Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Anytime I happen to overhear the conversation of a certain kind of 'precocious teen' (I'm in a cafe in Claremont, pre-radio, trying to grade), I can only imagine how awful I must have been to be around at 16; hell, 19; hell, 23; and so on. This one's been making a series of Pythonesque jokes about the Crusades; his pal may be saying equally annoying things, but is doing so quietly. I'm not in a foible-forgiving mood today. (Ten min. later -- now they're getting serious: "I'm always suspicious of trying to stop a revolution with force." Me too, bro.) At least my h.s. didn't have Mock U.N..