the spare

I called Hajime, the owner of a small sushi restaurant in Seattle, to book a show there in July. He was very nice on the phone and extremely funny. This is from his restaurant's website Sushiwhore.com (yes, that's whore):

At Mashiko we are always trying to create new and interesting ways to interpret Japanese food and sushi. This is an all-inclusive process. You'll never hear traditional Japanese music in Mashiko, because it reminds me of two things: grammar school and death. Believe me you, if you've ever been to an elementary school in Japan... death isn't too bad. So we play new and interesting music that we hope will compliment the food.

I want you to try new things and ask questions. If you can, I'd like you to stuff your face. I want people to laugh and enjoy food and life. Please, shut up and eat!

--Hajime

I have friends in Hawaii who had to attend Japanese school after a full day at elementary school. They dreaded going. The teachers were very strict. Their stories parallel Hajime's description of school in Japan so I thought they'd get a chuckle from his scrawl:)

wow, now I'm jonzin' for some sushi.

This is hilarious.

http://www.cnn.com/2004/ALLPOLITICS/05/25/domestic.revolt.ap/index.html

What year is this?

At approximately 6:00pm yesterday Ron and I headed over to George and The Dragon for some beer and pool. G&D is a pub near downtown Phoenix that usually draws a middle aged crowd of men looking for a seat at the bar, a pint of Guiness, and world soccer on ESPN. The décor is that of an English tavern with the predictable accessories: pool tables, dart boards, the end-of-the-bar-video-game, and the jukebox.

Ah, the jukebox. I’ve come to look at the jukebox as karaoke for shy people. You get the same satisfaction out of choosing a song that you would at karaoke and no need to deal with the stress of standing in front of a room full of people who are waiting to hear George Michael. The ego is stroked, the reputation is in tact. So when it was clear that my pool game was headed to the loo, I gathered my 2 dollar bills and headed to the jukebox. The selection was fair; from Queen to Blur, The Beatles to Jamiroquai. After sinking a couple balls, Ron joined me and we took turns flipping through the list. Seven songs seems like an easy order to fill but I was feeling overwhelmed and gave up at #5 leaving Ron finish out the set. He came over to me giddy about his selections.

“What did you put in?”

“You’ll see.”

For about $1.50 of the $2 set we continued our pool games tapping our feet and nodding our heads to the music. I was feeling pretty confident that we had chosen songs that appealed to a majority of the people in the bar. I even threw in “Sultans of Swing” as an offering.

And then Ron’s song started.

“I'm goin down down baby, yo' street in a Range Rover
Street sweeper baby, cocked ready to let it go
Shimmy shimmy cocoa what? Listen to it pound
Light it up and take a puff, pass it to me now”

There was a bit of panic at first then nervous laughter at the fact that this WASP-y pub had Nelly’s "Country Grammar" in the jukebox. Ron and I dipped and swayed to the music, taking turns strutting to the pool table and back, laughing at the possibility of getting booted from the pub. We figured if they put it in the jukebox, we were gonna play it. It almost became a secret mission to choose a list of songs that could get us booted. We survived "The Reflex" and began plotting another purchase when I noticed a couple guys circling the jukebox. One of them, a bearded man in his late 40s dressed in jeans and a plaid button down shirt, stepped up to the machine. I knew he wasn’t the bouncer so we weren’t getting kicked out, but it seemed our devious plan was headed for an intermission. We’d have to settle for AC/DC, Black Sabbath, or some other magic carpet ride. Plaid Guy finished up his selection and we resigned ourselves to playing bad pool. Then "Simply Irresistible" kicked in. Ron and I burst out laughing. Apparently, this guy really liked Robert Palmer. He played a continuous set following up with "Addicted to Love". It was hilarious. I guess you can never figure people out. Is that actually a scruffy macho guy or Eric Carmen’s secret lover? Or both? It’s contradictions like these that make for hungry eyes. After Plaid Guy finished rocking out to Robert Palmer, Ron and I stepped in and queued up some Missy Elliot. Sadly, and mysteriously, the jukebox never played our songs. Cynthia said they probably had a big red panic button behind the bar that resets the jukebox when things get out of hand. Uh well…I guess it’s better than getting the boot.

Nah.

I've been spending my free time redesigning my website. With the CD on it's way and a small tour in the works, I figured it was time to give the site a makeover with a focus on the music. I always forget how much work that can be. Who needs sleep? Come this weekend, I'll be sawing some serious logs on the couch.

But not before a Friday nite trip to Hot Pink:)

Hot Pink is one of the only places in Phoenix worth dragging your sleep deprived body to. It's a small Latino bar that turns into a new wave, punk, rock, pop, dance bar on Friday nights. The DJ spins tunes by Le Tigre, David Bowie, Shocking Blue, The Clash, The Cure, Human League, Blondie, The Pixies, New Order, The Strokes, Peaches, Siousxie and the Banshees, Run DMC, and Prince just to name a few. I haven't danced this hard since high school. In addition to the fantastic music, the atmosphere is relatively a**hole-free (as opposed to the meat market nightmare that is Scottsdale) with a perfect mix of straight, gay, bi, trans, self-defining people who are more interested in grooving to the music than complaining about pedicures at the Biltmore. The timing couldn't have been better since most bars & clubs in Phoenix are a revolving door of microbreweries and franchise theme parks. Hot Pink has restored my hope in Phoenix nightlife and the possibilty of a cohesive music scene.

Now, where did I put my banana belt?

I went to the mall this weekend looking for some summer clothes and good day of shopping music. To my surprise, the mall obliged with a set list that included Nikka Costa, Outkast, and Sarah Harmer’s new single “Almost” (that one blew me away – I spent the entire song sampling fragrances named Oceanus, White Musk, Spirit of Moonflower, among others, just to listen...I musta smelled like a Mary Kay Commando). After the song ended, Laney and I wandered into Pacific Sunwear, where I noticed a line of youthful female mannequins dressed in the latest teen gear. Now, I’ve noticed this neo-nipple trend on mannequins before, but never on a mannequin that looked 13 years old. Yikes. There they were, popping through the fitted cotton shirt, practically tapping on the display window screaming “Look over heeeeeeerrrre!”. Does this really sway teenage girls into buying clothes? Or does it just cause senseless pedestrian accidents? Well, judging from the obvious gravitational pull, there’s gottah be at least 15 girls with shopping bags and 30 limping sk8er boys for every pair-o-nips.

Hawaii is the Melting Pot of the Pacific. Many of my childhood friends were of Phillipino, Japanese, Chinese, Hawaiian, Korean, or Portuguese decent. Even more were a combination of a few or all of these ethnicities. From the get go, I knew that I fit into the 'hapa' category (a Hawaiian term used to describe people of mixed ethnic heritage). My mom is Hawaiian-Chinese and my dad is a midwestern mix of Norwegian, English, French, and Irish...what many people in Hawaii would call 'haole', or, Caucasian. Early on in my education I learned that despite being hapa, I was considered haole by most of my peers because of my light complexion. This made fitting in a bit difficult and I quickly learned pidgin-english, the local slang language, which helped me adjust and make friends. In high school I was occasionally reminded of my haole status but I never felt that it meant anything other than Caucasian.

And then came college.

For Hawaii kids going away to college on the mainland there's a lot to adjust to: wearing your shoes in the house, thermal underwear, potatoes instead of rice, no spam musubi, no saimin at McDonalds, flip-flops instead of slippahs, no loco moco for breakfast, the list goes on. Soon after I learned to cook ramen in my 3-cup rice cooker, I found out that I was no longer the 'haole girl'. Apparently, in the eyes of my Caucasian colleagues, I was the Hawaiian girl with the thick dark hair and wide nose. Jokes about pineapples and grass shacks peppered the cafeteria line. My years of speaking pidgin-english left me with a "funny" accent and long distant calls to my friends became laugh-fests for my ease-dropping roommates. To say it was tough is an understatement. It was hell. If I got upset, I was a dork. If I played along, I was a puppet. The whole thing was foreign to me because in Hawaii, ethnic humor makes people come together to laugh about their differences. On the mainland, it made me feel like crap. So after many homesick calls crying to family and friends, I had to make a decision to either go home or stick it out and learn to adjust. I chose to stay and graduate which meant learning to be sarcastic and slide past the pineapple jokes. I wasn’t alone in my adjusting. There were a few other students from Hawaii that I met up with to talk story, make spam musubi, and listen to The Brothers Cazimero. I was also lucky to have met some mainland friends who possessed the spirit of aloha and invited me into their homes for the holidays. These were the people who got me through the “Actually, Hawaii is a state of the US” conversations. To them I am eternally grateful.

Here are some Hapa related websites and articles:
The Hapa Project - I found this site through Caterina Fake's wonderful weblog
Hapa Issues Forum
The Emerging Hapa Community

This is a list of teen idols that once covered my bedroom walls
(in no particular order):

Ralph Macchio
John Stamos
Duran Duran
Ralph Macchio
James Dean
The Outsiders
Greg Evigan
Matt Dillon
Menudo
...and Ralph Macchio
[Judd Nelson never made it...I was afraid his nostrils would upset the balance.]

But behind this cool brood of stallions was another secret list:

Christy McNichol
Nancy McKeon
Jodi Foster
Phoebe Cates
Ally Sheedy
Gabriella Sabitini

And there was Laura Branigan.

Whenever my family would take weekend roadtrips, I’d keep an eye out for The Lucky One. You see contrary to what you may think, growing up on an island in the middle of the pacific means you have a limited number of opportunities to see your favorite celebrity in person: private beach, hotel lobby, Budget rental car. And at 12 years old, I could only hope for the latter. So as hormones would have it, I’d spend the half hour ride to Lihue peering out the back of our Toyota minivan. With my hands shielding my eyes from the midday sun, I’d scan the "busy" two-lane highway looking for Laura Branigan in a red mustang convertible. This is how it would play out: She'd be cruising along (alone, of course), conveniently trailing our silver super wagon, sporting her designer shades and running her fingers through her long, dark, flowing hair. I'd tear out a piece of folder paper from my Trapperkeeper and begin writing G-L-O-R-I-A in large bold (but mature) letters. I’d flip this message over onto the glass and point to it. Of course, she’d be drawn to my impressive penmanship and wave back, delighted by my creative communiqué. I’d flip the wide-ruled paper over and continue our conversation with other favorite song titles to which she would smile, nod, and give an enthusiastic “Thumbs up!”. But before our exchange could evolve into a slumber party, I’d inevitably hear my dad proclaim “WE’RE HERE” and the red mustang, along with Laura, would suddenly get lost amongst a fleet of red and white mustang convertibles. Now, although our exchange was brief, she’d totally remember my name and mailing address (even though I never wrote it down) and invite me to a special concert for only her closest friends.

Yup, that’s how it would play out.

Fur sure.

In college, my roommates took great pleasure in having me call in pizza delivery orders. Not because of my sexy phone voice, but because of the many different spellings of my name which would appear on the delivered pizza box. Here's a sampling:

Camille, Camilla, Commie, Camaro (my personal favorite), Connie, Camel, Camo

My roommates would squeal with delight as they tore off the section of cardboard with my "name" in red sharpie and tack it to the wall of our apartment like some oil-stained dinner trophy. That was before I drank coffee. Along with graduation came an administrative job and frequent trips to Starbucks and Einsteins Bagels where, for some reason, employees implemented the letter 'K':

Kamil, Kameo (close), Kameil, Kamel, or forget the 'K' altogether with Amil.

After years of holding up lines of bleary-eyed customers to spell out C-a-m-e-o, I decided to be "Kim" or "Laura". Sometimes I was "Beth". But I started to feel small and regular like the coffee I drank. It was ridiculous - I shouldn't be the one trying to make it easier for them, they should learn to spell my name! So now I make a point of spelling it out. Cameo, that's C - A - M - E - O. The result is still the same, misspelled kreative koncoction, but I feel much better about speaking up...after all, there's only one me:)

It's Cameo...Miss Hill if you're nasty.

A couple of weekends ago I was listening to NPR's Studio 360 and the subject of the show was the "Art of Smell". Sarah Lilley was interviewing Christopher Brosius from Demeter Fragrances in NY city, a company that produces a line of scents of almost anything you can think of. Here's a short list of some that I found most interesting:

Dirt
Tomato
Waffle
Mildew
Holy Water
Celery
Funeral
Snow

Before I knew it, I was smelling playdough, thunderstorm, and dirt all within the confines of the car. It's amazing how your senses can work together to create an audible scratch-n-sniff. It's definitely worth a listen: Studio 360

Met up with friends at Cheuvront, a wine/cheese bar in downtown Phoenix. It was typical of most wine bars here...polished concrete, stainless steel, glass, suede couches, James Bond movie projected onto a wall with french subtitles...wait, what? When asked why the subtitles, the owner explained that it wouldn't be Art if it was in english.

um, yeah.

The food was good - what you'd expect given the decor (small portions, big presentation). And of course, the highlight of the evening was figuring out how to get into the bathroom. Apparently, trendy means a unisex bathroom disguised as an inconspicuous wall. You wander the hallway aimlessly (and urgently) only to push the polished surface and walk in on someone mid-stream. For this,...you are hip.

anyone for a game of clue?