Pigeon Talk

I am at home now at last, after learning all about pigeons on the flight home (thanks to the flight's repeated broadcast of a Discovery Channel show). Did you know the Dodo bird was a pigeon? Did you know that in London, they have pigeon shows, where breeders display pigeons they've bred to be exotic? Did you know a pigeon could be exotic? It was actually rather interesting, as I didn't realize that pigeons existed on all continents in all climates...both times I watched it, I missed the first part about how they actually define the pigeon. I did hear that they normally lay two eggs in a season. One particular forest-dwelling pigeon lives symbiotically with the trees by eating the leaves and seeds, then pooping out the seeds, which sprout. I got to see the pigeon pooping several times, which I thought unnecessary footage. I also got to see domestic cats gone wild caterwauling....I turned that off promptly, as I didn't want my seat-mate, an old Jewish LA guy who farted (at least, that's my suspicion), to get ideas.

At one point, he said to me, "What an interesting book you're reading. Is that for work or pleasure?" (I was reading the Ancient Mariners book...it sounds weird, but I was deliberately trying to prevent him from seeing the cover, as I knew he was studying me, and would use that for an opening.) I said for pleasure. He acted like that needed more explanation, so I said, I like history. Then, he said, "I have something in common with you -- oil painting."

I looked at him expressing the eternal question, "What????" but also trying to temper the number of question marks, as I didn't really want to hear the answer.

He said, oil painting lets you know about history because of who they paint, and the styles. I really didn't care whatsoever, so I put my headphones on...thus the pigeons. Then, he got up and opened up the overhead bin, and got a big book on oil painting out. He turned on the light, and paged through the book...but held it so that all the pages faced me, so that I could become curious and inquire. (I didn't.) Then, I was hungry and was wondering when they'd come around with food, but every time I glanced from the monitor or my book to the aisle (I was in a window seat), he'd turn to me immediately like he was just about to speak. So, I started not even turning my head, but just shifting my eyes, but even then, he met my glance once or twice. Quite terrible, as until he mentioned the oil painting, I thought him a fine enough seat mate.

Radio Show

N and I* were on 104.4 FM Resonance Radio Friday night! If the radio show were at all interesting, I’d post a link. We were on with some Swedes who specialized in scatological noises, an eco-musician and a Chinese artist. The radio djs would talk normally during the breaks, and then the second they were on air, they both assumed these stupid dj voices. They both had huge noses. Afterwards, we all went out and the Swedish fart guy kept inviting me to visit him in Stockholm, saying I could sleep on his pink futon. (I asked him if it were from Ikea, but he didn’t answer.)


*Well, I was there just to support N.

The Skeptic

"I don't believe in personality tests," said Matt, as we sloshed back white wine in a pub near Regents Park. "They just try to typecast people."

"Oh, but the Myers-Briggs test is really accurate."

"Perhaps." He savoured another sip of Chardonnay. "But then, I'm a Gemini, so I can't help being skeptical about things like that. You know, N is a Gemini, too. That's why I get her. As soon as I see her in class, I know exactly how she's feeling."

"Are you sure it's not because she's an INFP?"*

He ignored my comment. "Geminis are in tune with their feelings. We're not like Pisces."

"What's wrong with Pisces?"

"My dad was a Pisces."

"I'm a Pisces."

"Geminis are very honest." He looked at me sternly, as if that were a particular failing of Pisces, but he had too much Geminian delicacy to point it out. "We're also good at keeping secrets. You know, I've been wondering about you and what makes you tick."

I took another gulp...shall we say sip...of wine.

He continued, "N tells me everything. Because she knows I won't tell anyone."

"So what has she told you?"

He launched into a risque story about her ex-boyfriend.

"I was joking! Don't tell me!"

He shrugged. "Another glass of wine?"



*N's Myers-Briggs type.

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 (I called him supercilious, but I don't think he knew what it meant and took it as a compliment) 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.)

The missing book

The clerk stood behind his information desk, staring at the bookshelves as if he expected the books to tumble out the second a customer distracted him with a request. After my encore "Excuse me," he sighed quietly and looked down at me. (I was the only other person in the store.)

"Do you have Peter Ackroyd's history of the Thames?"

He tilted his head and took off his glasses to clean them; if we'd been in the poetry section, I would've said this act symbolized thought. As it was, we were closer to the DIY section, so probably it just meant they were dirty. After he put them back on, he said, "You know, I think we do. No, I'm sure of it." He glanced one last time at the Self-Help section, as one would at a dog after telling it to heel, and bounded over to History. "I remember seeing it in the computer the other day...it said we had one copy left." He went over each row, and then shook his head. "I could swear we had one copy left."

"Maybe it's just in the wrong section?"

"No, that wouldn't be it. Someone's probably knicked it." He went back to his desk. "See, the computer says we have one copy left." He stared at the computer. "But that's wrong, because now I remember someone asked for it last week, and it said then we had one copy left, but we didn't. Yeah, quite a few people have come in asking for it, now that I think of it." He shrugged. "I don't know why the computer keeps saying we have one copy left."

He perched his fingers on the desk and resumed his observation of the bookshelves.

I asked, "Are you going to order it?"

"Hmm? Oh yes, I've been meaning to do that. Good idea. I'll do that right now."

I wonder how long that bookstore will stay in business.

Accents

The Cockney cabdriver who drove me home from Paddington suggested we go down Avenue Road. He said, “I like to look at the asses there.”

“Pardon?”

“The asses! They’re so big and beautiful.”

I finally realized what he meant when we were on the street and I saw how big and beautiful the houses were.

“How much do you think it’d cost for an ass like that?”

Walking wounded

I saw the blood on his white t-shirt before I saw the blood on his face -- it took me a moment to connect the two. Holding a hand in front of his nose and the other out-stretched, he lunged from person to person, thickly asking, "Can you help me?" The suited workers, returning home, evaded his grasp and his glance. Then, he started to lunge at me; I found myself eluding him as gracefully as everyone else.

I thought, "Well, I can't very well help him. I'm a foreigner." Then: how did he make it this far without getting help already? There's got to be a reason. And, he's talking like a drunk.

Only afterwards did I think, perhaps a broken nose makes one talk like a drunk. But, then, how does one get a broken nose without being drunk?

That was two days ago. Today, after accidentally biking into the canal, I went to the Queens for a drink, and I mentioned the bloody young man.

"Oh, him. He's out here every day. Can't believe you haven't seen him before. He used to bleed from his scalp. He's just recently switched to his nose."

The guy said this in much the same tone my friend had said, "Women are wearing skinny jeans tucked inside their boots now."

Another local added, "He was at the betting room 15 minutes ago. He knocked over three chairs, trying to get Williams to hit him. Yeah, you just missed him." He looked at me sympathetically, as if the bleeder had stood me up.

Afternoon walk

I walked to Highgate Cemetery, passing through Hampstead Heath. On Parliament Hill, the white-haired, broad-shouldered man in front of me made as if to kick his female companion. But, just as his foot neared her rear (he didn't have to aim that carefully), he started toppling over and instead did an impromptu, one-legged dance as if he were on hot coals. A few moments later, an old lady passed me. Misinterpreting the cause of my smile, she smiled back. And suddenly I felt as if I were indeed smiling because I was kind-hearted and not because the man looked foolish.

I then passed an Indian guy, in his twenties, who was loudly talking on his mobile. He shouted, "What the f-ck! He gets a mortgage!" He pronounced mortgage, mort-gage. When foreigners swear in a language other than their own, it always sounds self-consciously deliberate; it's the verbal equivalent to someone wearing hiking boots with evening wear. He exacerbated this effect by immediately glancing around, smiling shyly, the phone still to his ear. It seemed like he was looking for approbation...whether for his cursing or his knowledge of mortgages, I don't know.

Gypsy woman vs. businesswoman

I caught a Circle Line tube around 10:30 AM. It was fairly crowded with mostly tourists, but the guy sitting next to me and the woman next to him were in business suits. At one stop, the doors opened and a fat gypsy lady got on. She clasped her hands together and said in a sing song voice, “Hello! I’m...”

“I’m sorry, but no," said the businesswoman in an even louder voice. "Not in this car, not today. Get out.”

“Good show, good show!” said my neighbor, shaking out his newspaper as if to shake the gypsy off.

The stunned looking gypsy backed away while the businesswoman continued her tirade: “Go to some other carriage. I want to enjoy a nice, quiet tube ride.”

The gypsy was now standing on the platform looking in. "F--- you," she said.

“Thank you, but I have a lovely husband at home to do that for me. That's why I have two lovely children. So f--- off yourself."

Then the tube doors closed and we were on our way. It all happened so quickly. The man went back to reading his newspaper, and hardly anyone registered a reaction. It may as well have never happened. I felt that the man wanted to express some deeper thanks to his neighbor, but by the time we hit the next stop, the newspaper seemed to have engrossed him fully, and then he got off. Another stop, and pretty much only the woman and me remained of the original passenger load. Then she got off, and it was just me.

Note: This entry was from my London journal. Musicians, gypsies, etc., will get on the tube during tourist hours and work a car for money. They stay in the car just until the next stop.