you are the perfect drug.

< back | up | next >

4 march 1997

10:13 p.m.

Dear diary, Finally. I'm sick. I'll spare you the graphic details of my developing illness, but let's say one of the sure signs I was in for it involved a Zippy's ZipPac. Everyone else was getting sick. My kumu was sick for two days a couple of weeks ago. At one point, almost half the PAs on the schedule at were out. Back then, if you called in sick, the head nurse would let out a booming, "Oooooooh, that's going around. No problem." She'd hang up the phone, tsk-tsking, shaking her head in earnest pity. I called in sick today, and it's like I'm the loser who caught on to some scam way too late. "Oh, you are, are you?" I'm sorry, I didn't know that excuse had expired. So, I slept most of today. Pesky moments of consciousness were quickly cured with NyQuil. NyQuil is good. Now Dennis Leary is running through my head. "I love NyQuil. Man, I love it! It's the best thing shit ever invented. I love the name alone. NyQuil -- Capitol N, small Y, big fucking Q! I love that fucking Q, don't you? ... It says on the back of the NyQuil box, 'May cause drowsiness.' It should say, 'Don't make any fucking plans!'" Okay. I'm a little... disoriented right now. Part of me knows I shouldn't be talking to you in this state, but the other part of me isn't sure I can make it to the bed again without falling over. Wonder of wonders, I finally saw "Hamlet" on Friday. The wait was worth it, thankfully. It almost didn't feel like it was as long as it was. They weren't kidding, either -- it's quite a challenge to stretch even a large bag of disgustingly-buttered popcorn across four hours. Greater wonder of wonders, I also wrote a review. It was a double date -- Derek and I and Walt and Kellie. Of course, we couldn't call it a double date, or anything remotely similar to the "D-word" (as was made explicitly clear during a pre-date briefing), but that's what it was. Walt then proceeded to doze off in the middle of Act I. We understood. As he bemoaned most of the afternoon, he pulled an all-nighter compiling some monthly report. He asked us to wake him if he started snoring, but we thought he was kidding. He wasn't. He does snore. Instinctively, I was poking him with my elbow to keep him awake. At first I was trying to do it so Kellie wouldn't notice, but then she started leaning forward and smiling at me when I did it. From that point, I nudged him simply for fun. As he drifted back to sleep, Kellie gave him a fond pat on the head. Those seven milliseconds later translated to about 90 minutes of gleeful lunchtime gibbering. We got out at 12:30 in the morning, by which point I could barely keep awake. Walt and Kellie had to get home, but Derek (rightfully) doubted my ability to drive. We then agreed that he would drive my car so I could sleep. I was so nervous with him behind the wheel, though, I was wide awake by the time we were headed up the Pali. He's an excellent driver, don't get me wrong. And my car's got so many dents I probably wouldn't notice if he bumped anything. But I've always had a problem sleeping in cars (or on planes, for that matter). Besides, going over the Pali is never boring. I'm glad I was awake, because that night the fog was really low. Going through the tunnels, the other end was just a white wall. Watching only the next twenty or so yards ahead winding around under a sweeping, billowing, gently rolling mist always makes me sigh. Even though it was dark and I couldn't see the mountains, I knew they were there above, scraping the clouds. When it's foggy during the day... it's breathtaking. Undoubtedly the best "Lucky You Live Hawai`i" moment of the year so far. Jesus freaks are apparently the flavor of the week on campus. Never mind "Phone Book Molester Man." The female Howard Stern of the Bible thumping set was out in front of Campus Center yesterday screaming at students. Literally screaming. And bleating like a lamb, at one point. I don't know what that was about. When I first walked past, she was pointing around in random directions and saying, "...that's why on campus, everyone says all the girls are whores! She's a whore, and she's a whore, there's a whore and there's a whore! Whore! Whore! Whore!" "Ooooookay," I thought. At least she hadn't pointed at me. She was still there when I came out with my friends, and we watched a while. For pure giggling-at-someone-else's-expense value, of course. To describe her "sermon" would be to lay out the most overblown of Christian gumby stereotypes. She pronounced "sexual" as "sex-yoooooo-aaaal," she waved a Bible around, and basically said most young people are going to "hay-all." (That's "hell" with two syllables.) The people on the steps were alternately laughing at her (which I think she was taking as encouragement) and throwing things at her. Drink cups, onion rings. There were also a few verbal exchanges that were pretty unproductive. Today, Greg put a story about the circus on the front page. There was a picture of her, looking like she was trying to pass a kidney stone. When asked what she thought about being the target of edible projectiles, she conjectured it was homosexuals that threw them. (Or would that be, "ho-mow-sex-yoooooo-aaaals"?) Truth be told, I have the utmost respect for people with earnest faith. Whether it's in one god, several gods, Gaia, the allmighty Kapathulu (ask Nate) or what have you, I respect them. Even admire them. But how, exactly, verbal abuse is supposed to convince others to join the fold is beyond me. "I'm a sinner? A practitioner of shameful sexuality? You don't say... And you want me to admit I'm an agent of Satan and accept the punishment I'm due? Why sure! Goldarnit, here's my phone number!" Admittedly, I didn't check. Maybe she was from the Church of Jesus Christ and Sadomasochistic Tendencies. Damn. I've exceeded my day's limit on NyQuil. It's 1 a.m. and I can't sleep. VH-1 (and if I were thinking right, I wouldn't even be watching VH-1) is doing a special on musicians that messed up because of drugs. Brad Nowell of "Sublime" was included. I think of all the musicians we lost last year, his death upset me the most. Unlike Shannon Hoon (Blind Melon), who'd already tasted success, Brad was only just on the verge of making it big. He died only months before their new album -- an awesome album -- was released. The CD liner includes a picture of him singing to his infant son Jakob. I almost cried when I saw it.