June 9, 2008

So, I’m walking home last night, as I do most every night that I actually leave my humble abode. There’s not much thinking once you get past Selma and Cahuenga and can finally stop dodging the club goers as they lurch and preen their way around sidewalks. So, naturally, I can just retreat back in my thoughts with only the occasional pedestrian hating car or Scientologist handing out free tickets to the Psychiatry An Industry of Death Museum to interrupt my reverie.

Last night, I’m in front of the 7-11 at Sunset and Cherokee when I notice two guys side by side coming toward me and incredibly taking up the entire sidewalk, leaving me no choice but to walk between them. Well, just as I get close, one says to me, hey I got a question for you, and before I can say that I don’t have change, he tells me he doesn’t want my money. Which is usually code to mean, I don’t want your money until I tell you my story. Unfortunately, he meant it.

He opens his next sentence with, “So tell me, one white guy to another” and I imagine that my face wrinkled, tilted to the side and generally appeared aghast, as there can’t be a good way for this sentence to end. My lack of a poker face must have been very apparent, because he changed his tact mid-sentence and said, “don’t worry, wood” and picked up his shirt to reveal a tattoo of “Wood” across his mid-section.

I am so glad I now know the secret word with which to approach other white guys on the street. All I need to say is “Wood” and immediately I’ll be in like Flynn with the secret cadre of white guys, since they are so mysterious. My next meeting in the Finance department, I’ll trot out “Wood” and immediately all the white guys will know we can get to discussing barbecues and baseball instead of boring old balance sheets once everyone else leaves. I’m so happy to know this, because discussing finance is becoming a bit tedious.

Of course, this, ahem, guy, didn’t want to discuss balance sheets, baseball or even barbecue. The rest of the question was “Where are the hookers?” Then, he started whistling at a girl walking down the other side of the street.

I have a feeling I don’t know the whole “wood” picture. Maybe there’s a handshake involved as well. I hope I’m never stranded in North Dakota without the rest of the picture.