where is the beauteous majesty of denmark?

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last seen: addicted again

24 january 1996 9:31 p.m.

Have you ever made an unthinkably rash decision, yet one that could potentially change your life for the better, only to have the all-powerful and sinisterly sarcastic hand of Fate poke you in the ribs? I swore off caffeine. For a whopping eight hours. (The significance of this can only be appreciated by people who have actually downed a Jolt with breakfast, or drink Mountain Dew at midnight.) Walt and I went for a bite after work, so he could rant about Kellie for a while, and during the course of the evening he boasted that he'd been on the wagon for three weeks. And I thought he was just morose 'cause he didn't get anything from her for Christmas. "No," he said, grinning a grin I should have known better than to trust. "I sleep better, I think better, and gosh darn it, I like me." "I'll try it," I said. Famous last words. He proudly ordered a Sprite, I took a deep breath and meekly requested a fruit punch. By the time I got home, I wanted a Coke so bad I could taste it. "This is insane," I thought. "I can do this." When I got to campus, I staggered to Cafe Marriott and stared longingly at the shiny steel coffee pots. The Lion Coffee mascot was mocking me. Let me tell you, never in my whole life has a cup of orange juice looked so pathetic. By the time class started, I well into my caffeine crash. According to Walt, if you're staying off for good, it lasts a couple of days. I was beginning to have serious doubts. Feeling nauseated, I looked up "headache" -- 'eha ke po'o. Then came lunch. Cafe Marriott, again. The dish? "Philly Cheesesteak Sandwich" -- or their best approximation thereof. The beverage? Ice Mountain bottled water. I was going to be strong. The cashier, a trainee, looked at me funny. Even her supervisor scowled. "This isn't the special?" the trainee asked, waving my bottle of water. In my delirious state, it was hard to process everything. Apparently my entree is $5.95 only when I get a medium soft drink. I just looked at the both of them and wondered exactly why two Marriott employees are even slower than one. "Well," the supervisor said, offended that I made her think. "We'll give you a 50 cent discount for this, then." The total, with tax, was $6.66. Stylish, I thought. When I got to work, I detoured upstairs to unleash a primal scream on Walt, then marched to the cafeteria and practically inhaled a large Pepsi. It was the best overpriced, watered-down soda I've ever had. Word of the Day: "weekend" hopena pule (ho- peh- na poo- leh) Makemake au e hiamoe i kela me keia hopena pule. "I like to sleep every weekend." (Like I to sleep on that with this weekend.) Thursday night, wonder of wonders, I had Derek over (I think he needs to be reassured now and then that I don't have the Yakuza hiding out in my closet). I figured why not -- my apartment was still neat enough from my New Year's cleaning. All I had to do was hide Mt. Laundry. We dined on pizza a la Simone's -- extra mushrooms and olives -- and rented "Othello." It was good, though I had a little trouble following the story (okay, so there are a few of Billy's works I haven't read). Derek's poking through my CD collection didn't help either. As you'd expect, half the cast is dead at the end. It wouldn't be my recommendation for a first date. The best part of the video, to be honest, was the super extended preview of Hamlet. From what I saw, Kenneth Branagh's version is worlds different from how I've always imagined Shakespeare. White marble, tiled ballrooms, gold fixtures, elaborate costumes -- I never would've thought Denmark was that posh. I'm sure some of my expectations are colored by Mel Gibson's rendition (which I found very admirable, given the near impossibility of cutting any Shakespeare play to two hours). The setting in that production -- sparse, dark and musty -- was a lot closer to how I imagined everything in Hamlet's day. And Ophelia was never a redhead. Even so, I'm very eager to see it -- even though as a full-text film adaptation it runs somewhere near four hours long (intermission included). My butt's numb just thinking about it. It's still cold (if you're thin-skinned like me and consider 64 degrees cold), and I'm flipping through the channels trying to entertain myself. There's a UH men's volleyball game on, but it's not holding my interest. It's a substantially different team from last year's almost-national champs, so I'll wait to see how they're doing a few games in before getting excited. I love our public access stations. At any given moment, you can see government meetings, homemade surfing videos, fat ugly Republicans ranting about same-sex marriage, balding men demonstrating "healing by howling" and announcements for highway lane closures. On channel 55, apparently, they show a shot "live from Moanalua" -- the view from a camera up on a mountain somewhere. Seeing as how it's dark out at the moment, though, I'm looking at a black square. Oh great. A Mariah "What WonderBra?" Carey video. Forget it. And I won't even bother with MTV. Apart from the cool new Bjork video (from the creator of Ren & Stimpy), I haven't seen any music on "Music Television" for ages. Why do I subject myself to this torture? ('Cause they pre-empted "X-Files" last week for that horrid "Millennium" last week and I've been mentally unbalanced ever since.)