Wednesday, September 28, 2005


I've become far too intertwined with television, I've decided.

Today, for instance, I stood on the platform, springy (actually malleable?) from four hours' steady cats-and-dogs, and watched. Watched as the guy next to me — of indeterminate age and origin, practicing his golf swing with an invisible knot of titanium alloy etc..., humming, then singing, the bridge of what sounded like a Spanish lament — was silently attacked. The spider that rappelled from the damp rafters eventually nestled up beneath the collar of The S(w)inger's pique polo. When he (meaning the man, and also his new traveling companion) boarded the train, I walked the extra three yards to avoid sharing a car.

The logical — the neighborly — thing to do would have been to alert The S(w)inger to the presence of the descender-slash-nestler. But I just looked on like I was just watching another episode of Primetime Favorite or Tops in its Timeslot or Critically Panned (But a Cult Favorite!) or whatever the hell drivel I imbibe between the hours of 7 and 10.

The only thing missing was the just-loud-and-long-enough-to-be-eerily-uncomfortable canned laughter.

[Although, had I been brave enough to board the same car and witness the denoument of The S(w)inger episode, and wacky man-vs.-beast antics had ensued, I'm sure I would have issued a chuckle or two.]