The week before last, I was performing all over Southern California. While in the Los Angeles area, I decide to meet up with my father to do what I do best, eat feelings. Even though my father lives deep in the valley, I convince him that going to Hollywood for some matzo ball soup and guilt would be worth it. I decide it best to do this at Cantor's Delicatessen, so I could also get my Jew on.
A little background on my father. I don't know how to describe the man. We have a hot/cold, but not bad, but quietly resentful relationship. I'm Jewish, holding a grudge is what we do best! We have talked nearly every other day pretty much since my parents divorced when I was 7, about what I'm still unsure. As we get older, we both realize that we will never completely understand each other and are learning to understand the limits associated with that.
My father himself. He is like most Russian men and Wayne Brady, he thinks he's black. This is no joke. He has worked out at the Broadway gym in South Central for nearly 30 years. He was also the only 5'7 and a 1/2, jewish, amateur boxer, in the middle of the LA-riots for no apparent reason. He "needed cigarettes" he claims. In that hood, he is known as the "Russian bull." He can be spotted by the trail of smoke coming from his Benson & Hedges, Ultra-Lights.
I meet him and my grandmother in at the entrance of the restaurant. I could spot them from a block away, because my dad is one of those guy's who has so much muscle that his arms dangle on the sides, similar to myself. He is also wearing a Nike shirt that says "Just Do it," circa '92 that one can't miss in a crowd.
We sit down at the booth and immediately start with the nuances of talking to someone you haven't seen in a while over some good, kosher pickles. The meal starts off relatively smooth. We eat, my dad tells me of his latest favorite hip-hop artist and I tell him about where I'm performing. He asks me about what I talk about on stage and I respond by telling him to come see it for himself.
The important not about my father is also one of those people who cannot control the volume of his voice at any time. He has never whispered in his life. He also likes to talk shit about things going on around him under his breath in an aggressive tone, yet a sarcastic-passive-agressive way that can be embarrassing and never makes cohesive sense. Going to the movies is always fun with him. While I am someone that never looks to get in a fight, but can protect myself if I have to, my dad is one of those guys always ready for the fight. These notes will make sense in a minute.
Half way through the meal, as I start on my pastrami sandwich, these guys sit at the booth across from us. My grandmother and I are stuffing our faces in gluttony. The guys both have hair that is meticulously styled, tans that are meticulously fake and start a conversation that is annoyingly loud about the movies they are working on. One of them kept dropping the words "I have studios backing this," every 20 seconds. By the 5th time, I wanted to go over there and tell him what I think of him. In true San Franciscian fashion ask him to please quiet down. I don't do that. My dad though does start mumbling stuff in Russian under his breath. Most of it is just unintelligible rambling.
He then says in Russian and reference to the two jackasses yapping about movies, "Gnomics"...
He says this loud enough for other people to hear and repeats it several times. By the third time, for some odd reason it strikes a chord in me and sends me off the edge. I tell him to be quiet. He tells me to respect him for no other reason than the fact that he is my dad. I tell him to F off, cause I'm classy. He slams his little fists on the table. We both have unusually small hands for men, yay genetics. I then tell him he needs to have respect for me. As we are arguing in Russi-nglish, we of course create a scene. I demand for my grandmother to hand me my backpack which I have sitting next to her on the other side of the booth. She asks me to sit down and I am livid. Too much so to sit down. As I am about to leave and the entire place is staring at us, my dad realizes what is happening.
He says in his Russian-ghetto accent, "Yura, not gomics, i said gnomics. Please excuse me, you misunderstood yo."
I guess I should mention that my Russian is very rusty. I guess I don't speak it enough. In Russian, "Gomic" means fag. "gGnomic" (the G is not silent) means gnome, as in the ones of cartoons and forests. The words are very similar.
Embarrassed at my confusion, and unable to admit defeat, I sit down and begin to scarf down all the food at the table. I then quickly order goods from the bakery and stay quiet through the rest of the meal.
Meanwhile, my dad is keeps eating and yapping things like, "want more pickles, hope I don't offend you"... "gnomic not gomic."
Here is the thing. Who calls someone else a gnome? I can think of many other choice names, but gnome? really?
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