"I'm really dirty. You have no idea how dirty I am." A pantalooned man with feather earrings was trying to convince me he was dirty...his long hair seemed clean enough, and he had a clear complexion, so I figured he meant it in the other sense. "You don't believe me, do you. I mean it. I'm a filthy boy. That's just the way I am. Take it or leave it -- I'm not changing for anybody."
I asked him what he did.
"I'm a music producer. I've worked with everybody. They're all my friends. Gwen, Amy. Gwen lives over there, you know."
He pointed at a nearby house. I asked, "Who's Gwen?"
"Stefani!"
"Oh, well. I'm not really into music."
A group of us walked to Gilgamesh, which Feathers assured us would be amazing (he said he knew the shareholders). Along the way, he kept saying he was "really dirty. You have no idea how dirty I am." Then, he took one last swig from his plastic cup and tossed it over the wall.
I stopped short and said, "You just threw your plastic cup into the canal."
"Yeah, so? It was empty."
"I've never actually known a person who littered."
"Oh, give me a break. It was empty! Who cares?"
"I care. I bike along the canal, and it's full of trash."
"I can't believe this! I'm getting lectured!"
"Never mind." His face was turning red, so I decided to appease him. "Just don't tell me you don't pick up after your dog, either."
"Hell, no, I don't pick up after my dog! Why should I?" He went into a detailed explanation of why he couldn't pick up after his dog.
Instead of Gilgamesh, we ended up going to The Hawley Arms, "where Amy hangs out." There was a queue, so I said I was heading back home, but he talked to the doorman, who let us in. Feathers seemed to know a tall blonde at the bar. He took hold of her drink, which she then grabbed back. He came away angry. "That's my ex-girlfriend. She got all pissy because I took a sip of her drink. Just because I didn't have any coke to give her! Bitch. Don't you think that's unfair? I mean, why not give me some of her drink. It's what friends do. I'm in the right here, don't you agree?"
"Sure. "
"You would never do that, I bet. Not let me have a sip of your drink just because I didn't have any coke to give you."
"I don't do coke."
"Me, neither. I haven't done any of that stuff for a couple months. That's what I told her. I'm clean now. And, hell, you can't expect me to just carry it around all the time. She won't even let me have a sip of her drink! What a bitch. You agree, right?" He looked at me, pausing. I nodded. "But, we get along great, don't get the wrong idea. I get along with all my ex-girlfriends."
Feathers pointed at the women waiting for the toilet and said they were all in line for cocaine. He pointed out some other people and said he'd been to an orgy with them a month or so ago.
I said, "That's only the second time I've heard about a real-life orgy." The last time was at a gas station in Redondo Beach. Some guy sitting on the curb, eating a $1.50 tuna sandwich and driving a $100,00 Mercedes (he pointed out both to me, repeatedly), invited me to an orgy, and I laughed at him. As I walked away, he shouted, "When's the last time you had sex?!"
Feathers then reiterated that he was dirty, and said everyone had secrets. "I bet you have secrets, too. Look at you, acting all innocent, like you've never been to an orgy. Yeah, right!"
I didn't say anything, which he probably took as confirmation.
But I was thinking, if I do have secrets, it's only because no one wants to hear them. And anyway, they wouldn't be the sort of secrets people like Feathers understood.
He attempted to walk me home. But, I told him he really should pick up after his dog.
Showing posts with label bars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bars. Show all posts
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Depeche Mode at Salsa Bar
Why do guys invariably start sniggering when I offer to show them a photo of my cat? Friday night, whilst out in Soho, I asked the members of Depeche Mode if they would like to see a photo of my cat; they reacted the exact same way an IT systems admin guy did earlier in the evening: waves of hope and alarm, increasing in amplitude until at last they saw the photo -- then, laughter. The lead singer and the lyricist reacted in this manner; the third band member said he didn't understand: "You're saying this is art?"
"No, it's my cat."
"You mean it's representational reality?"
"No...it's my cat."
He stared at it awhile longer, then gave the phone back to me: "I'm not interested in representational reality. I'm an artist." Then, after a further pause, "You've got great tits. Can I feel your ass?"
I'd gone up to them earlier on when I was guessing people's professions. I asked them, "Are you guys on the radio?" They looked like they'd been kept in a dark place for a long time, albeit with regular facials and the occasional visit to a tanning booth. The two blonde guys had hair that had not faded with their years; it was golden. (Perhaps this attention to grooming led them to later leave off my ass and boobs and compliment most enthusiastically my hair.)
The lyricist said, "No. But we were in an '80s band."
I thought they said bank, but I couldn't think of any one in particular -- I was trying to think of the savings and loan George Bush's brother ran into the ground -- so asked them which one.
"Depeche Mode."
All I could think of was that dreadful song, People are People. I didn't really believe them, though it would've been a strange charade. I chatted awhile longer, then went back to my friend, Marko, and said, "Get this: they're saying they're in Depeche Mode."
"They are! I recognize them! Get back there!" And he shoved me back into their midst, where I didn't really want to be. I still didn't really believe it, until a couple women came up for autographs. They seemed bored with this, and I commiserated: "I know how you feel."
"You do?"
"Yes, I'm a female computer programmer. It's the same thing, really. Especially at conferences."
The singer, lyricist and I all ended up dancing together at the bar. That was fun -- they were great dancers. The singer was wearing a green-bead necklace and his shirt was unbuttoned to expose it. He reminded me vaguely of someone who makes regular trips to Thailand; I've since been told that's the way he is on stage. Except for his going on about my ass and eyes and hair, like I was a horse, he seemed nice enough, but louche. The lyricist seemed more interesting, if only because his pink and white striped shirt was buttoned all the way up, so he really did look like a banker...though lacking the hunted air so many have assumed lately. I don't even remember his name. After admitting I'd never listened to their music, preferring the Carpenters and the Pixies in that era (he nodded sadly, as if I'd said something sensible: "Karen Carpenter had a beautiful voice"), I attempted to compliment him on the popularity of his lyrics. He laughed bitterly. "I'm no Wordsworth or Keats."
Eventually, their 25 year old manager made himself too annoying and I skedaddled. (He kept talking about a "bitch" who had turned her back on him when he tried to chat her up. "No one turns their back on me!" As he told me that, I turned my back on him, which cracked up various others, but not him.)
Before I left, I wrote down the title of my favorite book, "Dance to the Music of Time," and gave it to the lyricist. He said he'd never heard of it. When I told him it was the British version of Proust, he looked confused...it was the first time I saw him with an unguarded expression. (Though earlier on, I noted the peaceful, almost joyous look all three had as they surveyed the bar...as if they owned the place, really, and were in no fear their wife was sleeping with the head waiter.)
"No, it's my cat."
"You mean it's representational reality?"
"No...it's my cat."
He stared at it awhile longer, then gave the phone back to me: "I'm not interested in representational reality. I'm an artist." Then, after a further pause, "You've got great tits. Can I feel your ass?"
I'd gone up to them earlier on when I was guessing people's professions. I asked them, "Are you guys on the radio?" They looked like they'd been kept in a dark place for a long time, albeit with regular facials and the occasional visit to a tanning booth. The two blonde guys had hair that had not faded with their years; it was golden. (Perhaps this attention to grooming led them to later leave off my ass and boobs and compliment most enthusiastically my hair.)
The lyricist said, "No. But we were in an '80s band."
I thought they said bank, but I couldn't think of any one in particular -- I was trying to think of the savings and loan George Bush's brother ran into the ground -- so asked them which one.
"Depeche Mode."
All I could think of was that dreadful song, People are People. I didn't really believe them, though it would've been a strange charade. I chatted awhile longer, then went back to my friend, Marko, and said, "Get this: they're saying they're in Depeche Mode."
"They are! I recognize them! Get back there!" And he shoved me back into their midst, where I didn't really want to be. I still didn't really believe it, until a couple women came up for autographs. They seemed bored with this, and I commiserated: "I know how you feel."
"You do?"
"Yes, I'm a female computer programmer. It's the same thing, really. Especially at conferences."
The singer, lyricist and I all ended up dancing together at the bar. That was fun -- they were great dancers. The singer was wearing a green-bead necklace and his shirt was unbuttoned to expose it. He reminded me vaguely of someone who makes regular trips to Thailand; I've since been told that's the way he is on stage. Except for his going on about my ass and eyes and hair, like I was a horse, he seemed nice enough, but louche. The lyricist seemed more interesting, if only because his pink and white striped shirt was buttoned all the way up, so he really did look like a banker...though lacking the hunted air so many have assumed lately. I don't even remember his name. After admitting I'd never listened to their music, preferring the Carpenters and the Pixies in that era (he nodded sadly, as if I'd said something sensible: "Karen Carpenter had a beautiful voice"), I attempted to compliment him on the popularity of his lyrics. He laughed bitterly. "I'm no Wordsworth or Keats."
Eventually, their 25 year old manager made himself too annoying and I skedaddled. (He kept talking about a "bitch" who had turned her back on him when he tried to chat her up. "No one turns their back on me!" As he told me that, I turned my back on him, which cracked up various others, but not him.)
Before I left, I wrote down the title of my favorite book, "Dance to the Music of Time," and gave it to the lyricist. He said he'd never heard of it. When I told him it was the British version of Proust, he looked confused...it was the first time I saw him with an unguarded expression. (Though earlier on, I noted the peaceful, almost joyous look all three had as they surveyed the bar...as if they owned the place, really, and were in no fear their wife was sleeping with the head waiter.)
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Some people should never be allowed to travel
Some people should never be allowed to travel. Instead of becoming more interesting, they become more annoying -- they're still just as stupid as before, but now because they've traveled, they're all puffed up with themselves. Last night I met a woman whose every sentence had some allusion to somewhere else.
"Oh, well, if you think the bread is dry here is at Kincaid's, you should try eating bugs like I did when I was in Africa. I believe bugs are the national dish of Zimbabwe."
The other girl with us mentioned that she'd just seen Memories of a Geisha. "Really? I would be interested in seeing that, as I am in the Asian Studies program at UCLA. I've been to Cambodia, Vietnam and Thailand."
I didn't yet realize she needed no encouragement to talk about herself, so I asked, "Are you working on your PhD?"
"No, but my dad has one." She said this as if a PhD were some hereditary honor that would be passed down to her, so there was no point in her wasting time earning one. Judging from her age, I couldn't help but think she'd be inheriting shortly.
She started going on about the race riots in Australia, and how the tv showed a bunch of blonde, frat-looking kids pouncing on middle-easterners. "I've been to Australia, of course, several times. What makes this so funny is that Australians like to portray themselves as so laid back and welcoming."
I was so annoyed at this point, I would have disagreed with anything she said. "That's hardly true. They're the ones who turned back a boat of Afghan refugees and sent them to live on some desolate island. And they were with us in Iraq."
"Well, so was Poland," she said, as if that fact negated my point about Australia. And then she added in an undertone: "I've been there, too. Spent a summer teaching in Warsaw." Like she wanted to resist saying it, but couldn't, so she settled on speaking in sotto voice.
When she learned I was Canadian, she said, "Oh, really? I met a group of Canadians in Indonesia. My cousin lives in the east."
I didn't care where her cousin lived, but my friend asked, "East? Do you mean the east coast of Canada?"
The well-traveled troll flipped her hair back and waved her hand, as if hoping that would suffice. "Yes, you know, over there."
I think my friend was still confused as to whether her cousin was Canadian or Indonesian.
"Do you mean Prince Edward Island?" I asked.
"Oh, no, none of my relatives live on an island." She sounded insulted at the very idea.
"Novia Scotia? New Brunswick?" I continued on, determined now to pinpoint this cousin, and making each suggestion with the same relish I'd have had pushing pins into a voodoo doll.
"No." She tried to laugh, but it wasn't quite the silky, conceited laugh of before (I got to know her laugh well, because she always laughed alone). "I can't recall the name of the place."
Joe said, "Kellas' relatives live in Vancouver."
"Oh, I know Vancouver." She chuckled as if she and Vancouver had once been lovers, and she was recalling one of its romantic foibles. She shook off the memory and said, "My family is made up of world-class track and field athletes."
"Are they shot-putters?" After all, she was built like an East-German shot-putter.
"No. They are decathletes. We have several top decathletes in my family."
I said, "I didn't know Vancouver was known for its decathletes."
"Oh yes," she said, surprised at my ignorance. "Vancouver and Washington are famous for their love of track and field."
We ended up at a dance club. On the way there, she went on about how she didn't need a man, and how she pitied women who felt they needed to be in a relationship. "I'd rather be happy and single than miserable in a relationship." The very pretty girl who made up our foursome listened to her politely and said, "That's a good saying." She couldn't withstand the encouragement and blathered on, "A man should only enhance your life."
"Like eyeshadow?" I asked. I had noted that the weary traveler was wearing bright blue eyeshadow. The pretty girl laughed. If the woman had been a cat, her fur would have poofed immediately (as it was, her bleached, permed hair was so poofed out that from the back, her head did look a bit like an angry cat). Her acolyte had betrayed her with that laugh. Thankfully, Joe broke in with a comment on the traffic, and the battle was over.
At the club, she was noticeably older and less amused than anyone else there. She plopped down on a barstool with a vodka and remained there the whole night, whispering snarky things about me to the pretty girl, who sat beside her. I danced the whole time, and her derision as she eyed me was obvious, but pretty soon, thankfully, people blocked my view of her.
Coming home, she complained about the drinks being so expensive, but Joe said, "You don't really go to those places for the drinks," and then she started going on about her high tolerance for drugs and alcohol, as if hoping we'd find it surprising and somewhat shocking -- after all, she was a well-traveled high school teacher who when she wasn't boasting about her travels boasted about her wine collection. But I was not shocked. Joe said, "I've never done any drugs, except for weed." "Oh, that's hardly a drug." When no one else volunteered any drug experiences, or comments, she said, "Not to say that I've done any real drugs, either....." She laughed nervously. The stress of fooling herself must be getting to her, I thought. I got the impression that she spent her whole time trying to make herself believe she was someone she wasn't. Because if she could just fool herself, she could fool anyone.
Anyway, this woman reminded me very much of my ex boyfriend's ex girlfriend, the New Zealander who asked me if living in London were scary, after spending my life on a farm. (My ex must have told her I was from the midwest, which to her meant farm living...funny, that coming from a sheep-loving New Zealander.) But I'll go on about that some other time.
"Oh, well, if you think the bread is dry here is at Kincaid's, you should try eating bugs like I did when I was in Africa. I believe bugs are the national dish of Zimbabwe."
The other girl with us mentioned that she'd just seen Memories of a Geisha. "Really? I would be interested in seeing that, as I am in the Asian Studies program at UCLA. I've been to Cambodia, Vietnam and Thailand."
I didn't yet realize she needed no encouragement to talk about herself, so I asked, "Are you working on your PhD?"
"No, but my dad has one." She said this as if a PhD were some hereditary honor that would be passed down to her, so there was no point in her wasting time earning one. Judging from her age, I couldn't help but think she'd be inheriting shortly.
She started going on about the race riots in Australia, and how the tv showed a bunch of blonde, frat-looking kids pouncing on middle-easterners. "I've been to Australia, of course, several times. What makes this so funny is that Australians like to portray themselves as so laid back and welcoming."
I was so annoyed at this point, I would have disagreed with anything she said. "That's hardly true. They're the ones who turned back a boat of Afghan refugees and sent them to live on some desolate island. And they were with us in Iraq."
"Well, so was Poland," she said, as if that fact negated my point about Australia. And then she added in an undertone: "I've been there, too. Spent a summer teaching in Warsaw." Like she wanted to resist saying it, but couldn't, so she settled on speaking in sotto voice.
When she learned I was Canadian, she said, "Oh, really? I met a group of Canadians in Indonesia. My cousin lives in the east."
I didn't care where her cousin lived, but my friend asked, "East? Do you mean the east coast of Canada?"
The well-traveled troll flipped her hair back and waved her hand, as if hoping that would suffice. "Yes, you know, over there."
I think my friend was still confused as to whether her cousin was Canadian or Indonesian.
"Do you mean Prince Edward Island?" I asked.
"Oh, no, none of my relatives live on an island." She sounded insulted at the very idea.
"Novia Scotia? New Brunswick?" I continued on, determined now to pinpoint this cousin, and making each suggestion with the same relish I'd have had pushing pins into a voodoo doll.
"No." She tried to laugh, but it wasn't quite the silky, conceited laugh of before (I got to know her laugh well, because she always laughed alone). "I can't recall the name of the place."
Joe said, "Kellas' relatives live in Vancouver."
"Oh, I know Vancouver." She chuckled as if she and Vancouver had once been lovers, and she was recalling one of its romantic foibles. She shook off the memory and said, "My family is made up of world-class track and field athletes."
"Are they shot-putters?" After all, she was built like an East-German shot-putter.
"No. They are decathletes. We have several top decathletes in my family."
I said, "I didn't know Vancouver was known for its decathletes."
"Oh yes," she said, surprised at my ignorance. "Vancouver and Washington are famous for their love of track and field."
We ended up at a dance club. On the way there, she went on about how she didn't need a man, and how she pitied women who felt they needed to be in a relationship. "I'd rather be happy and single than miserable in a relationship." The very pretty girl who made up our foursome listened to her politely and said, "That's a good saying." She couldn't withstand the encouragement and blathered on, "A man should only enhance your life."
"Like eyeshadow?" I asked. I had noted that the weary traveler was wearing bright blue eyeshadow. The pretty girl laughed. If the woman had been a cat, her fur would have poofed immediately (as it was, her bleached, permed hair was so poofed out that from the back, her head did look a bit like an angry cat). Her acolyte had betrayed her with that laugh. Thankfully, Joe broke in with a comment on the traffic, and the battle was over.
At the club, she was noticeably older and less amused than anyone else there. She plopped down on a barstool with a vodka and remained there the whole night, whispering snarky things about me to the pretty girl, who sat beside her. I danced the whole time, and her derision as she eyed me was obvious, but pretty soon, thankfully, people blocked my view of her.
Coming home, she complained about the drinks being so expensive, but Joe said, "You don't really go to those places for the drinks," and then she started going on about her high tolerance for drugs and alcohol, as if hoping we'd find it surprising and somewhat shocking -- after all, she was a well-traveled high school teacher who when she wasn't boasting about her travels boasted about her wine collection. But I was not shocked. Joe said, "I've never done any drugs, except for weed." "Oh, that's hardly a drug." When no one else volunteered any drug experiences, or comments, she said, "Not to say that I've done any real drugs, either....." She laughed nervously. The stress of fooling herself must be getting to her, I thought. I got the impression that she spent her whole time trying to make herself believe she was someone she wasn't. Because if she could just fool herself, she could fool anyone.
Anyway, this woman reminded me very much of my ex boyfriend's ex girlfriend, the New Zealander who asked me if living in London were scary, after spending my life on a farm. (My ex must have told her I was from the midwest, which to her meant farm living...funny, that coming from a sheep-loving New Zealander.) But I'll go on about that some other time.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Sunday Fun Day
Yesterday I met some friends at Patrick Malloy's to ostensibly watch football. When someone asked me who was playing, I said, "Nebraska and South Dakota." But then several people told me the initials NE and SD stand for New England and San Diego.
During a commercial, my friend, N., asked me why the South Bay doesn't use ocean water (desalinated, of course) to drink. We came up with all sorts of reasons, until at last I decided to survey the crowd. The first guy I asked said, "It's too energy-intensive to make it cost-effective. They do it in Africa, because there's no fresh water supply there and they have oil money to pay for it."
It turned out he'd just done a financing deal with a desalination plant in Algiers. He seemed to think that meant we were soul mates, although it was really N's question, not mine. But then I showed him the video of my cat on my phone, and he blurted, "I hate cats!" I didn't much care for him, anyway.
Another guy came up and my Michigan friend asked him if he were from Michigan (he was wearing the state sweatshirt). In answer, he raised his hand. I thought he was just showing off his abnormally small thumb, and declared it the smallest thumb I'd ever seen, but that wasn't it.... Apparently, Michigan people raise their hands when explaining where they're from. The hand symbolizes the state. So, the gesture serves an actual function, but it also is like a secret salute.
During a commercial, my friend, N., asked me why the South Bay doesn't use ocean water (desalinated, of course) to drink. We came up with all sorts of reasons, until at last I decided to survey the crowd. The first guy I asked said, "It's too energy-intensive to make it cost-effective. They do it in Africa, because there's no fresh water supply there and they have oil money to pay for it."
It turned out he'd just done a financing deal with a desalination plant in Algiers. He seemed to think that meant we were soul mates, although it was really N's question, not mine. But then I showed him the video of my cat on my phone, and he blurted, "I hate cats!" I didn't much care for him, anyway.
Another guy came up and my Michigan friend asked him if he were from Michigan (he was wearing the state sweatshirt). In answer, he raised his hand. I thought he was just showing off his abnormally small thumb, and declared it the smallest thumb I'd ever seen, but that wasn't it.... Apparently, Michigan people raise their hands when explaining where they're from. The hand symbolizes the state. So, the gesture serves an actual function, but it also is like a secret salute.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Wine-tasting in Solvang
After wine-tasting all day, we ended up at The Touch Bar and Restaurant in Solvang. It was worse than the worst townie bar in DeKalb, Illinois. One guy with grey skin and glasses that made his eyes look huge stared at my blonde friend as she stumbled first through the door. "You're the best looking thing I've seen in a long time."
"Dude, I'm gonna barf on you."
He then came outside to chat with my other friend and me. She asked him what he did.
"I'm a floor manager at an Indian gaming casino."
"Which one?"
"Chumash. Right outside town."
"How many Indians work at the casino?" I asked.
He smirked. "None. We'd never hire an Indian. They're too stupid."
"So no Indians actually work at your casino?"
"Not a single one."
"How many Indians sit on the board?"
He stopped preening and stared at me. After a rather long silence, he said, "I don't want to talk to you anymore."
"I'm just curious. I've never been to a casino. I had heard all the owners are 1/8th Indian."
"1/4th." Then he shut his mouth so tightly his already thin lips disappeared entirely. After another long stare, he said, "You're bad. I don't like you."
A few minutes later, he was calling my blonde friend a foul name and she was getting ready to throw some chow mein at him. I came up behind them and said, "Do you know about Adam Smith?"
He stopped and looked at me. "Who the hell is Adam Smith?"
"He wrote the Wealth of Nations. Let me start with Chapter One and its two major themes: the division of labour and the love of bartering."
We left soon afterwards. It's kind of cool to know that although Adam Smith does kill a conversation, sometimes he comes in handy.
"Dude, I'm gonna barf on you."
He then came outside to chat with my other friend and me. She asked him what he did.
"I'm a floor manager at an Indian gaming casino."
"Which one?"
"Chumash. Right outside town."
"How many Indians work at the casino?" I asked.
He smirked. "None. We'd never hire an Indian. They're too stupid."
"So no Indians actually work at your casino?"
"Not a single one."
"How many Indians sit on the board?"
He stopped preening and stared at me. After a rather long silence, he said, "I don't want to talk to you anymore."
"I'm just curious. I've never been to a casino. I had heard all the owners are 1/8th Indian."
"1/4th." Then he shut his mouth so tightly his already thin lips disappeared entirely. After another long stare, he said, "You're bad. I don't like you."
A few minutes later, he was calling my blonde friend a foul name and she was getting ready to throw some chow mein at him. I came up behind them and said, "Do you know about Adam Smith?"
He stopped and looked at me. "Who the hell is Adam Smith?"
"He wrote the Wealth of Nations. Let me start with Chapter One and its two major themes: the division of labour and the love of bartering."
We left soon afterwards. It's kind of cool to know that although Adam Smith does kill a conversation, sometimes he comes in handy.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Return to Harry's Bar (Paris)
I worked my way through some middle-aged, slick-haired folk and asked the blond barman, “Is there a spot for one person?”
He indicated a table in the far corner, blocked by people sitting on either side.
“Scuse me.” I spoke inaudibly, hoping they would sense my presence. At last I swallowed and just shoved through. As I was squeezing past, the barman arrived to ask the man on the right if he could give me room, and to take my order.
“We don’t serve wine." He didn't like my order.
“What do you have?”
The only things that sounded appealing were champagne and cognac. I chose cognac. Two fellows sat in front of me, and a couple to the right. They all stared at me, as if requiring some explanation for my presence.
“I was here once eight years ago,” I said.
The man who wouldn’t move, a thick-lipped, heavy-lidded man whose every part seemed a bit too big for the whole, replied, “The place hasn’t changed, and neither have you.”
Suppressing an inward yawn, I got out my book and started reading. The same guy said, “You look like Jody Foster.”
“Thank you.”
"We mean it.” His small friend nodded. His friend was almost the opposite of him in looks – dark-haired and sharp-featured. “You look like her in her good days. Good for you. Not for her.”
I smiled wanly. They chatted in French some more. Then the sharp-featured guy asked, “What brings you here?”
“Well, I had romanticized this place in my teens.” I was going to say because of Hemingway (whom I stopped liking right after my teens*), but before I could continue, the flaccid man shouted:
“I knew it!” He looked at his friend in victory.
“He thinks he’s very good at understanding people right away," said his friend.
“I am amazing at it. For example, today I correctly analyzed a man’s entire character, based on his screen saver.”
“What was it?” I asked.
“It’s the thing that your computer puts on when you haven’t touched it for awhile.”
“I know that. I mean, what was the screen saver?”
“A picture of a kid-kart. Like Speed Racer.” He looked extremely self-satisfied, and somewhat nostalgic for that afternoon. I neglected to ask him what his characterization had been. After he finished reminiscing about the kid-cart man, he came back to me:
“You have come back to Paris and searched out this bar, which you visited eight years ago, for romance. I knew it – why else would you be sitting here reading what is no doubt a woman’s novel....”
Now it was my turn to interrupt. “I would hardly call this a woman’s novel.” (I was reading A Dance to the Music of Time.)
“It is not all about love?”
“The author won a Nobel Prize.” (I’m not sure on that, but in any case, he should have.)
“Did he win a Booker Prize?” That seemed to matter to them more. I shook my head.
“He wrote in the '50s.”
“What’s it about, then?”
“It follows some young men from public school onwards.”
The little man whispered, “It is British English?” He spoke in a half-conspiratorial tone, as if he wanted to hide this literary side of himself from his more blustery friend. I nodded. I read some more. They spoke French again. (I should mention that their English was perfect. I almost doubted that they were French, and were just Americans pulling my leg, but somehow, their characters could be nothing but French. No amount of language lessons can do away with one’s personality.)
The big man asked, “What do you think of Paris?”
"It's wonderful."
“What do you think of French people?”
"Very nice."
“No one has been mean? I thought all Americans hated French people. They make it sound like we are all killing each other.”
I had no idea what he meant by the latter, but his friend quickly corrected him, “It is the newspapers that say that, not the people. You’ve been reading the New York Post too much.”
“Bah, the New York Post! I will never read that newspaper again!”
I almost got the idea that the paper had mounted a smear campaign against him, so violent was his reaction. Then, he asked me what I did.
“I'm a computer programmer. Were you going to guess that?”
“Oh, I didn’t get that far. I was not even close to even thinking about what you did. My friend, here, is in computers. He is a salesman. He knows all about that stuff.”
His friend demurred.
“You have to understand something to sell it," the big man argued.
“Well, maybe.”
“Oh, yes, you do. You understand it all perfectly.”
I asked him what area he was in. He said java applications for mobile phones. What company? A small one, you wouldn’t know it.
The big guy said, “A little company by the name of International Business Machines.”
The small guy shook his head, as if he were a humble rich man who didn’t want attention drawn to his wealth, so as not to make others uncomfortable. I decided to go back to my book at this point for good. Soon afterwards, they got up and said that if I came back the next night, maybe I’d see them. They also continued to bemoan my choice in drink, saying I should have had some apple-based spirit instead.
*See comments.
He indicated a table in the far corner, blocked by people sitting on either side.
“Scuse me.” I spoke inaudibly, hoping they would sense my presence. At last I swallowed and just shoved through. As I was squeezing past, the barman arrived to ask the man on the right if he could give me room, and to take my order.
“We don’t serve wine." He didn't like my order.
“What do you have?”
The only things that sounded appealing were champagne and cognac. I chose cognac. Two fellows sat in front of me, and a couple to the right. They all stared at me, as if requiring some explanation for my presence.
“I was here once eight years ago,” I said.
The man who wouldn’t move, a thick-lipped, heavy-lidded man whose every part seemed a bit too big for the whole, replied, “The place hasn’t changed, and neither have you.”
Suppressing an inward yawn, I got out my book and started reading. The same guy said, “You look like Jody Foster.”
“Thank you.”
"We mean it.” His small friend nodded. His friend was almost the opposite of him in looks – dark-haired and sharp-featured. “You look like her in her good days. Good for you. Not for her.”
I smiled wanly. They chatted in French some more. Then the sharp-featured guy asked, “What brings you here?”
“Well, I had romanticized this place in my teens.” I was going to say because of Hemingway (whom I stopped liking right after my teens*), but before I could continue, the flaccid man shouted:
“I knew it!” He looked at his friend in victory.
“He thinks he’s very good at understanding people right away," said his friend.
“I am amazing at it. For example, today I correctly analyzed a man’s entire character, based on his screen saver.”
“What was it?” I asked.
“It’s the thing that your computer puts on when you haven’t touched it for awhile.”
“I know that. I mean, what was the screen saver?”
“A picture of a kid-kart. Like Speed Racer.” He looked extremely self-satisfied, and somewhat nostalgic for that afternoon. I neglected to ask him what his characterization had been. After he finished reminiscing about the kid-cart man, he came back to me:
“You have come back to Paris and searched out this bar, which you visited eight years ago, for romance. I knew it – why else would you be sitting here reading what is no doubt a woman’s novel....”
Now it was my turn to interrupt. “I would hardly call this a woman’s novel.” (I was reading A Dance to the Music of Time.)
“It is not all about love?”
“The author won a Nobel Prize.” (I’m not sure on that, but in any case, he should have.)
“Did he win a Booker Prize?” That seemed to matter to them more. I shook my head.
“He wrote in the '50s.”
“What’s it about, then?”
“It follows some young men from public school onwards.”
The little man whispered, “It is British English?” He spoke in a half-conspiratorial tone, as if he wanted to hide this literary side of himself from his more blustery friend. I nodded. I read some more. They spoke French again. (I should mention that their English was perfect. I almost doubted that they were French, and were just Americans pulling my leg, but somehow, their characters could be nothing but French. No amount of language lessons can do away with one’s personality.)
The big man asked, “What do you think of Paris?”
"It's wonderful."
“What do you think of French people?”
"Very nice."
“No one has been mean? I thought all Americans hated French people. They make it sound like we are all killing each other.”
I had no idea what he meant by the latter, but his friend quickly corrected him, “It is the newspapers that say that, not the people. You’ve been reading the New York Post too much.”
“Bah, the New York Post! I will never read that newspaper again!”
I almost got the idea that the paper had mounted a smear campaign against him, so violent was his reaction. Then, he asked me what I did.
“I'm a computer programmer. Were you going to guess that?”
“Oh, I didn’t get that far. I was not even close to even thinking about what you did. My friend, here, is in computers. He is a salesman. He knows all about that stuff.”
His friend demurred.
“You have to understand something to sell it," the big man argued.
“Well, maybe.”
“Oh, yes, you do. You understand it all perfectly.”
I asked him what area he was in. He said java applications for mobile phones. What company? A small one, you wouldn’t know it.
The big guy said, “A little company by the name of International Business Machines.”
The small guy shook his head, as if he were a humble rich man who didn’t want attention drawn to his wealth, so as not to make others uncomfortable. I decided to go back to my book at this point for good. Soon afterwards, they got up and said that if I came back the next night, maybe I’d see them. They also continued to bemoan my choice in drink, saying I should have had some apple-based spirit instead.
*See comments.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Bamboozled in LA
I went out with Kelly last night. I had wanted to go to Joxer Daly's, but she insisted on going to Fabio's on Abbott Kinney, as she has a crush on the waiter. (When I complimented her prowess at hitting on the waiter, she confessed, "Well, I had two shots and a glass of amaretto before you came by.")
There were two guys celebrating a birthday at the next table. They ended up buying us each a glass of port.
"So, what do you guys do?" Kelly asked.
The one guy hemmed and hawed and seemed embarrassed. But then, as if deciding to make it a game, he perked up: "I'm either really busy or I have nothing to do."
I guessed: "Actor or screenwriter?" He shook his head. "Director?"
He looked embarrassed again. "Art director."
"So who is your favorite director?" I asked.
"Oh, well, that's hard to say. I mean, I actually haven't worked with too many."
"No, influence-wise."
"Oh." He looked relieved. "Scorscese is good."
I asked him if he liked Kurosawa (after all, he's pretty artistic), and he looked at me blankly.
Then he started yanking off the tops of the baby bamboos growing next to us. His friend, who had a vague accent, said they were like those lizards where if you yanked off their tail, it would grow back. He said, "I used to do that as a kid."
"The tail? Oh jeez, all this time I thought it was the head."
No one laughed. Kelly just smiled wanly. Then I remembered what my mom told me: "Kellas, beautiful girls don't need to be cracking jokes all the time."*
They left.
"I can't believe they didn't know who Kurosawa was," said a voice from beyond the bamboo. "God, anyone can call themselves an art director nowadays."
It turned out the voice belonged to a 23 year old cinematographer. He and his friend seemed nice enough, so I chatted with them for quite a while. (All this time the waiter was refilling our wine and sometimes sitting down with us. I poured mine in the bushes, as I had to drive.)
I ended up leaving Kelly there, still waiting to get the waiter's phone number at 11:30 pm.
--
*That may sound conceited, but remember, a mother is obliged to call her daughter beautiful.
There were two guys celebrating a birthday at the next table. They ended up buying us each a glass of port.
"So, what do you guys do?" Kelly asked.
The one guy hemmed and hawed and seemed embarrassed. But then, as if deciding to make it a game, he perked up: "I'm either really busy or I have nothing to do."
I guessed: "Actor or screenwriter?" He shook his head. "Director?"
He looked embarrassed again. "Art director."
"So who is your favorite director?" I asked.
"Oh, well, that's hard to say. I mean, I actually haven't worked with too many."
"No, influence-wise."
"Oh." He looked relieved. "Scorscese is good."
I asked him if he liked Kurosawa (after all, he's pretty artistic), and he looked at me blankly.
Then he started yanking off the tops of the baby bamboos growing next to us. His friend, who had a vague accent, said they were like those lizards where if you yanked off their tail, it would grow back. He said, "I used to do that as a kid."
"The tail? Oh jeez, all this time I thought it was the head."
No one laughed. Kelly just smiled wanly. Then I remembered what my mom told me: "Kellas, beautiful girls don't need to be cracking jokes all the time."*
They left.
"I can't believe they didn't know who Kurosawa was," said a voice from beyond the bamboo. "God, anyone can call themselves an art director nowadays."
It turned out the voice belonged to a 23 year old cinematographer. He and his friend seemed nice enough, so I chatted with them for quite a while. (All this time the waiter was refilling our wine and sometimes sitting down with us. I poured mine in the bushes, as I had to drive.)
I ended up leaving Kelly there, still waiting to get the waiter's phone number at 11:30 pm.
--
*That may sound conceited, but remember, a mother is obliged to call her daughter beautiful.
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