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RIPOSTE
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THE LTSEWH CONGA
(June 25, 2003)
Call them "Less Then Satisfying
Encounters with Humanity," or LTSEWH for, um, short. Only some of the names
are occasionally omitted to spare the particularly wretched from public humiliation.
LTSEWH # 1: THIS LITTLE
PIGGY. . .
Out for an evening stroll on Santa Monica
Boulevard, crossing a sidestreet, when a weathered white Toyota made a quick left in front
of me, nearly taking off my toes. Okay, I exaggerate. Two more steps and he would have had
my tootsies in his tires.
Because he had allowed me a
full five feet in which to retain possession of pedal digits, I didn't feel outright
denunciation was merited. So I wrote him a warning ticket:
"Careful, pal," I said into his
opened window, as he passed by.
That did it. Pal promptly stopped his car in
the middle of the street, waiting for me. What the heck, I had nothing better to do than
get into a fistfight with a cretin. As I walked past, he let me have it with both barrels.
"Normally," he hissed petulantly,
"I am!"
"Well, good," I said. "Thank
you."
Guess he put me in my place.
LTSEWH # 2: CONGA LINE
I phoned the box office of the Conga Room. A
recording told me that I had reached the Conga Room, which was good, seeing as I had
dialed the number of the Conga Room. The recording---a chipper woman's voice---also gave
me lots of information about how to get to the Conga Room, and how to make reservations
for dinner at the Conga Room, and admission prices for the Conga Room.
It also told me that I could phone the box
office of the Conga Room if I wished to buy tickets for the Conga Room. Sad to say, it did
not tell me the box office phone number of the Conga Room. I went on-line and found said
number, which turned out to be. . .the number I had just dialed.
That's right---I was in a Conga line behind
myself!
Well, I really wanted to see
Robert Hunter, the great, great songwriter and lyricist (known principally for his
Grateful Dead canon), so I. . .drove to the Conga Room. This would have worked out nicely,
if the Conga Room box office had been open, but, as a woman from a neighboring business
told me, arching an eyebrow mysteriously, "There's NEVER anyone there until
night."
I didn't know what to make of her inflection
and eyebrow---was the Conga Room operated by vampires?---so I drove home and phoned the
Conga Room again. I had a plan, a scheme, a proposal so daring, so drastic, that I almost
didn't try it: I left a message saying that I wanted to purchase tickets.
Ladies and gentlemen, I swear this is true:
someone from the Conga Room phoned me back! I think it was the chipper woman. The
conversation went about like this:
"You called about
tickets?"
"Yes, for Robert Hunter."
"Yes?"
"Right. I'd like tickets for Robert
Hunter."
"I'll have to get back to you."
"Uh. . .But you are getting back
to me. You've just phoned me."
The phone made a rattling noise, as if she were
hanging up. I spoke:
"Hello?"
"Yes. I'll have to get back to you."
"Um. . .you'll have to get back to me? Uh.
. .can you clear up a big mystery for me and tell me if there are any tickets for Robert
Hunter available?"
"Oh, yes."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Click.
In the end, I never went to the
Conga Room to see Robert Hunter. I figured there were two possible explanations for the
above events: 1) the Conga Room desperately wants to go out of business, or 2) I never
spoke the secret password.
By the way, here's what Hunter said about the
Conga Room in his on-line journal:
"The venue had apparently advertised the
gig for 9 p.m. instead of the 8 o'clock showtime agreed upon, so half the audience, who
came at the right time, had to wait an extra hour."
Cha-cha-cha.
LTSEWH # 3: DON'T ASK, DON'T HOTEL
I don't generally divert from personal
experience in LTSEWH reports, but this is too good:
A friend (call her Maybelle) stayed at the
Hilton Hotel in downtown San Diego for a few days, during which time she was assailed by
mysterious noises and lousy service. When kept awake one night by a faulty air
conditioner, she was told she could change rooms "only if this is a problem we can't
fix."
Hey, that's hospitality!
When Maybelle checked out, a
perky little desk clerk showed all her teeth and sang out like she was trying out for
"American Idol":
"Did you find your stay with us to be
satisfactory?"
Give the clerk this: she had memorized her
little line correctly, and could pronounce "satisfactory."
Answered Maybelle, smiling:
"Well, in all honestly, I would have to
say I found my stay here to be less than satisfactory."
"That's GREAT!" smiled the perky
clerk.
Training never said anything about listening. .
.
LTSEWH # 4: GO PARK YOURSELF
Well, people have died for more absurd reasons
than parking spaces. (Think about that.)
It was peaceful. It was deserted. It was the
ultimate L.A. rarity---an empty sidestreet. No traffic. Not a moving car in sight. Just
several hundred parked cars. (Well, the real L.A. rarity would be a car with no visible
vehicles, parked or otherwise.)
And then I saw it.
A space.
I blinked. The evening remained still. A
crescent moon stuck to the sky like an errant eyelash. Cats barked. Dogs smoked cigars.
Nothing unusual---except. . .an empty parking space! I yawned, pulling into a driveway for
my three-point turn, in order to turn around and take the vacant space, which gaped like
the Grand Canyon.
I think the Creator of the Universe plays
tricks on me, and produced this guy straight from the ethers. I never saw him turning
left, right, coming from north, south, up or down. But there he was, materializing like
Scotty had beamed him down. A college kid in a hot BMW or something, whipping a violent
U-turn---in order to visit the Grand Canyon before I could.
My mouth giving the canyon some competition.
I smiled and waved at the fellow
gently, as if to say, "My good man, I am sure you are a person of charity, good
judgement, and high achievement, and therefore you will most certainly allow me the space
which I am so obviously attempting to secure via a legal three-point turn, as opposed to
the illegal and violent U-turn that you just executed."
Not only did he ignore my genteel gesture, but
College Kid began snarling and gnashing his teeth like Lon Chaney Jr. at the wrong time of
the month. I was a good four car-lengths back (I believe that soon, everything will be
measured in car-lengths), but I could hear him clearly. Shouting. Growling.
"TWO F---ING SPACES!! THERE ARE TWO
F----ING SPACES!!"
Well, yes, I could see that he
was right---there probably were two F---ING spaces. How good of him to point this out! He
was so terribly upset that I felt a little bad, so I pulled slowly next to Chaney's car,
smiled, and waved across the lap of my female accomplice.
"It's okay. I understand. I'm not angry
with you, my friend."
Never assuage the Wolfman.
"THERE ARE TWO F---ING SPACES, ASS----!
TWO F---ING SPACES!"
And on and F---ING on. I spoke again:
"Yes, I know. I wasn't mad
at you. It's okay."
Chaney was a well-dressed, well-groomed young
person. Good that he had also been taught such wonderful manners. Anyone knows that when
an old, courteous jerk tries to appease you, you simply shout obscenities in
return---especially if the jerk is with a fine lady. So he shouted some F---ING more.
Unfortunately, I didn't understand this
etiquette, and in a moment, I simply out-Chaneyed him, in terms of profanity, threat,
volume, and saliva. (I can do this very well, when need be.)
Funny thing happened. Chaney started to get out
of the car, as if to "get" me, but then just sat, staring ahead, doing nothing.
Good that he respects his elders.
LTSEWH # 5: DEVELOP MENTALLY
Went to a pet store and explained very
carefully that I was seeking "toothpaste-like food---you know, comes in a tube---for
cats, that is full of vitamins and minerals." Clerk # 1 was very helpful, and said he
would find someone who knows. Meanwhile, I found some toothpaste-like food---you know,
comes in a tube---for cats, that is full of vitamins and minerals.
"Now what are you looking for?" said
Clerk # 2, a diminuitive fellow with close-set eyes.
I repeated the explanation, and
added that it is similar to Petromalt, a cat furball treatment.
"You want Petromalt?"
"No, no, it's like Petromalt. Comes in a
tube, and. . .You know, I think this is probably it right here." I pointed
out the stuff I had just located.
"It's like toothpaste?" said Clerk #
2, not seeming to notice.
I repeated the explanation, that I
had probably found it, and thanked him.
"It's like Petromalt?" he said.
I then noticed Clerk # 1 lingering nearby,
chuckling.
Ladies and gentlemen, it dawned on me that
Clerk # 2 was not merely inept. I took a good close look at him. Yes, he required at least
three cards for a full house.
I am completely in favor of hiring the
developmentally disabled as often as possible, but preferably for jobs that they can
actually perform.
For more LTSEWH's, watch this space.
