Bar Stool Conversations

I met a couple interesting people this weekend. One was interesting in a good way. Ted came to Portland for a writer's conference and met me for drinks after the show Friday night. I hope he was entertained by the hordes of actors and the two Yum Yum brothers he met. You'd be proud of me. My behavior was above reproach! Except for one brief lapse in judgment when I nuzzled my mouth into my friend Stef's bosom as she was leaving the bar, which is hardly even a minor infraction of etiquette (for me).

The other interesting person I met was interesting in an asshole sort of way. This guy starts chatting with me at the bar after the show Saturday night and tells me that he moved to Portland because he hated Seattle. I asked him why he hated The Emerald City, and he said, "Because there are too many of those people. What are they called? Not Indians. The other people."

At this point I am trying to remind myself that I am in a progressive city in the Pacific Northwest in the year 2004 (thanks, Tuna Girl, for reminding me what year it is) and not standing in a field in Macon, GA in 1923 wearing a white hood as my buddies and I burn crosses in other people's yards.

"The other people? You mean the other people who don't look like you besides Indians? Are you talking about Middle Eastern people?"

"Yes. Them. They think they are always right. I couldn't stand it. I had to move."

Our conversation was cut short because Bigot Boy had to go play pool. I was so sorry to see him leave. He was obviously one of those people, um, what do you call them? Not Nazis. The other people....what are they called?

Oh, right. Racists.

Good riddance, Bigot Boy, and I hope your finger got smashed by the cue ball.