“I’m A Big Kid Now (Kind Of)”
[MauiTime, — June 16, 2011 — Volume 14; Issue 52]
by Anu Yagi (@anuheayagi on Twitter)
How should I know what blooms outside the beer garden? There might once have been a time when I knew, but that was many Blue Moons ago. Because from the moment I plant a kiss on the lip of a glass, I’m locked in until the world spins.
At the last few outdoor MACC shows—most recently Sunday’s Republik Music Festival—I’ve joked with friends that whatever is beyond the beer barrier likely smells a lot better. Oh, sweet and supple youth untarnished by cigarettes, booze and life’s crushing defeat! It’s all very Calgon.
When people watching, as a now well-seasoned festival-goer, observing the kiddies has taken on a pleasant new dimension. It makes me feel wisely aloof to smirk from behind sunglasses at their quaint exhibitions of concert naivete. Too-boisterous boys inanely bragging, I know them too well. Insecure hoochies, I know them best. And all with a hyper self-aware countenance based on the belief that the world is watching them (it’s not, but I am). But they’ll come along, given some time—and albeit awkward, it’s this growing that’s half the fun. (Though my stomach still turns at the thought of who’s encouragingly smirking at me.)
Because experience is only earned with age, there’s some give in the take of training. And so—for the first time in my life—I used a Porta-Potty.
The ill-advised practice of martyring my bladder for the sake of my psychology finally came to a head. And beyond basic comfort, making room for more beer became a priority.
Using the same logic that the under-21 side of the stage smells better, I hypothesized that their so-called toilets must be categorically cleaner, too. So I sauntered across the great divide, and into the fresher air, to test my theory.
While swaying in the straight line I met two young men, Landon and Ryan, who guided me on my journey and wished me Godspeed. Afterward, I couldn’t help but chastise them.
Inside with no lights, the Porta-Potty is darker than my lungs. This makes it hard to navigate the rotting remains of claustrophobic germaphobes, dead on arrival, before hovering above a pile of poop-soaked toilet paper and praying that the Crap Monster doesn’t surge from the depths to devour my soul.
Bad as that was, I did peek into the bathrooms back in the beer garden. It took all of 0.1 seconds to confirm my suspicions and vow to pee alongside keiki henceforth.
In other crappy news: Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. These are the gritty signposts along the road of the popular Kubler-Ross Model, better known as the five stages of dying, death and grief. But calling DABDA “stages” is actually a misnomer. As Russell Friedman and John W. James point out in a story for The Skeptic, “Kubler-Ross repeatedly stipulated that a [person] would not go through all five stages, nor would they necessarily go through them in sequence.”
Good to know. I’ve got denial and depression down like gravity, but I was beginning to worry about having to come around to the whole acceptance bit.
See, (TMI Warning!) it’s not uncommon for me to be wracked with loathsome self-pity every time I take a shower (the grout mold’s tortured screams are, in fact, audible). But lately, I’ve augmented this already mournful ritual by pitifully curling up in the corner for a good, soggy sob a la Glenn Close in The Big Chill.
My reason for weeping is because this is the last issue of MauiTime helmed by our beloved editor Jacob Shafer. (Maybe I’m bargaining, but I’d rather say it’s his last issue for now. After all, ye ole MT editor Anthony Pignataro is returning to take the ship’s wheel; so you never can tell how tracks on this crazy trail of life might loop.)
Oh, he’s kept a steady keel, this vessel grim and daring, and so I’ve called him “Captain.” He’s first on my short list of heroes, easily trumping former favorites Jean Luc Picard and Agent Dale Cooper. Jacob has a way of easily articulating all I wish I could say, and being so perfectly perspicacious and enviously disarming, he’s inspired me to think more, to dream better, to ask more questions and get better answers.
His only fault is his great faith in me, and by it I’ve reaped the benefits of his tutelage, thus becoming (maybe) a better writer—and (certainly) a better person—because of him. I’ve been damned lucky—and frankly, think you’ve been lucky too, dear readers.
Though I’ve tried otherwise, I have not been a very good deck hand—polishing portholes when I ought to have been repairing rigging. And while I’m angry at myself for not having done it sooner, now’s the time to trade in my “F”s for B”s with regard to ucking-up. But first, I’m going to drown my sorrow in a bottle o‘ something—and find a nice clean place to take a piss. ■
THANKS A LOT, AGING BLADDER… BECAUSE OF YOUR WEAKNESS, I NOW KNOW FIRST HAND THAT PORTA POTTIES ARE HELL ON EARTH. BUT IF YOU’RE STILL UNCONVINCED…
>>> Baby Born–and Abandoned–in Porta Potty (CBS NEWS): http://youtu.be/_01fff0DBbg
(Photo by Jen Russo. L-R: Chris Skiles, Jacob Shafer, Anu Yagi)
Yep, I’m wearing a Twilight T-shirt. Yep, the goatee (like Captain’s!) was Sharpied-on by our award winning art director Chris Skiles. (And hell yeah, I still wore it among the Maui Film Festival fancy pants at the Starry Night MoonDance at Tommy Bahama, later that night.)
But because I was born (and will likely forever remain) a pasty dork — and don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea — I’d like to note that I’m really glad I asked Chad Kaya at Hot Topic to help me find a “TEAM JACOB” shirt. Otherwise, I would have bought the wrong one with the other Twilight boy (who is, I learned, named Edward).
IN CASE YOU MISSED THEM, HERE ARE THE LINKS INCLUDED IN THIS COLUMN:
>>> Make it so, yo!