"Have you ever heard the term 'Valley Trash,'" Harold asks from across the booth at Scotland Yard.
"Yeah," I answered.
"I never heard it before until a friend of mine from Santa Monica said it," he answered.
"Oh, yeah, people on the Westside say it all the time. I almost decked a guy at a party once for making Valley Trash comments to me."
The irony of Los Angeles is that while it is considered rude to make comments about certain neighborhoods over the hill, it is never considered rude to mock the Valley. We're the porn capital of the country, a place where kids do nothing but hang out in parking lots smoking bongloads all day whilst listening to Metallica blaring from late-1960s/early-1970s muscle cars, where kids move up by ditching jobs in the mall for gigs at Bob's Classy Lady. Total trash, the rest of the city will say straight to our faces. A completely separate city, publications like the Weekly and the Times will imply, despite the fact that we vote for the same mayor. In the most technical sense, we're more L.A. than Santa Monica, Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, but try to find somebody who will acknowledge that little fact.
I'll defend my home turf to the end, but the truth is that I try to avoid hanging out in the Valley at all costs. I avoid nights in the 818 for the same reason that I will not attend my ten-year high school reunion this fall. If I go out in the Valley, even if it is just running to mall for a pair of new Chucks, chances are I will run into at least one person I knew in my youth. Nine times out of ten, it will be someone I cannot stand. Even Friday night at Scotland Yard, I could have sworn I saw this peabrained prick that picked on my friends back in 1995. I did my best to avoid any sort of eye contact with him.
As much as I dislike spending a night out in my own area code, I really like Scotland Yard. I first ventured inside the Canoga Park pub a few years ago with my friend Courtney, one of the few people that I did like back in high school (which is why we still keep in touch). The first thing that I noticed was that the jukebox hosted cds from Primal Scream and Bjork. Then we noticed Cowboy Bob, a regular who looked like Cotton Hill and told us a story about a rodeo incident that resulted in the injury of his, er, equipment.
Last Friday night, Cowboy Bob was not inside the bar, nor was the jukebox operating. However, I still had a good time. A DJ with thick-framed glasses played funk and hip-hop ranging from De La Soul to Latyrx before midnight, when he switched to the pub classics. When he busted out Rick James' song "Mary Jane," the entire crowd screamed off-key lyrics as they raised their arms in the air. I have a feeling that this is the unofficial anthem of the Valley.
What I like best about Scotland Yard is the crowd. I almost felt overdressed when I looked towards the floor and realized that I was one of very few people not wearing flip-flops. The whole time I thought, "Flip-flops! What if someone drops a pint of Guinness?" Scotland Yard is home to the most random crowd I have ever seen. In addition to the standard LA-style club crowd of indies and jocks, I noticed some of the following: 1) Guy with tons of hair and a completely unironic Dio 2002 Tour t-shirt; 2) Old Dude with Grizzly Adams beard; 3)Alan Partridge lookalikes that must be actual Brits; 4) Girl whose friends suck for not telling her that a white miniskirt and white halter top with white socks and black go go boots is just wrong; 5) Girl whose friends should have told her not to have "Rogelio" tattooed on her shoulder if she might ever find herself in a bar wearing a tube top and satin pants trying to pick up. It is one of those spaces perfect for people-watching while growing more intoxicated by the minute.
On the ride home, Harold tells Kid C., who is our designated sucker and the only person in the car who did not grow up in the Valley, not to make eye contact with anyone when stuck at a red light on Sherman Way.
"They might want to race you," he laughs.
Our streets are wide and notoriously empty after 10:00 p.m. Everyone has some story about an unexpected drag race challenge or, in my case, getting chased all the way to the police station because your idiot friend in the passenger seat gives the finger to the guy who cuts off your car. It's a Valley thing.