OK, OK, I know it's not healthy to dwell on bad news, but I had to share this Facebook message I just got from my friend, Andrea, who works at a newspaper in St. Louis.

Duuuuuude!
I totally forgot you were going to J-school! Holy buckets. Didn't you get the news flash? Journalism's dead, baby. Even still, I'd have to imagine a degree from Columbia's gotta get you a pretty sweet gig somewhere. Weren't you looking into magazine writing or something? I can absolutely, unwaveringly tell you that newspapers are dead. We've had three layoffs in the past six months, and we're now being forced to take weeklong, unpaid furloughs... and our contract with XXXXX is up in June.
Needless to say, I'm over it. I have been for more than a year, but I didn't get my shit together enough to transition to another profession until last fall. That's when I started studying for the law school admissions test. I'm now shockingly neck-deep in acceptances (I may have applied to a few too many schools...) and trying to decide between Portland, Denver and Seattle.

I met Andrea five years ago when she came to Kona to work for the West Hawaii Today. She stayed there a year or two, then took the gig in St. Louis.

In an interesting sidenote, another ex-West Hawaii Today reporter, a young lady originally from Hilo, who wound up in New Mexico, is also attempting to get into law school.

I am endlessly amazed at how small the world can be.

So yesterday, I met up with a classmate from Emerson, with whom I studied film. Troy was in town working on a television series, a fact I learned from his Facebook status message. (He, in the last 9 years, or so, has become something of an expert on childbirth and he has produced several series for places like the Discovery Channel.) We met at the bus station because he was pressed for time and had to get to a location in New Jersey, but we did have a good chance to catch up.

Troy is doing this TV stuff, which is neat, but more interestingly, he's become a medium. (Read about him here http://www.troyparkinson.com/) Like the kind that receive messages from dead people. He started developing his medium skills in Boston ("Everyone can do it--it's like a muscle that can be exercised," he says), unbeknownst to me, and others, and now he's got a Web site, does a radio show, is writing a book and has been featured on Fargo (where he's from) news.

Random, right?

Then he tells me he was just in Hawaii for five weeks, waiting for a baby to be born (so he could tape the process). Not only was he in Hawaii, but he was in Kona, my home town!

Troy stayed at the Dragonfly Ranch and loved it. He said he also really loved Hawaii because, unlike in Fargo, where he is a somewhat cautious about with whom he shares his spiritual work, people in Hawaii really dig stuff like crystals, tarot cards, aura readings and talking to dolphins. He became the in-house medium and it was good.

Now, among the guests at the Dragonfly Ranch for whom Troy read was Ian Usher. Mr. Usher, an Englishman, sold his life on eBay and is aiming to achieve 100 goals in 100 weeks. (Learn more at http://www.100goals100weeks.com) However, oddly enough, I had already heard about Mr. Usher because my friend Karin, a journalist in Hawaii, wrote about him here http://www.hawaii247.org/2009/01/18/man-with-a-lot-of-goals-visits-big-island/ .

But to top it all off, Mr. Usher was quite impressed with Troy's reading, so he blogged about it here http://100goals100weeks.blogspot.com/2009/01/mystic-reading-with-troy.html !

So to sum up: We're all connected and the Internet is amazing.

Anybody need a new used car?!

So, I'm on my way to Columbia, but I recently learned that my financial aid package got slashed by $6,000! (That is, last year, I was allotted $6,000 more that what I can get this year.) That's the result of the sub-prime loan crisis. Apparently, student loans were also affected by this, specifically Perkins loans; I lost ALL of mine.

I was relating my financial woes to the father of two boys I tutor, and he gave me a job selling cars until I leave! Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I took him up on the offer, so here I am, selling used cars! I've sold two already, but man, it's been slow.

If anyone out there needs a car, DO LET ME KNOW! And we have some really nice, almost new cars to boot! (We have a really slick 2008 Nissan Altima and I can't understand why it hasn't been sold, yet. It's absolutely perfect, though not exactly cheap.)

You can also check out our Web site at http://www.hawaiicar.com/.

I'm a bit sad.

I have just received word that I did not qualify for a very big scholarship to study journalism in the UK. I knew it was a long-shot--the organization who manages funding has a thing for over-achieving Ivy League undergrads and does not consider financial need--but still, I'm a little disappointed.

So, here I am, back in my old situation: What to do next? I can still go to Columbia, and I think this is what I would like to do, but the tuition is absolutely obscene: $65,000 (all expenses budgeted). And since I've been looking after my dad, I've barely been able to work. (Well, actually, I work around the clock, everyday of the week--I just don't get paid for any of it.) AND, because Dad's been ill, there's not a lot of money coming in, and things are just tight. (Being here with him, I've also learned about his VERY IRRESPONSIBLE financial management--but that's a BLOG unto itself.)

Now, a lot of people have been telling me just to borrow the money. "It's COLUMBIA, after all!" But I just think that's foolish. I've been in touch with LOTS of people who have gone to the journalism school, and they all say the same: Columbia degree or not, journalism just doesn't pay. In fact, the average starting salary for a Columbia J-school graduate is $28,000/year. On top of that, interest on federal loans for graduate school is 8 percent!

Twist the knife a little deeper...

Columbia's already promised me $20,000, and I'm still shaking their tree for more, but I simply won't go $45,000 into the hole for that Ivy League paper (that damned thing must be printed in platinum). REMEMBER THE RECESSION?!

My family, which consists only of my father, mother, and younger, and definitely not richer younger sister, (we don't really have extended family) can help me with about $10,000. That leaves another $35,000, or so.

I'm applying to scholarships as fast as I can find them, but last year, I applied to about a dozen and got only two little ones (though believe me, every little bit helps).

So I'm going to put this out there: HELP.

If you like my blog, throw a couple bucks my way. If you like my blog and can afford it, throw a few more. If you know anyone who wants to sponsor a hard-working, multi-lingual, well-travelled, non-22-year-old-Harvard-graduate who is, however, totally dedicated to mastering the craft of journalism, do let me know. I'd be glad to learn about more scholarships, too, and would be happy to discuss some no-interest loans with anyone who'd consider it.

Also, if I can offer my services as a writer, teacher, tutor, tour guide (need to plan a trip to China? Hawaii?) in exchange for some cash.

A PayPal button has been tackily added to the top of the sidebar. Contribute freely and often. You can even use a credit card!

There is hope yet for our mighty legal system! Many months ago, I posted about my run-in with the police over a broken headlight. It seemed at the time that I had two options: paying the fine (which was nearly $150) or fighting the ticket in court. Actually, there was a third route: writing a letter explaining the situation (that I had essentially been fined twice for the same offense)--this is what I did. I just got the reply in the mail and the second, more expensive charge was dropped. I still have to pay $47 for driving without a headlight, but in fact, I was driving without a headlight, so this was difficult to dispute without lying.

Hurrah! I fought the law and I won!

Thanks to those of you who wrote to express concern about our chocolate-devouring mongrel. Yes, she did get a bit sick, but it wasn't serious, or long-term.

The good news is she's back to normal, doing fine, and she still wants your cookie.

We have a dog. THIS dog. Or rather, my sister has the dog, and the rest of us like her, too. The dog, Ginger, or Little Girl, she responds to both, is the most spoiled creature I have ever seen. But, despite this, and being a tiny, fur-ball sort of lap dog, she is the most mild-mannered and agreeable dog out there. The stuff of Lassie lore. But she does have her own mind.

Last week, my mother came back from Las Vegas, and brought with her several boxes of See's chocolates for gifts. Very much to our surprise, while Mom was out and Ginger was left on her own, she found the plastic bag in which Mom stored the chocolates, pulled out a box and claimed it herself, got through the one layer of paper, a layer of plastic, another paper wrapper, cardboard, and then the last level of protection, a flimsy paper sheaf, and gorged herself of the expensive confection. Mom found her later, among chocolates strewn everywhere, looking quite proud of herself, with a face smeared in sticky, sweet brown.

Mom went off on another trip this past Friday, leaving the dog in my sister's care, and lo! she did it again! While my sister was at the gym, Ginger found a cache of Hawaiian Host Macadamia Nut chocolates, tore through a box, and scarfed down the goods. My sister came home to find the dog passed out next to her kill, unable to move. She said there were NINE chocolates missing. ("I can't even eat nine chocolates!" she said. And Ginger only weighs about 11 pounds.)

She's amazing.

An update on the ticket situation:

I must say I was very disappointed with reader participation in my last poll about whether I should fight my traffic ticket or not. There were six votes, one was my own, and two were from one person who voted one way first, and then, after a discussion with me, cast another vote in the other direction.

In any event, I have decided not go to court, and not to pay the fines either. I went the third route, which was to write a letter to the judge explaining the situation.

We shall see what comes of it...

It is obviously that time of the month (quota time, that is).

I got stopped by the police this evening on my way home, just 125m from my front door. The apartment building where Dad and I live is at the end of a small road off the main street, and as made the turn off, I noticed two sets of flashing blue lights behind me. Seeing cop cars in my area is not all that unusual, and thinking not too much of it and not hearing a siren, I continued on my way, BUT the two cars followed me into the complex, then down the ramp as I entered the underground parking area. Realizing that I was their target, I stopped the car half-way in, got out, then asked, "Are you stopping ME?!"

Clearly, cops are not used to little geeky girls with grandma glasses and Louise Brooks hairdos approaching them with confused faces when they're trying to get on with their very important business of racking up traffic violations. "Get back into vehicle, Miss!" one of the two cops yelled. I did, then asked through the window, "What have I done wrong?" One of the cops came over and with a very serious tone said, "You have a headlight out. You are driving an unsafe vehicle." The other cop came out with a flash light and circled my car, looking in to inspect for who knows what. Then, the first cop demanded that I turn off the radio, asked what was in wagon part of the station wagon (it was my dad's wheel chair motorized ramp), and then for my license and registration. "Don't you think I should move my car so as not to block people trying to get either in or out of the parking lot?" I asked. "No, Miss, stay where you are!"

I sat in my car for some time, families with children passing by and looking concerned, and a neighbor yelling in the background "What happened?!" Cop number one came back, asked me a bunch of questions about my job ("I'm a public school teacher, but I only teach three days a week because I take care of my elderly father who has cancer." I explained trying my best to sound saintly), my residence, my social security number, then handed me a citation slip; I was nailed for TWO offenses: driving with a headlight out ($47)AND driving an unsafe vehicle ($97). I looked carefully at the slip and the cop said, "Your car is unsafe because the light is out, so that's two violations."

Generally speaking, I try to limit my dealings with policemen (and policewomen, for that matter), so I just signed the slip, tried to look helpless, and wished the officers a good evening. But when I got home, I was not happy. "Dad, that's double jeopardy!" I yelled. "Damned right, it is!" agreed my loyal, lawyer Daddy. "$150 is outrageous!" he declared, and then he told me to contest it in court.

Now, just to be sure about my understanding of the "double jeopardy" clause in the constitution, I went online and found this from the fifth amendment: "...nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb." Fining me twice for one offense does seem to be in violation of this fundamental constitutional right, though in fairness, I reckon that in this new and globalized hypercaptialism we find ourselves in today, the amendment should be ratified to include "pocketbook" with "life and limb". And, as constitutional rights deal with matters of the nation, and I think traffic violations are a something states or the local goverment handles, I do believe amendment 14 allows me to apply amendment 5 to my situation with "no State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges and immunities of citizens of the United States".

Hm.

Patient readers, what do you reckon? Should I fight this one in court in attempt to save $100 (I will definitely have to pay the first one as it cannot be denied that my headlight was out), or should I just save myself from the hassle by sending in a check?

I would appreciate any thoughts on this and do leave a vote on my poll to the right.

I go to check the mail today and find that this envelope had been stuffed into our very small box. That's right, owning a mail scale and using stamps is now officially suspicious behavior that might be precursor to acts of security threat to the nation.

Indeed, Dad was only sending the package a distance of a couple of miles, but one would think that if the post office had made the effort of receiving it, putting this annoying label on it, and then sending it back to us, surely someone there could have shaken it and held it up to the light long enough to realize that it wasn't explosive squibs of anthrax dust, but merely a hefty, though innocuous multi-page document (tax forms, actually, for one of his clients).

So now I have to take this damned thing back to the post office so they can shake it and hold it up to the light in front of me, perhaps at the same time analyzing my face for nervous twitches and breath holding, just so we can have it sent it up the road.

God, bless America!

Living with Dad is not easy. Or perhaps, living with me is not easy. Either way, Dad and I have finally found something of routine for living together. The most important part of this routine is getting his compression socks on in the morning, and then taking them off at night. Dad is mostly wheelchair-bound and with limited mobility on his left side, as the result of a stroke he suffered almost five years ago, it is next to impossible for him to put on socks or shoes. This is especially true in the case of his compression socks which are designed to minimize the effects of gravity by squeezing the legs tight enough to keep fluids from swelling in his feet. With two good hands, getting the damned things on him is a challenge for me, also.

So the other night, I was tired rather early, and noticing that Dad was going through his normal before bed routine, I announced my intention to also go to bed. "Good," he said, "me, too." I waited in the kitchen for him as his took his night-time pills. He looked at me. I said nothing. "What do you want?" he asked. "Nothing," I said, "I'm just waiting for you to go to bed so I can take off your socks." "Oh, I see." So, he swallowed his last pill, wheeled himself into his room and got himself into bed. I got his arms and legs situated (he has to really work at adjusting himself to get into bed properly), then I yanked off the socks and left them hanging over the foot of the bed.

"Do you need anything, Papa?" I asked, as I always do before turning off the light. "No, no, I'm fine." So, I said "good night", switched off the light, then went to bed myself.

Not long after I got into bed, but before I fell asleep, I heard the creak of Dad's bed (it's a motorized hospital bed). Then shuffling. Then the click of the light switch and the squeak of the wheelchair. This was all followed shortly by the sound of water running, a toilet flushing, teeth brushing and more water. Then a pause. Then wheelchair clicking, shuffling, squeaking, light switch, and settling. Then nothing.

My only explanation for this was that the old man didn't want to ask me to wait an extra 10 minutes so that he could finish his routine before getting into bed, possibly irritating me or preventing me from a few more minutes of sleep (not that I would have been annoyed). So instead of just telling me he wasn't ready for bed, he played along, went through the motions, then sat there in the dark waiting for me to fall asleep before getting himself back up to do what he had to do.

What nerve!

My sister was lamenting life here in Kona (I think I have mentioned that she also quit her job in Los Angeles to come home to help Dad) the other day and she said, "All of my friends who are from here, and never left, have kids now."

She sighed and I thought about it. One of her friends already has four kids.

"Well, what about Rebecca (not her real name)?" I asked. Rebecca and my sister have known each other since grade school, and she's a really lovely, beautiful girl who, for the most part, has her life together.

Leilani thought about it. "True. She doesn't have kids. But she does have an STD."

That's Kona!

Oh patient readers, brace yourself for yet another angry, and dreadfully long, rant! Kona is getting to me in all kinds of ways.

The more I interact with people here, the more I realize that I am very different. Not better than or worse than, just DIFFERENT. My thinking, my beliefs, my aims...all of it, and what's disturbing is that the more I see these differences, the more I am overcome with waves of self-doubt. Am I really wrong? Is everyone getting something that I'm not? Am I losing grip on reality and seeing things that just aren't there?

My most recent panic attack was provoked by a class I attended this evening. As mentioned previously, I have been offered a job as a substitute teacher. However, before being eligible to start this job, one must complete a certification course and pass a test. This course happens to be taught by the brilliant and wonderful Mrs. Y who was actually a teacher of mine in middle school. The course runs a duration of two weeks and we are already half way through it. Thus far it's OK. I say OK and not excellent, or even good, because 1. I was required to pay for this course in order to attend it, 2. After teaching for five years already, I find some of the material a bit redundant, and 3. Our sessions are held every night for four hours and let's face it, my attention span is fickle. But like I said, it's OK. It's good having a reason to get out of the house and the other people in the course are pretty nice and for the most part, impressively dedicated and enthusiastic about becoming good substitute teachers.

Now, getting back to my panic attack; two things got the ball rolling. The first was more obvious than the second. Being eager adults, keen to share our experiences, and sometimes forgetful of the fact that our job will be to FILL IN occasionally for a teacher out with illness, as opposed to being PROPER TEACHERS, our simple classroom discussions often take a turn for philosophical ramblings about educational theories. Such was the case this evening when a conversation about writing instruction led to an involved comment on "modern" theories of how students should develop a mastery of their own language, spoken and written. The fantastic Mrs. Y shocked me by saying that when evaluating students' written work, we should pay careful attention to the students' ability to express their ideas, as well as the depth and breadth of their ideas, while things that might inspire vicious red marks, such as a failure to remember the pesky rules for spelling and grammar, should be regarded as secondary.

WHAT?! WHAT DID SHE SAY?

(Yes, patient readers, I AM so uptight that this really did upset me.)

Young learners should only concern themselves with taking an accurate command of their own (and usually ONLY) language AFTER they have successfully been able to express their esoteric childhood thoughts?!

"But Mrs. Y," I protested, still unable at my age to refer to her by her first name, "in the real world, not knowing how to spell and writing with poor grammar inhibits people from being articulate and what's more, professional people see written mistakes as a sign of a lack of education, laziness, sloppiness and careless attention to detail."

"You don't want to discourage children from writing at all. How would you feel if you got an essay back with all kinds of red marks on it?", or something along those lines, she said.

WHAT NONSENSE, I thought. How the hell are you supposed to learn if no one will correct you? And what are we as teachers and adults doing coddling underachieving students like that? Really, if a student can't handle some constructive correction from their schoolteacher as a child, how the hell will they survive less friendly criticism in their life as an adult?

"Well, when do they learn things like spelling and grammar?" I asked, still amazed that such a well-spoken, dedicated teaching professional (and primary school principal also faced with bringing all of her students up to nationally mandated achievement standards) believes that red ink will damage a child's psyche.

"In the correct context," she offered with little explanation. "Besides, nowadays we have spell check and computer programs and editors and things. What we really need to do is inspire the children to be creative and express themselves."

WOW. Do I feel old fashioned for feeling like this is a crock. I'll get to why in a moment.

The second point in the evening where I felt that I just didn't get it is when the class started talking about students with disabilities and how they should be accommodated. (Now, before I continue, I want say I am a firm believer in education for everyone and because learning disabilities do in fact exist, I understand completely that some students just need special help. Please don't get me wrong on that point.) However, the conversation moved to autism and how it's becoming more of a problem in America and members of my class knew this because of something Oprah said. The women in the room, mostly mothers, looked very concerned as this topic evolved.

Now again, before I continue, I don't want anyone to believe that I don't think autism is a serious problem. I know it is. But then I said, "Mrs. Y, do you really think autism is becoming a bigger problem because it really is, or do you think it's just an indication of our times? Surely, people have been educated for centuries without labels such as ADD, ADHD or whatever other 'learning disabilities'?" And I gave her this example: "In China, where I have worked for three and a half years, there are NO MENTAL DEFICIENCIES. That's the official line, anyway. Of course, there are lots of people who suffer from mental illness and other social disorders, but as a rule, no one acknowledges it. While that's an extreme at the opposite end with its own negative effects, most students, whatever their condition, are expected to work to the best of their abilities. Obviously, not everyone is the best student in the class, but they all try hard."

(Actually, that wasn't word for word, what I said. I am usually not that articulate on the fly. I admit right now that I have fine-tuned a lot of the arguments here. [Ha ha. I can do that because it's MY blog.])

Well, this example caused a laugh and instead of focusing on my point about students trying to achieve to the best of their abilities high expectations placed on them, everyone thought it was so sad that China doesn't believe in mental illness.

Then I added, "Maybe all of this special attention is giving students an excuse to underachieve, and maybe little boys jump and scream because they are little boys and maybe we should set high standards for everyone and maybe parents should be parents."

This fell mostly flat. Someone then suggested that maybe so many kids have attention problems because of television. His theory was that horizontal lines that run down the screen at a pace too quick to see normally, but evident when filmed, are processed in the minds of young children to damaging effects. I didn't want to come off rude, or as a know-it-all, so kept to myself the fact that those lines are seen on film as a result of a difference in playback frame rates, and that it seems rather likely that adults and children process them identically. But who knows? Maybe there was something to what he said, anyway.

Then we had a break and a woman in our class told me that two of her children are ADD, as well as her husband, and while she tried and tried to help her kids and didn't want to put them on Ritalin, in the end she tried it and found that it was the best solution for their problem. I listened patiently, but her argument did not change my position. And then she said, "You know, maybe China doesn't acknowledge mental illness because they don't want their people to ever think about all of the problems in their country."

OK. So there was my breakdown. I felt painfully alone in my thoughts. I was told that spelling wasn't important and grammar is hard to teach. I was told that creative thinking is the ultimate aim of a well-rounded education, and I was told, probably by someone with limited information, that the China doesn't want to properly educate its people for fear they will revolt, find God and pop psychology.

Now, let's talk about why I'm different. This is how I see things.

First, let's break down globalization. This great stuff called capitalism that we kill and die for is spreading all over the world and we made it so. For the most part, this has been good for America. We send stuff abroad and people bring us ugly, poorly made clothes at a steal. After WWII, for all kinds of reasons, America got rich, we built up our military, life got easy, people went to college and Mom got a Hoover. The 60s and 70s went, social life changed, but for the most part, life was still pretty good. But, let's take a look at what's happening today. Rapidly developing technology has allowed for instantaneous communication throughout the world. Economies that were once behind are zipping and booming and lots of new people are getting rich. But here's the catch: For economies to grow, people, or rather businesses have to find way to get more bang for their dollar (or euro or pound or renminbi). If people or materials are expensive in one place, business savvy people go elsewhere, to other cities or, as it is happening now, other countries, to set up shop.

So now, pray tell, what the hell does this have to do with spelling and grammar and kids with ADD? As I see it, America is in trouble. For far too many years, we have rested on the fact that we are the richest, most powerful country in the world. Simply having the good sense to be born to American citizens, or on American soil, means that life is automatically better than it would be most elsewhere. But this is the problem: That yummy capitalism we've spread all over the world is coming to bite us in the ass. As history has proven, economies must evolve: countries that develop economically by making stuff, such as clothes, for other people must eventually shift into high skilled services, such as banking or pharmaceuticals, to keep alive; they must do so because they won't be able to make stuff cheaper than other poorer countries can. Now, of course, America leads the way in professional services, but exactly how long can we do that for? With the current state of math and science in this country (to be read: bad, and almost non-existent if we didn't let in ambitious and high-achieving students from poor countries hungry for the knowledge they can't get at home), I'd say, not long.

"Close the borders and stop sending jobs to China and India!" the people yell. But let's face it. That won't happen. Capitalism is a hungry beast that can't be stopped; the people making money have all the power and there ain't nothing coming between them and their precious profit. Besides, China has all of our cash, anyway.

And finally, to my point: While people in Hawaii, and perhaps the rest of America, worry about whether little Jonny feels good about himself and his pre-pubescent profundity and his ADD, the rest of the world biting the bitter bullet of life, learning English the old fashioned way, AS WELL AS THEIR OWN LANGUAGE, and preparing for life in a not-so-friendly, not-so-caring, and definitely not-fair world of global competition. Now, some of you offended naysayers may tut-tut and remind me that America is the land of invention and innovation and China can't ever touch us 'cause they're all bunch of commie pinkos who can't think for themselves. Perhaps that's true. And who knows what the future holds? But if things carry on as they do, let us hope that in our American future full of lots of people who can't spell, but have healthy egos and vivid imaginations, someone will find a cure for the widespread depression and listlessness that will come as a result of the inability to find a job, despite being so damned creative, expressive and special. Perhaps someone will even invent a pill for it.

Now, having had this opportunity to present my ideas in graphemes (that's a word I learned in class--it means letters), I console myself in that I am not totally wrong. Different, but maybe not too far off the mark.

**Afterward: If when reading this you come across any typos or misspelling or grammatical errors, I want to remind you that it doesn't matter because I think I've expressed well my ideas.

Details redarding a story in my last post serve to clarify (thanks Uncle Baron):

"It was a PlayStation 3, not an Xbox and the thugs never got the machine. He worked hard for his money and wasn't about to let go of the PS3 and probably would have died before letting go of it not understanding the consequences of the thugs actions. Luckily his younger brother (the PS3 owner is actually an adult in age) grabbed the bat from the dirtbag and chased them off along with the help of a big local dude who saw what was going on and stopped."

This makes the story much less grim. Good. (But the bit about the guy being about 24 and the son of a cop still stands true; my sister, who knows him, confirmed it.)

I've really been meaning to write--there is so much going on--but I just haven't been motivated. I recently wrote a letter to a friend from a China, an American colleague, and actually, what I wrote him really sums up well what's going on with me. Here is a large excerpt of the letter; I think it serves well to illustrate my current frame of mind.

---

Things on this side are, not to put to fine a point on it, shit. I am
still in Hawaii and I won't be going to Columbia this year after all.
There is an exceptionally good reason for this. Dad is very ill and has
been diagnosed with diffused large B-cell lymphoma. It came on
very suddenly and rather strongly, and he starts chemo next Wednesday.
Given that Dad is divorced, my older half-sister was never close, and he
lives alone, there is no one in a good position to look after him,
save for my younger sister and myself. (Dumping him into a home is not
an option I would consider, as I like my dad and wouldn't want him
living out his last surrounded by a bunch of deteriorating old farts
who look forward to bingo on Tuesdays and institutional meatloaf on
Fridays.)

Of course, looking after the old man is not easy either. I am living
with him, sleeping on an army cot in his room (he has another room,
but a couple--friends and clients of his, one of whom is a nurse--live
in the other; they have been around a year, which is nice, but are
leaving soon). I get up when he gets up, take him to the toilet when
he needs it, listen to him violently hack throughout the night as his
poor body tries to cough out the lump in his lung that will never come up,
put on his socks, take them off, shave his face, and then do stuff like take
him to the doctors, field calls from his voracious clients--of which he still
has many--and keep my meddling Chinese mother, his ex-wife, at bay.
Very fortunately, my sister has also given up her job and come home,
and while she lives with our mother, she comes over often and relieves
me of my responsibilities so I can sleep, go to yoga, or just fuck off for a
few hours.

Let me tell you, getting old is shit. My new ambition in life is
to die before all the parts start coming undone.

So, after two letters and a weepy phone call, the ever-competitive
and, but in the end much more compassionate than expected Graduate
School of Journalism at Columbia University has seen fit to break with their
usual policy and granted me a one-year deferral. This is excellent,
for obvious reasons.

Also, as Dad does not require non-stop attention 24-hours a day
(he mostly needs help mornings and nights), I do have stretches of
free time during the day (deliberately enhanced by assigning my sister with
a certain amount of time with Dad--I like to see to it that she
contributes her share of filial duty) and have applied for very part-time work at a
new tutoring center, and as a substitute teacher at the local high school
(totally flexible work). This should be interesting as I'm curious to see what
teaching in the States might be like. (I imagine the students won't be as motivated
[internally or externally] as they are in the Asian countries, for the most part.)
Actually, as I went through the public system myself, I'll be working
alongside a number of my former teachers. Weird.

Other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?

Well, I miss China. I think Americans, or at least, the Konaese, are
miserable, fat people, who don't smile and are stupid. I know this is
a harsh assessment of the simple, native people of my home town, but I
maintain that it's mostly accurate. Kona used to be filled with
not-so-miserable, fat, smiling people, and they were usually pleasant, and much
more bearable. But, in the last five years, thousands--literally thousands--of
White (no offense) assholes, mostly from Southern California--have
moved to the town, throwing any semblance of social order painfully out of
whack. (Though possibly unconnected, at the same time, the the most garish markers
of contemporary America, such as Jamba Juice and Hooters, have made presence on the
public tableau.) Property values have skyrocketed and now there are really only
two kinds of people who live here: wealthy White Republicans who wear
tacky Hawaiian clothes and try desperately to incorporate archaic
Hawaiian words into their vocabulary in efforts to "go native" (while
they hang around Starbucks and complain about the laziness of the
local people and the incompetence of the local government [valid point
there]) AND the poor bastards who commute three to four hours daily
from the more affordable towns north and south of this one, on the
only and thus traffic jammed at all hours of the day main road, to
wait, serve and slave for their modest share of the foreigners' wealth. Most
people I know who grew up here are working in real estate,
construction, tourism or hospitality. Most are married with children,
or unmarried with children, and because of the high cost of living, they
barely make ends meet. Ice (crystal methamphetamine) has become a huge
problem here and at night, I won't walk home alone. There are lots of
reports in the paper about racially-motivated violence and everyone
knows someone who has been affected. My sister's friend, a local kid,
but a Caucasian, was hospitalized because he was severely beaten by an
angry mob of local kids while camping at the beach. My mother's
yardman didn't show up for work one day because the van he shared with
his friend, a Korean guy, was stolen when a couple of unknown guys
approached him while he was loading the van, beat the shit
out of him for no apparent reason, then drove off with the van, leaving him for
dead. (This happened shortly after Virginia Tech, which they think
might have been the motivation, though they aren't sure. Asians are
usually not targets for racial violence here.) The last story I will
share is the worst. The page designer (a Caucasian transplant) at the
newspaper where I used to work has a bunch of kids, his own and
adopted (I believe). One of his boys, who is about 14, is autistic. He
and a similarly aged brother both saved up for an xBox and when
they had enough money, they walked down to the local game store to buy it.
On the way home, xBox in tow, a pick up truck pulled up next to them
on the side of the road. Two local guys got out and tried
to pull the xBox off of the autistic kid. But, being autistic, the kid
didn't really get what was going on, other than these assholes were
trying to separate him from his precious xBox, and was having none of
it. So, unsuccessful in getting it away from the kid, one of the guys goes
into the truck, produces a baseball bat, and then proceeds to beat the
kid across the ribs with it. The guys got the toy, then drove off. The
police said there was little that could be done, but as it turns out now,
the guy who beat the kid was found out to be the son of a policeman,
and he's a classmate of my sister (which makes him about 24). That's
Kona.

But of course, every town has bad news and good news, so the good news
is, as people keep reminding me when I tell them I hate this fucking
pathetic excuse for a human settlement (they should know better than
to ask), is that everyday is sunny and it doesn't snow. (Apparently,
in America, snow is very dangerous, life-threateningly, burns-the-skin-off-your-
flesh dangerous, and being cold is something akin to walking over 30 feet of
red hot coals every hour for eternity.) Nevermind the fact that asthmatics,
such as myself, don't do well in the heat, and the air is polluted from the
volcano and something else I can't divine, though I know it's there
because I have had to double my dose of asthma medication AND add an
allergy pill, just to breathe at levels I am accustomed to in
Beijing. (Yes, my asthma is worse here than in Beijing!) Ladies and gentlemen,
Kona is better than "the Mainland" because it's not cold!

Ah paradise...

I am back in Kona now.

I have a new ambition in life and that is to die before my body falls apart. Let me tell you, getting old is shit.

Dad went to his appointment with the cardiologist today; I took him. The doctor readjusted his pacemaker which was put in more than four years ago when Dad had his stroke. In the doctor's office, Dad ran into an old acquaintance and former neighbor, Irwin, who was also in to have his pacemaker checked. Irwin, like Dad, is in a wheelchair, and the two of them strained to carry a conversation. I had to wheel Dad closer to his friend so they could hear each other.

Just to give you a fuller picture of my father's recent health woes, here's what's happened up to the present:

1. Dad had a stroke. I was home when it happened and was the one to find him face down on the floor, unable to move much other than his right arm, which he used, with success, to wake me up in the room next door, by hitting the common wall with a shoe. Dad was hospitalized for some time after this, then came home, in a wheel chair.

2. Dad broke his hip. I was also home when this happened. Dad was doing something in the kitchen when the phone rang and when he went to get it, he tripped over himself and fell, breaking the hip bone. He had replacement surgery, then spent a good long time in the Rehabilitation Hospital of the Pacific in Honolulu.

3. Upon his return, Dad fell and broke his shoulder. The treatment for this required a bit of creative taping and orders not to move. He didn't, and he got better.

4. Non-serious fall.

5. Non-serious fall.

6. Non-serious fall, etc.

7. Last month, I get a frantic call from Mom. Dad was in the hospital with some kind of leg infection (you see, his legs are swollen, puffy and purple from always being in a wheelchair) and while he was in, they discovered he had pneumonia. He was in the hospital for nearly two weeks, then Mom suggested I come home to spend time with him before I am due to head out to Columbia.

8. Two lumps have been found: one in his right lung, about 6cm big, and another the size of a hen's egg where a lymph node once was. In fact, we do not know the status of these lumps, but we will shortly. Dad is very weak, tires very easily and his once beautiful voice only barely squeaks out because there is something pressing against his vocal chords. Dad has also had a catheter installed for easy fluid evacuation. He keeps the attached bag in a "modesty pouch" and he refers to the whole unit that he has to drag around as his "evil cousin". Yesterday, his "evil cousin" released himself onto Dad's bedroom floor. Thankfully, the room is tiled.

Dad entrusts his medical care entirely to the Office of Veterans' Affairs. This means he has a VA appointed doctor who orders numerous treatments from various specialists, a VA nurse comes around every now and then to make sure Dad is still alive. I am very concerned about how all this works, however. It seems that there is very little communication going on between all these disparate caregivers and poor Dad just carries on, taking the THOUSANDS of pills that have been prescribed to him by all of these different doctors. He's got the largest pill box I have ever seen.

At 82, it seems somewhat unavoidable that Dad is at the end of his run. We don't exactly know how things will play out, but without a doubt, things are not looking terribly hopeful.

Dad is known for his many, many quotes and expressions, and the efficiency and appropriacy with which he wields them; the one I hear most often, now, is "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may..." I don' think I've heard anything truer in some time...

Alive. Yes. Busy. Very. School. Too much. Work. Also too much.

Me and Papa. Kona. Ain't we cute?

Thursday was my birthday. I am 26 years old. It's a strange feeling realizing that this is my THIRD birthday in China.

I tend to get a bit weird around my birthday, but I must admit that this year was not so bad. I've taken an extended break from drinking, so I didn't go out (really, I just don't have the time, money or inkling anymore), but my roommate treated me to lunch and I broke my diet to enjoy a chocolate ice cream. (Note: chocolate ice cream tastes much much better when you eat after a long period of not eating it. [Note: I am not really on a diet so much as on a health kick. Since cutting out the drink and other vices, I've put myself on a whole foods, low-dairy diet. Given that I have already been a vegetarian for 12 years now(!), this was not so hard, but I try to eat processed foods as little as possible. The results have been tremendous. I cook and clean a lot now--the kitchen has never been in better shape--I've lost some weight and my digestion system has never been so functional and efficient, something of an achievement here in China where most foreigners contend with Mao's revenge on at least a monthly basis.])
I bought this book as a present to myself. It's Hunter S. Thompson's Curse of Lono, illustrated by Ralph Steadman. This book was hard to find before Mr. Thompson decided to spray the walls of his home with his own blood and genius, but since the violent event, the story has been rereleased in giant coffee-table format. I was thrilled to find the book at my local bookstore/coffee shop/free wireless Internet access hangout, so I bought it. Hunter S. Thompson spent some time in Hawaii in the early 80's and the book is a collection of his writing about the place. As the photo to the left attests to, Mr. Thompson spent some time on the Kona Coast (though I can't imagine what he, or anyone for that matter, could have be doing there that would constitute "ass kicking").
Ralph Steadman was an artist I became familiar with in college. Here is his interpretation of the Kona Pier. The fish drawn up is the author, himself.


In other news, things are hectic on the home front. My roommate, whom I refer to as La Poupee (the French for "bimbo"), announced four days ago that she will be leaving Beijing on the 23rd. This left my other roommate and I in a scramble to get someone in here as soon as possible to take her room (of course La Poupee was far too busy with her own affairs, such as washing her hair and arranging farewell meetings, to make any effort to find someone herself-- despite her demand for an instant return on her deposit). Perrine, the roommate staying, with whom I get along well, and I, needless to say have been pissed. But as luck would have it, we found someone yesterday. He's another hapa (his dad's from Hong Kong and his mom is English) and he comes from Liverpool. Amazingly, like another hapa I know, he studied media in school, took up service work upon graduation (he's a cook) and then came to China to be an English teacher. What is most appealing about him, aside from the cook part, is that, unlike most of the people I have been encountering of late (very young, hyper-ambitious, or hyper-slack, recent graduates who have come to Beijing to either "break-into" the Chinese market (they usually return home deflated, having discovered that the road to CEO greatness requires wicked Mandarin skills and a struggle greater than a three-month internship) or to pickle their minds and livers on the cheap while snagging as many Chinese girls as possible (they usually return home after having run out of money), is this guy has had roommates in the past, he supports himself and doesn't seem to have any specific agenda other than "seeing how the other half lives" and getting away from the alarmingly "media saturated" British society (his words).
Other news: I am still working and studying, working and studying and working and studying. It looks like the job with the British Council is not panning out, but a friend of mine just referred me for a job at his place of work, the International School of Beijing. The position is Marketing and Publications Manager, and my friend said, given my background, that I may have a good shot at it. This would mean a full American salary, with benefits. We shall see...

Even the the turtles slack in Hawaii...

punaluu, originally uploaded by dadapunk80.

I half-assedly played tour guide for a week for Christian, a friend who also works in Beijing, who came to vacation in Hawaii. We went drove around the island one day and before we got to Volcanoes National Park, we made a stop at the black sand beach in Punaluu.

Hawaiian green sea turtles (see photo above) are unique in that they bask in the sun. According to a placard posted about the creatures, there is no reason for this; they just like to sit on the beach and take in the sun. Learning this, Christian was impressed: "Wow, even the turtles are lazy in Hawaii."

Happy Mardi Gras!

mardi, originally uploaded by dadapunk80.

Here I am in Hawaii. I suppose there are things I could write about, but complaining about the same old things is tiresome.