Have I mentioned lately that I think people have really screwed-up attitudes about death?

There is apparently not a lot of respiratory disease in Michigan, if the doctors have time to write songs about sputum.

It's to the tune of "Brown Sugar," and it's better if you picture Mick Jagger singing it:
Gray sputum! Comes from a cold or flu
Gray sputum! Might be hay fever too

And the best title has to be Breaking Up Tenacious Goo.

So yeah, we went to Hawaii and got some new Japanese family. Rick can tell you about it. But if you actually enjoy my travel anecdotes, here are some more. If you don't, well, there's the back button or the scroll arrow or whatever.

Friday: Little beady eyes

[mostly food geekage, but a good toilet story in paragraph 3]

Any new relative of ours needs to learn, and as quickly as possible, that are are eccentric and not easily frightened. When Reiko brought out various kinds of Japanese rice snacky crackers, everyone else nervously declined, but we grabbed one of everything then busted out our book on Japanese food. This was apparently our ticket to the stash of natto in the fridge - fermented bean paste that Lonely Planet so accurately describes as smelling like gorgonzola left in the trunk of a car. It clung tenaciously to the chopsticks and tasted...well...I'm adventurous, but this one will be an acquired taste.

Later, we went for Japanese barbecue, and the first few items on the menu were heart, liver, and gizzard. Score! Not that I want gizzard for dinner, but knowing it's available guarantees this ain't gonna be TGI Friday's. Among the oddities I consumed dim sum-style were quail eggs, fried oyster (god help me, why must I cultivate expensive tastes at this tight-belted stage of my life?) and whole heads-and-shells shrimp. "I'm not gonna eat their beady little eyeballs," Rick's dad protested, before popping one into his mouth a scant few minutes later. The sake was expensive so I asked what "shochu" was, if it was like sake, and Reiko said it wasn't as strong, which sounded safe. They served it with various fruit juices. I read the next day that shochu is grain alcohol, until recently only used as medical disinfectant, and the drink of choice for Japanese lushes. Either Reiko doesn't drink enough to know this, or she was trying to kill us. (I'm counting on the former)

Another highlight of dinner was when Rick's cousin Terry returned from the ladies' room and announced that it had a Japanese toilet "with front and back rinse! Refreshing!" I lept up to investigate, and soon had snuck Rick's dad in to take pictures. Not just rinse, but it warms the seat for you. Whoa.

Afterwards, Rick and I returned to Magoo's, a nearby beer bar full of locals and cheap mugs. At one point, I ordered four beers in a row they didn't have. A plastic cup over the empty taps, people...live it and love it.

When returned to our one-star hotel that night, our whole hall reeked of ganja.


Saturday: Hawaii wants to kill me

Our hotel continued to impress us Saturday morning, when running the shower backed up brown, poo-looking water into our sink.

But first, I went for a jog. Jogging in Hawaii isn't the I-just-smoked-a-pack-of-Camels experience that exercising outdoors in LA can be. The surreal moment came when, running along Waikiki Beach, I spotted a line of women in grass skirts and a sign that said "Charity Walk Checkpoint." As I ran through, they all clapped and cheered for me. I guess if I was actually part of the charity walk, I'd have been making excellent time. I also ran past the Honolulu Zoo, listening to high-volume feral meowing noises and various tortured squawks. Creepy.

Finally, I neared the hotel again, and ran past a fire scene across the street and down a building from our hotel. The street was blocked off, but not the sidewalk - no one said anything to me, and besides, I didn't know where I was going, and things did seem under control. Only later did I find out that the street was closed because the bar that was on fire was next to a gun shop, and they'd worried that the ammo might all explode. Thanks for the warning, Oahu FD!

Saturday continued: Snack bar for drunks

We had lazy-ass day, napping both on and off the beach and even watching a movie on the laptop. We did venture out to Brew Moon, which we remembered from Boston as a decent beer chain. It turned out to be on the second floor of a surf store...like *inside* the surf store, like a little alcoholic food court. I had a pale and a schwarzbier and we called Beer Buddy Robert, who teased me. "You're going to a wedding? Does that mean you're going to wear a dress?" He got Rick back on the phone and threatened to build jeninadress.com. Only if you come through on your promise to post pictures of yourself in a dress, too, Robt ol' buddy.

The quote of the afternoon, overheard at the surf shop, was "Dude, I was so stoked to finally have a nice board, but all my friends gave me shit because it was a northern California label."

Dinner was at an absurd yet delicious hotel buffet, where I ate enough seafood to almost make myself sick. Appropriately? Ironically? -- there was a giant tank of fish big enough for a scuba diver to swim in...and one did, holding up signs wishing various people happy birthday. Now that's a job description.

Sunday: Hawaii tries to kill me again

Yesterday, our sink looked like someone poo'ed in it. Today, it looks like someone died in it. Awesome.

The morning of the wedding, and I have time for a jog because I'm not much of a girl and am not getting my hair done or putting on makeup or any of that. (Hey, I'm inadress.com, what else do you want?) I decide to jog up to Leonard's, home of famous fried donuts with custard in 'em, and am out for less than 15 minutes before I trip and fall. I'm afraid to see what I look like, but find only my right forearm bloody and my hand and knee remarkably fine. Like an idiot, I get up and KEEP RUNNING TOWARDS THE DONUTS, and it's not until I'm in the place, standing in line smelling like a hog with a bloody arm, that I feel a little certifiable.

Reiko and Cate were actually running early, despite the girly grooming, so I wound up cutting it a bit close after all. I got my dress on and my hair dried, but when they pulled up, I was standing on the curb bandaging my scabby arm.

Sunday: Wedding bells...or at least Don Ho

When we pulled up to the beach where the wedding was, we parked next to a what was left of a rusty truck, with its doors and seats pulled off.

"What's *that*?" fretted Cate.

"I think it's someone's house," I replied.

No, seriously. When Rick's dad went to scout the wedding site, it lacked the VW buses and tent sites of today. But the homeless were harmless, as they usually are.

There was only a wee bit of pre-ceremony family tension, during which Yoshio and I, in a wordless and mutual decision to stay the hell out of it, wandered off and he showed me some yoga. JeninadressdoingyogawithJapanesestepbrotherinlaw.com!

All snark aside, it was a beautiful ceremony.

Afterwards, the minister took a few group shots. "On three, say the name of your favorite food...sushi!" Next time, he said, "Now say the name of your second favorite food...kimchee!"

The reception was a mellow lunch, possibly the only wedding party where I'll get to eat loco moco (you don't want to know) and the only odd moment came when Rick's aunt, appropos of nothing, asked,

"So Jen, what'll you do if you find yourself pregnant? Shoot yourself?"

I guess word is out throughout the extended family that I'm not much of the nurturing type.

Afterwards, we convened in the parking lot to make plans. Rick's dad accidentally referred to "the hotel" as "the YMCA," which led to both Yoshio and I doing the Village People hand gestures, which led to dancing in the parking lot while Rick's dad played along and sang the rest of the chorus. I see bad disco is an international language.

Sunday: Grinding with Iraq vets (no, not ME)

Rick's dad, wild 60-year-old that he is, wanted to cap off his wedding day with a trip to a nightclub. So off we went to Zanzabar...words fail me (but the website is telling.) Notably, we ordered our second drink right after the state alcohol board swept the place inspecting the *bartender's* ID, so she poured us a safe and legal one-ounce drink and then whispered that it was on the house. Also priceless was Yoshio teaching Cate dance moves.

The music was crappy 80s of the C&C Music Factory variety, and soon there was more dry-humping than dancing going on, then the club announced how happy it was to welcome all these vets back home from Iraq. Then we noticed how many of the male patrons had shaved heads, and felt bad for making fun of their NC-17 "dancing," albeit way out of their earshot.

We went with Cate for one last drink at Moose McGillycuddy's (another telling website), where we got in free because we'd just missed the weekly bikini contest. Uh. Darn? They did have some genius party drinks, though, so I stole a (paper) drink menu.

Monday: Oof

I ate so much at the Hilton buffet that I didn't want dinner until 2am that night. For once, it didn't matter that the Bankrupt Skies no longer serves free meals.

The end.

Just about the only thing keeping me alive this year is the good weekends.

My weekend started way early, on Thursday afternoon, when I found out my Spanish class was cancelled. Woo hoo! So I decided to use my extra time on the east side of town to check out a restaurant I'd been meaning to: Homegirl Cafe. It's a project of Homeboy Industries so all the employees are former gangsters. The food, while actually a little too healthy for my tastes, was still quite yummy and clearly fresh (find me another restaurant within 10 miles where it's obvious that nothing came out of a can). It was also vegetarian-friendly and it's always good to have a file of such places in case of veggie visitors. What was funny was that almost everyone in the place was white, presumably downtown office workers. Now that's an eastside first for me. At this point, *not* getting a funny look when I walk into a place is weirder than the funny looks used to be.

Friday afternoon, I got a package from Germany, faithfully packed by new mama Sally when she was 9 months pregnant. It contained a wide variety of delights, including lots of chocolate, some booze, and a little man on a sailboard that cleans your toilet. (I beg you to click that last link; no German langage knowledge required). Kinder eggs, the chocolate eggs with the toy inside, are as brilliant as ever. Thanks Sally!

Friday night, I went to my favorite dive bar in LA. We know the bartender, we know the owner, we know the karaoke host, and this night, the whole place had been taken over by at least a dozen drunken UCLA scientists. Biologists and chemists singing along with vigor to Neil Diamond - just wrong. Late in the night, a friend from college (in town for E3) joined us. We'd long harbored a theory that when he met a certain party-hardy friend of ours in LA, the world would end in a cloud of id. Well, we were up partying until 4am, but we lived.

Just so's you know it's not all work, school, and generalized misery.

I'm sorry -- whenever I see or hear the band name "Panic at the Disco," I immediately get earwormed with "Crying at the Discoteque," one of the cheesiest bits of Eurotrash to bless European MTV/street parties/radio during the 18 months I lived in Germany. (There is a video here if you wish to share my pain/glee).

Also, I've just discovered the exact band name is Panic! At the Disco. Minus ten points for gratuitous and somehow pretentious punctuation.

My regular readers probably know what "lockdown" is by now, but just in case: it's when a school (or anywhere) doesn't let anyone into or out of the premesis. It's supposed to be used when there is a dangerous situation outside, but I recently experienced one designed to prevent student walkouts.

Every teacher in the district is issued a bucket, in case of the highest level of lockdown, when no one is even allowed to leave the room they're in. Not even to use the bathroom. Get it?

A couple of weeks ago, an elementary school principal misread the instructions, and before long, little kids were peeing in pails in class. Fun! The LA Times says that level of lockdown is reserved for nuclear attacks, which also begs the question: if LA gets nuked, won't we die whether we're inside or outside?