this parrot wouldn't voom if I put four thousand volts through it.

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17 july 1997

12:44 a.m.

Dear diary, My Tamogotchi died. It's been dead for some time now, actually... for at least a month. I forgot completely about it one afternoon after nearly two weeks of dilligent care (or at least the best care such a creature could get taped to a refrigerator), and less than 48 hours later, it had headed west to the digital Pure Land. My Tamogotchi -- which, I should note, tragically perished having never had a proper name -- was of the Sanitized American genus, so it just grew little wings and flittered up into space with a smile (rather than getting X'd-out eyes and a stuck-out tongue, I guess). Since the morning it kicked, I've carried it with me every day. I made the late 'Gotchi my keychain. While I know toting it around will lead the casual observer to make entirely the wrong judgement about me (making my sporadic snide remarks all the more surprising), anyone who scrutinizes it close enough to see it's a digital corpse will get an immediate and accurate glimpse into my psyche. Sadly, other than one encounter with a very excitable Japanese tourist (I didn't understand a word she said, but I think she was going to offer me 50 bucks for it), few strangers have shown much interest. Well, actually, I was in the Subway on Kapahulu last week when a Kendall Tanoue spotted it. He asked if it was a Tamogotchi (which -- given the proliferation of the things and the multitude of knockoffs around here -- was a baffling question), to which I answered, "Yes." After a carefully-timed, dramatic pause, I added wryly, "It's dead." I spun it around my finger and then dropped it and my keys on the counter. I was going for a very specific effect -- a la Python's dead parrot. "Oh," he said, failing completely to appreciate my wit. He then proceeded to order one of those awful Italian Ice things. Over the last couple of weeks, I've forsaken all pride (and I assure you, there's a lot of it) and applied for jobs at just about every place of business I stumbled into. I specifically hit music and bookstores, because frankly I'd settle for minimum if I can get the employee discount. But since Jen apparently can't get her own job back at Tower, I'm not holding my breath. Out of boredom, waiting for my watch to be repaired, I also applied at every retailer in Ala Moana that didn't sell food or designer clothes (or pens... we've got a Mont Blanc store now). Although I haven't worked a register for nigh onto three years, if there's any talent I know I have, it's talking people into doing (or buying) things they thought they didn't want to. (The best jobs I've had -- and sadly there have only been two -- paid commission. I kicked serious butt.) The places I excluded weren't culled out of pride, by the way. It's simply against my religion to work in food service, and frankly I don't have the wardrobe for Gucci. Of course, I'm hoping filling out all these weirdly-folded, badly photocopied applications is pointless. Though I feel like it's bachi to have too much hope, I do have leads on a couple of computer-related jobs. Both are very web oriented (though more toward content production rather than design or scripting). The good news is the pay is great, $9 to $13 an hour starting. Though that's still less than at the hospital, a second advantage to leaving the health care profession is no longer having to deal with drug-induced incontinence. The bad news is both "outfits" are feisty but unestablished. For once I'm more worried about losing my job because of the life expectency of the company rather than the limits of my temper. I'm really happy to be leaving my current job. Really. Although I was smack in the middle of Sweeps Week as far as the lives of my friends were concerned, I still felt a great sadness and loss when I heard Israel Kamakawiwo`ole died. At one point, he weighed upwards of 700 pounds. He had to be forklifted onto stages for some time. His condition, "Morbid Obesity," had him in and out of hospitals for the last several months. He still loved to perform, though. He thrived on his music, and sharing his many messages. I admit to being less than impressed with some of his songs. And his politics -- though you wouldn't think he had any from the sanitized, controversy-free tributes heaped upon him since his death -- rubbed me the wrong way once upon a time. But while I can't explain how, I just had the sense from everything he did (from singing before a crowd of thousands to cruising the web) that he was a man whose heart was a hundred times bigger than his body. I remember an interview some time ago, soon after one of his many stays in a hospital, where he directly addressed death. He said he wasn't afraid. He said he knew his body was just a shell carrying his soul around in this material, mortal world. Although from anyone else such sentiments would be nothing short of corny, they rang true coming from him. His "shell" was a burden, ever weighing him down and holding him back. Yet, despite it all, he still managed to create and express boundless, beautiful things. Now at least he's free, making music in a boundless, beautiful place. Down here, though, he will be deeply missed.