Take 'Em Off
The other day, I did something totally out of character. It was an unseasonably warm autumn day (though I suppose you can just say “seasonably warm” and avoid redundancy) and I was feeling good for no discernible reason. But wait, that’s not even the out-of-character part! I was grooving to my music on my headphones, this song specifically, which is totally humiliating, but goddamn that's a catchy tune. I wear big noise-cancelling ear muffs whenever I leave the house, even to walk the dog.
Blocking out the environment has been a pathway to sanity for me for the past decade and a half. In college I’d tote my Discman, batteries, and a booklet of CDs just to ride the 33 Ashbury Muni bus and gaze out the window forlornly watching the city of eucalyptus and pastels unfurl, listening to mix CDs of Belle & Sebastian, Atmosphere, and Ryan Adams my roommate Zoë complied, wondering if whichever illiterate surfer/bartender/hobo to whom I misguidedly attached my discontentment would ever love me back. Now I do the same thing except the listening device has gotten smaller, the headphones bigger, and the view of hairpin turns and cheerful Victorians has been replaced with dark tunnels and people coughing into my mouth. The thought monologue is more about surviving another day in Trump’s America, and what’s for dinner.
So there I was, bopping down the street, frat boy anthem pumping. As I approached the Bowery Hotel, I encountered a throng of paparazzi facing the entrance, cameras poised to get their shot. The urban social contract of wearing headphones is second only to ignoring the existence of celebrities. Or pretending to ignore them. This morning, for example, I found myself seated in proximity to one Ethan Hawke at my local coffeeshop. I feigned scrolling through “an article” on my phone while studiously eavesdropping on every word of his conversation. I texted Zoë the blow-by-blow (in between collaging exquisite mix CDs and crying over degenerates, we watched a whole lot of Reality Bites), letting her know that he was ACTING for his dining companion, with every word originating from his diaphragm. She texted back: “You’re acting too, like somebody who’s not eavesdropping.”
But back to the Bowery. Now, any other day of the year I would’ve simply sauntered past these parasites. But for some reason, be it the libidinal track, the sunshine, the fact that I was off to get my hair bleached (my favorite day), I did something different. I slowed my roll, pushed half my headset aside, and asked one of the fellows who they were waiting for.
Rather than giving me a straight answer, he lifted his camera, started snapping, and declared, “We’ve been waiting for you!”
His colleagues followed his lead, and, for a few seconds, all of the paparazzi were snapping their cameras at me, all in on the joke/elaborate form of street harassment. And in some surreal improvisation, I gave them little poses, a hand behind my head and a gaze up to the sun, before returning my headphones back to their proper position walking away.
It was such a sweet, unexpected interaction. It was downright whimsical!!! Who was this fairy person?! I’ve never done anything so fanciful in midday, ever, at least by myself. My little runway show defied all adulthood’s maxims: one doesn’t stop to talk to strange men. One doesn’t inquire after celebrities. What am I, fresh off the turnip truck from Worcester? And interrupting a stride? Removing headphones? The horror.
But it was such a lovely moment, one that wouldn’t have happened had I stopped for half a second to consider what I was doing.
So, this week I recommend you take off your headphones. Once in a while.
I teach college students who, at this point in the semester, all appear to have been stricken with some kind of 19th century disease. They trudge wanly to their gulag, aka their creative writing workshop, with their Beats by Dre on until I do an interpretive dance at the front of the room to signal that we are about to commence. The other day I stepped onto the elevator packed with these Dickensian creatures and asked one to hit floor nine for me. Every last one was ensconced in some manner of ear bud and no one responded! I had to reach through the throng to push the button, and I’m convinced that my name is now on a list somewhere. I know I sound like some demented version of a pre-infamy Bill Cosby telling young men to pull their pants up but for the love of goddess could you please turn down your Lil Uzi Vert and hit floor nine?!
Living in the city, headphones act as armor. How many times have I been moving briskly along to be waved down by some man to remove my headphones only for him to say something untoward? The most egregious case took place when I lived in Prospect Lefferts Gardens where the commentary was typically quite courtly and downright polite. A men’s choir in front of the liquor store would say things like “Miss, that's a great outfit!” or “Madame, you have a blessed day!”
This encounter, however, was quite a departure. It was one of the first warm days of spring and I was walking down Flatbush in some garment that may have exposed an ankle, when a car rolled up on me real slowly and its driver shouted GIRL I WILL E-- YOUR P---Y ALL NIGHT LONG! I think I laughed because the offer seemed so…generous? Of course, cracking a smile only encouraged this fellow. The streets were traffic- choked, his car was crawling, and we were neck and neck for several blocks. Whenever he edged up, he’d punctuate his offer with ALL NIGHT! No headphones in the world could have blocked out his selfless ardor.
(But while we’re on the topic, the holler-from-the-moving-car move has long baffled me on a logistical level. In high school, for example, I’d be walking the dog up June Street and dudes would honk. And NOT because I was inviting. I didn’t grow into my womanhood until age 24. These overtures may have been intended for Jimmy, who was a very handsome yellow Lab. But what were we supposed to do, break into a sprint, chase the car, and launch ourselves through the window? I urge you honkers to consider your end game.)
That which insulates and protects can also add another layer of bullshit. Removing yet another set of stimuli, whether it be my Spotify Weekly playlist or a podcast enumerating the horrors of modern life, is liberating. Headphones free, I feel more grounded in my environment. Oh, hello, birds chirping! Good morrow, madwoman murmuring expletives!
On the train the other day, headphones-free, of course, I noticed a man picking his nose and eating his spoils. We momentarily made eye contact, and, horrified, I shot him a look of disappointment, my brows knitted together in distress, signaling that this behavior was very upsetting to his fellow passengers. He gazed back, figured I was constipated or that that’s just how I look (true and true) and went back to his booger buffet. I realized then that beholding him was far more upsetting to me than it was to him; he was wholly unbothered to consume his feast before an audience. Then, it occurred to me that I could simply look elsewhere. I didn’t have to dwell on this cretin. These cretins are everywhere, I tell you. THERE ARE FAR TOO MANY MEN EATING THEIR OWN BOOGERS IN 2017! But I don’t have to look. There are no headphones for eyes, unfortunately. Until everyone has Google Glasses, we’ll just have to look away.
NEWS:
Patrick McDermott, ex-lover of Olivia Newton-John, who faked his death in 2010, has materialized yet again. So you know what that means, holler at your resident expert! I talked to Vice, and PLAYING DEAD got a lovely shout-out on my most favorite podcast, Who? Weekly!
This Thanksgiving and each and every day, I’m grateful for the blessing of balloon disasters.
Barney ’94 #neverforget
A very happy holiday to you and yours!