Last night we were out for sushi in the valley — wait, is Studio City in the valley? I tend to think of anything over the hills as being in the valley. That’s the definition, right? I have no idea.
Anyway, we go to this place because our friends love it. Since Andy turned vegetarian years ago and I’ve never been a big fan of sushi, that’s the only reason we go — to be social.
It’s one of those places where you’re shoulder to shoulder with the people at the next table. And every table is packed.
Right around the time the edamame arrived, our girlfriend began telling us this story (that I really shouldn’t recap publicly) about how she successfully handled a ROBBER. Exciting, right? How often do I get to tell a true story using the word ROBBER? (I think it warrants the caps.)
So, our girlfriend’s all, “He’s all, ‘put the money in the bag.'” And we’re all, “Fuck!” And one of us, I won’t say who because he’s prone to embarrassment, was like, “What a fucking cunt!”
Now, I’ve been known to deploy the c-word myself. I even said it last night (about the ROBBER, of course). The main reason I second-guess my usage is that, when used as an expletive, it’s pretty misogynistic. Why are such hated words also words for parts of women’s bodies? I have a friend who used to work “cunt” into his regular speech (amongst the right company) in an effort to reclaim it for the forces of good, but he wasn’t there last night.
Last night, all the c-bombs were derogatory.
And the sake flowed.
And we were in total agreement at our table the fucking ROBBER was a cunt, a stupid fucking cunt.
The problem was, we forgot our table was inches away from the next table. And the man at the next table was on a date with a woman who winced every time we gasped about the ROBBER. Before I knew it, the man reached over and grabbed one of our guys by the shoulders and said, “You need to cool it with the language, fella!”
He sounded straight out of a 1950’s movie. Or maybe I’ve just been listening to too much West Side Story. I wanted to say, “What are you a hoodlum? No need to roughhouse, Daddy-o. We’ll quiet down.”
It was startling. I felt kind of bad for disturbing the couple’s evening with our loud vulgarities. But I also wondered about their sensitivity. I mean, there were no children near us. What kind of Disneyfied world do they fantasize they’re living in?
Nonetheless, we lowered our voices and “cooled it with the language.” Because we’re not completely uncivilized.
I guess we did a pretty good job of cleaning up our act, too, because on his way out, the man stopped over and, again, put his hands on one of our guy’s shoulders. Only this time it was more of a friendly quarter-embrace. And this time he said, “Hey, sorry about that, buddy. She was just upset. You know how it is.”
The whole thing was odd. I wanted to immediately consult a body language expert about the guy’s tendency to touch. It must be some sort of biological expression of dominance, right?