Languages in LA

Back in June I was at a cafe on Doheny, and I got talking to this paparazzi. He was very interesting looking, mohawk and piercings, cute face. Eventually we got into a pretty in-depth conversation about culture, language, and education, because he was born in Afghanistan, raised in England, and then came here to America.

And he was charming. I don’t mean lay-it-on-thick, shmoozy charm, either. I mean “intelligent conversation, thoughtful observances” charm.  If I remember correctly, he had a Master’s Degree in something like International Relations or something… from England. But he came here and found that he could make a great deal of money this way, so he did. He supports his parents entirely, from what he said. They still live in England. But he does visit Afghanistan too, and he says it’s awesome and the people are great.

 
Anyway, when I left, he walked me to my car, hugged me, gave me his phone number and told me to call him sometime. Well, I didn’t call him, because handsome, well-educated, articulate, exotic, charming young men driving expensive silver convertibles are nothing but trouble.

But last night my two best friends were talking about how Britney Spears is now sleeping with some paparazzi and he’s like her boyfriend now… and Whoa! It’s him! Adnan! The same guy! I couldn’t believe it, I said, “Hold on, THIS guy?” and showed them the picture I took of him that day. (I had my camera because I was apartment hunting.) But anyway. Isn’t that funny??

Poor Adnan. I should have called him, and saved him from Britney.  Heh.

 
Here’s his picture. Ain’t he cute? Let me tell you, I did learn one thing about photogs that day: they hate having their picture taken.

I love the Coffee Bean on Robertson and Beverly. This is the juiciest part of West Hollywood. To get there, I stroll from my apartment down to Robertson and window shop for three blocks till I get to the corner. It’s sort of a foreplay activity before my coffee.

I pass the interior décor boutiques, lush with satins and brass, or clean and spare with white leather and chrome. All have shocking prices. An embroidered pillow for $100. A tiny oil painting for $495. The plate glass windows are smeared with my drool.

 
At the Coffee Bean, I perch on a stool, sip my vanilla latte and surf the internet. Normally. But yesterday, as I was surfing I glanced out the window and lo, there was an attractive young man dressed only in a plush taupe housecoat and flipflops standing out by one of the tables.

 
This was odd. I sat up straighter and looked around, finding a pretty blonde girl near him, also in taupe housecoat. After a moment, I realized there were about six people out there, all young and pretty, all in plush taupe housecoats.

 
I was not the only patron staring out in bemusement. Finally, when the blonde came in, we asked her if she was in a cult. She smiled and said no, that they were promoting the opening of some new condos nearby. She offered a napkin printed with www.therobclark.com and a brief description of the “swanky” new condos for sale.

 
I have not seen the word swanky used without irony since 1975. But then, anyone who would pay people to stand around in bathrobes outside Coffee Bean in Weho is probably not terribly sensitive to irony.

I have finally figured out why I hate Christmas shopping. It came to me Thursday, in the massive Beverly Center mall. It wasn’t the crowds; there were no crowds. Early on a weekday, there were still only a comfortable number of shoppers. Enough to keep you company, not enough for jostling and bumping.

It wasn’t the parking: I walked over.

It wasn’t the prices; they were pretty reasonable and I’m not as broke as usual.

But something was setting my teeth on edge no matter what store I went into. Finally I figured it out. It was the music. Verily, I do loathe today’s music. It didn’t matter if it was a recent popular song or a Christmas song, everything I heard ran over my nerves like a pumice stone on a sunburn.

That I hate todays’ popular music was not a revelation. My sister and friends have patiently heard my diatribes on the arch yet nasal postulations of this year’s big-haired  pouty princesses, who never seem to vary from one of two themes:  Ooo baby you so fine and hot ooo baby baby yeah, and Don’t mess with me, you don’t know how tough I am that’s right, that’s right!

But there is something about today’s cover of Christmas songs that is a whole fresh, new form of torture. Female vocalists all seem to be striving for that intimate, jazzy, wry-in-sequins air of a Four Seasons lounge act, and male vocalists are convinced that they must sing Rum pah pum pum in some unique, arrhythmic tempo never before attempted.

As a result, Christmas shopping is like being on a cruise ship that has hit rough weather. After two hours of it, I was finished. Finally I went to the West Hollywood Target, which does not aspire to atmospheric pretensions. And for once, screaming children were music to my ears.