Friday afternoon. At coffeeshop. I overhear a couple at the table next to me debating whether or not they want to meet up with the girlfriend's friend Jen at some park. The boyfriend is not really into it ("You're sure you don't just want to go to Whole Foods and then go home?"). "Lemme call Jen," the girlfriend says, as if this will solve everything. "Jen... hi..." she begins. She gossips with her for a minute, then asks about her location... and finally it comes, drenched in exaggerated nonchalance: "Who are you with?" The girlfriend gives her boyfriend a relenting smile while listening to Jen's answer. Dawns on me how many plans live or die on that question.
Saturday afternoon. Mom on Sarah Jessica Parker: "She's trying to hold on to something that just isn't hold-on-able."
Saturday afternoon, later. Family of four on the subway: mother, father and two young sons. One son is eating some sort of sticky candy on a stick (looks like something Katy Perry would put in her hair). "Travis, how did you get stuff on your cheek?!" his mom says, all exasperated, trying to wipe orange candy remnant off his face. "It's Travis," his brother says, "How did he get spaghetti sauce in his ear last night?" I realize that this type of name-based exclamation ("C'mon, it's Mary we're talking about..." etc.) always strikes me as the most poignant and affecting kind of description.
Sunday evening. It hits me for the first time ever just how strange it is that the Thai place I've been ordering from for the past year is called "35 Thai." Like, what???? Imagine "71 Italian" or "88 Mexican."
Sunday evening, later. Never feel more "of my generation" than when I catch myself, hardly even conscious of the action, lethargically dragging my mouse to open Photo Booth at 12:23am.