got to find a reason why the money's all gone.

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7 april 1997

3:12 a.m.

Dear diary, What a week. Pardon me while I finally take a breath. The Hawaiian paper I ended up pulling an allnighter to finish turned out to be woefully incomplete... Derek may be shipped off for some monthlong seminar in California come May... One of the better supes at work got passed up for a promotion and suddenly transferred upstairs in protest (making for some ugly grumbling and more than a few misplaced files in the turnover)... The story of Walt and Kellie came to an end, ultimately and surprisingly as a tragedy... ...and now, at 3 a.m., I finish my taxes, despite having already turned over a fistful of cash to Mr. Taxman every fourteen days, I still have to lob another $315 to the feds and some $170 to Guvnah Ben and his cronies. But alack, it is spring! A time of... of... much joyful, bright stuff, so lets flip over the roadkill that is my life and look for the hidden flecks of gold. Or some cockeyed metaphor like that. Did I mention it was 3 a.m.? Although my papa `olelo Hawai`i sucked, my kumu also determined everyone's did. This has led to a one week extension for us to try again, and maybe this time do what is actually assigned. There were two parts to the assignment. First, that it be two pages long. Second that it include two each of five different sentence structures. Passive voice, stative with causative, and all sorts of other technical sounding stuff I could never keep straight in English, let alone in Hawaiian. Although I fulfilled the length requirement, I frankly didn't even know about the other bits. So, after going back and adding in the various structures at random points in my pedantic little tale, I've now got a paper that barely fits on three pages. (I'm glad it's too long now... I was this close to throwing in the `olelo no`eau about canoe paddlers.) I can't seem to find the bright side of losing Derek for 22 days. Except maybe he'll bring back a ceramic mug with some "Successories" type quote on it like: "Whether you think you can or you can't... you're right." I've already cleared out a space on my "stupid souvenir mugs from waste-of-time state-endorsed conventions" shelf for the esteemed prize. Ah... taxpayer money at work. I never saw much point in such slickly packaged "leadership" conventions. (Then again, I may still be smarting after a semester of torture in one of UH's most obnoxious warm-and-fuzzy campus organizations.) Why should anyone pay hyperactive, former middle-management goons-turned-gurus to pace about on a stage for six hours a day when you can learn twice as much from a Dilbert book in half the time? And besides, we've got an abundance of stupid mugs (even I've sent out my share of "I got lei'd in Hawai`i" products) available right here in the islands. Do you know what it's like to have the enthusiastic, positive endorsement of Hitler (or Satan or Pat Robertson or anyone you personally hold in disdain)? I think I know now. Three of the several Grand High Muckymucks at work put in for the same promotion. One was a moron, one was a known power-tripper with psychotic tendencies, and one was a hardworking, attentive and earnestly health-minded clutz (at least as far as transporting liquids were concerned). Frankly, all three annoy me -- we're just talking different degrees of annoyance. Now, I could best tolerate working for the clutz, and for the division's benefit, I and everyone else was pulling for her to get the spot. Meanwhile, I was frankly horrified at the thought of the moron getting into administration. But for whatever reason, he'd always taken a liking to me. I mean, he'd compliment the way I stacked papers. So when, to everyone's surprise, the clutz was shafted and the moron got the post, I was shunned from commiserating with most of my coworkers because I was considered one of the moron's crew. So, on one hand, I've been unwittingly traded to the Dark Side of the Force simply because the new Emperor put in a good word for me. Yet on the other, I'm now Good People as far as admin is concerned and will most likely be spared in the next few rounds of downsizing. I'm not sure if I should be disgusted or elated. Given how much I love my paychecks, however, I'm leaning toward elated. After no news (good news, I had thought) for weeks from Walt, he stomps over last week fuming about Kellie dating some other guy and threatening to turn to ISPs (Intercourse Service Providers, a la Kalakaua Avenue) for happiness. Like any good soap opera, though, there are other subplots. There are actually two other coworkers who are mighty soft on Walt. One's tall, pretty and has a remarkably sharp sense of humor. The problem there is, she asked Walt out when he was still sure he was going to marry Kellie, and his manner of declining the invitation ("I already saw it and it was so boring I slept through it," in regard to "The English Patient") probably killed any chance he had there. The other smokes like a chimney, has a problem with pronouncing certain consonants, and on her good days reminds me of a Filipino version of Joe Pesci. Yet despite several polite "thanks but no thanks," this one hasn't given up. Suffice it to say, the man's a little muddled -- but thankfully not because of my meddling. Since I am no longer on the Acquire the Affections of Kellie Committee, however, I'm looking to head Walt's Public Relations office. The first lessons will probably be, "How Not to Turn Down a Date You Probably Need," and "How to Spell 'No' for the Socially Impaired." The one purely good thing that happened to me lately was the "Hepcat" concert yesterday, but I'll have to tell you about it later. Right now I'm so tired I'm actually dizzy.