attack of the man-eating lotus blossoms.

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11 september 1997

8:36 p.m.

Dear diary, Having a four-hour hole in your class schedule leaves plenty of time to explore the absurdities of campus. I've been a student at Manoa for six years, and have almost always managed to compose the überschedule -- either Monday-Wednesday-Friday only, or if the fates are particularly generous, Tuesday-Thursday only. Sometimes I'd forget to factor in lunch, but convenience has its price. Unfortunately, one of the disadvantages of upper-division courses is the tendency of occasionally bizzare instructors to pick bizzare times for their classes. This morning -- early this morning -- while I was waiting for 2:30 to roll around, I figured I'd pass the time wandering the web in an air-conditioned computer lab. But when I wandered over to the Mac lab in Keller Hall, it was packed. So I tried the PC lab. Talk about a different world. Now, the Mac lab isn't exactly a haven of cutting-edge technology, but for a public university, its fairly well appointed. The PowerMacs aren't anywhere near new, but a year ago when I was puttering around on a Mac IIsi, they looked pretty damn good. The PC lab, though... I guess when they say schools are in love with Macs, they aren't kidding. Dusty, kludgy IBM 486s with hard drives that make almost as much noise as their clogged fans. Most keyboards were missing keys. And Netscape took about a minute to load. The internet connection was faster than the computer. While waiting for things to happen, I kept getting distracted watching other people fumble around Windows. I lasted maybe twenty minutes. I spent the rest of my free time reading random magazines in Hamilton Library. In retrospect, I will give the PC lab credit for one thing: giving outdated, degraded 5.25" floppies a new lease on life. See, at the Mac lab, you trade your student ID for a little laminated card with your computer number on it. A pink- or turquoise- or purple-highlighted card with flowers and happy faces. A card obviously drawn by a shoyu bunny who has yet to give up the cutesy "Keroppi" theme that defined her life in high school. The PC lab spares students the Pearl-City-High-yearbook typography, simply sticking numbered address labels on old disks. They made for a pleasant nostalgic pause... before I nearly sliced my finger open with one. I'm beginning to really dislike Elton John. He's a fine musician. But the whole "Candle in the Wind" thing really has me seething. Now, I can forgive rewriting one of his worst (yet, unsuprisingly, more popular) songs to be a tribute to Princess Diana. The two had a personal friendship of some degree, and grief makes people do odd things. Getting a gig during her funeral was -- in my opinion -- below tacky, but I place greater fault on the royal family for allowing it in the first place. Now, though, the song has quickly saturated the airwaves of every city and podunk town in the U.S. -- if not the world -- and record stores (well, Tower at least) are slapping up "coming soon" signs to herald its eventual release as a commercial single. Sure, a portion of the proceeds will go to this and that trust fund and charity... but you can't tell me the sharks aren't smiling at every level of the music industry. As John -- Diana's selfless, woe-ridden friend -- reluctantly trades his freshly-squeezed tears for one last, sweet taste of international fame. Sniff sniff. And it's a terrible song. Even with the new, melodramatically correct lyrics. You know, I've been itching to go into a restaurant -- Anna Millers, in particular -- with a handful of friends... taking special care to get on the waiting list, just to hear the hostess call: "Fox, party of five..." "Easy job for pretty girls." If only all classified job ads were that honest. I particularly enjoyed this week's Honolulu Weekly. In addition to my eternal favorites -- Cecil Adams and Rob Brezsny -- the issue had an interview with slam poet Justin Chin, a scathing attack on Marriott's campus food monopoly... and a review of the local bathroom scene. I thought immediately of Jay. No doubt dozens of his associates made the same connection. "Another crappy column," by the occasionally brilliant Mark Chittom, reviewed the toilets of the various nightclubs around town. Maharaja got the highest marks, as you would expect with any overhyped, overpolished pop club, but the best parts of the review were about the lousiest loos. I won't go into detail, but let's just say Jay would've been proud. What we need is a campus commode column... and I already know where to find the foremost expert in the field.