god save the queen.

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30 august 1997

8:13 p.m.

"Three billion human lives ended on August 29, 1997. The survivors of the nuclear fire called the war 'Judgement Day.' They lived only to face a new nightmare. The war against the machines." -- Terminator 2: Judgement Day I don't remember any nuclear fire, but I was pretty close to murdering a 486 yesterday. Hoping to kick off my long weekend with a 36-hour nap, I instead found myself back at a humid little apartment in Kaimuki last night trying to coax an AST Advantage into talking to the UH modem pool. Here's a hint for anyone thinking of helping a friend-of-a-friend set up a computer: don't. Not unless you're prepared to be consigned to providing lifetime technical support. Not that I'm surprised. I predicted when I was last here that I'd be back before too long. Two minutes after I walked in -- or rather, stumbled in, as no one warned me about the cat -- I had to explain that a second-hand external modem does no good without a corresponding port. Or a cable. No, I can't just plug it into the 2400-baud internal modem. Yes, I recognize there's phone connectors on both. Trust me, it doesn't work. No, I didn't bring a serial cable with me. Miraculously, I found a communications port hidden under a thick wad of masking tape (placed there years ago, no doubt, to make my life easier). A trip to the Kahala Radio Shack solved our only remaining problem. Almost. The bulk of my time (and cursing) was spent screwing with an appallingly ugly piece of software called Trumpet Winsock. Its bizarre script setup, coupled with the fact that I didn't know the sequence of prompts UH's server used, meant a lot -- and I mean a lot -- of dial tones and pulse dial clicks. Finally, I got a connection. Finally, it worked. I gave my standard UH disclaimer: the UH modem pool is finicky; you might not be able to connect in the evenings; you're stuck at 14.4k (I know there's a pool of 28.8k modems, but I forgot the phone number); if you want guaranteed, faster connections, you might want to get an account with an ISP. "What's an ISP?" mother-figure asked. Keeping my usual answer to myself, I explained, "A company -- like Hawai`i OnLine or LavaNet -- that offers local internet access." "Oh!" she said, and disappeared into the next room. She brought back a glossy folder with a familiar pineapple logo on the cover. "Like this?" She had a HOL account. Just this week, because of HOL's new deal with UH and the DOE. So, could I configure the computer to work with it? Sure. Give me another hour. I got dinner for my trouble, but I wasn't as sure it was worth it this time. Princess Diana is dead. All three CNN stations I get are simulcasting live coverage of her fatal car accident in Paris right now. I've never been entirely comfortable with the way any media covers "breaking news." I also picked up a distaste for television news in general from Greg. Dumb or not, I'd much rather wait until after an in-depth, reasonable finished story can be assembled than watch tiny pieces trickle in... with the talking heads trying to fill the gaping spaces between news with babbling. The top ten most often heard phrases in the last half hour: tragic, terrible, somber, grief, shock, scant details, expecting a statement, ongoing investigation, we'll have to wait and see. When the word finally came down from the French government, Jim Bitterman of CNN Paris turned to a room of bleary-eyed American tourists -- who were apparently there on the scene and quickly rounded up by CNN -- and said, "Princess Diana is dead. How do you feel about that?" "Sad," said one. "Yes, I would have to say sad," said another. "It's very sad news," said a third. Exactly what colorful variety of answer were they looking for? Now they're saying a criminal investigation has been opened. That Di and her new boyfriend were being chased by photographers on motorcycles when the accident occurred. I don't think I'm going to be the only one ragging on the media in the coming days. I've never been quite as obsessed with the royal family as most of my friends, but I have to confess staying up past midnight to watch Diana's "wedding of the century." And out of the entire brood, Diana was always my favorite. Frankly, I thought she was the only one with any scruples, or style. The divorce was definitely the royal family's loss. Her death is everyone's loss. Waikiki. What a town. Street performers -- in the eyes of the illustrious Waikiki neighborhood board and our ever camera-ready city councilman Duke Bainum -- are just a tiny notch below prostitutes when it comes to public nuisances. I, on the other hand, never had a problem with them. At least they don't get huffy and spit when you stare and snicker. Derek and I walked the length of Kalakaua a few nights ago, and along the way we passed every variety of artist and musician. Now, it's important to distinguish between performers and wandering nuts. One regular noisemaker simply struts up and down a short stretch of block yelling at the top of his lungs about Michael Jackson. Since he doesn't leave an upturned hat on the sidewalk, he clearly falls into the 'nut' category. Others, like the occasional bagpipe player, aren't quite as easy to peg. One of my favorites is the steel-drum player down by the International Marketplace. He plays every variety of song, from classical to Madonna, and seems to actually enjoy what he does. I once stayed and listened to his rendition of Beethoven's fifth symphony, clapping and dropping some change. A few days later when I stopped by, he saw me and started playing it again. When it comes to roadside entertainment, I give originality a lot of credit. Sadly, I'm discovering there's less and less of it out there. For example, one guy has been making his money doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. He puts on gold clothes, and coats every inch of skin with gold paint. He stands on a crate, performs a few antics, then freezes. Becomes totally still. Boring as it sounds, it was a blast to watch -- Japanese tourists would mill around him, thinking he was a statue, then jump out of their skin when he'd move again. Months later, however, a pretender came along. He set up shop a few yards down from Mr. Gold. Everything was pretty much the same, except his getup was all silver. This week, we came across the latest, and hopefully last, incarnation. A third 'artist' has arrived, staking out a spot on the same block as Mr. Gold and Mr. Silver. Unlike his two predecessors, however, this guy doesn't even bother with the paint. Suffice it to say, his hat was empty -- dressed in street clothes, his gimmick wasn't quite as clear. He wasn't too good at the statue thing either... if he swayed any more, he'd get picked up for public drunkenness.