Subway tryouts for American Idol

On my way back to the office, with my pre-marital blood test results in hand and reading about "The Dark Art of Interrogation" in this month's Atlantic Monthly (one does have to wonder about the mental makeup of those who practice coercion for a living), I was treated to the less than dulcet tones of a woman in her early twenties singing along with whatever was playing on her headphones. As far as I can tell it went something like this:

I cried
[Something] a suicide
Angels deserve to die

The volume of this warbling alternated: think cat in heat, yet confused about its sexual orientation so not quite so sure of how it should sound. I thought maybe that the pretentious Atlantic Monthly reader across the aisle on the subway car prompted her to make a spectacle of herself (the black and white clown style socks helped, as well). Not that I frequently make people want to make fools of themselves, but there are people out there who try to attract attention through ridiculous behavior on subway cars, with full knowledge that the average-looking guy reading the Atlantic Monthly is trying his best to ignore you, although I was trying to stifle some laughter.

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