Archive for the 'Awesome' Category

Car Stolen and Destroyed

Wednesday, April 2nd, 2008

Somebody stole my parents’ newish Subaru from the airport parking lot. This is what the car looked like when the police found it. Well, ummm, I guess the rims still look pretty good. Slap a fresh coat of paint on there and it will look as good as new!

Any information leading to the arrest and/or smackdown of the culprits will be rewarded with a big shiny nickel. Or the remains of this car. Your choice.

Messy room: jumping to the bed is tricky

Wednesday, April 11th, 2007

messy_room.jpg

This is my immaculate room. I think my favorite part is the Christmas present on my dresser that I still haven’t delivered.

Prior to college I was obsessively clean, but one of my roommates had so much stuff that you had to climb a mountain of clothes, speakers, musical instruments, and booze just to enter the room. My room cleaning skills still haven’t recovered.

Probation Party

Saturday, May 6th, 2006

On Feb 22, 2002, at 3:17 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

In celebration of the dichotomy that is my life:

What: Probation Party

When: 9pm to 10am, Thursday, 2/28/2002. Come early and often.

Where: Trancos Lounge (Wilbur). Don’t let the location fool you. We’re going to be crazy.

Why: In celebration of the 2 letters I received simultaneously from Stanford University. Here are the two opening lines:
(1) “Congratulations! You have been admitted to the Masters’ Program in Computer Science.”
(2) “The Subcommittee on Academic Standing has placed you on academic probation.”

Also, my roommate Mikey just got OFF academic probation. He’s been on probation since fall quarter freshman year. Beat that, people!

How: However you want it. We’ll supply a keg or two, some good old fashioned hard liquor, some tasty mixed drinks, and big-ass speakers pumping out music to get nasty with.

Who: Me, you, your roommates, your parents, your hot cousins, anybody I know, anybody I don’t know, blah blah blah.

A lot of you haven’t seen me in a long time, so drop by and party hard. It will be much better than pub night (and much cheaper).
Must be 21 to drink, 14 to hook up with Mikey.

Love,
Keaka

The streets are paved with gold!

Saturday, February 11th, 2006

I ran into one of the classic moral dilemmas today. I was driving out of a parking lot and I saw a $20 bill about 5 parking spaces away. I work for peanuts, so I can smell a crisp Jackson from down the block. I threw my car into park, hopped out, and grabbed the twenty. Before I had a chance to start my Happy Dance, I saw another $20 about twenty-five feet away. As I walked towards it, I realized it wasn’t another $20 bill. It was nine more $20 bills! The parking lot was paved with cash I tell you. There were green bills cushioning my footsteps everywhere I walked.

Now that I’d acquired $200 in one minute, what do I do? Do I hop in my car and drive away, like most sane people? Nope. I’m an idiot. I ask a couple walking towards me if they’ve seen anybody running around screaming about lost money. The woman says, “Ha ha, you got lucky huh?” And then a second later she says, “Wait, those are his!” and points to her husband. “He does this all the time!”, she claims.

Ok, great. Nice going Keaka. You had to open your fat mouth. I’m a little skeptical, because the couple was walking towards me from the other end of the parking lot, opposite from where I found the cash. However, the guy did pull out a loose wad of cash from his pocket that contained a number of $100 bills. Anybody who throws $100 bills in their pocket without even keeping them together with a paper clip could very possibly throw $20 bills around on the ground without noticing. Anyway, they seemed genuine, so I handed over the $180 without protest. And then I felt guilty and took the last $20 out of my pocket and gave him that too.

I felt quite dejected about my roundtrip journey from rags to riches and back. That $200 really complimented the existing $3 in my wallet. They would have gotten along so well together! It wasn’t a complete loss though, because the guy insisted I take $20 as a reward (which I tried to refuse in another fit of stupidity).

What would you have done if you found $200? With all that loose cash in his wallet, I doubt the guy ever would have noticed that he even lost some of it.

VirtualBank

Friday, February 10th, 2006

[Update: March 8, 2006
VirtualBank sent me a check for the amount in question, and the issue has been resolved. I received a voicemail message and email from a senior vice president stating that the funds had been recovered. I received the check along with a letter apologizing for the delay. VirtualBank did not charge me for the research. I do not know if VirtualBank was influenced by this post, but I would like to thank them for eventually investigating and resolving the issue.]

~~~~

Even if you enjoy testing out sketchy online banks, I highly recommend staying away from VirtualBank. They stole my entire deposit. If I want them to look into the situation, they want to charge me $20 per hour, and of course it’s not known how long the investigation would take.

Great idea! VirtualBank stole my money, and now VirtualBank thinks I’m going to give them $20 per hour to investigate how they stole my money? I don’t think so.

Here’s what happened. I decided to give VirtualBank a try in late 2004 because they had a money market account with an APY that was competitive at the time (it’s not anymore). I made my initial deposit into VirtualBank from my First Hawaiian Bank account. Shortly thereafter, I closed my First Hawaiian Bank account because I don’t live in Hawaii anymore, and I had accounts with higher returns. I don’t necessarily need a physical bank location, but I want a higher interest rate for the tradeoff.

After testing out VirtualBank for about 8 months, I decided they weren’t worth it. I didn’t particularly like their website, and many other banks have accounts offering higher interest rates. I asked VirtualBank to close my account and mail a check for the remaining balance to my home address. Instead of doing what I requested, VirtualBank closed my account and pretended to transfer the money to my First Hawaiian Bank account, which had been closed for a long time by that point. If they couldn’t comply with my request to close my account and send me a check, then they shouldn’t have taken any action without my explicit approval. At the very least, they shouldn’t claim they transfered the funds to a non-existant bank account.

I’ve talked to First Hawaiian Bank, and their records don’t show any activity on the account since the time it was closed. It’s conceivable that First Hawaiian Bank accepted the transfer for a closed account and kept the deposit for themselves, but I doubt it. Regardless, since VirtualBank unilaterally decided to transfer my money from my VirtualBank account to a closed First Hawaiian Bank account, Virtual Bank should be the one to figure out where the money went. That’s why I’m placing the blame squarely on VirtualBank, even if the money is floating around in First Hawaiian Bank’s system somewhere.

In conclusion, don’t use VirtualBank if you don’t want to be cheated out of your money!

[The issue has been resolved. See the update.]

Does your roommate need a date? Don’t do this…

Friday, February 3rd, 2006

On Feb 11, 2002, at 4:17 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Hi Logan,

I was wondering if you would go to “Screw Your Roommate” with
my roomy, the devilishly handsome Mikey!! As the most
gorgeous girl alive, I’m sure you get requests like this all the time.
However, this request is different. OK, maybe it’s not any different.
Nevertheless, please let me know if you would consider gracing
us with you presence at the Wilbur “Screw Your Roommate” on
Saturday, March 2nd. We live in Trancos, which I believe is your
old home!

Just to show you what an amazing night you would have, I’ve
gathered some quotes about Mikey:

“Mikey is so frickin’ HOT. When he takes a shower, I usually wait
in the hall to catch a glimpse of him walking to his room wearing
only a towel. Mmm, mmm. He sure is a fine piece of meat!” —
Kristen Jenkenson

“If I were gay, I’d hit that shit.” — Third floor (male) RA

“Mikey is such a SWEETY. And he makes me laugh constantly. I
wish he would write one of his romantic songs for me… That boy
has some serious guitar skills.” — Allison Morioka

“If you won’t go to Screw Your Roommate with Mikey, I hear his
roommate is single!” — Me

I could go on forever, but you get the idea. This will be a night for
the record books. You will tell your grandchildren stories of how
much fun you had at the Trancos Screw Your Roommate!

Eagerly awaiting your verdict,
Keaka

[Editor’s Note, February 3, 2006: All quotes in the email were fabricated, and should not be held against the imaginary quotees. And just in case you were wondering, the second setup attempt with an equally hot date was far more successful.

Going postal

Friday, January 13th, 2006

First, a little bit of background… I live in San Francisco, but I still have some stuff at my parents’ house in Hawaii. I made it clear that I didn’t want any of my belongings thrown away. Among my belongings were stacks of pictures, letters, and other memories that I would like to keep. My sister and parents decided that if they couldn’t throw my stuff away, the next best thing would be to store my cardboard boxes outside while Hawaii suffered through torrential downpours of rain. They decided that the best time to pull this maneuver was two weeks before I came home for Thanksgiving, so that everything could be ruined more effectively before I would have a chance to mail any of it to San Francisco.

Their nefarious scheme was fairly successful, and a large number of pictures and other memories were destroyed. I dried off the surviving items, scraped the mold off as best I could, and mailed new boxes to the mainland. Since I’m a cheap bastard, I told the post office to mail my boxes in “the cheapest, slowest way possible.” And that’s what this MeMail was supposed to be about before I got distracted.

I just received one of my boxes today, a month and a half later. It was in pieces. Apparently, the post office decided that shipping my box by slow boat wouldn’t be slow enough. Since I brilliantly requested the “slowest” delivery possible, the post office decided to cross out the zip code I wrote on the box and add their own random zip. After the delivery to this first imaginary zip code failed, they tried a few more fake zip codes. There were several papers taped on top of the box saying, “Not zip code xxxxx, should be xxxxx.” On the final paper they reposted the original zip code that I had written in large print on the box (and it was still clearly legible even though they crossed it out). I think my box went all over the country because they decided they know my zip code better than I do!

I guess the moral of the story is to avoid specifically requesting the “slowest” delivery possible. What was I thinking?! However, I’m actually extremely happy that I received the box at all. When I was at Stanford, postal employees were fond of throwing away mail and verbally abusing just about everybody. I’m not exaggerating. Campus postal employees were caught on camera throwing bins of deliverable first-class mail into a dumpster. When questioned about this behavior, the employees stated, “We do things like this to save time.” Hahahahaha, how awesome is that?!! And by awesome I mean completely absurd.

6th grade late slip

Saturday, December 10th, 2005

[This note is from 6th grade at Punahou. I believe Mrs. Danford asked me to write her a note explaining why I was late for class, and I created this justification with the help of Scott Kikuta. We were obviously heavily influenced by Calvin and Hobbes.]

Sometime in 1992, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Martians kidnapped me. They held me at laser point with an atom disintegrator death ray which looked like a banana. They threatened to destroy the world with an object that looked like an orange. I saw them purchase these weapons at the snackbar. They forced me to have fun They held me captive for 5 minutes, but they let me go free when I told them I personally knew Elvis. They agreed not to destroy the word, and that is why I am late. Everybody should be thanking me. The below martians have signed this excuse slip authorizing their mistake. They are very sorry.

6th grade late slip

I’m 1% cookie!

Friday, November 11th, 2005

On Nov 11, 2005, at 4:08 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Actually, I’m only 0.74% cookie.

I just made a 1.125 pound batch of Nestle Toll House chocolate chip cookies and then ate it all. Thus, my body is now 0.74% chocolate chip cookie by weight.

Next week, I’m going to make a bigger batch so that I can proudly march around yelling “I’m 1% cookie”!

I’m also 100% kooky, but that’s unrelated.

I also feel slightly ill.

Love,
Keaka

Incommunicado

Tuesday, October 18th, 2005

On Oct 18, 2005, at 2:33 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

All of my friends know that I’m basically incapable of keeping in touch with anybody that doesn’t live within 30 feet of me. Here are the latest examples.

Last year I tried Gmail for a few days but quickly decided I didn’t like it. Of course, I neglected to forward my email or tell anybody that I abandoned the address. I have two dozen email addresses that all get checked in the same place, every minute. What are the odds of somebody sending an email to the one address that I don’t check? Hrrrm, pretty good apparently. I just checked my Gmail account for the first time in over 9 months. Damn. Oh well, apologies to the people who knew the Gmail address, especially Anne.

Attempting to reach me by phone is an even more impressively daunting task than trying to reach me through Gmail. One of the great features of my new apartment is the distinct lack of cell phone service. I check my phone messages about once a week, and I make a long list of all the friends I need to call back before they turn into enemies. The list always overwhelms me before I start, so I stuff it in a drawer full of important to-do items. This special drawer is currently a one-way deposit box. Nothing has ever emerged. At some point I plan to take everything out and publish a book from the materials. I’m going to call it “The Stuff Keaka Almost Accomplished in his Life”.

Anyway, if you want to get ahold of me while you’re waiting for the book to be published, it’s probably best to just move in with me.

Love,
Keaka

Timmy!!

Friday, September 30th, 2005

On Mar 8, 2002, at 3:29 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Hey Kids,

Yesterday at 5am I was jarred awake by this high-pitched squeaking. Of course, this happens every night, because Mikey is always whining about something at 5am.

Yesterday, however, the culprit was a frickin’ cricket. This thing wouldn’t shut up. After 15 minutes of listening to Mikey complain about his fear of crickets, I finally decided to rescue him. Being the nice, sensitive Tranconian that I am, I dutifully chased the cricket out of our room and placed it in Peter’s room.

It’s 3am the next day. Cricket is back. Cricket is back with a vengeance. I hate Cricket. I can’t even find cricket. Cricket is hiding so deep under Mikey’s crap, I have failed to find him after 30 minutes of poking around with my cricket detector (magic ski pole). Cricket is squeaking non-stop at at least 40 decibels. I hate cricket. Since it’s 3am and I can’t sleep, I am forced to let Trancos feel my pain through email.

This email actually has a point. Since this cricket fiasco is clearly going to become a regular event, I’m looking for a futon to crash on whenever Cricket decides to stop by and torture me. Don’t worry about Mikey, he sleeps better with relentless noise.

Timmy.

Love,
Keaka and Mikey.

P.S. This is Mikey. Keaka is a pansy and woke up scared as hell when he heard Cricket peeping. I told his ass to go to bed, but he proceeded to turn the lights on and that’s why I’m in such a bad mood. I didn’t get enough sleep and am incoherent. I hate Keaka. I looooove Cricket. I love hearing Keaka wake up and in dead seriousness say, “FOOOCK YOUUUU CRICKET!” I’m going to turn in now while Keaka nods off between Cricket’s mating calls. Dear god, Cricket is horny tonight.

P.P.S. This is Keaka again. I hate Mikey even more than I hate Cricket. Mikey just told me he is actually turned on by Cricket’s mating calls. I need a futon now more than ever, as Mikey is finally going to be getting a little action in my room.

P.P.P.S. This is Mikey. This is Mikey’s room. Keaka is a little leaching hobo. He needs to go back to his little shack out by Sand Hill. If all of you could only hear what he’s whispering to himself. He’s going delirious with his little whispers under his breath, “Cricket? Cricket! Cricket? Crickeeeeet… ”

P.P.P.P.S. Keaka here. This is definitely my room. I won it from Mikey fair and square in a Timmy fighting contest. And you have no idea how edgey Cricket is making Mikey. Mikey is such a pansy. A few minutes ago, Mikey basically pissed his pants just because Glenn came into the room. Then he went nuts screaming about how Glenn was really Zack. At this very moment, Mikey is standing on his dresser with a ski pole stabbing behind the bed yelling, “He’s right here. I know he’s right here. I’m going to get him. Cricket must be so scared!!” A few minutes ago, he was yelling the same thing while sprawled on the floor in a different corner of the room. Mikey’s survival skills aren’t very honed. Now he’s begging me to get on the case. I’m off to save Mikey’s ass again.

P.P.P.P.P.S. Keaka is going to sleep in the lounge. Now who’s the pansy? I even had to correct Keaka’s spelling of “pansey.” And I’m just trying to save Timmy from sleep deprivation since he can’t sleep. Uh-oh. I think Cricket’s asleep now.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Only a pansy worries about the spelling of pansy at 3:30am. And the only reason I’m going to sleep in the lounge is because Mikey won’t let me have my turn at Cricket hunting. I could catch him in 10 seconds, but Mikey has to try to save face. He just proclaimed he’s “Going back into action.” I’m going to sleep in the lounge. I hate Cricket. Timmy.

[Editor’s Note, September 30, 2005: In our vocabulary, the word pansy refers to a wimp. A wimp is a weak, cowardly, unadventurous person. Like Mikey.]

Things I Hate

Friday, September 23rd, 2005

On Sep 23, 2005, at 1:38 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Why can’t I eat grass? Cows can do it, why can’t I? I waste so much time buying soup, opening the can, and sometimes heating it up. Think of all the time I would save if I could just step outside and chew on my lawn.

While researching the possibility of modifying my stomach so that I can digest hay, I learned something astonishing: cows are like microbreweries! A cow’s forestomach is a huge 50 gallon fermentation vat with 500 trillion bacteria. If I fed a cow malt, hops, and a bit of yeast, would it produce beer instead of milk? I think it’s worth a shot. How convenient would it be to pre-party by milking (beering?) the cow in the living room and downing a few cold ones from the cow’s 50 gallon tank? On second thought that doesn’t sound convenient at all, but it would still be pretty cool.

I have a long list of things I hate besides cows. I meant to post them all here, but I’m feeling a little ill. I just ate a full pound of Toll House chocolate chip cookies. Now I have to go curl up in a ball and try not to think about how all that warm doughy goodness will look if it comes back up. You’ll just have to wait for the next installment to find out what else I hate.

Love,
Keaka

Where the heck are my keys?

Tuesday, September 6th, 2005

On Aug 27, 2005, at 5:45 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Hey Kids,

It’s been well over a month since my last mass email, so here’s the latest unsolicited update on my fabulously exciting life.

On Tuesday night I stumbled home after a long, hard evening of drinking.

As usual, opening my door gave me quite a bit of trouble. I have a dozen keys, ten of which look exactly alike. I don’t even know what nine of the keys are for. But I certainly can’t throw them away, because they might unlock something important. Anyway, that wasn’t a problem on Tuesday night, because when I got to my door it came to my attention that I didn’t have any keys at all.

After standing outside in the cold for a few minutes pondering my difficult situation, I came upon a simple and elegant solution. I simply turned the handle on my door, which was apparently unlocked, and walked inside.

I’m accustomed to losing something every time I go drinking. Such as brain cells. Or my dignity. Or my clothes. And I almost never make it home with my cell phone, which spends more time under seats in friend’s cars than it does in my pocket. However, I believe this is the first time I’ve lost my keys. Nothing to worry about, I thought. I was a Boy Scout with numerous merit badges*, so I know a thing or two about being prepared. Surely I have duplicates of all my important keys! Unfortunately, after rummaging through my drawers, the only spare key I found belongs to a bike lock that I haven’t seen in three years.

I decided there were three possible reasons that my keys didn’t make it home:

  1. A clever friend, probably Otis, stole my keys from the bar table while I was in the bathroom.
  2. I dropped them in the gutter with my change while trying to flag down the bus to get home.
  3. I never took them drinking in the first place, and the keys were buried in my well organized room.

It’s been a little over three days since my keys disappeared and none of my co-drinkers have confessed to the theft. Thus, tonight I calmly accepted that I would never find the purpose of those nine mystery keys that look exactly like my apartment key. While debating what type of funeral ceremony to prepare for my beloved keys, I picked through my jeans on the floor in search of chapstick. And of course, there were my keys, right there in my pocket! Yes, I’m sure everybody is thrilled for reading all the way down to this exciting conclusion.

I have several pairs of jeans on my floor, all of which look alike, so it’s unclear whether the keys were in the pants I wore out on Tuesday. It’s possible that I left the house on Tuesday without my keys, which means I lost them while I was sober. I find that hard to believe, so I’ve concluded that one of my fellow imbibers stole my keys on Tuesday, then snuck into my house and placed them in my pants a few days later to avoid confessing.

Love,
Keaka

* Well, I was definitely a Cub Scout. I think I only made it through a few weeks of Boy Scouts.

Re: Don’t read this, it’s stoopid

Saturday, August 27th, 2005

[Note: Read part 1 first, or your children will be ugly!]

On Mar 17, 2002, at 3:50 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Hey Kids,

I never thought it would happen, but I am happy to announce that some idiot has finally stolen the rusting hunk of metal that I called a bike. It was stolen sometime between 10:30pm on Friday the 15th and midnight tonight (Saturday the 16th).

According to my meticulous notes of all the dates thrown in for the Grand Bike Theft Bet, the winner is…

MAGGIE, who put her money on March 13th!! If you don’t know who Maggie is, you didn’t win, so don’t come banging on our door begging for the prizes.

Speaking of the prizes, some of them are no longer available. The cookies have disappeared. Either Mikey mistook them for something edible after a long night of drunken foosball, or Cricket finished them off during his 3-day long symphony performance in our room. I hate Cricket.

Onny stole all the coupons for Mikey’s famous oral foot massages, so those are no longer available either. It doesn’t really matter anyway, because Mikey’s tongue is exhausted after hours of sucking on the foosball men. (Completely true. When you ask him about this, be sure to ask him how his clothes got stuck in a 25ft high light fixture suspended from the ceiling.)

Mikey and I would never go 3 days without sending a stoopid email to the list, so I’m sure you all knew that prize never existed in the first place.

So Maggie, that leaves you with two prizes: You get to do my laundry while enjoying a curiously strong mint. Please come claim your prizes soon, as Keaka is in dire need of some clean boxers.

I would also like to congratulate the biggest losers of the Grand Bike Theft Bet. Kelly Wilson lost hands down with his bet of May 33, 2078. He was educated in Canada, so none of us are too surprised by his last place finish. I was second to last, betting that my bike wouldn’t get stolen until the last day of the school year. Christina was third in the loser line, betting that it would get stolen the night I sent out the original email. Come on Christina, even thieves have standards (which my bike definitely didn’t meet).

I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of you who assured me that you wouldn’t be able to distinguish between Keaka before and after taking the hallucination-inducing, mood-changing Malaria pills. I have to admit the pills have been disappointingly ineffective. I have confirmed, however, that they do in fact ruin your ability to read. I haven’t been able to study all weekend, and I’m positive that it’s because of the Malaria pills.

Love,
Keaka

[Editor’s Note, August 27, 2005: I love Canada, Canadians, and Canadian beer. I’ve spent both of my vacations this year in Canada. I only rag on Canada because my friend Kelly and several other friends are Canadian, and I have to harass them about something, so why not their nationality? I learned it from South Park, so don’t blame it on me, blame it on TV. Don’t you see, I’m a victim of these brainwashing entertainment devices!]

Don’t read this, it’s stoopid

Monday, August 15th, 2005

On Mar 5, 2002, at 11:04 PM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Hey Kids,

A few days ago I stopped locking my bike in the hopes that somebody would steal the piece of crap so that I would have an excuse to buy a new one (a new bike, not a new piece of crap). So far, my mission to get robbed has failed. Today I even rode around with a big sign on my bike that said “STEAL ME!” Unfortunately, somebody stole the sign and left the bike.

Anyway, I’m taking bets on how long it will take for somebody to actually steal my bike. The person who comes closest to guessing the date of theft will win the following:

GRAND PRIZES:

  1. A plate of home-baked, stale cookies that we found under Mikey’s dirty underwear while we were “cleaning” our room yesterday. I had one of the cookies last month, and it was pretty good.
  2. A coupon redeemable for one of Mikey’s famous oral foot massages.
  3. One (1) Altoid (It’s curiously strong, just like Mikey).
  4. The opportunity to fold my laundry. If you guess the exact date, you will also win the opportunity to wash my bed sheets. This is not an automatic prize, because I washed them last year so it’s not really necessary yet.
  5. Three (3) days with no emails from Keaka and Mikey.***

OFFICIAL ENTRY RULES:

  1. Tranconians, or friends and family of any Tranconians, are not allowed to steal my bike.
  2. If Mikey wins, the above prizes will be replaced with slaps.

***Offer void in Hawaii, California, and Mars.

Love,
Keaka and Mikey

[Note: Read part 2 next, or else the suspense will keep you awake all night.]

So long, and thanks for all the Starburst…

Friday, August 12th, 2005

On May 6, 2005, at 3:51 AM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Dearest Ticklers, ex-Ticklers, and a few other random people that I probably included in this email by accident,

I will be hosting a gathering at the Irish Bank on Thursday, May 12 at 5:55pm.

And when I say I’m “hosting”, I mean I’ll let everybody buy me drinks! There will be two sets of tables, one for people mourning my departure, and one for people celebrating. I will be in whichever section offers to buy me the most drinks. This probably means I’ll be sitting by Sarner. For a sales guy, he sure seems to do a lot of buying! I think I already owe him 17 times more than I’ve ever donated to his charity fundraisers.

Anyway, the way I figure it, if everybody buys me 1/2 of a drink, I’ll end the night quite happy, or in a ditch, or both, and the average person will only be out 2.5 bucks! Wow, I should be in sales.

The engineers aren’t allowed to head downstairs until 8pm, because I’ve been watching you slackers and it seems like some of you don’t get into the office until around 10! And there’s one weird guy I’ve seen wandering around barefoot! Good thing they keep those nuts in their own section of the office.

I don’t want anybody escaping the farewell festivities with lame excuses along the lines of “I couldn’t find the Bank”, so I’ve created a handy little map to ensure that you don’t get lost. If you aren’t the map reading type, I’ll summarize the directions here:

  1. Go 75 feet down vertically
  2. Go 10 feet straight horizontally

At some point in the near future, each and every one of you is going to realize how horribly dismal your life is without me. When that happens, feel free to give me a shout for any activities including but not limited to: movie-watching, hiking, surfing, snowboarding, breathing, drinking, yoga, salsa dancing, finding particularly elegant solutions to complex engineering problems, or all of the above at once.

You can find me at any of these addresses for the rest of my life:

  • Stanford CS address removed for my own protection
  • Other Stanford CS address removed for my own protection
  • Stanford alumni address removed for my own protection
  • mac.com address removed for my own protection
  • keakaj.com address removed for my own protection

[Paid Advertisement]
And in the slim chance that Stanford’s computer science department vanishes in a puff of logic, thereby rendering most of the above addresses useless, you can always find my updated contact info on ringo.com. Ringo, a product of Tickle, is a free, easy, and surprisingly useful way to stay in touch with your friends.
[End Paid Advertisement]

If you’re still reading this, then you don’t work nearly hard enough and Stan says he needs to see you in his office.

We’ve shared laughs, we’ve shared tears, we’ve shared water rations from the “improved” water cooler… and I hope to see you all downstairs to share blah blah blah I’m tired of writing this email but you get the picture.

Love,
Keaka

p.s. I just realized I didn’t use the BCC field for a mass email, which is an egregious sin, but my laptop battery is dying and I can’t change it now, you know how it is, thanks for your understanding.

Bank map

On May 5, 2005, at 5:46 PM, Evan Pon wrote:

Unfortunately, our relentless smack-talking, inferior intelligence, and Stanford-inferiority-complex has been too much to handle for one of our Tickle members.  All the rumors are true. Keawesome is a foosball machine. Keaka looks simply dashing in everything from jeans to scuba gear. And Keaka will be venturing beyond Tickle after May 12.

I, Evan Pon, would like to take a moment of silence to remember our most valuable employee, Keaka “Hawaiian Supaman” Jackson. Keaka was my personal hero, my idol, my inspiration! My coding will only be worth half as much without his approval.

Translation with all the verbosity removed — unfortunately, Keawesome is leaving the company to pursue some other interests. I don’t know who will teach me the finer points of foosball from here on out, but we all miss Keaka with all of our hearts.

I’m Moving!

Tuesday, August 9th, 2005

On May 2, 2005, at 9:42 PM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Hey all,

I’m moving to the Presidio in June!

Whenever I say that, everyone asks me why the hell I would do such a thing. My sister describes the Presidio as “a military base under the Golden Gate Bridge where elves and hippies live.” I’m here to set the record straight…

The Presidio is a 1,480 acre chunk of land that is part of a national park (the Golden Gate National Recreation Area). I like it because there are a few trees, fields, cliffs, beaches, and elves. A 4 minute drive gets me back into city surroundings, and a 10 minute drive gets me back to where I live right now. The Presidio has a few running/biking trails, a golf course, a bowling alley, a pool (with a master’s program), a gym, a squash court, a basketball court and tennis courts.

http://www.presidio.gov/About/Tour/RecreationalResources.htm
http://www.presidio.gov/Visiting/Trails/

And now that the propaganda is over, my sister is right, it was a U.S. army post for 150 years and I will be living in an abandoned barrack! It is surrounded by miles of coastline that people call beaches, but in reality they are cold, fog-covered, wind-swept, dirty sand dunes. One of the Presidio’s main attractions, Crissy Field, is named after a pilot who valiantly tried to leave the Presidio but crashed and died shortly after takeoff. The Presidio is a National Historic District, which means that the majority of the buildings are dilapidated, designed to collapse immediately in the event of an earthquake, and probably constructed with asbestos.

I was going to include my new address in this email, but I can’t seem to find the slip of paper where I wrote it down. Anyway, you enter at the Lombard Gate, turn left, then bear right, then continue straight for 0.3 miles, then get hopelessly lost and call me on my cell to ask for directions: 650-283-xxxx.

As always, if you want off this email list then you should set up a rule in your Spam filter, because you won’t be getting any help from me.

– Keawesome

Leprechauns!

Monday, August 8th, 2005

On Mar 17, 2005, at 1:43 PM, Keaka Jackson wrote:

Hey all,

In order to stem the obscene number of phone calls I’ve received this week (ok 3), and to continue my tradition of sending out an incoherent mass email to everybody in my address book once a month, I’ve decided to whip out an update.

I went snowboarding last weekend and the mountain gave me a funny look, so I tried to kick its ass with my collar bone. It didn’t really work out very well. Now I have a broken clavicle and over a 140 Vicodin pills (seriously! I think Kaiser is trying to kill me), but I showed that mountain who’s boss!

I’m also proud to say that my doctor exclaimed “Wow! Wow! Wow!” when he saw my x-rays. Of course, he might just have been stalling for time while trying to remember where the clavicle is located. The nurse couldn’t figure out how to take my blood pressure (she gave up and never finished) and asked me “Which side is broken?” when I came in wearing a big sling on my right arm. Inspires confidence 🙂

Anyway, I’ll be wearing a fashionable sea-blue sling for 6-12 weeks, I’ll be emitting high-pitches squeals whenever I try to put on a shirt, I’ll be starting a bit of physical therapy on Monday, and I’ll be dealing Vicodin out of my apartment starting immediately.

If you would like to contribute to the “Keaka’s Snowboard Needs More Wax” fund, I’m accepting:

  • Smooches, massages, and sponge-baths from the ladies
  • Food
  • Beer (I hear it mixes well with Vicodin and livers)
  • Money

~~~~~~~~~~
“No matter how much your friends dare you, don’t ever try an inverted backside fakie 360 tailgrab.”
— Keaka