Clark Mayo, �Kurt Vonnegut: The Gospel from Outer Space (or, Yes We Have no Nirvanas)�
Sorry, again, for the lapse. I had another visitor for a week in the form of the inimitable Luvabeans, who, I may as well squelch all possible rumor and innuendo by stating I�m totally enamoured with. Her and I worked like a Vonnegut piece. Friends first, she moved from Chicago to go to school in San Francisco and came down to San Jose in her rental van almost immediately upon arrival to hang out as I did the final DJ night at the dive bar in San Jose.
It was that night that we realized we were sweet on each other. After hanging out like simple friends for the evening (emphasis on the �simple� on my part) I asked later rather jokingly if she�d like to make out, to which she immediately replied with, �Let me take my glasses off.�
And so, after a near-solid year of mostly feeling unwanted and alone, here was this smart, funny, sexy, interesting little minx who liked me.
A week later I was on a plane to Hawaii. So it goes.
Since then, despite us both being busy with school and being broke, I managed to visit her for seven days. Last week was her turn. There�s the thought that if either of us were to spend a week and one day together we might find that we hate each other, but so far, it�s been aces.
Except of course, the 2,400 miles of ocean that separates us.
I�m not giving a play-by-play of accounts, as many of the things involved were similar to the excursions I described when Clompy came to visit, including a trip to Hanauma Bay, where I once again got to view the nine-minute safety film/musical about not fucking with the ecosystem. I asked for a Russian headset translation this time, and they were unable to accommodate me.
Hawaii don�t cater to no godless commies.
Anyway, the theater was packed with visitors this afternoon, and despite the movie clocking in at a mere nine minutes, people started shifting uncomfortable as the music extolled warnings about not touching anything. I�ve figured out the problem. If you study advertising, you know about the trend of band recognition. Rolling Stones songs now symbolize big gas-guzzling trucks and SUV�s. Bob Dylan represents fitness programs. Nike tried to use the Beatles �Revolution� as inspiration to pay up the yin-yang for overpriced sneakers. Target, in a monumental case of not knowing the source material, used Devo�s �Beautiful World� to hawk their clothing line. I say Hanauma Bay should option Pink Floyd.
�HEY! TOURIST! LEAVE THOSE FISH ALONE!�
See, the thing is, the musical warnings complete with nonsensical rhyming schemes don�t really convey the consequences. They make it sound like you�re just being inconsiderate by standing on the coral, the equivalent of farting in the middle of a fancy dinner party. What they don�t say is that the ocean fights back. After the happy little intro that always started with an admonishment (Don�t step on me...), what they need to segue into is a stern warning, perhaps along the lines of �Or I�ll cut you.� Luva found that out the hard and sharp way when she found herself knocked onto the reef, being the only time I�ve witnessed somebody being beached while still in the middle of the ocean. The blood started flowing from her various cuts.
Blood in the water. In a fish sanctuary. A fish sanctuary that occasionally gets sharks, because it�s like an all you can eat smorgasbord.
We went back to shore. Fast. Once we got out, we looked for children to traumatize with her wounds, her sobbing theatrically as the blood ran down her legs. �The fish!� she�d say. �They were everywhere! All biting with their tiny, razor sharp teeth!�
Like I said, I think this chick is awesome.
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We also went camping up toward the North Shore, so feel free to insert your trite bit of dialogue from that movie. I heard variations of those lines, though it all revolved around my newly-colored purple hair. Living near the university as well as the downtown populated city area, my hair doesn�t seem to affect most people. But up on the sparsely populated North Side, I found myself suddenly more interesting to the locals than any of the beautiful scenery. Kids at the beach stopped yelling at their parents to watch them swim, and instead started shouting to me.
�Hey, purple head! Hey! Hey! Purple head! Look at me!�
Wow, that just sounds filthy.
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So now she�s back in California. How stupid is that? We�ve both wondered how we could remedy this, but we both have the curse of being goal-oriented. She�s doing graduate work in a select field that only has a few universities that offer programs, and Hawaii isn�t one of them.
I, on the other hand, have been trying to convince my father that killing himself might not be such a hot idea. For the most part it seems like I�m succeeding � he�s been in a much better mood as of late, despite not having any major progress in regard to his health. He�s even started singing when he answers the phone again, something he hasn�t done in years.
You have to take the bad with the good, I suppose.
Though there is no litmus test on what one needs to do to convince another not to kill themselves, and though I seem to be helping his state of mind, I keep noticing eye-wincing moments of fuckuppery. Things like taking him out to a movie and going to Elizabethtown at the cheapo theater, only to discover the major plot point involves a son dealing with the death of his father. That, and the fact that it was a suicide-inducing bad film.
So perhaps I�ll be able to join her sooner than expected.
