Good to meet you, Mr. Yoo (or is it You?).

Upon arriving at my parent's home in Maui two weeks go and at heading to my old room the first time in nine months, my mom gave me a warning that we had a new next-door neighbor and that this old man has a penchant for hanging outside his house and wetting himself down right in the view from my window on the second floor of my house. Since the, the shuttered blinds on that side of the room have been a reminder of his all-bearing presence. But during my New Year's Eve celebrations, the notion of having a next-door neighbor was the furthest thing from my mind.

Overall, the man has been a mystery to my parents. Then I met him. I met my new neighbor in what I believe to be the worst way possible, save for him throwing the new neighbor pie back in my face. Now, I've come to not expect much from the residents of the house next door. The first impressions of the the man living next door upon my family's move the house in which I grew up was poor; he took issue at nearly everything my family, and in particular, I, would do. His house stood as the lone mess in our properly manicured neighborhood. Somehow, I devised the metaphor that his house was a barf bag, pardon me, an air sickness bag. Oh, how it irritated me when the spiders would creep from his house through the palm tree barrier that separated us from him. To continue with the metaphor, our house was a pristine paper grocery filled with the most delectable treats and his bag quite often tainted our bag--no, house. Regardless of the state of his abode, if there was something bothering him about my family and our practices, he would call. If I was practicing my trombone and it wasn't too his liking, he would call, even if he was thousands of miles away in Canada to yell at my mother and demand that we stop torturing demented elephants or else he would call animal control on us. If our dog was making even the slightest noise, he would call, yell, and threaten to sic animal control on us, which, in retrospect, would have been a great way to rid ourselves of that wretched pomeranian.

That man moved out and the house was mostly vacant for a couple years before Gary moved in. When you think of Gary, picture somebody right out of the movie Old School (definitely not my favorite movie ever)--a 30-something-year-old bro who never really grew out of his fraternity days along with his mail-order girlfriend and english bulldog. All in all, he was a great guy but did have his flaws. One was made very evident during his mid-30th birthday kegger. Maybe that alone says it all. Regardless, let me say that I have never seen so many high school girls and moks in one place since, well, high school. His second flaw was his ex-wife, or at least that woman he had married who subsequently started suffering from chronic illnesses and with whom he was in a legal battle and not quite separated from at that point--that kind of "ex"-wife. While she was of no concern to us neighbors, she definitely did a job on his house, destroying his 42" flat-screen TV and sports car. My parents, having pity on Gary, decided to at least help clean up that mess after the ordeal.

He moved out sometime in early 2007 and then the new guy moved in. It was not until after the fact that I learned he's not one for celebration and last night, he introduced himself to those of us actually enjoying our New Year's Eve celebration by calling the police on us. The funny thing about this is that there are many more dubiously legal activities we could have been participating in, although, this year, it seemed like most people on the island had relatively mellow celebrations. My brother and I had started making plans for the evening and by that, I mean that we had invested $200 in fireworks. That's about where our plans were thwarted. It seemed as though all of our friends were doing some combination of not being on the island, spending time with old or young family (and for some reason, the young kids and elderly grandparents did not want to join us for fireworks at midnight), working, or hanging out at their house with just one other friend, too stubborn to come over and hang out with my brother and me. Fortunately for us, a good friend, Seth, had not yet finalized his plans and came over at 10 pm to help us usher in the new year.

Aside from a couple strings of Crackling Thunder Strings that we had set of before midnight as a test run, we found the three of us at that point with about $190 in fireworks and a 45 minutes to light them all off. We started small, finessing our style, lighting off one fountains one-by-one, and quickly progressed to three, five, ten, fifteen fireworks at a time. Now, there are many more dubiously legal activities in which we could have taken part, but the old man next door decided sometime after our fireball that had once been a pile of five Crackling Thunder Strings that we were the biggest threat to his rest. So the bear came out, chastised my brother and Seth for a few minutes, and thinking he had done a sufficient job, retired--all while I was grabbing the materials for the grand finale. Hearing the commotion, I came back armed with proper information but he was gone by that point. I mean, really, there are many more dubiously legal activities during

Just as we were finished setting up the grid of fireworks for the grand finale, the neighbor came out to chat a little. Asking me my name, I responded properly, approached him, and asked him his name. Then he informed me that he was the one asking questions. So we went merrily on our way, letting him know that he was quite in the wrong and he went angrily on his way telling us that the police were indeed on their way.

Having given up, the man started towards his driveway when David decided to ask the neighbor his name and he informed us it was F*ck Yoo (or is it Yu or You?). Then Mr. Yoo retired for the night calling down curses from above.

I'm not going to lie, the whole ordeal was just a bit inconvenient as we waited for the police until about three a.m. and they never showed In fact, I'm a little concerned for our safety. Mr. Yoo, what do you think about that because I am a little bit worried. Here's what I think. I think I'm going to nominate you to head up a new neighborhood watch program.

I can see the letterheads now:

Mr. F. Yoo, Director
Sprecklesville Neighborhood Watch
34 Ulupua Pl.
Paia, HI 96779

HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYBODY!

And the award goes to...

My grandmother is a master. I'm not sure if she realizes this; judging by her apparent dementia, my best guess is that she does not. However, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that the woman is madly skilled and finding and gifting the exact thing that is furthest from what I would want or even think of. It's not that what she gives is something towards which I would feel adversely; it's that the things are completely unpredictable, mostly unimaginable, and slightly insulting. And not only is she a master of choosing these gifts, she has proven herself to be a master of one-upmanship.

This all started years ago when the woman, just a greenhorn in her present senility, sent me for Christmas a pair of basketball shorts. Despite being completely inept in the ways of ball-handling, that in itself was not necessarily a bad thing. But these shorts were Nike basketball shorts. At the time, I was in seventh or eighth grade and was trying to find a sport that did not involved inflated rubber bladders and had recently discovered skating. Thus, out of principle, I had to scoff at Nike. Let me elaborate further: these basketball shorts were silver Nike shorts. Had I been given a pair of silver shorts today, I would have gladly embraced them instead of sending them back to her and asking for a normal color. But this was back in middle school when I was trying to be cool, not aiming to be ostracized. That year brought about the tradition of sending back whatever gift I receive to be get a new color or size which eventually turned from tradition into a ban on my grandmother sending any clothing except for size large t-shirts.

Not expecting much in the way of sentimentality, the family at home did not even bother opening Grandma's gift on Christmas morning. My mother must have has some insight that the contents of the box were not going to depart from tradition and thus wanted to keep the special occasion all for itself. I'm not sure what exactly clued my mother in on this, but I suppose it could have been the call that came a few days before Christmas when her mother expressed her appreciation for the gift my mom sent and thought my mother was some kind of psychic for knowing exactly what she wanted. This call came about a week after another call where my grandmother told my mom exactly what she wanted.

Thus, my mother took extra care to not make anybody else aware of the gifts from my grandmother. It was not until mid-afternoon when my dad asked about the box that was addressed to Dr. and Mrs. William (I'd like to take this moment to inform you that my surname, and for that matter, my parents' surname, is not William) sitting in the entryway of the house that my mother acknowledged it and declined opening it until that evening.

Knowing that opening the box was going to be some kind of small spectacle, all of us at the house gathered around around like Native Americans around a wagon train in Oregon Trail (here's a hint: stock up on trinkets, you get the best deal when bartering), ready to receive wondrous curiosities. My sister received something that was evidently meant to be a birthday gift. But what mattered most were the gifts that labeled "Neil" (take a look here if you think this is not a problem. Let me remind you that she's my grandmother and should know how yo spell my name): one small and soft, tagged with a Post-it note, the other larger, yet still soft adorned with a card. Now, when I specify soft, I mean soft in the way that some item of clothing, wrapped but not in a box, might feel.

Tearing the paper from the smaller of the two presents, I exposed a white t-shirt. Printed upon such white t-shirt was a message in loopy, yet seriffed font reading: Work for God, the retirement benefits are great. My issue with the shirt is not in the message itself although it's kitchiness was sickening and it lacked totally in creativity, and for those reasons alone, I would never buy this for myself or wear it anywhere except maybe if I was doing manual labor, but definitely not if I were doing said labor with another person. No, it was not the words that bothered me, the connotations are what bothered me. First, I'm twenty-three. I'm not thinking about retirement benefits. This shirt makes sense for somebody who's nearer to "retiring" or to retirement. But I do not generally think about my own death. More so, I'm looking to actually get a job, not to quit! My grandmother is obviously aware of my current state of unemployedness and, obviously, she thinks that doesn't matter. and obviously wants to remind me that I have no job.


Taking a moment to regain my composure to read the card. I realize that there is no specific etiquette regulating how to do cards at Christmas. In my opinion, a gift or a card suffices. But this really is dependent on personal preference and how well you know some people. But for the five of us who were recipients of the package, there were at least seven cards of the same set--and each of them was devoid of a personal message except for the underlining of "He is the reason for the season." What was even more of a surprise was the variation in how the cards were signed. "Gramma and Grampa," "Grandma and Dad," and "Nanny and Grampa" were just three of them. Now, we siblings have never referred to Grandma as Nanny and "Grandma and Dad" was just special!

Already, the box had proven to be both slightly insulting and had provided some good entertainment. But I was only half-way through my gifts. I only had to tear a little paper to see that whatever it was. It was tie-died. From anybody else, tie-died would have been a great thing. But these were tie-died pants made of fleece. These were tie-died Grandma Pants fleece pants that are about seven sizes too large (do I look that fat in the pictures?).

And really, the pants speak for themselves and speak quite loudly:

So thank you very much g'ma. Oh, Grandma, while you have done it again but I am not backing down. Let me tell you, I'm keeping these pants. Not only that, I'm going to wear them!

More on Facebook: Dificiencies in Relationship Status Updates

Just as I was logging into my blog, I checked out the date on the most recent post and realized it has now been over a week since anything new has gone up. Please understand that with traveling down to California for my sister's wedding and then flying to Maui and just arriving twelve hours ago, I'm not only behind on writing but I've got nearly 700 new postings in my RSS reader that I need to read or at least mark as read.

It is the wedding, more aptly, it is the marriage that spurs on this short post. Specifically, it was the marriage and this Facebook News Feed notice regarding my sister and the man I thought she had married (I mean, I really do have reason to believe she got married. I was there at the alter and I'm a witness on the license).


My sister has been married now for approximately 36 hours and 30 minutes. The exact amount of time passed is a little iffy to pin down as I'm not sure if we start counting from the ceremonial kiss or from the moment in the back of the chapel when the last signature was laid down on the marriage license. If the latter is the case, I'd think it all happened about five minutes before the ceremony started when the pastor shoved the marriage license in my face and barked: "Best man, sign!" I was thought she was confused because I wasn't technically a best man. I was more of a maid of honor which I suppose makes me a man of honor. And thus, I can understand her confusion. Regardless, I would have been confused as I had no idea that marriages needed two witnesses.

In order to please my sister, who will undoubtedly be reading this post, I'll assume the marriage went down with the kiss and will settle on 35 hours and seven minutes.

So upon seeing a certain Facebook relationship status update just moments ago, I was a little worried. Facebook relationship stati are a big thing, which is the reason why I avoid taking them seriously and why I have been in one relationship, one complicated relationship, and engaged twice in the last month. I figure that if the relationship status are true, then people will know what's going on if my status changes. I don't want that.

Some people do want that, though. My sister and Stu are two such people and I pay attention to the changes there. I'll respect them for that and monitor their relationships like a hawk. For one day, I hope that there will be a girl listed "In a relationship." And although my Facebook status will read "Engaged (or Married) to Cameron Calbeck," that girl and I will be in a very serious relationship. And I will respect that.

Dbrovnik!

I thought working Friday nights at Starbucks store 33037 at Ka'ahumanu Center in Maui was madness. While there would be a consistent line (and sometimes a line out the door even at closing time), most people would clear the lobby so that they could peruse the mall. I'm counting twenty-five no, now over 35 Russian teenagers in the store at Div and 2nd in Spokane this fine Sunday night. And that doesn't take into account the number of kids who have come through or who are standing outside the door, smoking their cigs. But they really are quite fascinating. I've been a few conversations with some of them and whenever a new person comes to sit at the table right next to me, they all shake hands.

Sure these kids have every right to be here, but should they be out getting in trouble and drinking underagedly?

I vote yes.

The schism between Tool and the Whitworth Choir

I mentioned earlier the blog that disappeared, you know, in that blog about how Jesus saves and I used to be and arguably still am a huge nerd lacking in social skills. Well, here it is, magically raised from the depths of blog purgatory. In actuality, what this means is that I had things I thought were worth saying (mostly criticisms about Tool) and figured that I'd go back through my mental notes and recompose the entry and incorporate new details as there really is no hiding the fact that I'm writing this over a week out from both performances. In doing so, I somehow have expanded the post significantly, so, if you're dying to know, Whitworth wins.


The Music:
There is no critically acclaimed bass player quite like Justin Chancellor (what a good name that is. In my opinion, any last name that is also a political title gives the name major points.). With no less nine pedal effects and a penchant for playing up more than a dozen frets, he has a unique style. This is illustrated by my experience when "Schism" was released back when I was but a teenager and learning guitar. Distracted and deluded by my new hobby, I hadn't the slightest clue that the intervals I was listening to were played on a bass and not a guitar. Even in the life show, I found myself listening and watching Adam Jones (not that Adam Jones, you Whitworth kiddos) only to realize that it was not a guitar to which I was listening but a bass. That and something like 70 flying speakers and 18 sub cabinest plus the vocal talents of Maynard Keenan are nothing to be scoffed at. But neither are the dissonant pedal tones of the First Pres organ under the command of Bonnie Robinson.

Thinking about it, the style of Tool's music and the general style (i.e., not any song sung in Yoruba) of what the Whitworth choir sang have similar strings. No, I'm not talking about the string quartet that accompanied the choir but that does add extra points to Whitworth's score. Really, I'm a sucker for cellists. Regardless of my attraction to certain types of string players, it really goes without saying that metal has derived quite a bit from music older than say the 1950s and has even been known to mirror certain aspects of the classics. But don't tell metal heads that--we want to keep it a secret.


The Lyrics:
Come Thanksgiving day, something weird happens. I think it's related to the post binge-purge-induced depression that comes the Friday after the fourth Thursday of November, but I cannot be sure. At that time, after three or four weeks of adamantly resisting the corporate world's push towards Christmas, I experience the first letting down of my guard. Sitting in Starbucks or the cavernous monstrosity that is the Service Station, I begin to actually enjoy Christmas music. This year, the transition to Christmas music has been especially easy as the Thanksgiving weekend brought the first substantial snow, efficiently quelching my delusions of summer. Quite unintentionally, I proved this point today by actually digging up Sufjan Steven's Songs for Christmas and listening to four out of the five discs while driving around today. Weird.

So Christmas music has been a nice compliment and I found myself in one the midsts of the four of the not-the-other-48-weeks-of-the-year where I can enjoy mildly evil lyrics. Maybe I am a skosh traditional. That and the Tool concert seemed to be lacking in their most excellent lyrical pieces. I knew there wasn't much hope to hear the cookie recipe (Die Eier Von Satan, Aenema), but (Ana, this one's for you) there was no "monkeys killing monkeys" ("Right in Two," 10,000 Days).

On the other hand, there were Whitworth choirs. They didn't sing Christmas songs. No, they led a worship service. No, when it comes to the lyrics, ideally, every song would have been in Latin. But beggars can't be choosers. I say that as "Christmas Cantata" (or for those of you who speak Latin, "Sinfonia Sacra") was absolutely breathtaking.


The Ambiance:
It's in this area that the Whitworth choir and Tool differ to the greatest degree. Suits, ties, dresses. Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate high fashion and I do appreciate seeing Kamesh Sankaran in a bow tie as much, no, more than most anybody else. But that says something about the audience as well. Sure, they're not coming into the stands wearing gothblack makeup, streaming down from their eyes like bat fingers, but the suited, tied, and dressed audience isn't much for personal self-expression, either. Going along with the formalish attire was the sanctuary itself, dressed in its Christmas best. Quaint, it was, paling in comparison to the choreographed laser and light spectacle in a smoke-filled arena with 10,000 fellow metal connoisseurs.

Also, and only because such things are listed in the program, I'm going take note of the poor poster and program design. I appreciated shades of yellow and blue thrown together when I'm in Ikea or pledging allegiance to the Swedish flag but not in posters or programs. There are fives or tens of Whitworth art majors who would be willing to whip up something more visually appealing for the cost of a pizza.

Tool gets this one on all accounts.

The Seating:
As if none of this wasn't already subjective enough, I need to delve into a subset of the overall ambiance: the seating. In the case of the Tool concert, I shouldn't have gotten in but at the last minute, was presented an opportunity and by the luck of the draw, had an excellent vantage point. With the choir concert, I was an actual ticket holder and got a seat resembling a restricted view seat at Fenway. I'm going to go out and say it: the seating at both concerts was seriously lacking. My back door method into the Tool concert came as the result of some creative maneuvering on Brent Unruh's part. He was supposed to help with crowd management but didn't want to. I wanted to see Tool. I spent the entire time perched at the top of the first level of the stands but only about 50 feet in front and to stage right of the stage. Of course, I had to direct people to their seats. That was no biggie. What became problematic was that my "employer" wanted me to be the ultimate killjoy. By the end of the show, I had told three people to put their camera phones away, one person that "lighting up isn't cool," had confiscated a flask of Smirnoff 100, and had stamped out one girl's cigarette. I became that guy and hated myself for that. Here's the kicker: two cops, while on their rounds, would often end up at the top of my section and catch a song or two. And they didn't even do anything about less-than-legal activities going on in the crowd.

As I mentioned earlier, I was a bona fide ticket holder at the Whit choir concert and I was stuck down in a pew. I'll take the blame for ending up in the back row, but it is most definitely First Pres' fault for having one structural post obstructing my view plus a half dozen other posts topped with ribbons lining each side of the hallway.


Overall Performance:
Saving my only substantial bit of criticism for last I need to consider the exuberance of the performers. I mentioned that I have tried reconciling the fact that sometimes artists are on and sometimes they are not. Obviously Spokane is not a money city. When you hear anything about the size of the "Spokane Metro Area," you need to realize that that includes Eastern Washington and that Idaho panhandle from Canada down to Pullman and Moscow. Such stats that come from those figures and won't impress tour promoters or managers. Additionally, the Spokesman Review and The Inlander are not SPIN Magazine and there are probably no press photographers anywhere withing the confines of the concert. But that should mean you give a sub-par show. No, I'm not criticizing the fact that Maynard hangs to the back of the stage, never leaving the security of his platform shared with the drum set. That is a personal preference and an intentional statement about the music. What most concerns me is how the concert felt canned. It wasn't special. Of course it was forceful. It was epic. If I were an announcer on any rock station, I would say in a low, rumbling voice, "Tool, more rock rock rock than a face-full of CONCRETE PIE!!!" By definition, Tool is all that and more. But the band seemed slightly apathetic.

Again, I'm sure the specifics of the concert affected Whitworth choirs' performances, but fortunately it was for the best. I was lucky enough to attend the final Christmas concert. Keep in mind that for a good number of members, this is not just the final concert of the season but it is their final concert. What I beheld was absolutely astonishing and I cannot rave enough. The performance by the singers and musicians went without missing a step and the entire experience seemes as though it was choreographed.


So on that note, I've got to hand it to Whitworth's music department. Overall, the Whitworth choirs take the cake. Sadly though, it's Maynard Keenan and his band who can do what they do and live a comfortable life. For the rest of the Whitworth musicians I saw perform, I am reminded of joke which sums up the plight ofprofessional musicians in general: How do you get a professional trombonist off your front patio? Pay him and say "Thanks for the Pizza."