Morning commute was pleasently devoid of Snorg Tees. Across from me: a fifteen year old kid from a sheltered, wealthy family. He had beat up sneakers, expensive jeans, a plated watch hanging off his wrist, and a finger corkscrewing into his nostril.
He got off at Carroll and a 6-foot, 115-pound man who liked he’d just come from the road past Knoxville sat in his seat. Efficient, skeletal fellow with a sweatband under his 1988-model Casio watch, and last Saturday’s Week in Review section folded immaculately on top of an utterly overpacked backpack. It looked like a sausage with shoulder straps. And he just sat there, reading the weekend’s letters to the editor.
Then the Dominican street preacher came on: dressed to the nines with on a litle bit of shab around the edges. And hetold everyone that they need to “Hoag your lover, hoag your daughter, hoag your son and your mother.” He had a nice speech going, but inevitably he went to the hard sell. He had earbuds in the whole time. I guess that’s why they're rolling ou the iPhone now: Mugwatch is now literally the only person in the city without a functioning MP3 player. And waiting for her to get her scat together is no business model at all.