Editor's Note:
The thing I like about this site is that I haven't fundamentally changed it in 4 years. So it's a bit of a web relic -- but in that sense, really ultra web-retro. All black and white and unformatted. Sparse graphics, poor navigation, Times New Roman, shitty copy that needs to be proofread (I mean, who uses italics on a website?), out of date content, time-sensitive references, hidden meaning (they say that I predicted the Taiwan earthquake in my 4th quattrain)...that certain, uh, uh, je ne sais quoi. But, on the other hand, you must be bored because you are reading this, so dispense with your critical eye and enjoy it for what it is...
When I was in kindergarten, I got into my one and only fight. I don't remember
the circumstances, but another guy named Allen punched me so I went crying to
the teacher. Her advice: stay away from that guy. Being young and naive, I
hadn't learned the valuable lessons that our elders can teach us, so instead I
did 10 push-ups and went back for more.
Allen punched me again, and I started to cry.
Suffice it to say, that experience taught me a couple things. 1) Crying makes you feel better when you hurt, and 2) Don't get into fights with people who are bigger than you. (I've consequently kicked the dickens out of at least 10 midgets. *just* kidding)
Mom and I had just finished reading a story about Encyclopedia Brown in which
he ate a blueberry pie and got it all over his shirt. I thought to myself,
"Boy, that guy is dumb..." Unbeknownst to me, my mother had made a blueberry
pie as well. After scarfing down a few pieces she pointed at me and started
to laugh. When I glanced at my shirt, I was horrified to see that I had
actually only consumed 50% of the pie because the other half was on my shirt.
Although I slipped in an out of self-consciousness until I was about 7, I do
remember a funny story about one of our old cats clinging to the underside of
my dad's Toyota Corolla all the way from Kaneohe to Pearl Harbor. He heard a
meowing noise once he reached the shipyard, and it turned out to be our cat,
which only goes to prove one of my theories: if something is meowing, it's
probably a cat.
When I was in second grade I used to sit next to Jennifer. We somehow got into
this habit of playing "chop suey" with our rulers. I would move my fingers
around like worms and she would cut them up like chop suey. Boy, that sure was
fun back then. She's a lot smarter now. I don't think she'd play "chop suey"
with me anymore--probably because she realizes that "chop suey" isn't an
authetic Chinese dish, but rather, one concocted by American entrepreneurs
during the 1960s.
Donny had been absent from 3rd grade for about a week when we began to smell
something a little rancid in Mrs. Hata's homeroom. A closer inspection
revealed that the smell seemed to be emanating from the lockers against the
wall. When we opened Donny's locker we found an old lunch rotting away. This
was the first time that I ever saw maggots.
I fell in love with Stephanie in the 4th grade. Mr. E called her "Peaches,"
but I don't quite remember the etymology. We used to write each other love
notes and call each other. It was pretty sophisticated 4th grade love. I even
played her "The Pink Panther" on the piano to try to impress her. I think
she's engaged now.
My dad threw me a "pop-fly" in the empty lot next to our house. I tracked
the ball carefully with my glove, but subtle changes in the wind velocity
clearly affected the trajectory of the ball, compounding the already evident
wind sheers in the area. The ball landed square on my two front teeth and
knocked them out. I was pretty pissed at him. Same reason I was pissed when I
crashed on my bike for the first time--I was so elated at my sense of balance
that I forgot that I didn't know how to brake, and I chose dad as the
scapegoat. Well, needless to say, it wasn't his fault in either case. (damn
wind sheers...)
Ms. Lockhart was a former Navy officer turned 5th grade teacher. It was during
a vocabulary lesson one day that we were talking about words that ended with
"-age." She said, "There is a word that ends with '-age' that describes what
goes on in those 007 films." She looked around the room hoping that someone
would come up with "espionage," but instead saw me flailing my arms about like
a madman. "Yes, Allen?" she asked. "Is it bondage?" I replied. The 50-something
year old woman started to laugh uncontrollably. I didn't understand why.
(yeah, yeah, I know now)
5th Grade was also the year that I was sent to the 5th and 6th grade supervisor
for writing a nasty little song about this kid, Andy. Andy was fat and my song
was about this very topic. A rather inconspicuous start for my musical career.
I had to sit on the bench right outside the office--such humiliation.
I walked into Mr. Hu's homeroom before school the day that the Challenger
exploded. It was hard to grasp the significance at that age, but I remember
feeling for the school teacher that died aboard that flight. And the swan-like
cloud pattern that the shuttle made is still imprinted in my mind like the day
it happened.
I created a fake science project for the State Science Fair in 8th grade
concerning the Smurfs. It was pretty damn good, I must say and it did elicit
this comment from Tara, "Oh, I always knew they were real!" I think she's
married now.
I met Malia backstage at the school production of Fiddler on the Roof. She was
a senior and I was a freshman, but I immediately fell in love and I think that
had she been younger we could have had something. But at that age, one year
makes all the difference and that's all that needs to be said. I saw her about
two years ago. She was going back to school for her masters in archeology. I
don't know where she is now.
Technical Theatre became a big part of my life during high school. It wasn't
unusual for me, Tim, Josh, Kale, Austin and the rest of the "gang" to put in
16 hour days on Saturday or work until midnight on a school night to get a show
up on time. I learned a lot about construction and life in the theatre, but one
event sticks in my mind...It was during preparation for a dance show that I had
plugged in a 6x9 but the lamp had burned out and I also had to change the
connector type from edison to three prong (or something like that). I picked up
my knife to cut through the cable, but at the last moment decided to use a pair
of insulated wire cutters. I placed the sharp metal against the rubber
insulation and put pressure on the handles to begin cutting. Suddenly, my life
flashed before my eyes as 220 volts of electricty splayed itself across cut
live wires. I had forgotten to unplug the instrument before cutting. It was in
that moment of solace that I experienced epiphany. Life is short, don't play
with electricity.
I started to really get into cello about this time. I spent most of my summers
practicing up to 10 hours a day, which is one reason my left hand is almost a
half-an-inch bigger than my right. I thought that when I went to college, I
would become a concert cellist. It's funny how mutable our dreams really are.
I knew of Kristin from the 6th grade because she was in Ms. Flo's homeroom and
everyone wanted to be in Ms. Flo's homeroom. But it wasn't until the 10th grade
that we started to "notice" each other. But our tale is a sad one--ah, the
star-crossed lovers that we were. Her name might as well have been Kristin
Capulet. Needless to say, her good looks, intelligence and charm tormented be
for about 4 years. And although nothing ever happened between us, she's now one
of my best friends. She's currently on the road with the Broadway Tour of
Carousel.
I had never had to deal with death before in my family, so going to Mr.
Knowlton's funeral was somewhat of a shock. He was the 7th and 8th grade
supervisor; a quiet, but strong figure that roamed the halls of Bishop
surveying the students' activities. I sat in the chapel listening to the
eulogies of his peers and sat blank-faced until the end when I started to cry
uncontrollably. I didn't really know him that well, but there is something
about death around you that is frightening. And when you see people you respect
or love move on, you can't help but be affected.
Austin's church friend, was opening a new bridal shop and rather than pay for
real contractors to do the renovation work, he hired us kids instead. We
erected a new wall and closet, did some tiling, built display cases, and then
had to deal with installing new lights and outlets. Unfortunately, the
superintendent of the building didn't know where the master fuse box was kept,
so being young and intrepid, we decided to wire live. Tim climbed into a
air-conditioning shaft to install a recessed light into the ceiling while we
mingled below. There was a loud noise, broken glass and then a thump from
above. Pale faced, Tim emerged from the shaft with small black marks on his
hand where the electricity had arc-ed from the live wire. Later that day, I
managed to use a screwdriver to connect to screws on a live light switch. In
addition to setting a new world record for backwards long jump, I remembered
the epiphany that I had experienced only 3 paragraphs before: Life is short,
don't play with electricity.
Much to my father's chagrin, I did not go on to study electrical engineering. Tim, however, did. The owner of the store died a few years later from AIDS.
We were forced to participate in some sort of Community Service my senior year
as a part of the revised economics program. I think the idea was very
compelling, however, there was such a disparity in experiences. Zack used to
tell us about how he had to feed a quadrapalegic and how she would spit up food
on him. Mr. Bowen told us of another kid who was in a program that used animals
as therapy for old people. The placed a rabbit in the lap of a mentally
disturbed old man who hadn't said anything coherent in years. In a moment of
clarity and lucidness, the old man looked at the rabbit and said, "What the
fuck is this?!?"
I remember telling my experience in seminar one day. The old man that I was trying to help starting screaming at me one day; telling me off while all the nurses just ignored both me and him. I felt very helpless and abused and I couldn't stop crying as I told the story. It's sometimes difficult to deal with emotional situations that don't seem to have any rhyme or reason, and which despite your best efforts, you cannot do anything to control. The impact of these situations never lessens with age.
