Overheard conversation at a play

I went to a play last Saturday. While waiting for it to start, the women behind me gabbed...or rather, one gabbed, and the other made sympathetic noises. The loud woman somehow managed to include her job title in every sentence ("As a professor at Cal State Northridge, I know all about..."). She complained about how stupid her students were...especially an old man of 66 who'd decided to go back to college.

"I can't imagine why. I can't flunk him. College professors can't flunk anyone nowadays. Especially an old man. So, you know what I do instead...I give him the exact same grade every time: adequate." She snickered. "When you consistently mark someone adequate, believe me, college professors know just what that means."

Her friend repeated, "Adequate! He's merely adequate!" as if it were an especially funny punchline.

Just then, a man representing the theater came onto the stage (which was actually the floor). "We invite you all to join our mailing list, or even better, our email list. We're using email much more than snail mail nowadays."

The woman behind me stage-whispered, "Because it's cheaper." She seemed miffed that this man had interrupted her and wanted to put him in his place.

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.

Getting off on the wrong foot

"Hey everyone, this is Kellas," said N., as I handed her a bottle of wine. "She's my only other free-market friend."

"I'm not for free markets," said one girl with long braids. "I can't stand how everything is becoming Americanized."

She said Americanized the same way a newscaster would say: "Our homegrown honey-bees are becoming Africanized. Will they be killing you next?"

"Look how the divorce rates are going up in India. It's only happened since they became Americanized."

"Yeah," I said, "but their immolation rates are going down."

She stared at me, then shook her head, lips pursed. I decided to change the subject: "Oh yeah, I heard a really funny story."

N. obliged: "Tell us!"

"There was a raja in India."

"Raja?" asked the braided girl.

"Yeah. I think it means prince. Anyway, this raja was the first person in India to own an automobile."

"Wow, what a cool bottle-opener!" braided girl exclaimed. She and N. discussed the bottle-opener's origin and merits, until N. remembered my story: "So the raja was the first guy in India to own an automobile?"

"That's not the story. He ran over a small, beggar child and killed it."

"It? You called a child an it?" Braids looked at me, disgusted.

"Well, I don't know the gender. My dad never specified. It's his story." I tried to offload my callousness. "And anyway, it happened a hundred years ago."

"So what happened?"

"He ran it...him...over and killed...him. He felt so guilty, he gave the child's family a huge fortune. After that, he was never able to drive his car again."

"Because they took away his license?" asked N.

"No, because everyone kept throwing their children and old relatives in the way of his car."

My dad and I had laughed uproariously, but here, everyone just stared at me. "Let me see that bottle-opener," I said. "I think I'll have a glass of wine."

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.

Does this make me crazy?

Yesterday I was walking home from Trader Joe's when I thought of something funny and laughed. A guy about 15 yards ahead of me glanced back. Immediately, I put on my sanctimonious face, which I feel to be my least crazy-looking. Because I'd also been whistling show tunes.

But, the thought of him thinking me crazy made me laugh again. And again, the guy whipped around. Then he started hurrying away, all the while looking back at me. I thought, I must stop laughing when I'm alone!

I was just getting a bit depressed about it all when the bus passed me.

What my coworkers said about Steve Irwin

This morning, I overheard a couple of my male coworkers talking about the death of Steve Irwin. One is about 23; the other is in his early thirties. As I came into my office, the 23 year old was saying, "I mean, I'm sorry, but that's why you don't go near wild animals."

The other guy sounded a bit hesitant, as if he were a soft-hearted bouncer at the gates of heaven. (These two coworkers seem to have a good cop/bad cop routine worked out in routing dead celebrities.) "Well, I'm no expert on stingrays..."

"My aunt's neighbor got stung by one. On the foot."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He had to go to the hospital."

"Wow. Was it painful?"

"Hell, yeah. And you know what he said? He said it was his own damn fault."

My 23 year old coworker would forgive any sin, it seems, except for a lapse in judgement. He clings to his good judgement like a devout Catholic clings to her beads. "I can tell you, you won't see me going anywhere near a stingray. Or anything else that wants to kill me."

I couldn't help but wonder why he goes to the vending machine so often; he's gained at least forty pounds in the last year. Except for his Mustang (which he has yet to buy -- he's going to trade in his Acura), he's a man who prides himself on taking no risks. Once when the other guy said he was going to Vegas and suggested he come along, he said, "I don't gamble."

"Why not? It's fun. Vegas is a trip."

"Huh. I really can't understand what people see in it. You're just giving away your money."

"But dude, it's Vegas! You have to try it at least once. You know, a weekend away from the old lady." (The 30-something coworker emphasized 'old lady', as if he were quoting someone else...probably his father, who when he died left his son a slew of old idioms, such as 'it never rains but it pours.')

"No way, man. I'm buying an HD TV. I want something for my money."

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.

Golf, heroin, improper postures, etc.

I'm just back from buying a Cobra 9-iron...as well as an iron for every other conceivable occasion. I was going to buy my clubs one at a time, until I thought, why? The golf shop threw in a free bag, some balls and a video (I had asked for Caddyshack, but they don't carry it, so I got Golf for Dummies). I should have asked how to carry the bag -- I realized when getting it out of my car that I have no idea how the straps work, so I carried it up clasped in my arms, like an unconscious body. Right now I've got it propped up in front of me, where I can gaze lovingly at them.

I read a couple books that if you haven't read, I highly recommend: Grand Slam (about Bobby Jones), and The Greatest Game Ever Played (about the 1913 US Open). They're both by Mark Frost, and fantastic books, even if one's not into golf. They reassured me that I was normal: I was getting so obsessed with going to the driving range, it was embarrassing -- I even lied to my dad once about where I was going, because he kept making remarks like, 'Everything in moderation.' As if it were a heroin addiction...well, I suppose heroin isn't good even in moderation.

Anyway, the people in the book actually slept with their clubs, which I don't do, and built their own backyard courses out of tin cans and dirt (which I can't do, because I live in an apartment).

But, my swing is still erratic. Sometimes I go and can't get the ball in the air, and then men insist on coming up to me and giving me tips, which I've gotten better at politely ignoring. One reason I got really bad for awhile was because I had so many mutually contradicting tips in my head -- some guy even came up and told me to 'spread my legs.' That just does not seem like a thing you should ever be able to tell a stranger.

I tried out for Big Brother, and I'm not from Las Vegas

I warn you now, we're all going to have to drink heavily to forget the story I'm about to tell you. I mean, admit to.

Drum roll, please....oh, forget it.

I tried out for Big Brother XXXXIV. I don't know why. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Until I saw the people in line. The application asked, "What have you done that you're most ashamed of?" I wrote, "Apply for this job."

An acquaintance who used to work for Fear Factor once said that part of his job was assigning new job titles to the female contestants, who were all Las Vegas prostitutes. Like, they'd become Dancer, or Massage Therapist. I thought, how funny, but it must be an exaggeration. Well, the two women next to me in line were both from Las Vegas. One was a dancer, the other a massage therapist. It's rather an odd feeling, when one suddenly realizes one's competing with whores for a job. Not golden-hearted whores like in "Leaving Las Vegas," or "Dying in Las Vegas," or whatever that Nicholas Cage movie was, but 'Garbled-Psuedo-Japanese-Mantra-Chanting-Won't-Shut-Up- Chain-Smoking-Freak-Whores.'

They asked me how much the job paid, and if it was full-time. "We've only seen it once," they said. I'd never seen it, but somehow, I became a fountain of wisdom for all the people surrounding me. Even the guys were from Las Vegas.

When I finally got to the Price is Right stage and was up in front of the red curtain where they interview you for two minutes, they affixed something that I thought was an electrode to my shirt, but it turned out to be a microphone. Then they asked me my job.

"Itinerant database programmer."

The two interviewers exchanged glances. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, Perl scripting, Mysql, Unix..."

They were silent. Then, "We don't understand what you're talking about."

"Can I have another question, please?"

"Are you competitive?"

"No, not at all."

"What would you dislike most about being in a house full of strangers?"

"Well, I hate melodrama. I'd hate to be sucked into any arguments or anything like that. But I'd bring a book, and just read, if that happened."

Afterwards, I looked up the contestant profile, and realized I didn't fit.

Oh well. You can't imagine how disgusting I felt afterwards. I thought it would be a lark, but if I were Catholic, I would have gone for confession. As it is, it took almost a full week before I could even tell anyone about it.