It came from the shower drain…

Warning: this is a disgusting — albeit environmentally friendly — tip.

As time goes by, the water in our shower tends to drain more slowly as hair begins to accumulate in the pipe below. I sheathe our drain plate with the webbed netting that garlic or onions sometimes come in, and while that catches the majority of offending hairs, it certainly does not get everything.

Now, I really don’t like the idea of relying on chemical gels to deal with clogs because 1) they’re more of a band-aid than a true fix, and 2) I only turn to chemicals as a last resort when it comes to most anything, really.

So, the other day as I was scrubbing myself in an inch of standing water, I got the idea to employ our toilet plunger since we’re basically dealing with the same kind of problem, if you think about it. However, rather than push the clog down through the plumbing, my enthusiastic “suction” stroke forced the pipe to cough up a fist-sized hairball just oozing with the most revolting, black, foul-smelling sludge. It scared the hell out of me at first and a second later caused me to gag. Still, it was mentally satisfying to see that mass come up. Really satisfying.

My suggestion: the next time you find yourself dealing with a clogged drain, go for your handy dandy plunger first — though if you want to avoid being traumatized, try plunging away for a few seconds rather than giving a single “up, up, and away” stroke as I did. You’ll sleep better for it.

Put up yer dukes

All the recent fuss about this ‘ultimate fighting’ club for kids in Missouri has me thinking about what I’d do if I were a parent. I don’t think punching someone in the nose is the best way to go about solving a problem, but there are cases where it’s warranted. Why, if Sister Superior Mary Benedict hadn’t taught Eddie Breen how to box, Tommy Smith would have continued to bully him and they never would have become best pals, right?

Truth be told, I’ve never been in a fight in my life. And I’ve always wondered about that. Sure, Todd and I got into some pretty good scraps when we were younger, but never with the intention of producing serious bodily injury to each other. I can’t help sometimes but think that I missed out on a rite of passage — it’s not as though I never found myself in a situation where blind rage and flailing fists would have produced a more satisfactory (albeit short-lived) outcome than shrinking away in humiliation, my usual tactic for self-preservation.

And it’s not like I never had the tools to deliver the goods, either. During my sophomore year in high school I studied Tae Kwan-do under Jim Langlas, one of the English teachers at Wheaton-Warrenville High School (now Wheaton-Warrenville South). I learned how to focus all forward energy into explosive punches, deflect oncoming blows, and deliver round-house kicks to lay out any challenger. This was powerful stuff for a skinny 14-year old, and I admit to entertaining fantasies of taking down some jerk-off with a single shot the solar plexis. (What kid hasn’t wanted to bust a kung-fu stance after being pushed to the ground — a warning to his aggressor that he’d just made a very grave error in judgment?) Yes, that would have been sweet. But of course it never happened.

Dr. Langlas taught us the physical skills we needed to defend ourselves but the core value of his training derived from a newfound sense inner strength: knowledge that bred confidence, yet came with responsibility. Think of it as swearing to use your power for good, not evil. And while there is something to be said for this, the fact I was never provoked into unleashing a lightning display of martial arts ass-kickery boils down more to the plain fact that I was just too scared (realistic?) rather than any verisimilitude of keeping my awesome destructiveness at bay because I was the “better man”. I knew I never stood a chance.

In the end I didn’t stick with Tae Kwon-do past my first green stripe. That summer Wheaton-Warrenville was moth-balled and the entire school was divvied up between Wheaton(s) Central and North. I became a Central Tiger and Mr. Langlas a North Falcon. (Boo! Hiss!) I suppose I could have continued my training at the center he ran in West Chicago, but I was never very comfortable with the practice, patterns, rank tests (I suffered from extreme performance anxiety) and all that, though I can see how the structure and personal discipline of it all would appeal to a lot of kids. All I did was go back to sparring with Todd in Ninja Protectors!

Which brings me back to ‘ultimate’ fighting. Now I’m no expert, but it’d be hard to sell me on the idea of sending your kid into a fighting pit with a kill-or-be-killed mentality. Yeah, yeah, yeah, they wear protective gear and whatnot, but what is the message being handed down from parent to child? That by wailing away as hard as you can — with intent to pummel your opponent — you may stand a chance of ‘winning’ and not being called a loser? How can this possibly translate to anything productive in later life? What can we learn about working and living together with other people by beating the shit out of them, because that’s all we know how to do? There’s standing up for yourself and there’s outright cowardly aggression.

To be fair, our parents gave us Socker Boppers one year for Christmas and Todd and I promptly proceeded to sock each other silly, but there was a key difference: while going at it, we were simultaneously laughing our heads off, socking and bopping like a couple of cartoon characters with those over-sized air pillows on our fists (remember how sweaty your hands would get inside?). It wasn’t quite the same as being tossed into a cock-fighting ring with Dad cheering you on from the sidelines.

I can only see this as parental fear and insecurity manifesting itself in yet another perverted childhood arena. To the beauty pageant moms we now add the ultimate fighting dads. I mean, come on. If your kid needs to blow off some steam he or she can lay into a punching bag or a pillow if need be. (Sports, anyone? Hello…?) At least with the martial arts, kids develop a sense of respect for themselves and others and learn that avoiding conflict in the first place is often where the battle is won. Even Eddie Breen fought solely on the grounds of self-defense, and only to the minimum extent that still allowed him to extend an olive branch to Tommy and gain his respect. Wiping the playground with him would only have destroyed Tommy’s reputation and created a monster, a life-long enemy. Gee, I feel as though I’m on the verge of making a deeper connection to something beyond childhood scrapping…

(Jim Langlas’ bio on his new web page. Good to see that he got his PhD but continued to teach in Wheaton public school system all the way up until last year. Come to think of it, Mr. Langlas wasn’t the only PhD teaching high school in Wheaton. I got one hell of an education growing up, which says a lot about the ability of school districts to attract and retain quality teachers.)

(Earlier web site with nice photo of Mr. Langlas — though I can’t believe he still looks that young! But you never know…)

On safari

While cycling up and around the Tantalus-Round Top loop I always see the same groups of wild chickens that inhabit the mountain, plus the occasional mongoose. Once I came across a rather majestic (and large) lizard taking up residence on the side of the road. He didn’t move when I turned back to check him out, leading me to believe he must have been sick or injured. Still, he was something to see.

Then there was the time about a year ago when I kept spying the same pair of domesticated rabbits. Someone had obviously abandoned them after cleaning the cage had become a nuisance. It was tough passing them by because they’d just pop out of the grass and look at you with those eyes, seeking food, or attention, or help. During the several weeks they’d make their roadside appearances, they were never more than several hundred yards from the location where I’d first spotted them. Because of this, I sent a map to the humane society instructing them where to look. It wasn’t much later that I stopped seeing the bunnies. I like to think that someone picked them up and gave them a home (the alternative being the aforementioned ‘occasional mongoose’).

But, yesterday I saw something new: a peacock! I’ve heard that O’ahu has wild peacocks but I’ve never seen one before. His tail feathers were looking a little worse for wear but the neck plumage was radiant. I stopped for a moment, we stared at each other, and then I continued on my merry way. As I coasted downhill I began to wonder if I shouldn’t take this bird’s appearance more seriously. (This is a story for another day, but I’ve had several experiences with animals showing up under curious circumstances right after a death.) Before the encounter someone had called me twice so I decided to put on the brakes and check my messages — something I don’t normally bother with when riding. I made an exception in this case, though, because the peacock had got me thinking about Grandma (whose own peacock showed up after she’d had an “intervention” with the ghost in their Plano house — again, another story). This, in turn, had me wondering about my phone ringing.

I had to wait about 5 minutes to get through all my back-logged voice messages, but in the end it was only Adam wanting to know if I was down for a little darts and beer at Anna’s.

Found memories

Coming back from Maui last month, Yumi picked up this memory card off the floor of the plane (she found it under her feet and just assumed it was hers). Several weeks later, upon closer inspection, it turns out we are in possession of somebody else’s vacation memories. We didn’t look through all the shots, just enough to determine whose pictures we’d ended up with. Nice couple. Looks like they had a good time.

I can’t say it wasn’t tempting, though — like coming across somebody else’s diary on the sidewalk. Which nearly did happen to me a year or so ago. I was just finishing my run when I notice a pile of stuff scattered about the base of a utility pole. There, spilling out of several plastic bags (one from the UH bookstore), is the flotsam of someone’s life: notes from Spanish 202, text books, cell phone user manual, handout about when not to make eye contact, case for compact earphones, clothing, CD soundtrack for RENT (empty), and a whole bunch of other things I don’t feel comfortable investigating further.

It was like stumbling upon a crime scene. A disappearance. The remnants of a sibling blowout. A literal throwing away of one’s past life. But no matter the cause, why had it ended up here on public display?

On top of the pile are a couple of matted, high school senior photos that put a face to the story lying before my feet. In one, a brown-skinned, Asian girl (your typical local girl here in Honolulu) is posing with a volleyball in front of a giant cut-out of a star. (This is just the type of school photo that Yumi says is so “American”.) The photo is dedicated “To Mike”, in gold ink. The other photograph shows the same girl on a beach; it’s more of a snapshot but is likewise secured and protected in a matted frame. (This one is made out to Alfie.)

She’s pretty, and I feel somewhat ashamed that I’m standing there, gazing at this smile obviously intended for other eyes. But I can’t just walk away and leave those pictures there on the ground, staring and smiling up at all passers-by. So I take them home. Exactly why, I don’t know. I’m not about to cart all that stuff off (though I’d feel better covering it up), but there’s an indignity to having all these personal items strewn about — especially when the circumstances of their origin are unknown to me. By removing the likeness of this girl I feel as though I am, in some small way, protecting her.

This reminds me of another picture I found not long after coming to Hawaii, when I was living on Kaiulani Ave. in Waikiki. I came across this picture of two girls one day and was compelled to pick it up off the ground. It had already been stepped on several times but wasn’t damaged too badly. In the photo, two girls — maybe 4 and 6? — stand together for a photo outside an apartment building. They don’t look like sisters, but the way the older one has her arm wrapped around the younger girl suggests a closeness. They squint into the sun, don’t appear to be in a cooperative mood, but each has colorful new hair wraps streaming down alongside and offset from her black hair, which I take to be the reason for the photo in the first place.

Call me weird, but I like looking at photos of people I don’t know, trying to figure out who they are and what their story is. Get me at a garage sale with a box of loose photographs and it may be some time before you pull me away.

Pack your grip / takin’ you on a trip!

For the past couple of weeks I haven’t been able to stop listening to Heatwave’s “The Groove Line” (extended version). It’s a kick-ass jam, plain and simple. I “re-discovered” the song while listening to one of Marie’s Phat Trax compilation CDs and haven’t been able to get it out of my head since. (Not a bad thing, by the way.)

At first I couldn’t figure out why the song resonated so strongly, then I got the reference: in the finale episode of Freaks & Geeks, “Groove Line” is spinning on the turntable when it’s Nick’s turn in the dance contest. (Remember I’d watched the entire series over winter break.) This thread of the storyline works particularly well, I think, as Nick, rejected by his father and ex-girlfriend, turns his back on rock ‘n roll and finds release and acceptance in the discotheque (previously anathema to his group of close friends). Though it’s obvious Nick is in denial, big time, there’s a redemptive quality to the act of surrendering to something once despised, allowing oneself a certain vulnerability in exchange for the bliss of forgiveness.

That’s a bit over the top, I know. But Nick’s dance scene in the club (which cuts to the Dungeons & Dragons game in progress at Sam’s house) has a very fin de siècle feel to it, tying right in to the finale’s overall “end-of-an-era” tone: time to let go of past labels, conceptions, and associations; new days and possibilities lie before us. I guess that’s what I get when I listen to “Groove Line”. The song just radiates optimism.

Leave your worries behind…

Music store jitters

Last week I went to Honolulu’s Easy Music Center to check out an effects pedal I’d been researching online (in anticipation of my guitar’s arrival from Madison). It was the first time I’d set foot in a serious music store in a long while, and I found myself coming down with a case of the jitters as I approached the front door. Once past the threshold, however, I put on my poker face and marked a confident path towards the corner stocked with guitar accessories.

I’ve always enjoyed playing guitar immensely, but when it comes to being a member of the community of musicians, well, I’m a bit of an outlier. An impostor. (But I’m also the first to admit my musical shortcomings.) I can’t read music and all the theory I once absorbed through several guitar classes at Santa Monica Community College has long since evaporated. Instead, I fake my way through songs by relying on chord boxes and rote memorization (and I’ll be damned if I know more than a handful of songs start-to-finish). Somewhere along the way I must have felt ashamed for not knowing what the hell I’m doing. I’d have to think about it a bit more, but I’m sure that’s it as I’ve never been able to play (well) in front of other people. My hands start shaking and I just fall to pieces. Every time.

In the end, I made quick work of my business in the shop, inspecting the unit and leaving a contact number. I was fine once back on the bike.

Walking wounded

My left hand is looking a little worse for wear these days: my middle finger still sporting singed hair from a burn blister while a gash on my thumb takes its sweet time to heal over. Its been a slow-motion process that I’ve been monitoring with patience and curiosity. Looking at my hand in the elevator today, I remembered a baffling commercial that used to air in Chicago when I was young. It was for a treatment center specializing in wounds that weren’t healing, which I never understood: what do you mean, ‘wounds that won’t heal’?

But I guess that would make sense coming from someone with a young body capable of repairing overnight nearly any damage I could inflict upon it. Maybe that would explain why all the patients in the clinic commercial were much older…

Healing is good, any which way you look at it.

Hear Blues. Drink Booze. Talk Loud.

The other day I was breezing through the bookstore when I saw some guy (an employee, taking inventory) wearing the exact same Kingston Mines t-shirt that I have. I should say had, as my original shirt disappeared years ago. [Topic for separate post: favorite clothing that vanishes without a trace. For that category I would have to nominate my Navy Pea-coat (dammit!) and a beloved, early-80s EPCOT t-shirt...]

For those not in-the-know, Kingston Mines is blues club in Chicago that we used to go to back in the days when you could still get inside such places without too much trouble. It was a real musical (and cultural) education, for sure. I’ve got some stories, but I’ll save those for another time.

Anyway, a couple of years ago I bought a near-replica shirt on eBay, though I still wish I had the original that I bought at Kingston Mines just as it was starting to go big-time commercial. My point is this: you don’t often see these shirts — especially not in Hawaii. I wanted to go over and say ‘hey’ to the guy but didn’t have time as I had to get to class.

Six degrees of Elvis

This is random. While writing the previous post I went to Wikipedia to do a little fact-checking on Bill Belew. A search for “Elvis jumpsuit” turned up 35 hits, the fifth of which (Relevance: 89.1%) was for Rick Saucedo.

Now, last month as I was compiling photos and writing little blurbs on the bikes I’ve owned over the years, the name Rick Saucedo popped into my mind when thinking about Kelly Clark (my 8th-grade crush whom I used to visit on my first 10-speed). She used to talk about him all the time: an Elvis-impersonator with a growing following in the greater Chicagoland area that her mom was either dating, or knew, or was tight with. I’m not sure what the actual connection was, but obviously I didn’t forget the name after nearly 30 years. So you can imagine my surprise when my search turned up his Wikipedia page. Who knew he was just getting started back then? I had no idea he’d still be on the scene. (Like an Ex-machine.)

Thank you. Thank you very much…

Though “Young Elvis” edged out his older and gaudier (yet grotesquely captivating) incarnation for the postage stamp, it’s the sequined, high-collared jumpsuits and capes of the later years that have become as integral a part of American national consciousness as the apple pie I’m holding in this photo. Last month, the designer of those iconic stage costumes, Bill Belew, passed away at the age of 76.

When I had the chance to borrow this homemade (and totally kick-ass!) Presley jumpsuit for Halloween in 1998, well, needless to say I jumped at the chance. (The glasses I had to find on my own, but they come with their own hard-wired sideburns. Yes!)

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