Dew, stat. (Hey... how did Sally Struthers get to be so big? Just where is all that food we're supposed to be "feeding the children" going?) Last night's volleyball game was awfully short, but the company made it worthwhile. On the other hand, in a flash of temporary insanity, I humiliated myself publically... and willingly. I was late getting out of work, and by the time I changed and Derek picked me up, the game started. We listened on the radio on the way there (he didn't even know he could get A.M. stations), getting stuck in Friday traffic. When we got into the parking structure, we were already ahead 5-0. We got into the arena, Derek insisted on getting some garlic fries, and while we were still settling in our seats, California scored its first point. Ten seconds later, the first game was over, 15-1. Okay, not really ten seconds. Something happened that I'm not proud of. I've been blocking it out of my memory. See, mob mentality is a sinister, frightening thing. We sat in a special student section they just started offering, and everyone around us was seriously into the game. Signs, green-painted faces and everything. Their enthusiasm was easily infectious, and Derek -- thankfully -- was having a good time. There we were, enjoying the game, him demonstrating a death wish by breathing garlic-breath maliciously at me, when a time-out was called. And they played the Macarena. And everyone in front and behind us lept up and started screaming. "Oh no," I said. I looked over to Derek for sympathy. He was standing. "You gotta know this," he said, poking me in the shoulder. Inside, I began to mourn and muttered a prayer for him. But that second, I don't know why, madness took over. I couldn't leave him standing there looking at me, and it was just so awesome to see him so enthusiastic about being there... It's funny. I knew, a few days ago, when I'd finally watched the video all the way through on VH-1 that its unholy seed had been planted in my brain. And as the pounding techno beat kicked in, echoing around a crowded sports arena, I surrendered to the conspiracy. One nervous round through, and I made myself sure of the (ridiculously simple) steps. After that, I went all out. Considering the contempt the world knows I have for the song, I think I still did some justice to the "dance." The guys above and behind us hooted at me. They hooted! "Just so you know, I'm never doing that again," I said, trying not to smile. It was so embarassing. Way too much fun. We won the match, the next two games just as one-sided -- 15-4 and 15-5. Since Derek had to work today, we called it a night (much earlier than I'd have preferred). We squeezed in for some ice cream at a very crowded Bubbies' and he dropped me off back at my car. He asked me to reconsider my ban on the Macarena, trying to trick me with flattery. "That last step?" he said, turning and attempting (unsuccessfully) to recreate it, "I'm going to have that stuck in my head all week." Here's a great handle, or a name for a band, or something: ma~ (ma-tilde... get it?) It came out totally spontaneously in e-mail with my dear friend Jarret, who lovingly promised to sue me if I actually used it one day and failed to share the credit. Ranks right up there with one of my better rants against Microsoft. I was writing about how much the company scares me, especially with MSNBC -- the corporation's recent expansion into the world of news. "If this keeps up," I wrote, "in ten years the name of our country's capital will be Washington, M.S.D.C." Funny? Maybe. Scary? Definitely. Suggestions for "girl angst" artists and albums have flown in from far and wide. Janis Joplin (who I'm already trying to build a collection of), Jewel, Aimee Mann, Sinead O'Connor, Ani DiFranco, and Republica. On the not-girl-but-still-good front, Smashing Pumpkins and Billy Joel. Closing this little musical aside, I guess everyone has already heard 2Pac Shakur is dead. Now... will someone tell me who this person is and why I should be kneeling and lamenting loudly at a candle-filled sidewalk shrine?