Quietly

Dear J—

There’s a guy who rides with us in the mornings who keeps mostly to himself as we head south, reading from some papers and magazines he’s stuffed into his bag, occassionally from the newspaper, too, which makes me think back to the Boston Herald and how convenient a tabloid-style newspaper is when you don’t have a table handy to pore over (this guy reads the San Francisco Examiner, same concept but with a decidedly more liberal bent; I remember being immediately convinced of Louise Woodward’s guilt moments after picking up the Herald, which was balanced out by going to the Globe and Times later that day).

We quietly merrily head on our way and there’s nothing for it but to note how generally lucky we are to have the time and inclination to be able to do these things. We may occasionally suffer the slings and arrows of misfortune but … where am I going with this? The quiet guy. One day our bubbly conductor came up and asked him what kind of pornography he was reading and, embarassed, he pointed out that it wasn’t, though I’m pretty sure I did see some posteriors. For posterity, of course. Just like yelling fire in a theater, you don’t yell porn on a train.

Mike

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