imakereality

For the first time in quite a while I found myself in Waikiki.  No particular reason to be there, but seeing as how I had inexplicably put cologne on, I figured I might as well go somewhere that seemed out of my norm, as well.  Driving along the strip is usually a bit of a novelty, but that’s it.  At least for me and my severe aversion to fighting for parking.  When I stumbled across an open free-meter stall just off Kuhio, I figured it was a sign.

Walking along Kuhio, it started getting a little surreal.  People coming and going in droves through all the clubs (it was a Friday night) and as usual, they’re all wearing their uniforms.  

There go the guys in designer t-shirts and jeans.  The same outfit I’d wear to paint a living room suddenly elevated to Club Status with the light application of a gallon of Burberry.  

Here comes the freshman girls spilling out of the student apartments looking like they’re trying on their older sister’s clothes for the first time.  An outfit that was, only a few months ago, considered “sexy-at-my-high-school,” somehow now looks more like “is-this-your-first-night-as-a-prostitute?”

At one corner is a cluster of at least 6 cowboys vying for position leaning against a post.  Each one of them is dead sure they’re bringing the Marlboro Man to Ha-wah-yee for the first time.

Scattered throughout are the old-timers - street prophets and gurus who give out all manner of unsolicited opinions and advice, often at the top of their lungs.

Bless ‘em all, they’re going for it.

I wandered in and out of a few bars; it’s another scene where I’ve shown up too late, after everyone else is drunk, and have no chance or desire to catch up.  At some point, I confess, in a moment of wanting to recapture some of my old college idiocy, I walked into a strip club.  The girls were exactly what you’d expect for a club located that close to student apartments - hot co-eds that probably were paying for tuition with the cunning use of Victoria’s Secret and plaid skirts.

Nothing wrong with that!  Except….

This club was 18+, so no alcohol.  Also, the girls were (creeped out by myself) young.  It hits like a semi truck that I’m 32 and several of them are in the 18-20 range, meaning that the first time I came to this club was when they were no more than 5 years old!

I left.

Back on the strip, I pass a guy wearing a shirt that read “King of Douche.”  There is a very fine line (that he annihilated) between failed irony and a name tag.  A little farther down is a young woman panhandling while playing a bamboo flute.  Her sign reads: “Too ugly to prostitute.”  She wasn’t. 

Thousands of people wearing hopes and fears on their sleeves. I’m no different, but I don’t feel the same.

I may be going back to school soon.  I think this was me trying to reset myself.  To decide if I could possibly put my mind or attitude back to where it was 14 years ago when I first arrived in O’ahu.  

Honestly, I have no idea.

The next of many,

Matthew

There’s a sensation creeping up on me that something’s about to happen.  Something big.  Hopefully good.

It’s like the endless possibilities of what comes next have been quietly expanding for longer than I can go back and track, and it’s created a pressurized pop that could happen at any moment.  

Coincidence that this is coming to a head around New Year’s?  Literally and figuratively, it’s a time to clean out the closets.  

I’ve got hope that it’s good.  I’ve got confidence I can handle it.  I’ve got no friggin’ clue what “it” could be.

Let’s find out,

Matt

There’s a strange shift that happens after Christmas.  It’s only the 28th (as I type this), and the change in attitude and atmosphere is palpable.  

Far and away, the holiday season is my favorite time of year.  I say “holiday season” not as a euphemism for Christmas, but as an encompassing term for October through December.  October brings my mom’s birthday, my birthday, and from there the holidays come fast and furious.

The foreplay for Christmas starts earlier and earlier each year and while I’m a staunch believer in Christmas never starting before Thanksgiving, I confess to getting ever-more stoked when I see those Yuletide decorations start sneaking into the back of Costco and Target.

There’s an overall feeling that starts to envelope the community at large this time of year.  I’m sure there’s some study that breaks this down with analysis of mass psychology, but the end result is what I care about: the general sense of everyone being in a slightly “better mood” and outnumbering the “Grinches.”  

Yes, the malls are overrun by swarms of human locusts who’ve all forgotten how to park their car, but everyone seems a little more OK with it.  For all the crap and tension that’s been building over the past year, Christmas has always served as a benchmark for a time to relax and actually enjoy the people around you.  It’s a tradition that actually works against our natural tendencies towards suspiciousness and vendettas.  We are briefly reminded of how cathartic it is to just forgive and move on, even if you can’t necessarily forget.

But the peak of Christmas can’t last long, and by New Year’s it’s already fast-faded.  The chewy nougat of Christmas Spirit has already started to be covered up by an extra-chrunchy layer of cynical candy.

I admit that I buy it, every year, when they talk about keeping the “Christmas Spirit all year long” even though I know that, deep down, I’ll be causticly rolling my eyes at the world again by Valentine’s Day.

So here comes the next thing I’ll buy into: New Year’s Resolutions.  As doomed as they all are to fail, I’m sure I’ll be making all sorts of promises this NYE come midnight. 

And with a little hope and a hell of a lot of elbow grease, I’ll be looking to perform the same routine and hope for a different result.  Y’know, insanity.  

At least it’s the good-intentioned kind.

The next of many,

Matt

Tonight I’m walking around Waikiki and I’m doing one of my simple Social Experiments - I’m meeting people’s eyes. It’s a basic mannerism that many people do naturally but I often don’t in my effort to fade into the background. Tonight, I’ve met everyone’s gaze. Not aggressively, just not turning away simply to avoid contact. I’ve noticed that there is one type of person (of men and women) that notices me: young mothers in fear for their children.

I swear, I’m not a creeper and won’t roll over on them. I’m just an awkward fat guy. Everything else is a joke.

In the name of science,

Matt

to be a skater.

Once upon a time when Grunge ruled my high school, when plaid was a great idea and unwashed, shoulder length hair on dudes was a statement of apathy rather than to make the hair take a shape visoring your eyes, I wanted to be one of the skater kids.

They wore the knit skull caps and winter beanies during the hottest months of the year, Vans and Dr Martens before there were songs about them, and pants with so many pockets that were left empty just to prove they didn’t need anything other than wallets on bike chains.  They ruled.

Sure, there were the jocks and the preps to decide what was popular, but these guys were allowed to be our cultural leaders of taste and style.  I wanted to tap into that vein of knowing where the underground concerts were, which bands were about to break, and most of all, look all badass with my skateboard under my arm and ready to drop and cruise off at any moment.

I was never in any shape to be one of those guys, and the one skateboard my parents ever got for me was this horrible collection of neon pastels from a Miami Vice garage sale, but they were my friends.  Sometimes as the charity case, sometimes as the confidante, they brought me along to shows and the like.  Sure, they had their douche-y moments, but what group doesn’t?

I’d like to think that people grow past the want/need to be part of a social group, but that’s naive.  Also, a much larger topic than what I wanted to do here and now.  I saw the following video and it just made me remember and want to share it.

Kilian Martin - A Skate Regeneration

The next of many,

Matt

Trying to get a skeleton together of what my vacations will be next year.  So far, it’s looking like 2011 could be a lot of fun.  

There’s an event in June that I think will take me to Seattle.  This will be my first time back in about 3 years after an almost complete washout of a 10-year H.S. reunion.  

I’d like to make it to my 3rd San Diego Comic Con, but I have a feeling that I might not be able to in favor of getting to some new places/events.  One of these days, I need to get up to see friends in Vegas, LA, Kentucky, and New York.  We’ll see. 

Either way, the prospect of ANY travel is fucking with me now thanks to the weirdly invasive search procedures being set up by the TSA.  I get it’s for security, but yikes.

So to lighten the mood, here’s something funny:

The next of many,

Matt

Added this to my NetFlix queue on a lark and ended up really enjoying it.

It reminded me of something I love: music.  

I know that sounds weird if you know me; hell, I work in radio!  But I’ve lost that feeling of discovering new music and really experiencing bands/albums/concerts.  I miss that connection to complete strangers, caught up in an unnerving, swelling, exciting, and bacchanalian momentum.  At this point, it’s become such a romanticized memory that I wonder if I’ve ever experienced it.

Don’t get me wrong, I love working in radio.  But radio is a commercial entity and therefore relies on appealing to the masses to garner ratings and revenue.  There’s nothing wrong with this, but if you’re not fulfilled by the Top 40, there’s not much recourse in discovering any diamonds in the rough through mass media.

I’d say it’s been a good 15 years since I’ve gone chasing a band through a city and hitting a variety of sketchy, hipster venues.  I’ve become an old fart, grumbling at the prospect of finding parking and weighing that against my want to see and hear good live music.  

Time for a change!

I wonder if it’s still possible to recapture that kind of magic?  And of course, I wonder if I could bump into some cute, quirky girl who lives at my level of awkward.  To create something so thoroughly entertaining as this seemingly unattainable awkward slice of heaven.

Good at hyperbole,

Matt