Friday

Paying attention totally sucks because people really are truly horrible and this horribleness compels them to exert themselves fully to ensure that it is revealed with maximum effect, so much so that paying attention is actually irrelevant; you're pretty much screwed either way. Add to that the variable of a public place, a contained, dare I say intimate space, and, worse still, one entered into with almost universal reluctace, and boy, talk about accentuate the negative. Last week I found myself in close and unfortunate proximity to a truly dastardly duo. They spoke with great passion and conviction for the better part of a half hour about ringtones, mostly ringtones but also voicemail, reception, the shortfalls and benefits of all manner of electronic devices such as Tanisha's crappy-ass Blackberry and, speaking of Tanisha, who in their circle of esteemed associates transmitted the clap to whom, and all in the most incoherant, babbling, jabber-jawing state of high animation, gesticulation, and great thundering volume. The purple pants-white sneaker combo coupled with the companion's purple hair-white jacket combo heralded such a breakthrough in color coordination that their residence in Williamsburg is all but impossible (assuming you exlcude the recently subsumed Bed Stuy and Bushwick); nevertheless, they were clearly in compliance with Williamsburg's Law: whereby the paucity of sense or substance in a given statement is directly proportional to the volume at which said statement is spoken. Anyway, there we were again this morning, and Lord help me. This time they wax philosophic about some subtle and devious machinations at someone's place of employment. In itself, the conversation is benign enough that my relative contentment would be complete, had they not been situated in the corner two-fer, the love seat, enabling him to spread his knees 'cross creation and she to place both legs atop said knees, effectively lying down as it were; the better for him to alternately stroke, caress, and outright knead the ample flesh of her green-velveted thighs (Happy St. Patty's Day!). Most remarkable is how they managed, sitting so supine, to so efficiently aspirate through their crinkled diaphrams that the decibel levels made the fillings in my teeth decidedly ache. Were it not for the very old man in the gravy-stained municipal tie poring over a dog-eared copy of "What's Your Wicca I.Q.?", surely all hope would be lost.