Fear the Crab

There have been a rash of murder-suicides here, and by rash I mean maybe two or three in the short 5-month span of 2008. This is what the media would have me say, perhaps illustrating a growing problem in the islands concerning domestic violence. Whether or not that is a responsible statement from the press is a different subject altogether, since it’s difficult to label the two murder-suicides as a reflection of a disturbing trend in family relationships.

Instead, I have been contemplating the community reaction to such events. It is interesting to see how one family’s hardships garner a greater response than another’s. One of the recent families affected by a murder-suicide has received a tremendous amount of help and support from the local community, including monetary donations from restaurants and funds set up for the orphaned children. There has been extensive media coverage, typed and tubed, about the aftermath and everything going on.

Yet I know of two families similarly affected that have received nothing. Only a brief report describing the crime itself made print, survivors listed, and cursory interviews with neighbors. One family lost the father, not to murder-suicide, but straight murder, and the three kids got no help (the mother died of cancer, I believe). The other family was an actual murder-suicide, and the orphaned child has Down syndrome, and he got no help.

Why the discrepancy? It’s nice to know that of the two latter families, the kids are doing all right and making their way through the world, despite the pain. Yet what is the deciding factor in whether or not the community helps to support the displaced?

I was recently made aware of an allegation that someone advised the first family to contact the press about the situation. Perhaps that prompted the media to consider it a worthwhile story to pursue, and as the story was aired, the sympathies of the community were drawn to the grief the family was going through. If this was the case, is the decision to notify the press a matter of familial pride? Is it a matter of how the family prioritizes its needs?

Consider that in the case of the first family, it could be said that the relatives have no problem in saying, “We need help. This was a tragedy and the kids will have a hard time taking care of themselves, so please give us your support.” Whereas in the other family, relatives have taken the position of, “This is a tragic affair that we don’t need to dwell on, that we don’t need other people to know about. Let us move on and do our best to work things out.” One is a position of internal solidarity, the other is of reaching out and asking for help from complete strangers.

I’m not inclined to say that either position is the right one. I’m sure there are benefits and detriments to either, and it is up to each individual who reads about these things to decide which path to follow; that of actively helping the affected, or doing nothing. It is also impossible to expect people to be consistent in their dealings with tragedy. I’d find it hard to believe anyone could afford to give $5300.00 to every single needy family, when there are so many out there that require assistance. So it stands to reason that a generous donation of support is given when one can afford the time or resources, to whomever happens to be the focus of attention at that time.

I just find the dichotomy intriguing. What causes one person to tell all, versus another that keeps quiet? I am finding the moments where some receive help whilst others don’t to be a case of the former being squeaky wheels. Perhaps the latter consider themselves the standing nail, who do not wish any kind of hammer to fall, even if that hammer were made of money.

Or maybe the simile of a hammer striking down hard is a bit too reminiscent of the horrible events that preceded.

Maile and I splurged on cinematic entertainment, buying three movies from Borders. This outing saw my first purchase of a Blu-Ray disc, Casino Royale. I haven’t watched it yet, but I have heard enough first-hand accounts of its decency to feel justified in the monetary expenditure.

The next movie was technically a choice of mine, but only so far as making its existence known to Maile. El Espinazo del Diablo (The Devil’s Backbone) is classified as a horror movie from Guillermo Del Toro, and since that director has a good history of weaving a terrific story, Maile was inclined to get this.

El Orfanato (The Orphanage) is another movie of the horror genre, and while it was not directed by Del Toro, it did feature him as a co-producer. Which could mean almost anything, I guess.

I only watched bits and pieces of the two horror movies, preferring to spend the rest of the time addressing the less-spooktacular adventures of Rayman’s Raving Rabbids. Maile contends that the movies were not at all scary, but if it’s one thing that I do not like, it’s creepy ghost kids.

My mother told me a story of how my brother would, as a young child, be awakened by nightmares in the middle of the night. The waking-up part, I’ve witnessed personally, but never thought much of it beyond a casual, “He’s at it, again.”

However, my mom revealed that my brother would wake up because he was being visited by little ghost children, who wanted him to come out and play. He would get scared, naturally, and bolt for my parents’ room. Turns out, long long ago, the area where I live was once home to a village whose population were besieged with plague, and a great number of children died. These kids were burned to stop the infection, and their spirits (along with anyone else, I imagine) still remain in the area.

If there’s one thing creepier than a ghost, it’s a frickin’ ghost kid. Adult ghosts can have a friendly melancholy that you can easily wrap your head around, and often they act as messengers of a wronged past or harbingers of omens to come. You can learn something from an adult ghost, I think. A lesson exists from those vengeful ghosts, too; don’t mess with them and get the fuck out of the house.

But ghost kids are unpredictable. They can be mischievous, they can be malicious, and they always look at you in that blank expression. Adult ghosts will tell you flat out what’s bothering them. Ghost kids seem to speak in riddles, or not at all. Ghost kids are fucked up, man, and ghost babies are the worst of the vile, monstrous lot.

Ask Maile, one of these days, to tell you the story of the ghost baby crawling out of the ocean, its lamenting cries preceding its arrival on sandy shores.

EDIT: The Kimberly told me of a time when she was house-hunting, and during a visit to this quaint little abode surrounded by a jungle of vegetation with her ex and two kids, how the house felt cold and dark. Evidence of the previous owner’s family still lay in plain view, most notably the child-proofed stairway with baby gates at both top and bottom, and acrylic-paneled banister. Something about the house was unappealing, so The Kimberly passed on it.

Later, in the car, her then-4-yr-old son mentioned that he didn’t like the house, either. When prompted why, he said, “That baby was really mean. I didn’t like him.”

FUCK!

Invited Maile’s family for a late Mother’s Day dinner. Today was the only day all interested parties could attend, in particular my mother-in-law. Besides the usual clean-ups of household areas, we made an adjustment to the arrangements of the house, that of putting the second leaf into the dining table, to extend it for the glorious occupations of more-than-six people.

Expanded dining table

If the table settings seem weird, it is because we only had six place mats and damn it all but for the unexpected but delightfully welcome guests. The flowers were a nice touch, considering we got them this very day. Had to get two more chairs from the parents’ house, but they’re cool with that, because they bought new chairs and felt no compunction to hold onto the old stuff. Why not let the kid have it?

The table does not look as different from the default setting of one-leaf, but trust me, this is naught but the longest table in the history of this one’s experience with tables. Look at the number of chairs, damn it!

I think Maile went into an overdrive of cooking. Consider the proportions of the entree to the dessert:

Mmm...

This is not a trick of the camera, but rather a documentation of the priorities given to consumables. Truly there was a distinct thought given to the order of magnitude for each dish, because as dinner progressed, Maile had much of one over the other. I leave the specifics of the selections up to the reader.

The conversations were excellent, of course, and much was to be said regarding the adventures of men and women, the complexities of living together, and the discomforts of Las Vegas outings.

I had wine. A lot of wine. ‘Twas not because of the company, no, and how rude of you to think so. I had the wine because it was an excuse to have the wine, something I have been sorely lacking as of late. The excuse, that is.

I happen to think the wine was a pleasant by-product of the evening’s festivities, especially since I finished off the Boarding Pass bottle and moved on to the Fat Bastard. Before visions of general verisimilitude of tipsy party-goers fills your head, I was the only one drinking and thus the only one with the verbal thoughts of the true intentions of men and women, living together.

Sometimes I wish I had more drinking buddies, but other times I do not. I don’t think I would particularly enjoy it if everyone else were drunk with me. It’s hard to say when it’s been so long since I’ve gone drinking with more people than myself, but I’d like to think that I would enjoy an outing of tibbly conversations and general silliness. Unfortunately, it’s a lot harder to remember the fun-timey drunk-timey when one is deep in the nethers of shiraz.

I think there is a difference between sons and daughters, in terms of following orders from parents.

If the mother says, “Go with your father to his doctor appointment,” the son will dutifully accompany the dad to the office. There, the son will sit in the waiting room and watch cooking shows, read magazines, or listen in on one-sided phone conversations from the receptionist, whilst the father goes in to see the doctor. Once the session is finished, both father and son pay for parking and leave, figuring out what to get for lunch.

However, it seems that when the mother asks that the son go with the dad, what she is really saying is, “Go with your father, sit in the doctor’s office and listen to what the doctor has to say.” In other words, the son is supposed to act as reconnaissance, after which he is to relay all relevant information so that the mother can be assured the father isn’t lying.

When the son returns home, he will be asked, “Did you go with your father?” and the son can truthfully answer, “Yes.” However, the next question then becomes, “What did the doctor say?” To which the son would reply, “I don’t know, ask Dad.”

Daughters apparently have this inherent ability to append unspoken addenda to verbal requests, and by some indications it is not limited to bloodline. Both Maile and The Kimberly seemed to know that physically sitting with my dad when he got his imaging results was what I was really supposed to do.

Yet the failure of my inability to properly decode the secret order is chalked up to my not listening. Excuse me, but from what I understand, the idea of successful secret codes is that the decryption keys are pre-arranged. It does no good if the recipient of said secret codes cannot decipher and reveal the hidden messages, much less so if he is not made aware that codes are being issued in the first place.

The trouble is, therefore, not in the fact that I wasn’t listening (I was, technically, listening quite perfectly), but that my orders were not properly worded to give the correct meaning and intention. Maile says that it should be common sense that I “know” what my mom was intending.

I contend that common sense in these circumstances is like being asked to buy milk from the market, and going after the brand that’s on sale, or the carton that has a longer expiration date. I should not be chastised for buying 2% over Skim or soy over cow, when such important decision-making factors were not disclosed properly before said excursion.

My dad got his imaging results today. The bad news is that he still has cancer. The good news is that it appears to be isolated, and the doctor is rather confident that surgery can remove the malignant cells.

An x-ray and ultrasound session have been scheduled two weeks from now to make sure. Then the following Tuesday will be the consultation, where I imagine the doctor will outline the next procedures to take.

Something my dad mentioned, about the use of “robotic” surgery. I had visions of mechanical arms performing delicate operations on the human body and thought, “Wow, what an age we live in!” The doctors will probably use something called a da Vinci surgical system, which is what, apparently, is used in the removal of prostate cancer.

That’s news to me.

The Kimberly has made me aware of what could possibly be the happiest bentos to ever grace the enamels of hungry happy hippos. These perfect-able comestibles look like they’d enjoy nothing more than to slide down the saliva-soaked joyride into your stomach, fill you with such elation that you will regurgitate this love for everyone to share. Yes, you will puke, it’s so feckin’ cute.

SQUEEE!

Some of those delightful delights invite you… nay, entice you to savor their sumptuous flavor, with promises of doing the Digestion Dance in your innards. It’s a fucking overload of cute. You will no doubt shit happy.

Kyaraben, or character bento, is a rather established hobby. They make tools to help you shape food to Hello Kitty size, and by all indications it is not limited to the cat. There’s a book that documents the designs that go into this crazy craze. Any character, specific or generic, is up for grabs and down for stuffing in this decorative food festivity.

At 0300 I woke up with butt cramps, and spent the better part of the hour on my thinking-seat contemplating the similarities and differences between each gender’s painful designs in lower orifices. I don’t think I fell back asleep until 0420, which considering how I had to get ready for work the next hour, I didn’t expect anything extraordinary when I closed my eyes.

Then I had to go to the bathroom again. I barely had enough seated time to examine the irregularities of my toenails when I noticed some water pooled along the far wall. When the fuck did this happen? Was it a problem with the flusher? The valve? Did water from my last adventure spill out, and if so, fuck, my feet are in it.

I figured the easiest way to tell would be to reach down and touch it, and hope for a chlorinated aroma. Hell, I’d be washing my hands afterward, anyway. Suddenly a cold drop of water hit my outstretched arm, and I was immediately made aware of a rushing sound above my head. A cascade of rotten ceiling material fell on my head and a flood of water poured out. A frickin’ water pipe had burst in the crawlspace. Great. More repairs.

I put my soaked shorts back on (because I’m not going to cuss and throw a tantrum in my boxers), and stepped out of the waterfall to inspect the damage. Each gout of spilling water was bringing more of the ceiling down with it, and immediately the fall-away of wood and plaster spread to the walls around the bathtub. I barely formed enough of a fetid thought to try and shut off the water with the outside valve when the room crumbled around me.

At least it wasn’t raining, outside. The stars were visible in the cloudless night, despite the noise from the ceiling bulb. Standing in water with working electrical wires about is probably not the most ideal way to lose weight, I figured, so I made haste to the garage door. I don’t know why I didn’t choose to just walk out the gaping hole in the wall. I think it may have been the swarm of cockroaches that scattered with the new exposure to manly ways. Crap on a stick, I wasn’t about to cross that.

Opening the garage door, I encountered resistance to my handyman foray when two miniature terriers tried to strong-arm me away. I don’t know what they wanted, but I’m pretty sure that if they came from the outside, they had no business inside. I summoned my alpha-male dominance to try and overpower the foot-long dogs, and they rewarded me with gnashing bites to my hands. Yes, they were foot-long dogs; I said they were miniature.

I was reminded of the water problem, so I chucked the dogs over the fence into the yard. I figured if they wanted inside the house, they’d have to work it out themselves. I stepped to the corner, toed off the heavy metal lid with my tingly fingers, dug away at the dirt surrounding the pipe, and turned the water valve 180 to shut off the flow.

About then, I realized that while I had stopped the water, I had no way of repairing the extensive damage to the bathroom.

Thankfully the whole ordeal flushed itself away with the chiming of the 0500 alarm. How the fuck do I get these wild and crazy dreams in the span of a few minutes?

I have noticed a disturbing trend amongst the fund-raising groups scattered across the island, particularly the small informal organizations like community sports teams or private dance troupes. The trend seems to center around camping out at a busy intersection, stand on the medians and corners with hand-held fishing nets, and literally beg for cash.

If I remember correctly, this method of fund-raising started with firefighters in California. I don’t remember the exact details, but because it’s a firefighter organization raising money for something other than their own personal pockets, I can get behind it and would willingly donate. On Oahu, the Hawaii Food Bank holds an annual drive-by where you can hand-off small cans of food or cash into their waiting nets.

Now it appears as though everyone and their mothers (literally) are hitting the streets soliciting money. If you’re stopped at a red light, these beggars will troll the lines of cars hoping to see a window roll down and a wad of greenbacks come tumbling out. Sometimes they give you looks as they pass by you and get nothing in return.

Meanwhile you have more of the group on the sides, holding signs that ask you to support their team or troupe. Okay, fine, at least I know who’s getting this money, but now I don’t know what the money is for! Do they have to buy new uniforms? Are they taking a trip to national competition in someplace like Colorado? Or is it, like the case of one local little league baseball team, to help pay for the parents of the players to fly to a tournament?!

Even if I’m made aware of what the money is for, why the hell should I give my hard-earned cash over to some bloke who’s not even working for it? All they’re doing is standing on the side of the road, begging for a handout! At least some homeless dudes might offer to “work for food” (though lately even some of the homeless have turned to outright begging). I’d better see some kids on the side doing some cartwheels or performing some kind of dance routine. Put on a show, sing some songs, do something to earn this money.

There are still groups who do the time-honored traditions of candy-vending or car washes. These groups earn a little less of my ire, but there are still areas where I wish they’d put in a little more effort. I’ve had kids and some adults come to my door and just ask if I want to buy some chili tickets. Okay… thanks for telling me who you are, first, and what this is for. I usually turn away these vendors, even if I really really wanted what they were selling. I’d rather wait and give the money to someone who deserves it.

The amount of consideration I give to a fund-raising offer is a direct result of the amount of effort said fund-raising group is willing to put into the sale. I’ve bought sweet breads, discount cards, chili tickets, and candy from well-spoken representatives because they bothered to sell me the goods. They told me who they were, what they were selling, what the money was for, and how much it was.

I’ve been through the work of fund-raising. I’ve had to go door-to-door and vend my fair share of huli-huli chicken, chocolate-covered almonds, M&Ms, and Zippy’s chili. I’ve had to raise money for little league baseball uniforms, intermediate band trips, elementary school JPO trips, and karate dojo activities. I would sell maybe 1 item per every 10 houses, but at each one I would introduce myself and state what I was selling and why.

It was hard, yeah, and I would have rather been playing in the street than going door-to-door, but motherfucker I worked. The least some of these groups could do is the same.

There are days when, despite the plethora of activity occurring within, I do not feel like noting anything here. Which seems rather strange, given the fact that I am writing about things here, and I will continue to elaborate on the day’s activity. Perhaps then, this is not such a day.

* * *

I mowed the lawn, using a fancy walk-behind gas-powered mower. It is fancy because the wheels adjust independently to their own heights, enabling me to lower, raise, or angle the blades for customized cutting. The mower has a gas pedal of sorts, more like a lever near the handlebars, which I have to hold down if I want the engine to continue running. I suppose it’s more like a safety feature, turning the mower off if I let go of it. There’s also a small lever that spins the front wheels, helping me push the mower along.

Despite the fanciness, I still needed to push the darn thing around the lawn. The grass grows unevenly, with thick patches on one side and dry areas on another. I think the dry side gets too much sun, while the lush side falls into shadow later in the day since it’s closer to the house. I finished off the lawn with the weed-whacker, trimming the edges and taking care of the areas the mower couldn’t reach.

One important lesson I learned; make sure the bag is properly attached. And the end of my mowing adventure, the bag was noticeably empty. I first thought that I really didn’t cut any grass, but it turned out that all the cuttings went into my shoes. The bag itself was just sitting on top of the frame, pretending to be a State worker.

* * *

A big dumpster arrived on Friday. It is for the old rotten, termite-eaten fence that was replaced by a composite material. So naturally, Maile and I took this opportunity to get rid of a few other things. One desk, one dresser, and one table were tossed in, all of which suffered from wood rot and termites. Some old broken weights literally covered in rust, including a nautilus-type home-gym system, went on top of the furniture. You know, to keep it down.

We wanted to dump more things, but then we realized that we might not have any room leftover for the old fence. I suppose stopping there was a good thing, because afterward I felt very itchy. Likely all the splinters, dust, rust, and insect droppings were doing a macarena on my skin.

A proper shower was in order. Given the earlier sun exposure, I promptly took a two-hour nap.

* * *

Maile and I finished the evening with dinner at Hy’s Steak House. Tasted the escargot for starters, dove into a prime rib and garlic steak, and topped it all off with the cherries jubilee ice cream flambe for dessert. Frickin’ awesome, I tell ya.

Afterward we stopped by Macy’s to take advantage of the wedding gift cards we collected. We looked for curtains, but couldn’t find any. Does Macy’s not carry curtains? I find it hard to believe that Hawaii’s flagship Macy’s store does not stock what a simple online search displays.

Granted, we may have just missed them. We wandered the bed and bath section, where we thought curtains would be, but we could only find shower curtains. So instead we bought some picture frames for the living room, since Maile wanted a coherent theme. Perhaps I’ll take a picture of the area, when everything’s complete.

Or maybe I’ll just wait for another blousey day.

On Friday, my dad told me he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Six months ago he was fine, but between then and now he went from a 0 to a 4 on the 5-scale of cancer-ness. I don’t know what the 5-scale means, but in terms of severity, it’s pretty bad.

He has to go in for another series of tests later this week to determine the extent of the spread. I suppose those results dictate the number of options available, such as the possibility of surgery or radiation therapy. Someone told me if the tests show that the cancer is isolated, there’s a good chance they can remove it and increase the odds of survival. My dad feels this cancer is extremely aggressive, given its sudden appearance, so he’s pretty much resigned to the fact that it has spread. That basically shortens his life span dramatically.

It is, of course, a shocking turn of events. It was just this year that he moved into a new house, built from the ground up, to provide comfort and mobility to my paralyzed mom. This year he watched his eldest son get married and legally start a family. Now it seems like he won’t be able to enjoy the new house. He wonders if he will be alive to see grandchildren. He says he has some regrets, that he didn’t fulfill some of his life goals, but that right now he’s looking ahead, making sure things are put into place or set in motion that will address any long-term goals, or handle short-term affairs.

Outwardly, he’s expressed this concern for the well-being of my mom. She’s confined to a wheelchair and needs 24-hour care, so if my dad has to undergo any kind of treatment that leaves him exhausted or weak, a caregiver will have to be hired. He does have family help from my aunts, but they’re no spring chickens, either. A live-in nurse of some kind is required, at least for the physical care.

The worry my dad has over my mom is understandable; he’s had to care for her since the car accident 10 yrs ago left her paralyzed. And it’s fine that he wants to spend his energy on her. It just might give him a purpose, a reason to continue fighting this cancer. It’s a hope that everyone has, and while he tries to prepare for the worst-case scenarios, he shares in that hope.

He just has to let me, or other people in the family, spend our energy on him. I tell my dad that he can worry all he wants, he just has to let me worry about him. It’s a lot easier to prepare together, as a group, than it is by oneself. I learned that just through the planning of my wedding.

Let me drive him to his appointments, or maybe take care of whatever paperwork needs taken care of. I can buy dinners or pay bills so that his limited income can be reserved for treatments and medicines. And hey, if the results come next week that the cancer did not spread, and surgery is able to take care of things, and therapy is enough to put it into remission, the time everyone spent will not have been wasted.

It’s like in baseball, even though the pitcher is the only one that throws the ball and starts the play, he still needs a catcher at the plate, fielders at his back.

I’m not going to just sit on the bench and watch him struggle on the mound.