frailty thy name is woman.

< back | up | next >

3 september 1997

4:14 p.m.

I nearly pulled a Van Gogh this morning. The circumstances were unusual enough. Derek and I had decided to take advantage of the three-hour hole that sits smack dab in the middle of my Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule by eating lunch together. But when he swung by to pick me up, I didn't notice him at first, my gaze instead remaining fixed on the new POST building (otherwise known as the Big Blue Thing with a Hat). A high-pitched horn alerted me to his presence... in an entirely unrecognizable car. His car was in the shop, and as a loaner he'd received a purple Subaru station wagon of indeterminate vintage. Since it had air conditioning, though, I had no complaints. Well, except for its automatic seatbelts. Thankfully, Derek -- remembering the epileptic-esque seizure I had the last time I crossed paths with those accursed things -- warned me well in advance. When I got in, I saw little other evil in the nondescript little car. The color, in fact, reminded me of the base color of my website. All systems normal, we zipped off to Ka Hale `Aina o McDonald -- a favorite eatery among collegiate diners on a budget. Things took quite a turn, however, when I tried to get out. No doubt daydreaming about the succulent and juicy poultry nuggets that I was to partake of, my guard was down. Or my blood stupid levels were way up. Either way, things got ugly real fast. Right brain said open the door. Left brain said reach under the seat to retrieve my purse. As both had an upper-limb each at their command, these tasks were performed simultaneously. The door popped open, and the little belt mechanism proceeded dutifully along its track toward the front of the car. Thinking I'd successfully ducked the metal mount (which has undoubtedly dented many a skull in its day), I continued to feel for my purse below. Then came the sharp pulling sensation from above. My body somehow realized what was going on before my brain did, and within seconds I was half-crouched in the car, one leg out the door, with my neck cocked much like that of the RCA dog. Awkward, yes, but forgivable since the reflex probably saved both of us (and McDonald's) a considerable bloody mess. The belt had snagged my earring, but fortunately didn't yank it through my ear. That's not to say I wasn't in pain. At that very instant, two very powerful emotions tried to take over the helm. One was utter panic, looking to scream and flail and create a scene. The other was plain humiliation, praying no one would notice my predicament (and the grotesque half-squat I was frozen in). They reached a compromise, and the end result was a blind swing that landed on Derek's forehead and a perfunctory "fuck." "What?" he said, irritated. I began to explain, in clear yet colorful language, exactly what. He was out and around the car before I got to "and if you don't fix this..." -- which I honestly think would've been the best part. Derek tried to free me quickly, but there were two things obstructing his progress: the fact that the belt thing parks on the same end of the door as its hinge (forcing him to work things out from the other side of a window), and my head. After an eternity (twenty seconds, tops), I was free. My ear hurt like hell and my earring was bent, but at least the paparazzi hadn't shown up. I had a chocolate sundae and a large fries for lunch. I have no doubt automobile designers think about the possibility of accidents like these when figuring where to put stuff... and I have no doubt it gives them lots of yuks. I didn't get the job, but I'm not horribly upset. The Marine Science Building always gave me the creeps anyway, and I had these terrible visions of Mr. Stapler falling into Mr. Wastebasket in the dead of night when I couldn't save him. Interview for job number two is on Friday. No "light clerical" either. In a scene that was no doubt repeated in millions of classrooms across the country, discussion in one of my classes yesterday was largely focused on the death of Princess Diana. I just sat and watched the fireworks at first. The debate was lively and -- thanks to a high concentration of graduate students (poli sci majors, no doubt) -- fairly stimulating and articulate. In time, though, it looked like a general consensus was being built that the media is evil, and that the press will be the death of us all (to paraphrase badly). True to my nature -- or at least that element of my nature that thrives on chaos -- I jumped in as devil's advocate, just to see what would happen. I didn't quite defend the press. Truth be told I've had my fair share of spite for the breed myself. But I countered the basic assertion that the media was at fault. I concede some criminal judgements -- failure to render aid, at the very least -- against the paparazzi. But I unequivocably felt that the driver was most liable. I said the paparazzi were unquestionably guilty of being detestable, lousy human beings with no sign of common decency. But they were just easy targets. A while back, there was an accident in Hawai`i Kai where a car full of kids flipped over -- several were killed. The story was that the driver was egged into a race with another, unidentified car, and that it was otherwise wholly uncharacteristic of said driver to be reckless. There was a brief outcry over the inability of the police to locate the other car, who -- according to an angry mother -- was responsible for the deaths. I felt for her loss, but in my opinion, the fault landed squarely on her daughter. No one put a gun to her head and said, "get stupid." I'm pretty sure the courts -- in her case and in Paris -- will come to the same conclusion. The French driver was stupid to try and outrun the photographers, but to do so while sauced goes beyond any definition of recklessness. (One excellent question raised: Was he ordered to shake the paparazzi?) Finally, I said -- realizing I hadn't yet let anyone get a word in edgewise -- before you lambast the tabloid press for relentlessly pursuing celebrities at any cost, take a look at the voraciousness with which the public consumes the finished product. Half the people falling over themselves to leave flowers at the palace -- screaming "asassins!" at the assembled press -- probably have a four-foot stack of Suns and Enquirers at home. (It's a chicken-and-egg thing, I know, but no one thought to bring that up.) The class was pretty much over after that. I didn't think anyone liked much of what I said. One guy, though, chased me down in the hall to say he liked what I said. And asked if I was doing anything tomorrow night. Don't worry, I was nice about it. I have to say, though, he bore a striking resemblance to Nate (but without the creepy goatee).