Shattered Fantasy

Head Chef and I play a video game called World of Warcraft, and it is a lot of fun. We play online simultaneously with hundreds and even thousands of other players from across North America and Australia, helping each other complete difficult tasks, defeat monster(ous) foes, and earn powerful weapons and abilities.

It’s all very exciting, time-consuming, and carefully designed to be as addicting as possible. At that, it’s very successful.

But recently, a spectre has appeared in game that crosses into the real world.

Head Chef and I have always appreciated the fact that Blizzard, the company that publishes World of Warcraft, has a firm policy against using the word “gay” in an insulting or derogatory manner in the game. Occasionally, we’ve actually reported other players who were abusive to gays, and it was nice to know that Blizzard was protecting us so we could play free of harassment.

But lately, Blizzard’s had a change of heart. A new policy was recently introduced after a woman announced in the game that her guild – a group of other players that are allied with one another – was looking for more members. The guild was “LGBT friendly.” Someone complained, and the woman was issued a warning by Blizzard. ‘You can’t say LGBT in game’ they said, in essence.

What followed was uproar. After a protracted silence, Blizzard made their policy more clear. Mention of sensitive topics, they said, was forbidden in game chat. Since gays and lesbians are a sensitive topic, they, like Christianity and Neoconservatism, were a prohibited topic.

But Blizzard was still vague enough in their description of the new policy to leave a lot of people wondering. ‘So is it OK to talk about heterosexuality, wives, or marriages,’ people have wondered. The verdict is still not in.

But something has happened – or at least is alleged to have happened – that may turn the question on its head. A player asked a Game Master if his two friends – a heterosexual couple that both play female characters – could have a marriage ceremony in the game. The answer was no. And more troubling still was that the answer was no because they were both playing female characters. The wedding, however, would be fine if they were playing opposite-sex characters.

This is a significant disappointment. If this account is true, it means that players are forbidden from creating the appearance that they are homosexual, or creating characters that they portray as homosexual for fear of being reported, warned, or even permanently banned from the game. But this rule does not apply to heterosexual players or players who play characters they portray as heterosexual.

Blizzard is based in California, and California law prohibits businesses from discriminating against gays and lesbians. Already, there is talk of letters from lawyers and articles in mainstream gay press.

Ostensibly, Blizzard is to doing this to maintain the purity of the fantasy fiction they’ve created in the World of Warcraft. But while Blizzard isn’t asking heterosexuals to portray themselves as anyone other than who they are in the World, they’ve seemingly instituted a new requirement that LGBT people must.

And that requirement utterly obliterates the fantasy.

On Keeping Cars

A friend of mine likes to talk about cars, and about the commitment we’re making when we obtain them. He’s probably not the first to put vehicles in this perspective, but recently he's been having some automotive difficulties and he's been philosophical about it.

For example, he says, renting a car – a convertible, say – is very fun. You can pick out the coolest model at the agency that day, and for a very small fee, you can use it all weekend. Take it around, show it off to your friends and laugh about how you wish you could afford one like that in real life. You can speed down a deserted highway with the top down, steering with your knees and your hands up in the air, screaming at the top of your lungs. You gun the engine at stop lights and pull into parking spaces just a little too fast.

Because there’s no commitment. You’re not particularly careful when you drive it because it’s not yours. You make sure you leave it almost as clean as when you got it, and you turn it in at the end of the weekend. But you don’t even have to look back as you leave the lot.

If you lease a car, though, you can get most of the benefits of renting, but with some trade-offs in terms of obligation. You can still afford a car much more exciting than your resources would normally allow, but there are some upkeep requirements. Oil must be changed and you have to wash it and generally keep it in good working order. If it breaks down, most problems are not going to be your responsibility depending on the lease agreement, but you do have to keep it running well.

And when the lease agreement is up, you can walk away like nothing ever happened. But you’ve had time to develop some feelings for the car – maybe you’ll miss the way it drove, or be glad to be rid of that window that never properly sealed. It wasn’t just a car, it was your car, albeit for just a short while. And the next person to drive it will feel how you wore it in.

When we buy a car, he cautioned me, we take full ownership responsibility. Yes, yes, it’s wonderful to drive it off the lot and hold that steering wheel in your hands and know that this car - this car - is yours and no one else’s. at first, maybe, we treat it like a rental until that day someone dings it with their car door, and it sinks in: no else is going to fix this.

From then on, it's an investment. But the warranty is good for a few years. If something turns out to be very wrong with it, we can get it fixed for next to nothing. But it’s still ours, flaws and all.

Generally, in this case, we also have fewer options. Because we’re going to pay for it, maintain it, and rely on it, we have to be more selective. No racy thing will do for most of us, because the fuel bills would bankrupt us or spare parts are just too expensive.

So we limit our options, usually, and spend our money wisely. And in return, the car is there for us, day and night, to take us where we have to go. Sometimes little things that are simple to address pop up and get resolved, and usually the car remains reliable for a generation.

After a few years, repairs can get a bit expensive, especially if we skimp on routine maintenance. It’s usually something we expect, though, and by this time the car has been reliable for so long that we don’t mind. It’s a good car, it’s been there for us, it’s taken abuse and never complained. Fixing it up is almost like giving back - rewarding in a way that could never be achieved with a rented or leased vehicle.

But sometimes something bad happens for no apparent reason, and there’s no one but you to address the problem. You're no wrencher, and you're stuck. Perhaps the onboard computer starts acting up and the car won’t start. The mechanic – expensive by himself - can’t diagnose the problem until you find out it’s too costly to fix. So it sits in your garage silently gathering dust for months while you get used to taking the bus and your resentment against it builds. Until one day you sell it, relieved but a little sad.

My friend’s car isn’t running so well, and that’s disappointing because he really likes it. I don't blame him, it’s a beautiful, fun car from a great year.

Almost Ready

Chained to my desk, as I am, performing mindless tasks for hours, my mind drifts. And it's been drifting back to Brokeback Mountain over and over again.

It is wonderful that the film has become a commercial success. It is wonderful that the film has achieved critical acclaim. It is wonderful that the film has won Golden Globes and is a contender for an oscar. How wonderful.

But for those who haven't seen it, I can't tell you that the film, itself, is wonderful. It is pleading, desperate, lonely, sad, and tragic. It is very subtle and superbly executed. And it is haunting. As a gay man I can identify with both men, as I have known them in real life and I have known them through the stories of friends, and I have known them in my own fears.

It has been over three weeks since I saw the film. I cried then, and I still have to hold back when I think of it. I forget that Ennis and Jack are fictional, and I want to reach out to make things better - to rip open time and set things right.

But that's not the point of the story, either. It is about love. How wonderful it is to have, and how it rips us apart to deny.

I can't bring myself to see it again. But I will. And I'm almost ready.

Untimely Offers

A few too many years ago when I was in college, I wore my hair very long. It poured off my head in long, gently coiling blond tresses that were the envy of coeds everywhere. My hair also bought me entry into the seedy underworld of Hippy Long-Hairs. I never ever shaved by youthful beard, instead just trimming to the shortest length possible. And I padded about campus in my Birkenstocks, with a tie-died shirt and ratty jeans. But I was not a hippy.

I was trying, see, and I was even fooling people. But the key to uncovering my deception was in that same hair I wore like a Subversive’s Badge: it was meticulously managed. I spent incredible amounts of money on the proper salon shampoos, and picked (never brushed!) it out daily.

But some people didn’t see through my simple facade, and I got offers for all sorts of drugs on the street. Naturally, in my Birks and tie-dyes, I looked like someone who would want them, but I always declined.

When I wanted any of what they were selling, I went to someone I knew and trusted.

Years later, I was mid-morning napping at home on a sunny weekday when a pretty young blond woman knocked at the door. I had pulled on some shorts but wore nothing else, and my hair by this point was no more than an inch and a half long anywhere on my head. When I opened the door, she asked to use the phone for a cab, so I let her in, listened to her call – clearly with a cab company – and prepared to escort her back outside.

She hesitated, and wanted to know if I “dated.” Not being part of the “dating” scene, I was naïve and said I wasn’t sure what she was asking. Suffice it to say, she wanted to perform a service in return for money. Before I finally ejected her from the house, she told me she was high on a number of drugs, showed me her breasts (they looked OK), and tried to convince me that I should “date” her just this once because, hey, she slept with women sometimes, too.

She really was very lovely, though. When it comes to women, I have to admit she was my type. Still, if I’d wanted some of what she was selling, I had female friends I knew and trusted that I probably could have turned to.

But that story’s now an anecdote from several years ago.

Yesterday, I stood waiting in the financial district for Head Chef to pick me up from work. Dressed in an untucked aloha shirt wrinkled from 12 hours at the office and my hair now no more than a quarter of an inch long, I slumped against a planter and played Tetris on my cell phone.

People came and went through the darkness and most of them looked like me to some degree. Just off work, they were dressed for business, but loosened, disheveled, and relaxed but hastening to get home before bedtime. My blocks fell into neat little rows, disappearing as they should until something unexpected happened.

“Wanna blowjob,” he mumbled as he shuffled passed. I was taken by surprise, and looked up at the man that had just passed me, then looked around, then back to him. He looked over his shoulder at me and lingered as he prepared to cross the street, and I stared back in shock. He had a 45 year old Anglo Rasta look to him, a couple of dreads in his hair and a beard a few days old. He looked away and crossed the street.

No, no, I was sure he had offered fellacio, this was not one of my moments of hearing the wrong thing. And so I looked at myself through the eye of a third person, and wondered what about me now - bearded, disheveled in my business aloha - had made this man think I’d want what he offered. I could think of nothing. No pink triangles, no limp wrist, and no look of desperation. I was just a man at the end of a long day playing Tetris.

Maybe there’s a correlation between Tetris and paying for BJs, but I doubt it.

A few minutes later, someone I know and trust showed up and I got in the car and kissed him hello as he pulled away from the curb. I told him the story of what had just happened, and Head Chef laughed out loud at the incident. “Only you,” he assured me. “That could only happen to you.”

I doubt that. And yet, I do get some unusual offers.

Lament of The Resource Node

All work and no play makes Chef a very dull boy, indeed.

I have worked every single day since January 3rd, only once working less than 10 hrs. Most days have been 13 to 15 hour days. I’m tired and bored.

My dishes aren’t done, my laundry isn’t washed, and my trash just moves from point to point in the house, rather than being taken out. My poor dog has resorted to self-petting.

But I labor on. I iron my shirt and go to work, skip dinner, and eat quickly before bed. I read reports that I am working more than 451 of the 475 Resource Nodes currently operating within my Western Profit Unit. I am unimpressed.

But I am certainly not flattered or honored, either. Pshaw.

Nor am I resentful. I, the worker, am disassociated from my work. I do it because I must, not because I care or despite the fact that I hate it. I am an efficient Resource Node. I provide high quality output.

And it will end, and I will have a brief respite. Then perhaps I will be redistributed to where Resource Nodes are in short supply.

I am tired, though. Tired of being a Resource Node. Tired of being so busy that I’m bored. My mother once said that “bored people are boring.”

At least it’s not as bad as last year.

Anthropomorphic Moment

Recently, in the midst of laughing at something a witty houseguest had said, I dismissed my devoted hound. She had pushed her nose up into my face to try to say hi and to express how much she adored me but I was too wrapped up in my People Things to be bothered at that particular moment.

Rebuffed, she walked directly to the couch and began rubbing her head against the cushions. Not to scratch an itch, mind you – no, this was slow and methodical. Her ears and eyes weren't bothering her, and it was then that I realized she had made a truly remarkable breakthrough.

She is a self-petting dog.

This could change everything. And it goes way beyond the age-old cat vs. dog dispute. Friturier - an avowed dog hater - has already acknowledged a special affinity for Bella. Witnesses can attest that he pulled her lanky, 55 pound body into his lap one golden afternoon. Indeed, that little conflict is kaput. And yet there is much more to it than simply winning over a fussy cat person.

For if Bella, a mere hound of 7 years, can take responsibility for her own happiness, then we all can. If her basic need for a scratch behind the ears isn’t met, then she scratches behind her own ears. She does not suffer, and she does not complain. Yes, she certainly does still prefer to sit at my side being hugged with one hand and scratched with the other. Doubtlessly, she still prefers to stretch across the couch with her head in my lap.

And when we play fetch together she looks me in the eyes in a way that says, “this is not about the toy. It’s about fetching it with you.” You can’t fake that, and I know that nothing replaces that for her.

But she understands that sometimes those things can’t be done. And she’s OK with it, and she’s taking care of things on her own, thank you very much. She’s self-petting. And that’s no replacement for the real thing, but it’ll do. It’ll do for the moment.

Now I’m not a big fan of pet people claiming “Everything I Ever Needed To Know I Learned From My Dog” but I’ve got to give this one to Bella.

I think more of us could be self-petting dogs. Codependents, nosey neighbors, road ragers, bitter schoolteachers, presidents, Christians, kingpins, and kingpin Christian presidents could all take a lesson from Bella. Yes, yes, yes, you want it your way. But is it your turn? And can you see to your needs on your own for a bit? Just for a little while so that the rest of us can finish what we’re doing? We haven’t forgotten you and you’ll get what you need, but just not right this second.

If they would just go rub their heads against the couch cushions for a moment they might realize just how self-sufficient they really are.

Someone Else's Wisdom

I’ve been trying to find something to say to you. The little update you could read, and know what’s going on… And nothing. So much to say, but nothing sayable.

I was thinking today about a movie I never saw, or rather, a quote I almost didn’t hear. But I caught it one day while walking through the room while my sister watched Parenthood. It was something sage, something wise spoken by Grandma, not even aware of the wisdom she shared.

[Gil has been complaining about his complicated life; Grandma wanders into the room]
Grandma: You know, when I was nineteen, Grandpa took me on a roller coaster.
Gil: Oh?
Grandma: Up, down, up, down. Oh, what a ride!
Gil: What a great story.
Grandma: I always wanted to go again. You know, it was just so interesting to me that a ride could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled all together! Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it.

I think of Grandma’s wisdom sometimes when I feel like Gil.

Times Worth Having

Curiously, I am finding myself in the holiday spirit.

Perhaps I’m cheerful and holidayish because my work days are looking shorter, and the end is in sight. I will go home at 5:00pm and eat my dinner with my handsome Head Chef, and whisper to my dog, and watch a movie or play a video game. I will walk through my garden before the sun goes down, and it will be good.

I’ve even started to voluntarily play the Hip Holidays and other seasonal music in our collection. Mind you, this is as significant a step as when I first fail to object when Head Chef puts on his holiday favorites on Thanksgiving morning. Indeed, I myself have chosen the “Holiday” genre for iTunes to use on my computer’s Party Shuffle. And I have done so more than once.

I am ready for Christmas. And I don’t mean shopping. I am ready inside, and that is where it really counts.

As for my shopping, I never really started. Distant family – even Boulanger – have shamed me by sending something, but I have sent nothing. Far-away friends whom I miss almost daily will get nothing, too.

But I miss them all right now, so very much, and I think they know. And when I see them again, we’ll hug and smile, and it will be just like yesterday. We’ll be older, fatter, thinner, and almost certainly a little greyer, but our hands will touch and we’ll talk, and it will feel like home.

I am also ready to laugh and enjoy. The video game we play sports peculiar Christmas iconography at this time of year, but calls it by a different name. And yet, rather than fuss about how similar to Christmas it is, I busy myself preparing gingerbread cookies to present to Greatfather Winter.

And then Sean sent me this, which I marveled and laughed at. Such a feat of technical mastery could only be achieved by a lighting special fx artist of great skill. I am amused to think of a fictional collapse of the broadway, rock, and other stage show industries that leaves such accomplished and comedic people with equipment and spare time on their hands. Kudos for their remarkable humor through these hard times.

On Christmas morning we’ll be up the mountain at Friturier’s house overlooking Honolulu on what will no doubt be a sunny and beautiful day. We’ll be in shorts and flip-flops, drinking gin fizzes and eating fatty foods, and living life on Friturier’s terms. Which is to say, living today as if tomorrow was of no consequence. Laughing loudly as if everyone should hear, and enjoying our island family from way out in the middle of the ocean and up on top of the world.

These can be difficult times and they can be good times, worthy of being had.

Extremists That Lose

They will wail. Oh, and they will howl. They may even boycott Ford Motor Company after all. But in the end, they lost because American businesses know that the bigotry, hate, and lies peddled by the American Family Association are bad for business. And when they forget, like Microsoft did before them, we’re here – their customers and employees – to remind them.

That’s right. Ford has rescinded their agreement with the AFA. On every single point. Every one.

You may commence consideration of a Ford Motor Company brand for your next automobile purchase. In fact, if you wrote your local dealership a letter telling them you were disgusted by their headquarters’ decision last week, you might send them another to let them know you’ve changed your mind. Just like they did.

Because fairness should be rewarded. And forgiveness, as they say, is divine.

But to the AFA and their ilk, I say: You're fighting for the wrong things. You will continue to lose, over and over again, and become more and more marginalized. You will lose because you're trying to hurt people, and we were all told as children that trying to hurt people is wrong. No one likes a playground meany.

Do Something, Something Small

From: Why, the Pastry Chef, of course!
To: sales@honoluluford.com
Subject: Not Visiting Ford Dealers
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: multipart/alternative;
boundary="----=_Part_19521_24179854.1134070088953"

Just wanted to leave a short note with you.

I drive two aging vehicles that will be replaced over the next two years. Due to Ford Motor Company's negotiation with the American Family Association and Ford's resulting new anti-gay policies, I will not be visiting lots that sell Ford Motor Company brands. I have too many other choices that support American values to drive a vehicle made by companies associated with hate and bigotry.

It hurts me to know that local people have to suffer for the bigotry of your headquarters, but I cannot in good conscience patronize Ford Motor Company with its current policies in place.

With Regrets,

Why, The Pastry Chef, of course!
Pauoa, O`ahu.

Ford: A Coward For The Modern Age Part I

John Aravosis of AmericaBlog is making a loud noise about Ford Motor Company’s decision to stop advertising some of its brands in gay publications. And while I’d like to acknowledge that it’s basically his job to blow things out of proportion, it is a big deal. Just not for the reasons John has cited.

First and foremost, even though I am deeply distrusting of large corporate entities, I do believe that it’s strictly a business decision on the part of Ford. They were facing a boycott from the American Family Association (I will not link to them). They are closing several assembly plants in the US, and they have horribly sagging demand for their products. Combined with the high cost of advertising and the potential for even more loss of sales, they ran the numbers.

I don’t mean to minimize the importance of the company’s Aryan-supremacist past, as that should never be forgotten. Rather, I’m suggesting that Ford Motor Company did what many mega-corps would do these days. Faced with market impact, they ran the numbers against their demographics. They compared revenues from sales to gays and lesbians to sales from conservatives, and evaluated the impact of a boycott against the impact of a gay backlash should they pull their advertising.

Obviously, the gay market is smaller. At least for the Jaguar and Land Rover brands. But not for Volvo, which will continue to advertise in gay publications.

What I find shocking is that Ford Motor Company actually had what it has called “a constructive dialogue” with the American Family Association (AFA). This is the really big deal, because it can be effortlessly equated with entering negotiations with the Ku Klux Klan or the Taliban. No responsible corporation would acknowledge negotiating with either of these entities, yet Ford has admitted it. And they may have set a dangerous precedent in doing so.

The AFA knows that American auto makers are suffering hard times and it needs symbols of political success resulting from its strategies. Its attempts to boycott major corporate businesses usually fail because the businesses are strong and don’t really suffer. Too many failures might weaken the AFA’s support and reduce its political power. In light of this, the AFA got smart. It seized on Ford – an American icon – at a moment of weakness and threatened to hurt it further. It was a lose/lose scenario for Ford, but it was an opportunity for a badly needed success for the ruthless, dogged AFA.

Frankly, it was a brilliant move on the part of the AFA from a strategic perspective. Based on the success of their Ford effort, I’m sure we can expect to see the AFA watching American markets for weakness, and threatening other boycotts in vertical markets where they can have an impact. This could signal a huge change for the AFA and other hate groups like them, and could reap even bigger rewards for them elsewhere.

Ford: A Coward For The Modern Age Part II

Unfortunately for Ford, it was in a bind. Doubtlessly, Ford will lose a great deal of business over their choice to end gay-friendly advertising for the Jaguar and Land Rover brands. They will lose market share to Subaru and others who stand out more sharply in these publications. But they stood to lose even more if the AFA enacted their boycott.

Faced with this choice, Ford chose the path that they predicted would hurt them the least. But when considering whether to harbor animosity toward them, we must consider that their choice to advertise in gay and lesbian publications was never an act of charity. They were by no means obligated to do so, and did only because they saw it as a means to generate sales revenue. Faced with a weak market for their products and a boycott from a powerful political entity, they had to review their activities as a corporation. And due to financial weakness, they probably needed to trim their advertising budget anyway.

But since the Volvo brand is still advertising in The Advocate, we can deduce that, rather than being a blanket statement against homosexual consumers, the change to their other brand advertising is a purely business decision. I can’t speak for every gay man out there, but Jaguar and Land Rover really aren’t attractive brands to me anyway, while Volvo is. If revenue from the gay and lesbian market was low to begin with, it makes basic business sense to either cut back advertising for those brands, or to do something radically different. Faced with the possibility of a boycott, they made the safer choice.

And while I don’t blame them, I will say this:

Head Chef and I want a new high-efficiency commuter car like the Toyota Prius, and we need a truck for our home remodeling projects. If Ford had chosen to be a responsible global automotive player and had put more resources into competing in the low-emissions market, we might hold them in consideration. But they didn’t. They pandered to gluttony, and now they’re left holding the SUV bag.

If Ford had stood up for principle over profit, Head Chef, I, and countless others would have considered them an honorable business that does the right thing even if it hurts. If they had announced a bold new marketing move for the Jaguar and Land Rover brands to coincide with their rejection of the AFA’s demands, we might have considered a Ford truck. But they didn’t.

And finally, if Ford had chosen not to negotiate with the AFA at all, Head Chef, I, and countless others might have equated them with those who stand up for freedom instead of those who fight it, like the Taliban and the Ku Klux Klan. We might have equated them with old-America values like honor and courage instead of new-America values like fear and greed. And we might have stepped foot on one of their lots. But that won’t happen now.

Because ultimately, image does matter. And I’d rather be seen driving a vehicle that symbolized enterprise and tenacious freedom rather than one that symbolizes weakness, cowardice, and by association - hate. I know it’s superficial, but I just like what freedom says about me.

Potter Schmotter

I am desperate to see Brokeback Mountain.

It’s just a movie, and it’s certainly not my story. And yet, it can’t help but be my story.

I have read everything I can find about the film, watched the trailer a dozen times, and I actually check rottentomatoes on a daily basis, looking for affirmation. "Yes it is a good film," I want to hear them say.

Please, let it be a good film.

See, I believe in this movie. Not just because Ang Lee has directed the other most beautiful film ever, but because when I read "Love Is A Force Of Nature" in that context the hair on my neck stands up, and I can tell that even my skin agrees. Ignoring the toil and sacrifice that relationships take, love is the thing.

It’s the thing that matters, that leaves its aura like a residue on mountain paths, in buildings, songs, and on yesterday’s shirt. Have you ever felt it in a place you've never been before? That the place had been blessed by love?

There are three things I need from Brokeback Mountain. I need to it be the story it is purported to be; a love between two men that is beautiful and complex and tragic, as love often is. I need it to make me feel. To make me cry the way movies are supposed to when you relate to the characters. And I need it to show the world – or at least the willing – that I'm not so different or aberrant after all.

I read a hopeful review that said this film is so powerful that it could change our national dialogue about what it is to be gay. And I longed for it to be true.

But I worry that, in the public's eye, no amount of Ang Lee's mastery can legitimize this as anything other than a gay film. The most I can hope is that it’s a sleeper hit – critically acclaimed to such a degree that cinema buffs see it even if they’re uneasy about the subject matter. That women go to see it, as the studio is hoping, and maybe they see themselves in one of these men, loving someone impossible.

Maybe they feel that ache in their chest, the ache they remember as a longing for someone they cannot have. Maybe, in this way, they relate. Because that could change everything.

But I'm not counting on it.

Immunity

I have had a long love for the life sciences. I actually had a college counselor say, “Chef! Stop taking biology courses! You’re not a biology major and you’re just hurting yourself.” And she was right, too. But she didn’t call me Chef.

This whole bird flu thing, although not an above-the-fold headline any more, still has me thinking. And not of my own life as much as marveling at the way the human organism responds to such threats.

There was a time when immunity was a matter of how strong your immune system was. If you contracted a disease, you lived or died, end of story. Immunity was based on the individual organism’s ability to fight off disease once it got inside.

But that’s changed, at least for homo sapiens. Starting a few millennia ago and escalating in the past hundred, humans have started fighting disease at the population level as well as inside our individual bodies. We started with simple steps, like rudimentary quarantines, and have come so far that we have global systems to identify diseases, disease pathogens and vectors, and ways to control them.

This is something that most people living today take for granted, but consider the ramifications for a population of living things when such things become possible. Think about how dramatic it would be if frogs, gazelle, or goose did that.

We have representatives of our species monitoring the overall health of the rest of the planet’s population. They’re watching for illnesses, and issuing warnings when a handful of our fellow creatures in a small, crowded corner fall victim. And as a species, we respond. We shift our resources, plan for outbreaks, and take preventative measures. We even change our environment to limit disease vectors.

I’m sure there are some animal populations other than humans that do this to some limited degree. Birds that discard a sickly chick, predators that instinctively destroy a sick member of their pack.

But we're doing something entirely different. Here we are, an awkward primate species with a large brain, proactively looking for disease, developing means of prevention and even cure. We still rely on the individual organism’s immune system, but it’s almost like a last resort. We’ve developed a new, primary immune system, one that protects us as a species, and not just as individual critters crawling around spawning and eating.

In terms of evolution, I think that’s revolutionary. It’s like the appearance of the first rudimentary feathers, or even a blood-rich lining that permits an occasional gasp of air for breath. I only wonder if it can persist. But I guess none of us is permanent.

The Holiday That Merely Happened

This Thanksgiving was a piece of frozen cheesecake at Costco.

The pleasant woman cut the small wedges for eager passers-by. We thanked her and she smiled and we stepped a few feet away so that the next admirer could crowd in for their slice. What luck, to be there on that particular day, when samples of such a delicacy are available.

I’ve adored cheesecake for ages, you see. And so just the idea of cheesecake was titillating. I had scored a significant prize, and the decision to eat it or just to bask in my unexpected fortune took a couple of moments. Oh, to revel in it, so smooth and sweet with just the hint of sourness and a crunch of spiced crust.

Standing there in the aisle with large, impersonal glass freezers on each side of me, the vast grey concrete floor sprawling off in all directions under displays heaped with discount merchandise, I made a conscious choice between eating my small chunk of cake in one bite, or in two smaller ones. But my gluttonous nature won out, and I popped it into my mouth with an eager satisfaction.

And it was nice. Fine, even. I pressed it against my palate with my tongue, testing it for flavor and texture. It was a bit doughy, and the crust wasn’t really firm enough to provide contrast for the filling. It was mildly sweet, but that hint of cream cheese I anticipated was not there.

It was pleasant, but not enough. The woman who presented it was kind and the other customers there in the warehouse were polite. But taken as a whole, this year Thanksgiving was a disappointing cheesecake.

Nearly Sinless In The Garden

I had promised myself that I would sin this past Sunday. I dressed for sinning, and brushed my teeth and ate my breakfast fully intent on sinning. But I went out to the car to go sin, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Head Chef had been working on me all morning to play “hooky,” and I finally caved.

An apparently Christian woman at my office admonished me a few weeks ago for having worked the previous Sunday. “Oh, dear,” she said with grave disapproval, “that’s a sin.” I suppose she would take heart knowing that I neither worked on Sunday nor coveted my neighbor’s wife.

I’m hoping that perhaps I can avoid being stoned to death since I observed the Sabbath. Instead of committing a grievous sin, we went to the Foster Botanical Garden and observed beautiful specimens of tropical trees and plants, many of which are legally designated as “exceptional” and thus magically protected by a bronze plaque nailed to their trunks. I imagine them being infused with strange powers that selectively turn the blades of saws and indiscriminate pruning shears, but not the nails accompanying bronze plaques.

My co-worker might also be pleased to note that I did not create or worship other gods while there at the Garden. Well, OK, there was this one baobab tree that was particularly massive. Head Chef and I discussed that it seemed so logical for native cultures to see it as a link between the earthly world and some other plane. I could almost feel that link, myself, but I did not create a false god in the process.

I also did not: dishonor my parents, kill, commit adultery, steal, lie, or covet my neighbor’s property or his wife. I mean, please – like I’d covet his wife. Don’t get me wrong, she’s nice, but I’m not even into him let alone her.

OK, I may have blasphemed just little bit when I spotted that baobab tree. It’s really big, you gotta understand.

But I did not work on Sunday. Now that it’s Monday, I’m kinda wishing I had.

Hungary Was Even Worse

"You know what, sir," she asked in a vaguely ethnic southern accent.

I glanced up from my falling blocks of color, missing a key placement, and noted the stout woman angrily hunkered in the seat next to mine. Tight coils of salt-and-pepper hair bunched around her head, and she set her jaw, getting ready to tell me what. The busy terminal gate was crammed full of people, none of whom paid either of us any mind. We could have just as easily been completely alone.

"I was stranded there in Oakland," she announced. "Oakland!"

"You were stranded there?" I queried, puzzled. What an awful thing to have happen. And in Oakland, of all places.

"I ain't lyin. It really happened."

I nodded, more to confirm I’d heard her than to express understanding, and she continued.

"I think I’m going to have them call this time. The, the, you know – them ticket agents. Then I won’t have to sleep at the gate while they wait in the lobby!" She was quite upset. "Nobody told me they were gonna to be in the lobby," she offered. And then after a moment of thought, she conceded, "Although I s’pose I could have gone down to see if they were there."

I nodded thoughtfully, still not clear on what she was talking about. My game had become a disaster while trying to be polite, and my neat rows of squares were now in disarray. I closed the lid.

"And then the stewardess comes up to me and says that three men are waiting for me in the lobby, and I tell her, 'why you wait till I'm getting on the plane back to tell me that?'" I furrowed my brow in genuine concern. Genuine because I simply didn’t understand her circumstance, and because whatever it was seemed to be very stressful.

"I ain’t lying. I’m definitely gonna be tellin them in Honolulu to call so I don’t have to sleep in the, the – the terminal. And maybe they’ll be there this time."

We were no longer alone at the crowded gate. Other strangers – none so strange as my sudden conversation companion – were now covertly smiling and emitting expressions of sympathy. One man seemed to be suppressing the urge to join our talk and he fidgeted forward and back, glancing our way and grinning.

To comfort her, I assured her that they (whoever they were) certainly would have learned from their previous mistake (whatever it was) and would not repeat it. She seemed grateful.

"And you’ll never believe what happened when I was in Europe. You know about Europe?" she asked, her flat brown features scrunched into concern. I wasn’t sure if she was asking whether I knew of its existence, or about how it runs.

"Sure, Europe," I confirmed.

"Passport! Passport!" she yelled above the din of other conversations in the terminal. The newspaper held by a woman nearby seemed to be taken by surprise, and it shuddered just briefly. I looked on, puzzled more than ever.

"And I told the man, 'I don’t understand,' I’d say, and he’d come running after me yelling, 'Passport! Passport!'" With each incantation of the word, she’d wave her hand in the air like a customs official chasing her through the airport.

"And I told them, everywhere I went, 'I don’t understand, what’s this passport?' and he told me he’d arrest me if I didn’t show him a passport." She laughed, but I was unsure if I was supposed to laugh along. "Everywhere I went! It really happened. I ain’t lyin," she explained.

"And Hungary! Hungary was even worse," she warned.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her you’re supposed to meet your ride in the lobby or at baggage claim these days. Nor that you really do have to show your passport at international airports.

I just hope she didn’t really fly back to Oakland just because her ride didn’t meet her at the gate in Honolulu.

Home Work

We here in the Kitchen are home owners and home makers. To achieve our goals associated with those titles we become armchair botanists, technophiles, lay zoologists, hobbyist designers, craftsmen, and procrastinators. In short, we are distracted and lazy.

As such, our great home remodel project of 2005 has taken significantly longer than the three months that Head Chef once said it would take. Oh, and there are excuses. Some of our excuses are even reasons. But not all.

Despite our collective attention deficits and lethargy, Head Chef and I are motivated by nothing more effectively than the looming threat of visitors. We look forward to their arrival and the beach time we will take with them and the meals we will share. But we also stand on the steps to our little home in Pauoa and look around us with the eyes of a third person. And we shake our heads and think, “oh fuck.”

So this weekend, I eschewed my workplace responsibilities and we worked on the house. We floored the remainder of the hallway and the entire master bedroom. We cleaned. We investigated local options for kitchen cabinetry and planned the bathroom remodels. And then we worked in the yard.

If you know us even casually enough to have visited our home only once, you know our love for gardening. The front garden, now only 6 months old, is already reaching epic status. The gingers are getting taller, the brugmansia is blooming, and the Rangoon creeper already hides the stone wall. The ensete banana threatens to rule the world.

We dug in to our elbows, getting filthy and doing what is arguably one of my favorite things about gardening… discovery. From beneath four feet of shiny fern foliage, Head Chef produced a long-forgotten vanda sporting two spikes of shiny purple blossoms. Anthuriums that had tipped over were rooted, thriving, and blooming. And our new trees had fresh new growth popping out at the branch tips.

We planted a new torch ginger - one of my favorites - on the side of the house, and stood back to admire it. Now only 6 feet tall, it will one day reach as much as 15, with bright red flowers the size of large apples atop sturdy stalks jutting from the ground.

We do this – I do this, and I stand back and see what is done, and I feel full. I see the new floor in the bedroom from atop the living room stairs and the thriving garden and all the little improvements that are made over time, and I witness proof that things do get better, and that we have a hand in that. I see a sort of time lapse progression in my mind, from then till now, and I project outward just a bit – a skill that Head Chef teaches me each day – and I know that this is good. That this life is worth it, and that all the tediousness and doubt is made moot by these moments of doing this with him.

A Simple Wish For Texas

Here in Hawai`i, I am almost as American as you are.

We could dress the same and stand on the street corner shoulder-to-shoulder, and the average person would think we’re both the same. Equal citizens of this great land.

But we’re not. Not here in Hawai`i, and not in Oregon. Nor Montana, Nevada, New York, and Michigan. And certainly not in Texas. I couldn't fool you, though. You already know you must protect your marriages against me.

I only wish I were out to get you, and that I had the means to do so. That I wielded the insidious power that you have attributed to me. Then, at least, I could stand next to you on the street, looking the same and dressing the same, with the same daily concerns and similar exhaustive routines and understand why I am oppressed. And I could smile wickedly and know, deep inside, that nothing you could do could stop me.

Because then I could give you a taste of your own medicine. So you could know what it means to be declared a lesser citizen by your peers, and to have a neighbor sneer at you as she hastens away. To be told that your family is undeserving but that the next one is.

If only I could just brush you ever so slightly, and make you less American, too.

Working In Mililani

Listening to the online radio as I work through lunch, I hear the DJ say, “And for our fifth caller, we have a free lunch from Maruju Market. A pound and a half of fresh poké from Maruju Market - what a nice lunch.”

Poké. Heh. Try finding that anywhere else.

Also at this client site, I overhear things such as:

“We havin one lunchtime meeting, ya?”
“Try hand me da kine?”
“Oh, he no stay here no mo. He wen stay in Ku`unani’s ol’ cube.”

Makes working here worth it, to watch a Vice President of a major bank talk story Hawai`ian style. Well, that, and the drive across the island under bright skies dotted with white puffy clouds. And getting out of the car to be bathed in the fragrance of Eucalytpis leaves recently pelted by rain... And... And... And...

EDIT: And... on the drive home, there were not one, but two rainbows arching over the freeway on the way into town.