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2001: The Viagra Years
What a way to start the new year! And, not just any year. It's Year 2001, a Space Odyssey. For the ol' lavahead, it's simply the Viagra Years. Of course, I only mean that figuratively since I am a monk by trade. By the way, I didn't mean to rush off like that. It's still New Year's Eve and I'm sitting at the computer. Typing away while listening to NetRadio House. Everyone else is out partying and carrying on. I had my "party" earlier today in the form of a 12-pack of cheap Keystone brewskis. Frankly, I think that my liver is giving out. Whenever I imbibe, I notice an annoying discomfort just below my upper left torso. Wouldn't that be pathetic? After all I've been through, only to be done in by the cheap brewskis.
The whole city of Honolulu looks and sounds like a war zone. The putrid smell of sulfur fills the air. I'm only thankful that NetRadio House is jammin'! Monk music. Soothes the liver as well. So, here it is, Year 2001 and all, and the look and feel of the journal is still the same. I wanted to change its look entirely for the occasion, but why bother? Will that make the journal more exciting? Hell no. There's not even a cheesy attempt at an aesthetically appealing title bar. Sheesh!
I can hardly believe that my vacation is almost over. I'll be returning to the salt mines shortly. I can't say that I'm refreshed. Remember last New Year's Eve? Yes, I was at the Marakesh in Portland with Barbara and John. We were waiting for the world to end, or when all the computers were supposed to crash. I remember making the vow that I was going on the wagon. What happened? So much for New Year's resolutions. I'm listening to Those Nights by Miguel Migs as we speak. One-man houseparty!
Well, what is this new year, the real New Millennium, going to have in store for us? Will the cheap brewskis become a thing of the past? Will the liver recover? Who is to say? Let's hope that you stay with us for the long haul. If you are disembarking, please accept our thanks for having stayed with us. Always remember — the white zone is for passenger loading and unloading only.
Monday January 1, 2001
All hell broke loose at midnight. I couldn't hear myself think, no less breathe. The noise subsided within 20 minutes. I am surprised that so many people repeat this ritual year after year. Most people love rituals, I suppose. That explains, of course, how guys can watch one football game after another, or even two or three at the same time. I don't mind watching a game every decade or so. After a while, it's all redundant. You may be quick to point out my redundant life and, yes, you would be correct. Take today, for instance. I sat in my favorite chair, then moved myself outside to my beloved resin chair. I alternated between the two chairs all day. Every now and then, I would pass out in my favorite chair. I am not exactly amused by this lifestyle. However, I am locked in a financial prison with nowhere to go.
What would I do if I had even a small amount of spare dough? I don't know. What I do know is that I wouldn't be spending all day sitting in my beloved resin chair. If I had alternative activities, then I wouldn't be so inclined to drop back cheap brewskis in quantity. I don't have much companionship these days, and I am doing nothing to change that. I'm a loner and prefer to be that way. That's one of the symptoms of a true psycho. I have not heard from a soul in weeks.
On another note, I have no idea why Clarke Bynum hasn't been named The Bull of the New Millennium. After discovering that the plane he was a passenger on was spiraling in a deadly nosedive, Bynum calmly made his way to the cockpit. Observing a psycho (referred to only as the "Kenyan") forcing the plane's controls downward, Bynum quickly applied the Sleeper Hold on the suspect, relying on what he called "strength within" to guide him through the ordeal. He saved the lives of 398 people.
Well, this is the beginning of the Viagra Years. A whole new saga. Soon my only road to adventure will be my attempts to stave off the effects of senility. I'm already wondering whether I make old man noises in public without being aware of it. It's only a matter of time before I unwittingly join the unkempt nose hair crowd. Well, you'll be here with the ol' lavahead when that happens. Hopefully, I won't be too senile to record these events for the journal and the LavaheadCam. Lord have mercy!
Tuesday January 2
This is the last day of my vacation. I am dreading my return to the salt mines. Sheesh! My dermatology appointment almost cost me $40. However, I noticed that I was charged the regular price for the Retin-A ointment. My coverage provides for all prescriptions less a $5 co-payment. Fortunately, the problem was rectified. I am very cognizant of these costs since I must now pay rent. Hopefully I will be able to stop the General Noriega effect with this medication. Though, will I still be able to call myself the ol' lavahead?
I really didn't do much else today, although I am pressed for time to get quite a few things done. I have no idea why I've become so complacent. I had time to reflect on a lot of things this morning mainly because I took the 9:30am street bus. I thought about all of the years that I wasted. I also recollected a few fond memories in my old undergraduate days. One year that will always stand out is 1975. It's kind of a pivotal year. That's, of course, when I met John (in Modesto), also known as "Ibo." He and another guy named Conolly were suitemates of mine at Tropicana Village. I also met John (in San José) that year when Ibo, Conolly, and I had been partying at a neighboring apartment complex. Ibo and I met John because he was standing outside his apartment, and we had noticed there were two huge Voice-of-the-Theater speakers in his living room. This was the same party that Conolly was accused of throwing a hibachi off of the third floor unto someone's car in the parking lot. Anyway, there were some fun times. Some of my more favorite phrases such as "mummify the situation" also had origins in that time period. And, you may recall that I had previously discussed the Sunrise Incident and Homestead Act. Yep, that happened in 1975 as well. Why I was thinking about all of this, I do not know. If the Web were around then, I'd have one hell of a journal today.
I was also thinking about the discussion I had with Pseudo-professor Gordon last Friday. Let me call him "Gordo" since he always calls me "Boss." Gordo has been a pseudo-professor for four years now, and this was after he conferred his doctorate. He used to be a cop. Gordo is kind of a funny guy. He speaks at only one volume level — loud enough for a large lecture hall. He detailed similar experiences to my own in his quest to find legitimacy. In discussing the various campuses, I noticed that the same names kept popping up like a bad sitcom. I am only slightly comforted in knowing that I am not the sole low man on the totem pole.
I bought a Whopper (my way, of course!) for lunch. I sat outside and ate it since it was such a nice day. I continued to reflect on my life. I have been fortunate to survive under adverse conditions. I am a wage slave, but I do not work more than 25 hours per week. I don't get paid for holidays and vacations. Yet, I am able to scrape by. I also have health insurance coverage. The one thing that I don't have is job security. I could find myself unemployed again at any time. I feel insignificant because all I can afford is a Whopper (99 cents, by the way). I look at all of these fools around me. They must make a lot of dough. It's obvious because they spend close to $6 per day for a huge plate lunch. Most of these idiots also smoke one or two packs of cigarettes per day. At $4 a pack, that's at least $120 per month. Don't even get me started on how they all drive to work. Gas and parking alone would clean me out. I guess they all make six-figure incomes like the handmaiden's "friends." I make a four-figure income. Low man on the totem pole.
Wednesday January 3
Well, I've returned to the salt mines, much to my chagrin. I sure miss those carefree days of old. Every day was dumb and dumber, but we sure enjoyed it. I remember one day, back in the Tropicana era, when I happened to be sitting in the living room. Conolly briskly walked into the apartment. He picked up the phone and called someone.
"Hello, is Wally there?" he asked, feebly attempting to disguise his gravelly voice. "Wally ... is that you? Do you use your right hand?" Conolly burst out laughing and slammed the phone handset on its cradle.
"What the hell was that about?" I asked.
"That damned redneck." Naturally, anyone who didn't agree with Conolly was a "redneck."
Apparently, Conolly had been visiting his buddy, who was renting a room from some old geezer named Wallace. Wallace must have given them a hard time. I'm sure that Wallace recognized Conolly's deep voice. That was his trademark. From that point on, we always mocked Conolly and the "Wally voice." I still get a laugh out of this, thinking about how ludicrous it was to call some old guy and ask him if he choked the chicken.
Hard as it may be to admit, although Ibo and I were comedians of our own accord, it was Conolly who was the driving force. Because Conolly's reputation preceded him, it naturally drew in many people to our ever growing clique. He became a legend for some of the dumbest things. His Nike shoes, for example. He wore that pair every day without socks. They smelled bad when he had them on. One night, Ibo and I were egging him on about his beloved Nikes. Conolly lost it. The next thing I knew, all the lights were off and the furniture was overturned. Conolly had removed his Nikes and was screaming and broadly waving them around in the air. The smell was terrible. I remember both Ibo and I gagging and gasping for air, while screaming and running amuck as Conolly chased us both around with those stupid shoes. He was laughing like a maniac with that deep, gravelly voice. The same voice that he used when he called his buddy Wally. Ibo and I split up, which caught Conolly off guard. We both ran into our respective rooms and locked the doors. Connoly was foaming at the mouth and banging on our doors with the Nikes. He then put the Nikes against the gap under each door and attempted to pump them so the putrid air would permeate into our rooms. He succeeded. I could hear Ibo choking and screaming. I was almost ready to pass out. Then, all was quiet. Both Ibo and I attempted to exit our rooms. Conolly faked us out and came running at us while screaming and waving the Nikes about. He did this a couple more times and then he disappeared. Ibo and I ran through the apartment and out into the courtyard. We were coughing and gagging. Naturally, everyone heard the commotion and wanted to know what happened. We restored the lights and found the Nikes lying in the living room. Everyone was choking and gagging. Finally, someone found a plastic bag. We hermetically sealed the Nikes and threw them up on the roof. Conolly returned the next day. He was furious because no one would tell him where the Nikes were. Someone finally told him. I can't remember whether he wore the Nikes again, but Ibo and I never made fun of them again.
I know these stories mean nothing to most people. They date before the time of the journal, but you can probably understand why LoserNet came about. It's real life like you've never seen it before.
Thursday January 4
I recall the one evening in which Conolly and the other non-descript suitemate were going out partying. Conolly was wearing his penguin shirt. "When I wear the penguin shirt, I mean business," he told Ibo and I, as he pointed to the penguin logo. I assume that he was describing the act of wooing babes. Later that evening, Conolly did return with a couple of babes. He and the non-descript suitemate hung out with the babes for a couple of hours and then they all left.
For some reason, Conolly gave up the pursuit of babes, although one of his favorite lines that he often catcalled the babes was, "Get down, mama!" I don't recall ever seeing the penguin shirt again, although Ibo and I never let that one die. It's hard to describe Conolly. He was tall and gangly. He had long, stringy hair and a cropped beard. He looked like an ex-hippie, for the most part. He had a droopy expression, such that Tammy (of Sunrise Incident fame) called him "Bloodhound." The strange metamorphosis that Conolly took on was interesting. He somehow attracted, or should I say, sought out the derelicts such as "Outer Limits" (some clown who wore his shades all the time and rode a scooter), the "Navy Man" (some ex-Navy guy), and "Our Fourties Friend" (another misfit who dressed in 1940s fashions, not to be confused with "The Fourties Friend," a well-endowed babe who had almost every guy in awe of her). In fact, I asked Conolly, "Why couldn't you befriend someone like The Fourties Friend instead of Our Fourties Friend?"
Conolly, Ibo, and I always sat around and talked in the living room. People were always coming by because it was an endless source of entertainment. Conversations ended up the same. Conolly would badger everyone into a heated debate. We'd all be yelling. Conolly would be accusing everyone of being a "Nazi." This was all in jest, mind you. Conolly also developed some kind of acute preoccupation with the "Roman Helmet," as he called Vienna Sausage. Either he would talk incessantly about it, or he would bring up something related to it at any time. Take, for example, how he would terminate our debates if he perceived that he was losing. "Well, what do you want me to do? Whip my dick out?" he would blurt out. "Take your right and move it up and down!" and "Dick Nixon!" (or any other famous guy with the first name, Dick) or "Vaseline!" were his other favorites.
Our little group continued to grow, absorbing as much comedic talent as imaginable. Most of us moved to the Valencia section during the Summer. Ibo had moved to another apartment complex but visited frequently. By this time, Ibo had become a double-knit dope dealer. This is the time period that I met the guy who would eventually be known as "Freeway." He lived next door. He was a big guy, kind of like John Candy. Conolly lived in the next building. Of course, when Conolly and Freeway met, all hell broke loose. The real comedic talents of Freeway were unleashed. Conolly named him "Freeway" because of some dumb story that Freeway had told him. I discreetly asked Freeway about the incident to confirm the story. Sure enough, he proudly told me in graphic detail about how some babe (one of his many) had given him head while driving 60 mph on the freeway in LA. "One minute, I was in the fast lane. Next minute, I was in the slow lane," he said. This from a guy who looked like John Candy. Freeway was an endless source of stories and entertainment. He later told Conolly and I about how he had gained so much weight. It wasn't his fault. He was in a coma in the hospital for reasons that now elude me, so he had to be fed intravenously. Someone left the IV unit on too long and so he allegedly overdosed. "Too much glucose," he told us.
That's life as I know it as we begin to celebrate the five laborious years of LoserNet. I wish I had brought along my beloved digital camera today because Pseudo-professor Robert, Pseudo-professor Ralph, and I were at the faculty computer center at the same time. Certainly a Kodak moment. We had an interesting discussion about the life of a pseudo-professor, rap music, and more. Sheesh!
Friday January 5
Five years ago today, the original Web site that would end up as LoserNet was launched. It was an uneventful debut, at best. I found that I had much more time on my hands, so I decided to engage in a somewhat more constructive activity. I designed the site on-line through my beloved AIX account. I used the Pico text editor, if you can believe it. I spent about an hour last night perusing the original journals. I couldn't stop laughing. I haven't read that stuff in what seems like years. The days of the gym gang (The Bull et al.) were so similar to the prolific 1975 era. I also perused the more recent material and found it unbearable. I didn't even bother to look at the [UJ] archive. Sometimes I believe that I should just delete that stuff. Tiina (in Finland) is probably right — I should just leave the damned thing closed. The reason that I didn't delete the more recent crap has nothing to do with vengeance. This may seem warped, but my reasons were more altruistic. I often received e-mail from people who were either in a similar situation or something equally depressing. They have usually expressed that the journal (as a whole) has helped them through those tough times.
When I looked in my faculty mailbox at the Asylum, I saw a small, gift- wrapped package. I took it with me back to the university, thinking that it was another token gift from the administration. There have been many gifts of candy and other things during the holidays. When I opened the package, I discovered that it contained a small set of windchimes. Jacob's Little Piper® Chimes, to be exact. I called and talked with Mercy at the academic office. She told me that Malia had left the gift. There was no card or anything to identify its origin, so I did not know. I haven't really kept in touch with Malia. Our friendship has been somewhat strained ever since that e-mail I received in which I was made me feel like a schoolboy gone bad. I talked with her once on the phone since then. She mentioned something about about going on a sorrowful date with some clown, in addition to the usual stuff. I sensed a level of feminine wiles and game-playing. It is sad but often inevitable.
I didn't do much today. My motivation is at an all time low. Pseudo-professor Ralph and I made some microwave popcorn for lunch. He has also been trying to persuade me to go for the doctorate. Frankly, I don't know what to do. As I waited for the express bus this afternoon, I saw a derelict walking around and hitting people up for money. When he looked straight at me, I knew that I was next in line.
"I'm 25 cents short of bus fare," he told me. His face was swollen and bruised. There was the distinct smell of booze on his breath.
"What exactly are you asking me?" As if I didn't know.
He then asked for the 25 cents. I gave it to him. He looked at me defiantly and told me something about how I was looking "a little staunch." He then babbled something about being an officer in the marines and that he had been in a few fights. I was certain that I would have to use my pepper spray, and then pummel him. "I'm going to sleep now," he said, as he laid down next to the Christmas tree display in the Pacific Financial Plaza. "I'm going to sleep right here."
Saturday January 6
The ugly ho's daughter was outside with her loser boytoy until about 2 o' clock in the morning. I'm not sure what they were doing but it sure sounded like da wild thing. I called the cops at 1:30am. Twenty minutes elapsed before one responded. By that time, the little ho' and her boytoy had finished up their business. The cop only circled the cul de sac and departed. A few minutes later, several punks in a pimped-out pickup truck screeched into the lolo's driveway. Rap music was playing and the bass was pumped up. Apparently, the little ho' had called in her posse, no doubt to scare the bad ol' puddy tat. Nothing happened, but I had both my pepper spray and my Nova Spirit ready.
This morning, I realized why the amorous delinquents had chosen to do the deed just a few feet from my bedroom window. The other neighbors had left all of their outside lights on. Therefore, that side was too well lit. So, I went to City Mill and invested in one of those sensor-driven high-pressure sodium security lights. It was a $70 setback, and the installation was not easy. I had to Rube Goldberg the whole mounting process, but it turned out fine. The new security light is on as we speak, and it is bright. If the little ho' chooses to do the nasty in the same location, then she will give the whole neighborhood a show.
I had to drop back a few cheap brewskis. Fortunately, I had some left from last weekend. I certainly couldn't afford to buy any this week, what with the rent and the sodium security light and all. I was in a bad way for most of the day. In fact, I was on the verge of erupting in senseless violence. After successfully installing the new security light, I felt better. However, I am now perturbed that I drank the cheap brewskis since I had vowed to go on the wagon this weekend. The sinister kahuna was at play again. None of these things just happen by accident. In all my years, I have failed to drop to my knees and pay homage to the sinister one. For that, I will pay dearly. There will be more tests and more tribulation. If you've read the journal, you know what I mean.
I don't plan on giving in. I have set my goals and I intend to see them through, regardless of the lolo's idiotic family or anyone else. I know that I am weak. The flesh is always weak, even though the spirit is willing. Sheesh! I have spent the last few evening reading some of the early journals. So much foolishness, so little time. Certainly brought back old memories. There will be more, I'm sure.
Sunday January 7
I was in a bad way all day again. My patience is at its limit. Naturally, this is the perfect day for my sister-in-law to show up after moms cooked another feast. It doesn't take a genius to see why moms is broke. A moron can also figure out that I am now indirectly subsidizing my bro's family as well. The whole situation stinks. Same with the lolo's family. I've had to invest hundreds of dollars in security equipment and now the high pressure sodium security light just because of a small handful of inconsiderate jackasses. In essence, that's how it works. Jackasses live a good life. They can live a good life because their lack of responsibility doesn't cost them a cent. Who picks up the tab? The kind and considerate people, of course! I've often contemplated becoming a thoughtless and inconsiderate [rectum], but I just couldn't do it. There is something inside me called a conscience. Not many people have one these days.
I had to drop back the last three cans of cheap brewskis. That was the only way I could sedate myself. I also did the houseboy chores. I could do as my bro and his family did. You may recall that moms waited on them hand and foot. The modest rent they paid, I suppose, justified their behavior. Nothing has changed since I started paying rent. I have a whole list of chores that I do on a routine basis. At this point in time, I really wish I had enough dough to move out on my own. I want my own place again. I want complete privacy. A monastery, as it were.
I sat outside in my beloved resin chair this evening, after I enjoyed watching the high-pressure sodium security light start up at dusk. It is a warm evening, and perfect to watch the full moon traverse the clear sky. Hard to believe it's the middle of Winter, eh? I could hear the laugh track on the tube in all of the neighboring houses. I can't say that I miss the tube. I also watched the the geckos (known in Hawai'i as the "lizard") congregate by the kitchen window. They must be attracted to light. I might as well enjoy these quiet evenings when I can.
I can't say that I'm in the mood to return to the salt mines. Last night, I was reading the journal of a few years ago and stumbled across that time I was fired. What a riot! I don't even understand how I made those adverse situations seem humorous. I have lost that ability, at least insofar as writing is concerned. There are not too many differences from then and now. I was equally fatigued. My fragile mental state was always in jeopardy. The real difference is that I had a lot of comical friends and associates around. Here I am alone. Living at home with moms has also not helped. However, I must remain focused. I have to meet the minimum of my financial goals before I can venture out on my own again. Yes, I'll probably be a 50-year-old virgin. Does it matter? I'm sure that there will be a way out of this mess. I'll eventually end up in permanent seclusion and live happily ever after. Will you still be there with the ol' lavahead when that happens? I hope so. Maybe we can plan a big celebration with lots of cheap brewskis. I just hope that the ol' liver holds out until then. Sheesh!
Monday January 8
An uneventful day, at best. I did my usual lectures. James, a student who missed the Friday class, wanted to turn the assignments in late due to special circumstances. He alleged that he was in court. So, I convened my own hearing with myself and another student as the presiding "judges." The rest of the class was in stitches as the "defendant" made his plea. I grilled the "defendant" about whether he had known on the Wednesday prior about his court appearance, which he did. Then, I continued to grill him concerning his feeble defense and for not informing anyone before-the-fact instead of after-the-fact. I was ready to let the "defendant" off with a warning and a stiff reprimand, but the other "judge" was not as forgiving. A bribe in the form of a candy bar changed her opinion. I should also note that I have been wearing my shades during all of my lectures since returning from the vacation. Now you know why I call that place the Asylum.
Moms was complaining about the how the new high-pressure sodium security light should be left on for shorter durations. I quickly mummified the situation. "That sodium security light is going to pay for itself many times over. For one thing, It may prevent me from getting an ulcer because the lolo can't control his family. It may also allow me to get some sleep so I perform my tasks and remain employed," I said. I had also observed the young ho's boytoy at about 11 o' clock last night. He walked up to the driveway, turned around and went home. Too bright to do the nasty. In that sense, the sodium security light has paid for itself as of last night. I requested an application for the neighborhood board. If it is worth anything, then I will apply for it. Hawai'i Kai is doomed to go to hell in a handbasket very soon. Too many of the old folks like moms are still in disbelief while these wannabe hoodlums are cruising around with the gangsta attitude.
This just in ... the sodium security light has shut down twice for no apparent reason. I believe that someone is shining a flashlight at the sensor. The only people home are at the lolo's place (i.e., ugly ho'). Hmmmmm. Now, who could it be? These are the kind of games that get people hurt real bad. That how stupid locals are. Don't worry, they won't let us down. Something dumb will happen. The whole idea about putting up the sodium security light goes back to the conversation which I had with Thompson, the ex-cop. He had told me that the best deterrent for "mischief" or criminal activity is proper lighting. He's right. The minor mischief that I witnessed tonight will lend itself to more deviant behavior. They will cross the line. And, I will be there to greet them.
Tuesday January 9
Once again, I've over-reacted to my own stupidity. The sodium security light was shutting itself off because the light reflects off of the column almost directly in front of it. The sensor probably changes tolerance based upon temperature and other ambient conditions. Therefore, it didn't start acting up until last night. Once again, I had to Rube Goldberg a solution. I have thumbtacked some black fabric onto the offending column to minimize the reflection. I also must use the old phone trick again in order for my PC-Card modem to connect. I initiate the dialing sequence and then run to the phone to take it off the hook. Why this works, I do not know. It seems that my whole life revolves around Rube Goldberg techniques. This is, of course, the price one pays for substandard products to begin with. The affluent never have these kinds of problems because they can afford to buy decent goods.
Looks like we are in a recession. Even the Fed couldn't prop up the economy with its Rube Goldberg solution. My pathetic investments have dwindled down to extremely small change. Sheesh! I have been taking the first express out of downtown so I can return home early to do the yardboy chores. I have removed two stumps so far. I am in the process of removing the third one, but it is giving me grief. The Neighborhood Board application has arrived. I will submit it, even though I don't stand a chance to be elected. I'm a non-entity. Just call me Mr. Nobody.
Wednesday January 10
I'm about ready to throw in the towel insofar as my sanity is concerned. I was approached by a staff member at the Asylum this morning with the question, "Are you still dating Malia?" It has literally been months since I've said much more than "hello" to Malia. Yet, this rumor is still floating around. It's plainly obvious that Roach never did anything to squelch the rumor that he helped spread. The real origin of the rumor, of course, rests with Toad. You may recall that the main point about "fraternization" between student and faculty was highlighted by the letter accompanying the new employee manual. This now confirms how this explicit new rule (the only sanction being termination) had its basis on a rumor, not fact, that Malia and I were "dating." In my own investigations, I have discovered that there are no students who have heard this rumor or have drawn similar conclusions based on their own observations. The students, however, do recollect the blatant disregard of the fraternization policy perpetrated by Roach and his sidekick Maria. My in-class evaluation by a stooge of the administration is scheduled for tomorrow. I don't know why they bother. I am the only faculty member who hasn't received a merit pay raise since I've been hired. And, given that the stupid rumor is still circulating, I can guarantee that I will not receive a raise this year either.
I was even more shocked to learn that hardly any staff members know about Toad's other life as a stalker. No one knows that I had gotten a restraining order and injunction against Toad. Needless to say, no one knows that Toad was arrested for violating the injunction. Roach and Maria have done such a good job of protecting Toad such that they inadvertently increased Toad's credibility. And, you may recall that Roach had reprimanded me about the alleged "fraternization." The coward also told Malia that my position was in "jeopardy," although he has yet to tell me that to my face. This is the kind of crap that makes me despise locals and their moronic ways.
I also discovered that one of my classes at the university will be canceled. So, I will have even less dough. Couple this great news with my discovery that my total losses (since the recession started in November) are at $3,000 and it's easy to see why I'm ready to lose it. I am in negotiation now to see if I can pick up another class in place of the one I'll be losing. I just hope that moms doesn't join in the chorus by complaining that the sodium security light is using up too much electricity. It's only a 35-watt bulb, damnit!
I'm sure that all of you know the entity who is choreographing all of this. Yes, none other than the sinister kahuna! Even the most casual observer should have noted that too many things go wrong for the ol' lavahead to be coincidence. One last note. I was told by the staff member that there is one other faculty member who is in questionable standing — Erin, an English instructor. She recently obtained a pseudo-professorship at the university as well. Rumors have been circulating about how she has been coming on to several male students. I am going to make it a point to talk to her. In the meantime, I'm ready to lapse into a coma.
Thursday January 11
The cops were at the lolo's place when I left for town this morning. The cop was talking to a young male dressed like a gangsta, most likely the young ho's boytoy. I'm already seeing my prediction come to life. As the young ho' grows into the high school years, I fully expect to see a lot of punks hanging out next door. If left unchecked, the only result will be mischief which will ultimately lead to criminal activity.
I have no idea how the in-class evaluation went. Frankly, I don't care. I am extremely disappointed by everyone at the Asylum. These rumors have been circulating behind my back for over three months. No one, not even the people who knew the truth, came forward to put an end to that cowardly behavior. That's how locals do things. The Aloha Spirit is a sham.
I spent most of the afternoon talking with Professor Lisa about a wide variety of subjects. I found the time enjoyable and refreshing. Actually, Professor Lisa is about the nicest person on the faculty roster. We discussed many aspects of the puzzling local culture as well. She has been living in the islands now for only a couple of years, so her observations were of interest to me. Needless to say, most of what she told was exactly the same as my own observations. We have an acutely self-destructive local culture. The melding of immigrant and indigenous groups has yielded an economically and intellectually disenfranchised by-product.
When I returned home, I had another taste of the local ways. Moms was complaining about our neighbor (not the lolo) and how he was a shady guy. My reaction was as expected. I went into a discourse about the tendency of locals to talk stink and let the animosity grow. I also mentioned that the neighbor isn't going to pull a fast one on me because I am like a haole. I make locals very uncomfortable, especially since I had decided to never speak Pidgin English again. I have been spending more time talking with moms, which has been enjoyable. Well, sometimes I have to use Pidgin English to get my point across. Sheesh! Well, I spent so much time talking story all day such that I did not complete the application for Neighborhood Board elections. I have decided to go for it. My impetus? The lolo and his family of losers, of course.
Friday January 12
An uneventful day. I didn't get much done. The Neighborhood Board application is still incomplete. I have noticed that I spend to much time on the Net. That's what I do at the faculty computer center. Then, I spend a few more hours on the Net every evening. What a loser's life! I have decided to keep Malia out of the loop insofar as the situation at the Asylum is concerned. She has had enough of that crap. No sense in the both of us having to relive that horrid past. My only excitement is waiting in anticipation for the sodium security light to start up. I noticed that the lolo has installed a keyed lock on the decrepit gate to his yard. The fence is almost completely rotted. If I blew on it, I'd reduce it to toothpicks. So, why the lock? When one is an idiot, the sky is the limit insofar as sheer stupidity is concerned.
Well, according to Salon, a group of monks formed a rock band, which eventually produced a platinum CD. However, that did not go over with the Church. "Certain monks have used novel ways to relay the message of Christ," the Church said in a statement. "This type of activity is not consistent with the lengthy monastic tradition." The Church suggested that the bearded monks should lay down their guitars and return to their cells. Sheesh!
This is the beginning of a three-day weekend. I will probably spend most of the time in a coma. Yet, I seriously doubt that I'll be rejuvenated at the end of the holiday. I have already noticed that I must revise the layout of the earlier installments of the journal. Screen resolutions have increased and the old layout is obsolete. I had quite a laugh reading Life and Times of a 41-Year-Old Virgin. It's hard to believe that all that crap really happened. All of those people were real as well. I could have used the Nova Spirit back then, eh?
Saturday January 13
I lapsed in and out of a coma all day. I received my annual financial summary. My investments netted a big negative 34 percent (obviously a loss). I removed the third stump. Two more to go. No cheap brewskis. Let us see how long I can hold out. The sodium security light was, once again, the highlight of my day. I also broke out the Bose Acoustic Wave, mainly because I was losing my mind. I now know firsthand what it is like to be in prison. I tuned to the new station, 102.7 Da Bomb. Pseudo-professor Robert had clued me in about the station. Naturally, his favorite song about finding a "project chick" came on within minutes.
This station, along with my other favorite, I-94, and X-treme radio are the three popular stations at least amongst the under-30 group. The music? Party music, what else? The lyrics? Scandalous. As I sit here listening to this stuff, I am feeling "nervous." Remember when The Master became "nervous"? I am beginning to feel like a true loser. I should be out at the club, checking out the situation, and bustin' a move on the babes. That's the power of the media. Now you can see why I keep the Bose Acoustic Wave boxed up. Lord have mercy!
I have finally decided to keep the Acoustic Wave. I've lost enough dough this year. It is the only all-in-one entertainment center I'll ever need. I lamented in the days of Loser that it was imperative to own the Bose. Heck, it looks strange. It has absolutely no features. It's damned expensive. However, there's nothing that comes close to it insofar as the quality of sound is concerned. If you are planning to buy an audio system, check out the Bose Acoustic Wave (refer to the KnowledgeBase). Tell 'em the ol' lavahead sent you.
Sunday January 14
More of the same. Favorite chair. Coma. Resin chair. Bose Acoustic Wave. I have opted to listen to the usual psychotic classical pieces on public radio. "Unkempt nose hair crowd" music. I forgot to mention the crazy antics of the neighbors. The idiot with the van woke me up yesterday morning with a slammin' soirée. I have no idea why he must open and close each of the doors on that stupid van for over an hour. Today, the "shrewd" neighbor was vacuuming his yard with a ShopVac. Then, we have the lolo. This is the armpit of Hawai'i Kai. Da 'hood resembles Waipahu and Wai'anae more than anything else. Thank goodness that I have the sodium security light.
I haven't completed the Neighborhood Board application. I have second thoughts. My goal is to remove myself from society, not get myself further entangled in its dubious web. What I really need is a mindless weekend job. It would bring in marginally more dough and keep me occupied. Heck, it might end up being my career choice.
Monday January 15
I was rudely awakened at 5:30am. Because my bro and sister-in-law both had to work, moms thought I did as well. All I wanted to do is get some sleep. First, I was privy to the slammin' soirée on Saturday. Now this. I was extremely pissed off. The whole world seems to revolve around the bro and his family. Since he is married and is a blue collar worker, he is more "legitimate" in the eyes of the locals, including moms. I am a part time employee, but I probably make more than either my bro and sister-in-law, even with their overtime pay. However, something is wrong because I only work 25 hours per week. Essentially, I must be a freeloader. If you can understand what I described, then you also understand the stupidity that is prevalent amongst the locals.
I wanted to relax, but I spent the day doing the yardboy chores. Moms made a bunch of food and took the bus to my bro's place. Did anyone give moms a ride back? What do you think? Yet, moms feels so sorry for the "legitimate" members of the family who work so hard to make a living. That's why I am subsidizing them indirectly now. If you've read the account of the Ninja Turds when I first returned to Hawai'i, you must be wondering how moms bought into this nonsense. Frankly, I don't know either. They had it good for too many years. Moms was a slave in her own house.
Most haoles are also puzzled by the locals. The actions of these simple-minded morons is baffling. All of that is inconsequential. I must proceed with my own plan. An e-mail from Hermit was enough to remind me of my priorities. The Neighborhood Board application was submitted. So, I will appear on the ballot. I bought a six-pack of cheap brewskis and consumed it all. I just couldn't take it anymore. I was in a stupor for the rest of the afternoon. I am beginning to realize what my whole problem is. I've got to live on my own. I'm not sure if I can do this for three more years, but that is how long it should take for me to reach my financial goals (provided that I do not incur any more losses and the economy recovers). I've set my goal at arbitrarily saving $100,000 by the end of Year 2004. Not enough to retire, that's for sure. And, I'm not even close to meeting my goal of saving $25,000 annually. Sheesh! I just want out. I want to get away from the madding crowd, as it were.
Tuesday January 16
Big headache. I've got to stop droppin' back the cheap brewskis! Five years ago, I was on the wagon. I had been on the wagon for a little over a year. Not being sedated all the time, I found that every little thing got on my nerves. And, why not? My nerves were shot. I vaguely recalled that I was losing my mind because of my pacing buddy, Loser. Yet, it would be another month before Loser Living Upstairs makes its debut.
They were the best of times; they were the worst of times. My summary, in retrospect. The actual birth of this journal did not take place until Loser moved out of his "palace" at the beginning of the Summer of '96. However, the seeds for LoserNet had already been planted. In fact, LoserNet was named for Loser and myself, the two main losers who resided at the infamous Roach Motel. Over the years, I received a lot of e-mail. Many idiots wrote to tell me that I was the real loser. Quite a few people thought I had a screw or two loose because they envisioned me sitting around 24/7 and tracking Loser's activities. Upon closer scrutiny, it would be evident that I was gone quite a bit of the time. However, I did spend a lot of time at the Roach Motel as well. You may recall that I was trying to go into seclusion. I was fed up with the social scene. So, whassup wi' da obsession? I developed a code system, similar to shorthand. I had different symbols for the different pacing routines (e.g., back-and-forth, traversing, circular, etc.). Whenever Loser began pacing, I noted the approximate time and placed the code next to it. At the end of the evening, I would compose the journal entry and add my humor to it. I deliberately used odd minutes in transcribing the time to the journal. Why? It made it look more realistic. Actually, "psychotic" may be a better description.
That's a little bit of LoserNet trivia, not that anyone cares. Here's another bit of trivia. I referred to my wheels as the "beloved six-four." Yet, it turns out to be a Jeep rather than a 1964 Chevy Nova. The origins of the name "six-four" can be attributed to Dr. Dre. In his music videos, Dre drove around in a 1964 Chevy Impala convertible complete with hydraulics. That was just too cool for the ol' lavahead. A Chevy Nova was more my speed. As a matter of fact, one of my loser suitemates a few years ago owned a Chevy Nova with gray primer and rust for paint. Byron was a putz in his fourties who thought he was a stud. Aside from the delusions of grandeur, does it not all sound familiar?
There will be many more stories to tell as we celebrate the five-year history of LoserNet. Yowza! Another uneventful day. I brought another package of microwave popcorn. Pseudo-professor Ralph and I consumed it all in a matter of minutes. I also brought a stack of paperwork and used the shredder to dispose of it. I shredded the important documents that I had collected throughout the year. There is something therapeutic about the shredder. Kind of like catharsis. I also did some research about the Bose Acoustic Wave, only to discover that most audiophiles despise Bose products. I was of that opinion myself when I was an audio snob. Now I realize the folly of my error. I've noticed that the most vocal people are also arrogant. They are also willing to debase others who think differently from them using slurs as rationale. I've owned thousands of dollars of — what I perceived to be — good audio equipment. The Acoustic Wave wins hands down in points other than sound. Does it matter anyway? Not really. Life is too short to fret over this kind of nonsense. Enjoy and appreciate what you do have. Never covet the possessions of another. Simplicity and humility. This is what I live by. I am a monk.
To be continued ... Go to V.02
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