my moon, my midnight, my talk, my song.

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1 june 1997

10:22 p.m.

Dear diary, There was no warning. Derek and I were spending a lazy day in my 'hood, enjoying a beautiful, bright Sunday afternoon, walking hand in hand through random hotel lobbies and checking out the dozens of new, overpriced boutiques that have sprung up in the last few months. Smiling, laughing, pointing out Waikiki fashion victim after Waikiki fashion victim... Things seemed so right, peacefully perfect. We grabbed ourselves a free bench by the combination police-station-and-surfboard-rack and kissed. "Oh, hey," he said. "I've got something for you." "Really?" I brightened up, wholly unprepared for what was to come. He reached into his pocket. I leaned over to see what it was. My jaw dropped. I knew just about every girl my age would've sold their grandmother's wheelchair for what he held in his hand. Unfortunately, I was a breath away from fleeing and screaming in terror. "Have you seen one of these before?" he said, with an innocence that was almost convincing. "It's a Tamogotchi!" "Yes," I said. "That it is." "My mom got it," he said, pressing the cold, plastic thing into my hand. "Then she decided she didn't want it." "Go mom," I muttered. "I heard they're hard to get, like waiting lists and lines in stores," he said, beaming. Oh, wonderful wonderful love, your immense power saved a life today. I scrutinized the device. There, on the little screen, the creature that's enslaved millions. So small, so... cute. Bobbing side to side, its mouth closing and opening to make a tiny "o" -- like a sedated goldfish. "She said you'd probably like it," he said. "Oh, mom," I said. What to do, what to do? I felt like my loving, adoring cat had just plopped a disemboweled pigeon on my pillow looking for some scritchings of appreciation. "It's ridiculous," I said, starting a rant I decided not to finish. Pause, switch gears. "You know, they're in such in demand, every television station and newspaper in this town has done a story on them. There's a black market in 'em, even." Scritch scritch. "Thanks," I said. We walked around some more, heading down toward Kapi`olani Park. We stopped in a cheesy swimsuit store where Derek soundly convinced me that he will never, ever pick out anything I'd be expected to wear in public. And the thing hidden in my purse began to work its sinister power. I couldn't let an hour go by without pulling the thing out and staring at it. I didn't know how it worked. I didn't want to know how it worked. Yet, much in the same way a train-wreck would, the thing mesmerized me. "Like it?" he asked, having caught me looking. "I've seen them everywhere, but I'd never actually held one," I said. Then I knew it was Honesty time. "I honestly never saw the attraction." "Maybe you can find out," he said, poking me. If I didn't know better, for that one instant, I'd say he knew my feelings on the fad all along and was torturing me. Much like I would. "You know I'll probably kill it," I said. "It doesn't die," he said. If I could've spontaneously generated a crash of cymbals, a rumble of cellos and a crack of thunder as he said that, I would've. I settled for, "Oh?" He wasn't kidding. I read through the disgustingly cheery documentation, and the whole "death" thing's been written out -- no doubt for the sheltered, happy-ending addicted American market. Instead of croaking, the U.S. model "returns to its home planet." Tamogotchi 2.0 isn't a virtual pet, but instead a visiting alien who subjects himself to human care for some reason. Or so we're led to believe. I've taped him to my fridge. I'm going to stick to my guns. I'm going to see this thing quickly and gleefully to its end. I'm going to see if this version gets a halo and wings, or just turns into a spaceship or something. But I can feel its power. And it's spooky. I almost feel guilty. Almost bad. That stupid white clump of microchips which can't be hungry, can't crave attention, can't die -- I almost pity it. I almost... I almost want to save it. "Just a couple of buttons," a little voice says. "I know it doesn't matter either way, so why not give it a snack?" What the hell am I thinking? Must... resist! Must... not... be... assimilated! How's this for embarrassing? I just got a letter from my bank. We've been together for a while now, and they seem to think it's about time I switched over to one of their standard, fee-ridden checking accounts. "Congratulations on your upcoming graduation! Soon you'll be able to enjoy the benefits of our Basic Checking Account." I ought to show that to my adviser. They seem to have differing views on when I'll be eligible for parole. I dread trying to set things straight. I can just imagine the conversation now. Me: Hello. I think I received a letter in error. Bank Peon: What's the problem? Me: I'm not graduating this year. Bank Peon: Well, the thing is... Our records show you signed up for your Campus Checking account waaaay back in June of 1992. Me: Yes, that's right. Bank Peon: That was five years ago. Me: Yes... That's right. Bank Peon: So, when will you be graduating? Me: Um... The horror. Is my pride worth a $4 monthly service fee? Also in this weekend's mail, the latest "Harper's." There's a photo spread in it about an artist who was commissioned by LEGO to design a set (you know, like the "Castle" set, or the "Police Station" set), presumably in the hopes that -- whatever it was -- simply having his name on it would make it sell. What he came up with was a "Concentration Camp" set. The guards wear all black, right down to the tiny LEGO helmet. For the prisoners, instead of using the basic yellow LEGO men, he used the LEGO skeletons from another Halloween-themed set. And, in addition to the full camp setup, he designed three mini sets: the "Outdoor Corral" set, the "Illegal Genetic Experiment" set and the "Random Beating" set. Said a LEGO spokesman, "If the artist had described his ultimate project to us in advance, he naturally would never have received a single LEGO element from us!" I'm a sick, sick person. I know that now. Because I really appreciate a sense of humor like that. Makes me want to draft specs for a "Waco Compound" set. Or a "Heaven's Gate" set. Nothing's sacred. How about a "Oklahoma City" set, or a "Space Shuttle Challenger" set? Explosives not included. Maybe a "Hiroshima" set that you put in the microwave after you're done? Oh man, do I need professional help.