L.A. Story

So after I get into LA last Sunday I head up to West Hollywood -- the plan is to meet up with the Stik and Rabbitlet for brunch and then head to a museum show of pre-fab houses (which was about as interesting as it sounds, although when I made these plans I was under the mistaken impression that it was going to be about 50X more interesting -- serves me right for not thoroughly reading the exhibit description). Now unbeknownst to me, the Stik and Rabbitlet are quite the connoisseurs of chic eateries around town, and while upon entering I think the cafe where we end up is just a questionably spelled modern-hippie health-oriented-and-fair-trade kind of place, it is apparently also frequented by celebrities. You know, with some frequency. So we're sitting and eating and catching up when a frisson of excitement passes through the place at the entrance of a volatile, recently tattooed boxer, a man with maybe not the best reputation but who this morning appears well-behaved, well-dressed, and really not very big at all. As the conversation at probably every table in the restaurant turns to the subject of ear-biting (I'm guessing here, but seriously, how could it not have?) he and his slightly tawdry companion settle in around two tables behind us. Not long after, we finish our meal, get up, and start wending our way towards the exit. The tables are really close together, so it's kind of hard to run the gauntlet without actually touching anyone. Precisely at the moment as I'm passing by the celebrity boxer's table, he leans back while making an emphatic comment on his cellphone and his left elbow brushes up against my right buttock. Not in a lingering way, but definitely with some force behind it.

Now, I wish I could say that some kind of electric charge passed through me, or that it was a transformative experience in some way. But upon reflection, I decided that it didn't feel any different from any other ass-grazings in recent memory, except maybe a bit less intentional than most. (I'm thinking in particular here of a Portishead concert a few years back in which a tall man standing in front of me graciously offered to switch places so I could actually see, although I realized soon enough that there was a serious price to pay.) Reactions to this story to date have been mixed. AM and The Judge, academics and recent transplantees from Chicago (former neighbors who I miss a ton, not just because of their tendency to issue last-minute invitations to come over and partake in their excellent cooking) exclaimed later that night, "Wait, you were in town all of an hour and a half and had your butt grazed by [Mr. Volatile Boxer's] elbow? We've been here a year and a half already, and have yet to see anybody!" A new acquaintance, also an arts-oriented academic, took a slightly different approach, and ran a little experiment in which he managed to walk by a chair I was sitting in such that he himself was grazed by my left elbow. I thought this was really funny, but he seemed unmoved -- his interpretation was that it was because he's 6'2" and so all I managed to graze was a point slightly above his knee. Maybe if I had a reputation for partner-beating and ear-biting it would have been a more exciting experience?