Trash talk

"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.

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.