April 25th
Talk to me
I was on a short layover on my way to Orlando, and stopped in the bathroom of the Miami International airport to do what my nephew often refers to as "Drop the kids off at the pool".
Once safely inside my stall, I become aware of the number and caliber of people around me, determining just how quiet I need to be.I listen to see if I am free to express myself in ways that would normally attract unwanted attention.
The fact that the stall walls don't reach all the way to the floor means I need to be cautious, for anyone might recognize me by my shoes should we meet in the terminal, at the gate, or heaven forbid, onboard the plane.
I was well within my comfort zone when the man in the stall next to me started clamouring for my attention.
"Hello? Helllloooo?" he said, and I wondered if, and if then why, he was talking to me. I quickly did a paper inventory, in case he was in need of some supplies. He grew more insistant, asking me if I could hear him, and I had to remind myself, much like Dorothy from Kansas, that I wasn't in Los Angeles anymore.
People in L.A. hate to talk to strangers. With so many opportunists in Southern California, who take any sign of eye contact as an invitation to sell you something, it's become increasingly difficult to trust people that seem too "friendly". It's not that we're snobs, though this is the impression that Angelinos give off, it's that we're tired of sitting through the hard sell with the live version of a dinner-time telemarketer. If an L.A. native pretends he can't see or hear you it's because we want to avoid conflict. We'd rather pretend not to notice you than risk that you might be selling something, and it's really hard to tell a salesman "Get the Fuck Away From Me" when you're from L.A..
We want to be nice to everyone. We want to be liked!
This I have learned is one unique difference between Los Angeles residents, and New Yorkers. In New York, no one is afraid to tell you to fuck off.
"Hello? Can you Hear Me?" the man in the stall asked again, and I was forced to manage a weak "Hi . . ." to say, yes, of course I can you asshole, everyone in the men's room can hear you.
'How do you like Miami?" he asked, and I buried my face in my hands. He wanted small talk at a time when a little privacy is all a man really wants. To people in Florida it seems, there is nothing sacred. This moron better not be with Amway or I'll never get out of here.
"I just got here, and from what I can see . . ." referring to the inside of my stall " It all looks . . .clean".
"I'm in town visiting friends" he went on, as if I'd asked, "Just thought I'd say hello. So, what you up to?"
I took a deep breath and tried to relax into the idea that I wasn't going to get out of this, at least not comfortably. I consider myself a very flexible person, and though the whole idea of conversation through a stall wall was absolutely abhorrent to me in the beginning, my chatty personality saw an opportunity to yap, which I love more than anything most days. I also saw a chance to talk about myself, which has also been a hobby of mine since childhood.
"What the hell?" I thought to myself, what can it hurt? This person seems genuinely interested in learning about me, and I might even make a friend.
I started simply, as if testing the waters to see if it was a safe place to swim, "Well, I'm actually just passing through, on my way to Orlando".
"Uh huh" he said, obviously listening.
"You see, my Sister is throwing this party for my Dad, we're all meeting at some resort near Disney World . . ."
I stopped and waited, not wanting to hog the limelight. Most people have comments about Disney world, they love it or they hate it I find, and I wanted to get his opinion. He was silent, so I figured he had no opinion, and wanted me to go on.
"You see, he's turning 77, and has had some recent health problems and . . ."
"I'm sorry" he said, interrupting me. " I hate to cut you off . . ."
Here it comes, I thought. It became clear why he was just chatting me up all along. A clever but obvious ruse to make friends, just to get his hands on some of my precious toilet paper, I knew it! Damn Him!
"I'm sorry" he said again "but . . ."
"Yes?", I said, as in "Yes, you ruthless user. Yes you transparent faux-friend, you can have some of my Charmin, you pathetic coward!"
"it's kind of funny actually . . ." He said, "Could I call you back? Seems the asshole in the stall next to me thinks I'm talking to him."
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April 18th
 Spring fling flung
Bang was a little worried about our potential turnout at the 6th annual Outlandish Luau, We sent out emails an did a word of mouth, and Bang made some very nice invitations that he handed out to friends he does his classes with, but by Friday we had gotten several regrets, and we were beginnig to wonder if anyone was going to show up.
Saturday afternoons weather was spotted with high winds and rain, and at one point we moved the tiki bar into the living room and had come to terms with the idea that our party would probably be small and inside, with only the most loyal and p arty-hungry friends in attendance.
By 7 p.m. the sky's had cleared, the winds died down, and the bar was moved back outside. To be safe, we put some duraflame logs in washtubs and scattered them strategically throughout the grounds to make sure our guests remained comfortable.
Our worries were never realized, we counted 48 people by nights end, and all the food was eaten and most of the booze was gone. It was a safe bet to call it a smash success. Yay! We lit tiki torches, bought new underwater lights for the pond, and Bang and I took turns making mai tais and Pina colladas and Marguaritas all night long. We booted the last guests out at 2 a.m. and went to bed exhausted.
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