Lives

Portlock 1989I saved someone’s life once.

In the early 90s, I was at a big party some of my college buddies were throwing, & I pulled a girlfriend out of a car.   I hadn’t seen her since graduation, & after a brief reunion at the party, I’d seen her disappear with a guy I knew was bad news.   Some stupid sixth sense told me to go rescue her, so I went outside & yanked her drunk ass out of his car & told him to get lost.   I told her the party was over for her & I was going to drive her home.

That wasn’t the moment I saved her life though.   Ron was a total choad (pretty, witty, & smart… & a big fat misogynist womanizer), but not dangerous.

At the prospect of being taken home, she broke into tears & the whole sordid tale of her life since I’d last seen her spilled out – abusive drug dealer boyfriend who forced a pipe into her face & raped her with beer bottles, desertion by her family, no job, no home.   So I took her home with me, to the UH dorms.   I was in the apartments, so we had a couch.

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Tsu.

Disclaimer: it’s supposed to be tsu, with a little macron over the u, but too bad.

I’ve hated Facebook for a long time but I spend too much of my life there.   Most of us do.   And as time goes on, there are more & more ads, no longer confined to the sides of the interface but now even clogging up our newsfeeds.   And this is after the updated Timeline format which makes just a single post take up your entire fricking monitor so that you can no longer get an overview of what your friends are doing, but are instead forced to have only a single (or sometimes 1.5) post – super big & in your face – at a time.   And then there have been all the privacy disrespects.   Yes, I’m using a verb as a noun, & Facebook is the inspiration for this.   There’s poetry in that, but let’s talk about Tsu.

Tsu is another social platform, in its infancy.   Here’s a screenie of what the general interface looks like:

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On ending a friendship

Yeah yeah… I’m in a bad mood.   And I probably dropped a bunch of displaced anger on this guy because I’m dealing with a full-on Narcissistic Personality Disorder jerkface for a few more weeks.   But I mean it – when you end a friendship, if it ever had anything real to it, you say something to the other person.   Say goodbye, for chrissakes.   If you don’t, then you’re chickenshit.   Sorry, no other word for it. Chickenshit.

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Small light.

It’s been a rough few weeks.   Financial disasters, relational disappointments, antagonism from a coworker, social isolation, doom.   There’s not really anyone to talk to, not because of a lack of people who care, but rather a lack of people I feel like talking to.   The one person I feel might understand has gone away.   I know I’ll slowly work my way through this, but overall I’ve felt like I’m slipping back into that old depression.   I’ve spoken with my therapists; we go over practical care & solutions.   A whole bunch of things I have no motivation to go through the motions of.   I might be back to that kind of life where existence comes down to just taking one step, then taking one more.

What’s interesting is a little bit of self esteem, a little gift, that my mind keeps returning to.   I was at a fundraiser; one of those snotty $100-$200 per head dinners all the private school kids go to when they’re grown up.   There was a table of whores with their pimp, & I thought one of them was one of the most gorgeous girls I’d ever seen in her elegantly elaborate ballgown.   My boyfriend’s best friend had brought a date; a beautiful girl who remembered me from high school.   We’d met briefly in 9th grade; she’d only been there a little while, but she recognized me & said hello.   We ended up at different tables, but later on my boyfriend told me that she had told his buddy that when we were in 9th grade, I was the only person who was nice to her, & she’d never forgotten it.

I keep thinking about that.   Makes me smile.   I don’t know what it means, after I’ve saved lives, helped dying to the door, acted with honor in spite of abuse, sacrificed for others.   The only thing I remember, to warm myself, is that.   I don’t know what it means to only remember that.   Why has that become the only thing I’ve got?

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Perry fuckin’ Farrell!

Dinner at Kalapawai Cafe in Kailua; I picked Bryan & Erik up & we headed over the mountain.   I was listening to Ritual de lo Habitual, & at some point in “Then She Did” I switched to a Slash/Sixx AM/Panic Channel playlist because, I said, “Sorry guys, not sure if you listen to Jane’s Addiction at all.”   I don’t know a lot of JA fans any more.   Erik immediately said they were one of his favorite bands & then it was kind of a moment, because Jane’s Addiction IS my favorite band & has been most of my adult life.

JA ticket

Anyway, when we got to Kalapawai Cafe a little before 7, it was a 30 minute wait for a table, even though they were expecting us.   Kalapawai does not take reservations, & the place is slammed just about every day.   This was Wednesday, & last night they’d done 180 covers.   That’s just crazy for a place that size.

Anyway, it was a long wait, more than 30 minutes, but that’s just something that happens in small restaurants like this.   We stood around, chatting, outside, & I saw a dude that looked like Perry Farrell.   And then his wife, this super skinny, long legged, Cruella DeVille In The Summer-looking woman in mile high red heels, called him “Perry.”

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Myomectomy, Done

Kapiolani Admissions Waiting Room truly defines the meaning of "waiting"I had my open myomectomy on June 10 at 7:30 in the morning at Kapiolani Medical Center for Women & Children.   Check in was 5am & my dad dropped me off; Admissions is inside an office with a waiting room in which you sign in then wait for someone in the sealed off cubicles to call your name.

I was the only person there at 5am & it took only about 15 minutes for one of the girls in the cubicles to call me up.   I handed her my papers, she asked me a bunch of questions, gave me some other papers (HIPAA crap) to sign, she asked for my ID & insurance card (which was not listed in the instructions, but fortunately I had brought them just in case), & then I spent another half hour in the waiting room, which filled up quickly to the point of Standing Room Only & we all sat/stood there not looking at each other.   The dude next to me started snoring.

Someone came to call us to the surgery floor (basement) in 3s.   Once there, a girl who talked really fuckin’ fast walked me to a curtained room & handed me a package then explained what to do next to me.   I’m not stupid & she wasn’t telling me anything that difficult, but I had just come out of a waiting room coma, so I had to ask her to repeat herself a few times.   I also told her that she spoke really fast.   I’m not sure she understood me.

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