Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Roving Eyes of a Straight Guy
As a matter of courtesy, I always make it a point to partake of a woman’s beauty if she makes the effort to bring it out. In the best cases it stands out without much effort, though for some it requires much diligence and for others, it’s akin to squeezing blood from a rock.
On this occasion I was on an escalator going downwards to a train station, and a girl of no more than 18-19 was below me, decked out in a denim mini-skirt and gold slippers, bringing to mind an unlikely but oddly attractive combination of Texan cowgirl meets Cinderella (“Giddy’ up, pumpkin!”). As always, my keen powers of observation served me well, bringing her shapely legs to my attention. These were well-proportioned for their length, unlike the chopstick thin waifs I’ve observed floating around, a source of arousement only for those with the most visual orthopaedic tendencies.
I allowed my gaze to linger for a little more than decency allowed, before switching my attention to other subjects. However, the moment she stepped off the escalator, the impression she left on me was shattered like a glass table in a Jackie Chan movie.
For all that her golden slippers were worth, she proceeded to drag them on the cold granite floor with the most awful sound next to nails on a chalkboard, something like dragging a rusty shovel across a tar road. Every step she took was accompanied by that nerve-grating noise, practiced to such a motion that it reverberated perfectly across the underground train station, each step timed to start the racket again before the one from the previous step faded away, resulting in a dissonant cacophony that had me grinding my teeth.
To add to my misery, I had to wait for a friend for nearly 15 minutes, the whole time during which she shuffled aimlessly around the station control and yakked away loudly on her handphone, a virtual one-woman noise machine. I shifted my location several times but to no avail, for my eardrums were continuously subjected to the abuse of her dragging feet, amplified by the acoustics of the low ceiling. Even the din of a commuter crowd could not drown her out, such was the resonance of her slippers begging for mercy.
I decided that for the sake of my sanity and her safety, I had to leave the station and meet my friend somewhere else. As I finally managed to gather my thoughts, something occurred to me that probably applies to musical instruments and everything else in life:
“Even if it looks good, it can still sound bloody awful.”
On this occasion I was on an escalator going downwards to a train station, and a girl of no more than 18-19 was below me, decked out in a denim mini-skirt and gold slippers, bringing to mind an unlikely but oddly attractive combination of Texan cowgirl meets Cinderella (“Giddy’ up, pumpkin!”). As always, my keen powers of observation served me well, bringing her shapely legs to my attention. These were well-proportioned for their length, unlike the chopstick thin waifs I’ve observed floating around, a source of arousement only for those with the most visual orthopaedic tendencies.
I allowed my gaze to linger for a little more than decency allowed, before switching my attention to other subjects. However, the moment she stepped off the escalator, the impression she left on me was shattered like a glass table in a Jackie Chan movie.
For all that her golden slippers were worth, she proceeded to drag them on the cold granite floor with the most awful sound next to nails on a chalkboard, something like dragging a rusty shovel across a tar road. Every step she took was accompanied by that nerve-grating noise, practiced to such a motion that it reverberated perfectly across the underground train station, each step timed to start the racket again before the one from the previous step faded away, resulting in a dissonant cacophony that had me grinding my teeth.
To add to my misery, I had to wait for a friend for nearly 15 minutes, the whole time during which she shuffled aimlessly around the station control and yakked away loudly on her handphone, a virtual one-woman noise machine. I shifted my location several times but to no avail, for my eardrums were continuously subjected to the abuse of her dragging feet, amplified by the acoustics of the low ceiling. Even the din of a commuter crowd could not drown her out, such was the resonance of her slippers begging for mercy.
I decided that for the sake of my sanity and her safety, I had to leave the station and meet my friend somewhere else. As I finally managed to gather my thoughts, something occurred to me that probably applies to musical instruments and everything else in life:
“Even if it looks good, it can still sound bloody awful.”
