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."

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.

Failed retail therapy

So, here's the story: I drove to Laguna Beach, because I'd never been there before. I stopped at two bookstores, where I chatted with some nice people about books, and then on my way back to my car, I noticed The Sunglass Hut and decided to get new sunglasses. When I went in, the fat guy behind the counter was telling his lone customer, a middle-aged lady, about polarized lenses. At the end of his speech, she said, "Gosh, I'd never even heard of polarized lenses before."

"They're not for everyone."

"Well, I'm going to have to think about whether I need them or not." And she split.

I said, "You're lucky -- I already know I want polarized lenses." I meant it as a little joke, but his cell phone rang just as I said it.

Then I did at least four laps of all the cases while he told someone, "I need the money before Friday! You can transfer it to my account! I gotta have the money!"

He hung up, said, "Sorry," and drummed his fingers on the counter. After a moment or two, he asked, "What are you here for?"

"Sunglasses."

"Do you want plastic frames or wire frames?"

"I'm not sure. But I do know I want polarized."

He then launched into the exact same polarized spiel he told the other lady. I kept trying to tell him I already knew I wanted polarized lenses, but he just talked over me.

Finally, I said, "Cut the spiel. I've heard it already. My last pair were polarized. I like polarized. I am going to buy polarized."

He stared at me. Then he asked again whether I wanted plastic or wire. I said, "My last pair was wire, but there's a chance I might find them again, so I'm thinking I should get plastic this time. I have a small face, though, so wire maybe looks better on me."

"And...the answer is?"

"I'm not sure."

I went from case to case, pointing and asking, "Is that polarized? How about that one?" He answered yes or no so quietly, I almost thought I was just imagining the tension.

Every so often, he'd say, "You know, it'd be a lot easier on me if you'd just tell me whether you want plastic or wire."

"I'm not sure."

Finally, when I asked to see both a plastic and a wire frame at the same time, he yelled: "How am I supposed to help you when you refuse to tell me whether you want plastic or wire??"

We stared at each other a moment, like two animals contemplating mutual destruction. Then I said, "I've changed my mind. I don't want to buy sunglasses today." I started heading out.

"You know what? F--- YOU! F--- YOU!!!!"

I turned around. "Pardon?"

"F--- YOU AND GET OUT OF MY STORE!!"

"This is your store?"

"F--- YOU! GET OUT OF MY STORE!"

I thought, once I explain things, he'll feel bad.

"What did I do?"

"I asked you, do you want plastic or wire frames! You don't answer. I try to tell you about polarized lenses. You call it a spiel! Well, f--- you, bitch! Get out of my store!"

I waited until he paused for air, then said, "You know, today is the anniversary of my mom's death, and I'm a bit distracted. So, I'm sorry I didn't seem sensitive to your spiel."

Maybe if I had come up with another word besides spiel, it would have worked, but my heart was pounding and it was hard to think. Anyway, it just set him off anew. "I'm sorry about your mom, but you were rude to me. I want you out of my store!"

Then...I can't believe I said this, but...I said, "Someday, after your mom dies, if she's not already dead," (I tried to look sympathetic as I said this, thinking maybe he was an orphan and that's why he was so horrible), "maybe you'll remember this and learn to be a bit more polite."

A couple walked in just as I was saying that. I am not really happy I said that.

He screamed, "You come in here, you try and make me guess what you want, plastic or wire, you won't let me tell you what polarized means, and now you're insulting my mom. F--- YOU, C--T!!!!"

The woman shook her head at her husband and they left.

Suddenly, I had an insight: "Are you on drugs?"

He screamed just like that Democratic candidate in the last primaries, who lost the election when he went, "We're going to Ohio, then Nebraska, then Wyoming! AAAHAGAHGAHTEYAAA!" Then he ran out from behind the counter into the backroom, waving his arms. I really thought he was going to come back with a gun or something. So, I left.

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."

Shoe shopping

Mom and I were shopping at a desert outlet mall and wandered into one of the more expensive shoe stores. The place was empty, except for a salesman who coalesced out of the darkness. He didn't acknowledge us, and we didn't acknowledge him, but he seemed caught in our orbit as we moved from shoe to shoe down the right wall. We took a step; he took a step. We hurried our pace, and silently he hurried his pace. By the time we rounded the back corners, Mom and I were almost running. But he was right behind us, reaching out and tapping the odd display shoe as if it were some effeminate sport.

It was such a relief to get back out into the sunshine.

"Shall we go home now?" Mom asked. I nodded. It was the first we had spoken since entering the store.

"I didn't really like that store, did you?"

She shook her head. "Not at all."

Glasses

This morning, I got up, put on my glasses and went into the living room. E. was in some weird pose, like a cat being petted, and I said, “Oh, you’re doing yoga?” (She’s a regular yoga doer.)

"No, I'm looking for something." Then I realized she was peering under the sofa. “Have you seen my glasses?”

"No."

She was looking at me now, and I suddenly felt guilty but didn’t know why.

“I swear I’d tell you if I saw them. You don’t believe me?”

She kept looking at me. Then she stood up and came closer. “Can I see your glasses?”

I whipped them off. They were her glasses. But, we have about the same prescription, and they are similar looking...except hers are green and not rectangular, like mine. I apologized and rushed to find my own glasses and came back wearing them:

"See, don’t they look identical?"

But the more I compared them, the more different they looked.

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.

"I hope he didn't think I was strange."

Christmas 2003....

G's mom invited an old woman over for Christmas dinner. She had met her at some community event. "She'll be all alone, otherwise. She's an intellectual, so I thought she might like meeting G. She says she's lonely for people who understand her."

When the old woman arrived, and G's father was taking her coat, she said, "My own daughter and son-in-law refused to have me over. He's a no-good idiot. And she's an idiot for marrying him."

At the dinner table, she studied us one by one, frowning and pursing her lips as it seemingly sank in that we were to be her dinner companions. Then she focused on the father.

"What do you do?"

G's dad opened his mouth slowly, but before he could say anything, G's mom piped up, "He's a mechanic for Safeway. He'll be retiring in two years."

G's dad closed his mouth again, smiling shyly. It seemed like he and his wife had developed a ventriloquist act over their forty year marriage.

The old lady now stared at G. His mom said, "I forget if I mentioned G is getting his PhD at UCLA."

The old lady nodded slowly, as if she knew all about it. "By the time I was three, it was already clear I was a genius."

She was originally from Germany. Apparently, though, Hitler had a vendetta against her -- she made it sound like they concocted WWII just to annoy her and make life difficult. So she came to Boston at age seven, but "American kids picked on me because I was more intelligent than them." So she went to Argentina, where she wound up in charge of the top hospital in the country and oversaw five million patients a year (when I told my brother this, he suggested that perhaps she was suffering from senile dementia. She seemed pretty clear-headed in other respects).

For some reason, she had to leave Argentina and come back to America, where they wouldn't recognize her medical credentials. "Can you believe they had the gall to tell me I needed to pass a high school equivalency test?" Refusing this indignity, she became a travel agent. "I had to suffer the company of American tourists, who would ask for air conditioning in Alaska. Imagine, air conditioning in Alaska! Ah, there's nothing like an American tourist."

"Mom, show her your little black man," said G's sister. "You know, the little black man you got in Alaska."

I was picturing Sammy Davis Jr., but Mrs. H. got up and brought back a little Eskimo sculpture (obviously made of plastic).

The old woman looked at it down her long nose, like a jeweler appraising a diamond, and declared, "It's worthless. It's a fake, made of modern material."

"Oh, I expected that, but I know you know so much about art, so I was just curious."

"I have some Inupiat works, which I got in Alaska, where the only true Inupiat artists work. The real stuff can only be touched by a Inuipat or a half Inuipat."

G's dad, who was sitting next to me, asked softly, "Is it a spiritual thing?""

I whispered back, "More of a money thing."

She noticed me for the first time and shook her head, as if regretting that she couldn't have me executed right there and then.

"You don't know anything about it."

Even if I didn't, I wasn't going to admit it to her. "Well, my mom has a big collection of Eskimo statues. She got them in Manitoba, and they're all certified."

She paused, then said, "You are mistaken. Your mother could never afford it. One statue alone costs $50,000."

I shrugged and went back to my mashed potatoes (though later I called my mom to verify that her collection was all certified and done by a top "Inupiat" artist. She bought them more than 30 years ago).

But the lady wasn't finished with me. "What do you do?"

"I'm a database programmer."

"It must be hard for you."

"Not really."

"Where did you go to school?"

"Illinois Institute of Technology. My dad was a prof there, so I got free tuition."

"Well, I have never heard of it."

G's sister pointed out that my brother went to the same college (CalTech) as G, and I said, "Yes, he double-majored and now he's a professor at UCLA." I felt rather pitiful for saying this, as usually I prefer complaining about my brother, but at least it worked: she gave me one last dirty look and turned her attention back to G.

I fled soon afterwards. When I crept back downstairs twenty minutes later, she and G were alone at the table...everyone else had escaped. I paused at the bottom of the stairwell long enough to overhear:

"Young man, everything in your field has already been discovered." (G's field was theoretical plasma physics.) "You need to think forwards. I know what I'm talking about. I had tea with Albert Einstein."

Later on, another lady came by, a very nice woman, with her adult son. The son had lost his job, the mother mentioned.

"How does it feel making your mother work two jobs to support you?" asked the old lady, interrupting the introductions.

"But I don't support him. He lives on his own off his own money."

"Ah, he's nothing but a parasite."

I admired the young man's fortitude -- he didn't say a word in reply.

When everyone was getting ready to leave, it was discovered that the old lady and the young man lived in the same area (about 20 minutes away).

"I will follow you home," she said.

"Sure. No problem."

A couple hours later, the old woman called to say she had only just gotten home. Apparently, the young man led her into a strange neighborhood and then sped off in his Firebird.

On the phone, the lady kept asking G's mom what G thought of her, saying over and over again, "I hope he didn't think I was strange."

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.

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.

Remember the medlar

Another tidbit from my 2003 diary:

On the flight home, I sat next to a couple of drunken businessmen. I tried to ignore them, but eventually my neighbor lost interest in the flight attendant and leaned over into my space.

"Are you in school?"

I shook my head.

"But you're reading Adam Smith."

"Yes, but I'm not in school."

"Why are you reading it, then?"

"It's a great book."

“Oh, but he oversimplified a lot of things. I mean, that whole organic viewpoint of economics. He was just copying Darwin.” His professorial air only slightly reeked of alcohol.

"But Adam Smith published this around 1776." He didn’t seem to understand the implication, so I continued: “Darwin lived in the 1800s.”

“Oh...you had me there.” It didn't look like he cared much, though. He ordered another drink. Then, referring to the ink on my hand, he asked, "Did you go out last night?" He smiled at what he must've guessed was our common bond. “I stayed out until 4 AM myself."

"No, that's the word, medlar. I wrote it on my hand to remember it, because supposedly, the oil from the medlar nut is so tasty, goats in Morocco climb trees to eat them." It did look more like a smudge than a word, I suppose. (Note: I don't know where I got this word from. I just did a text search on 'Wealth of Nations,' and it didn't turn up.)

Silence. Then I noticed his complexion. On a healthier day, I'm sure he would have taken the medlar on (for it definitely has an organic point of view).

Now I felt like being inquisitive. "Did you make it to work today?"

"Nah, I woke up at 1 PM." He gave a sour laugh. "I slept through my own talk."

"Will that hurt you at work?"

He shrugged with the remnants of bravado left over from last night -- 1/2 hangover, 1/2 resignation.

I read my book in peace the rest of the way home.

Things my mother said

These excerpts are from my 2002-2004 diary. I was just looking through it, seeing if I could plagiarize myself for the good of this blog, and instead, I got caught up with my parents' rather dark sense of humor:
---------------

We got off the ferry and started walking back to the apartment. Dad was in front. Someone told him to look back at little Billy, and he turned around and promptly backed into a garbage can, almost falling in. It was like slow motion as we grabbed at him to keep him upright. He cut himself quite badly.

As we expressed loud sympathy, he said, "Oh, don't worry. It's just God's way of telling me where I belong."
---------------

I told Mom last night that California is heaven.

She said, "I don't know if I really want to live somewhere like heaven. It'll just remind me that I'm going to be in heaven shortly."

Although I know her sense of humour, I was too shocked to say anything.

"Silent, are you? So you agree?"
---------------

When I asked them where they were moving, Mom said they had bought a little van with a shower, and were just going to hit the road. Dad said they would do a Hitchcock, but go south by southwest. She really had me on the van, until I kept pressing them about the other amenities it provided besides a shower.

I never did find out where they were moving.
---------------

Dad's reading 'A Thread Across the Ocean' about the transatlantic cable. Mom came up and said, "Your father's got a noble face."

I said, "You both look regal. Aristocratic."

"No, I don't, but your dad does. I can see his effigy."

Dad kept on reading throughout this conversation. Mom said, "I keep trying to get a rise out of him, but it doesn't work."
---------------

This one is from when I was living in London:

"G, who discovered penicillin?" I asked.

"Pasteur."

"No, no, the guy had to have been British."

"This is when one needs the Internet."

I said I knew a faster way to get the answer, and called my parents. My dad was out of breath when he answered the phone: "You know that Chinese wall we have. Well, we've been putting together a box for it. It's getting big enough that by the time we finish, it'll be just the right size for a double coffin for your mother and myself."

"Dad!"

He chuckled, and I could hear my mom laughing in the background.

(When I related this to G, he shook his head and said, "Your family has a really black sense of humour.")

"Dad, I actually called with a specific question. Who discovered penicillin?"

"Fleming. In 1928. He was sitting at his desk when the spores floated in through the window and landed on a bacterial culture. He noticed that all the bacteria died, and wrote it up and published. But he didn't do anything about it. Ten years later, at the start of the war, the government got hold of it and that's when penicillin first became available."

I looked smugly at G, as he had called me a loser for not using the Internet. But, I swear, my dad knows everything. And, he has a back-up anecdote for everything. And what he doesn't know, my mom does, though she always doubts herself at the end and will ask him for verification. Dad seemed quite interested that the spore-producing pub still exists.
---------------

Mother called. She's worried about the sale and the moving, and said she had been angry with Dad, but that they had a good talk at Starbucks. She recounted it:

Dad said, "We can move to Niagara-on-the-Lake, you know. I like it there, too."

"But it wouldn't be good for your work."

"I want to be with you."

Mom told me, "That was so sweet of him to say, I about melted."
---------------
And now, part of an email my mother sent me in October of 2001 (I had just moved to London):

Dearest Kellas,
Surprise, I received an e-mail -- from you, which cheered me up considerably. Everything seems to be going well for you. And I am so glad that that is so, since a better person could not be found to enjoy such a condition. A toast to you -- that Kellas should be happy always. I enjoyed your walk along the river, after leaving the tube, and felt I could see it myself and the surroundings. The sunshine would be welcome here -- it's cold with a brisk wind bringing a reminder of winter soon to come.

...

Well, my dearest girl, it's time --
love now and forever, Mother.
---------------
My mom passed away in October of 2004.

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.