The other night we had a business dinner at a swanky place in Palo Alto on Sand Hill Rd. The first thing they did was move us outside
on the back porch bragging about the view overlooking the Santa Cruz Mountains. Yes, the mountains were there, but so was Interstate-280. Only in America can you brag about a view
that overlooks the white noise of an interstate freeway.
I’m the only one with no tattoos, wearing an Italian shirt and tie, sporting sharp three tone wingtips I picked up in Florence. But I’m considered a conformist in the Valley.
Johnny is a colleague over from Ireland. Really smart and hard working, but like me, you can tell underneath it all he has a temper. He regaled us with some stories about his temper and how he just would never tolerate anybody hitting him; or for that matter, anybody weak getting picked on by the strong. Little did any of us realize he'd prove it within the hour.
Anyway, when we were leaving I stepped out in front of the restaurant and was waiting for others to catch up when this drunk guy fixates on me wearing my old banged up Australian cowboy hat and announces, “I’m not sure whether I like that hat or not!” He’s wobbling about just like Homer Simpson drunk off his ass.
He’s a really big guy with easily a hundred pounds on me. I just look at him blankly, he’s a drunk looking for a fight. I’m not going to give it to him, you can never win a fight with a drunk, but if he comes for me I’ve already timed my knee to the crotch, duck to the side, and push off to send him sprawling. As a short skinny kid, all the bullies loved to pick on me, I know how to handle myself. Just ask the two I sent to the hospital.
The drunk’s friend is trying to keep him separated from me, pushing him back and trying to get his attention focused on leaving. His friend looks at me desperately, his eyes begging me to not to do anything to engage this fool.
The drunk is still eyeing me, wobbling, continuing his challenge, “I don’t know how I feel about that hat!” This is all getting rather amusing, there’s easily a dozen people around right now, most not paying attention to what’s going on, but a few attuned to the danger lurking. “That hat! I just don’t know how I feel about that hat!”
Then out of the restaurant pour some more of the drunk’s friends. In the middle is obviously his brother, they have the same build and look alike, and guess what, he’s drunk too. He’d been inside and didn’t know anything of what had transpired, but you’d never know it.
Now the brother fixes on me, points his finger at me accusingly, and growls menacingly as he passes, “That’s a weird hat! That’s a really weird hat!” Oh lord, now his brother wants a fight over my hat too? What is it, do these guys have a genetic disposition against hats? Did their Germanic tribesman ancestors despise the helmets of the Roman Legion and that has stuck in their DNA ever since?
Following right on the heels of the brother is Johnny, he can tell there’s a fight a brewing and his back is up. He doesn’t directly challenge anybody, but his blood is boiling and he is cussing a storm of expletives that would make Lenny Bruce blush. He’s not going to tolerate any of this crap from these overage bullies.
I now have an ally. Instead of teaming with the standard Silicon Valley geeks horrified at the sight of violence not under their control on a video screen, I’ve got a full blooded Irishman whose idea of a good time is a respectable fisticuffs on my side.
These guys have about 150 pounds on the two of us. I quickly time it out. The brother is closest; I figure he’s going to go for Johnny, who’s now between us, I’m sure Johnny can hold his own for a few seconds while I get the brother’s left flank. Between the two of us he should be down in about three seconds. But then I’ll have to whirl around quickly for the first drunk and that will have to be more of a catch-as-catch-can as Johnny will be behind me at that point and a lot can happen in that crucial second before he can bring some firepower to bear. I figure we can take them in their inebriated state, however their friends are another problem. If their friends join in we’ll be pavement dust.
I’m not sure how it all passed so quickly. The drunks got moved along by their wiser friends and we went to our cars. I half expected another encounter out by the cars.
I pondered that it had been twenty years since I had to deal with violent drunks, and I had to go to this swanky restaurant to do it, not to a roadside bar like last time.
Johnny himself said the next day that it could have been a disaster; he could have been arrested and barred from entry to the U.S. Without entry to the U.S. it meant he really couldn’t work for an American company again and that would severely limit his employment opportunities. He’d dodged a bullet.
All because of two drunk Americans who don’t like hats.
But thanks anyway Johnny, it would have been a good fight.
We later realized they moved us out back because we were
dressed like typical Silicon Valley slobs.
Everybody else in the place was dressed to the nines. Dressing sharp is not allowed at the newer
high tech companies, it’s a sign you’re part of ‘The Establishment’. The Silicon Valley establishment all dress
like slobs. Purple hair and tattoos are
symbols of rebellion. Except they’re so
common these days they strike me as establishment.
I’m the only one with no tattoos, wearing an Italian shirt and tie, sporting sharp three tone wingtips I picked up in Florence. But I’m considered a conformist in the Valley.
Johnny is a colleague over from Ireland. Really smart and hard working, but like me, you can tell underneath it all he has a temper. He regaled us with some stories about his temper and how he just would never tolerate anybody hitting him; or for that matter, anybody weak getting picked on by the strong. Little did any of us realize he'd prove it within the hour.
Anyway, when we were leaving I stepped out in front of the restaurant and was waiting for others to catch up when this drunk guy fixates on me wearing my old banged up Australian cowboy hat and announces, “I’m not sure whether I like that hat or not!” He’s wobbling about just like Homer Simpson drunk off his ass.
He’s a really big guy with easily a hundred pounds on me. I just look at him blankly, he’s a drunk looking for a fight. I’m not going to give it to him, you can never win a fight with a drunk, but if he comes for me I’ve already timed my knee to the crotch, duck to the side, and push off to send him sprawling. As a short skinny kid, all the bullies loved to pick on me, I know how to handle myself. Just ask the two I sent to the hospital.
The drunk’s friend is trying to keep him separated from me, pushing him back and trying to get his attention focused on leaving. His friend looks at me desperately, his eyes begging me to not to do anything to engage this fool.
The drunk is still eyeing me, wobbling, continuing his challenge, “I don’t know how I feel about that hat!” This is all getting rather amusing, there’s easily a dozen people around right now, most not paying attention to what’s going on, but a few attuned to the danger lurking. “That hat! I just don’t know how I feel about that hat!”
Then out of the restaurant pour some more of the drunk’s friends. In the middle is obviously his brother, they have the same build and look alike, and guess what, he’s drunk too. He’d been inside and didn’t know anything of what had transpired, but you’d never know it.
Now the brother fixes on me, points his finger at me accusingly, and growls menacingly as he passes, “That’s a weird hat! That’s a really weird hat!” Oh lord, now his brother wants a fight over my hat too? What is it, do these guys have a genetic disposition against hats? Did their Germanic tribesman ancestors despise the helmets of the Roman Legion and that has stuck in their DNA ever since?
Following right on the heels of the brother is Johnny, he can tell there’s a fight a brewing and his back is up. He doesn’t directly challenge anybody, but his blood is boiling and he is cussing a storm of expletives that would make Lenny Bruce blush. He’s not going to tolerate any of this crap from these overage bullies.
I now have an ally. Instead of teaming with the standard Silicon Valley geeks horrified at the sight of violence not under their control on a video screen, I’ve got a full blooded Irishman whose idea of a good time is a respectable fisticuffs on my side.
These guys have about 150 pounds on the two of us. I quickly time it out. The brother is closest; I figure he’s going to go for Johnny, who’s now between us, I’m sure Johnny can hold his own for a few seconds while I get the brother’s left flank. Between the two of us he should be down in about three seconds. But then I’ll have to whirl around quickly for the first drunk and that will have to be more of a catch-as-catch-can as Johnny will be behind me at that point and a lot can happen in that crucial second before he can bring some firepower to bear. I figure we can take them in their inebriated state, however their friends are another problem. If their friends join in we’ll be pavement dust.
I’m not sure how it all passed so quickly. The drunks got moved along by their wiser friends and we went to our cars. I half expected another encounter out by the cars.
I pondered that it had been twenty years since I had to deal with violent drunks, and I had to go to this swanky restaurant to do it, not to a roadside bar like last time.
Johnny himself said the next day that it could have been a disaster; he could have been arrested and barred from entry to the U.S. Without entry to the U.S. it meant he really couldn’t work for an American company again and that would severely limit his employment opportunities. He’d dodged a bullet.
All because of two drunk Americans who don’t like hats.
But thanks anyway Johnny, it would have been a good fight.
