Fear the Crab

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.

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.

There are quite a few men out there in the world that strike me as being attractive, whether physically or in terms of character. Not to say that I would go on a romantic cruise and stroll hand-in-hand down a tropical beach with said person, but I think any reasonable, sane, well-adjusted individual would agree, at least as far as opinions can go, that there would be something worth mentioning.

Let’s say that some guy were to tell me that Alan Rickman was a rather dashing character, I would consider it to be true. It doesn’t mean that we’re ready to drop trow and open plow; it just means we’re engaging in a very reasonable discussion about the qualities and characteristics of a person whom we find to be either desirable or downright cool.

I think I like Harrison Ford when he was a younger actor, as I have fond memories of his portrayal of Indiana Jones and Han Solo. Of course, from my perspective, it was a very good foundation for the transition into the older roles Ford played later on, since he got… well, older. I’m very interested in the newest Indiana Jones movie, particularly because of this transition; Indy is definitely older, so it would be interesting to see how the character has evolved, and continues to evolve, on screen.

I realize that I’m more fascinated with the fictional character rather than the actor himself. I do find that the role and the portrayal are synonymous, since Ford will probably forever be known as Indy, and no other portrayal of Indy by any other actor will feel the same.

I’ve never met many of these people, obviously, but judging solely on what little I can see or read, I sometimes can take smaller bits of a person’s whole and find that little part to be attractive. For example, Brian Viglione of The Dresden Dolls has one of the more expressive faces I’ve seen in a while, especially when he performs. His features, with or without makeup, are such that sometimes I wish I had those qualities, because then I’d be just as expressive, too.

I do dig the look of singer/songwriter Voltaire, especially his hair. There are times I want my hair to be like that, but usually I’m too lazy to put in the work to keep it that way. Maile mentioned that she wanted my hair to look like the cover of The Devil’s Bris for our wedding. Of course, she also mentioned this AFTER the wedding.

Eddie Izzard is another chap who looks good in makeup, and apparently whatever he decides to wear. I’m not so much keen on his appearance, though; rather it’s his humor, his character, and his ability to talk that makes me think I’d like to spend a day listening to whatever he decides to say.

Speaking of listening, Kevin Smith and Scott Mosier are two more cats that I could sit and listen to all day. Actually, not just listen, I think I could actively engage and participate in an elaborate discussion about the whimsies of daily life. Judging from their histories and general topics of conversation, I find myself almost ready to jump in with my own two cents (whether or not they’d appreciate it is not subject to the bounds of this daydream).

I could probably think of more, but it’s too early in the day.

Min called me the other night. Haven’t spoken to that dude in a dog’s age, I think. Amongst the plethora of topics, we chanced upon the subject of movies. I mentioned that I hardly watch any movies anymore. I mentioned that all the movies seem the same, but I didn’t really go into details.

I think with age, I have become less tolerant of the formula. Much like viruses developing an immunity to antibiotics, the allure of Hollywood productions fails to draw me and my money into the theater. I am no longer swayed by the names splashed across the screen or on posters and advertisements.

Sometimes the preview or commercial tells me all I need to know. Protagonist falls in love with hot, seemingly unattainable person of the opposite sex, attempts to woo , succeeds, does something to fuck it all up. Movie ends with reconciliation and kisses. Classic “You’re a fucktard, but we’ll throw you a bone and let you live happily ever after” plot.

Horror movies are also subject to the same formula. Protagonists (invariably there is a group of people all stuck in the same situation) encounter ghost/monster/serial killer and get picked off one-by-one until only a few remain, who concoct glorious scheme to defeat/banish the foe by the end of the movie.

Not only the plot is similar, but the moments of “horror” seem to be common based on two principles: jump out and say boo, or slowly approach when the subject can’t do anything about it. One is considered shocking, the other suspenseful. Sometimes the two are combined, especially in movies with ghosts or monsters that sneak about; you can tell something’s coming, but you don’t know what it is going to do or when it will appear, just that it will definitely hurt.

Even Pixar, a company known for producing rather incredible films, is subject to the fancy that is the formula. Take the most recent movie (as of this date), Ratatouille. Despite the twists and turns the plot takes, it still adheres to the basic principle of loser-guy succeeding, screwing up, and succeeding again. It’s still a decent movie, but compared to other Pixar films that really do stand on their own, Ratatouille doesn’t live up to expectations.

Of course, it’s very difficult for “alternative” movies to be made, especially when so much money is at stake. Independent films try their best, and sometimes a lot of really good indie movies get picked up by the big distributors (say, Clerks). That is not to say that indie films are the cure for the common flop, because a good portion of them really suck.

Going back to the reasons I don’t watch mainstream movies, another is that as I grow older, films no longer hold the appeal of “escapism”. I know a lot of people go to movies to be transported to a magical place, or something along those lines. When I was a teenager, this was the case.

Now I am married. Romantic dramas or comedies don’t do anything for me, because I’ve “got the girl, despite the fuck-ups.” I don’t need to see some fictional character relive my own personal experiences on the big screen.

Horror movies, whether they are shock horror or suspense, don’t hold sway over me because I know there are scarier things in reality: politics, governments, people. The last verse in Voltaire’s “Goodnight, Demonslayer” (from the album Then and Again) sums it all:

This world of ours is not as it seems
The monsters are real, but they’re not in your dreams
Learn what you can from the beasts you defeat
You’ll need it for some of the people you meet

Of course, at the very core, I don’t like horror movies because I hate being scared. I’m chicken-shit that way.