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Blessed are the even remotely intelligent and self-aware; for they shall know that when pure poo flows from the mouth it is time to shut up. -The American Dental Association Like the last glass of an indifferent Merlot from a bottle left open overnight and possibly a little too close to the radiator, The End came unobtrusively: it slithered along 14th Street, turned left onto 4th Ave. and crept uptown, lingering coyly outside the Union Square LensCrafters, like some minion of Hell arrived via Tribeca. The End: an ocular reproach tossed over the shoulder -- the briefest of moments -- the turn of a head the color of Soho-induced burnished copper -- Brazilian-waxed brows arching in frustration over ovoid tortoise-shell frames -- fcuking French Connection sweater knotted around the neck in a Devil- may- care- about- the- two- hundred- dollar- pricetag- this- is- cashmere- dammit- and- I’m- so- worth -it way -- and mocha lips the glistening fullness of which would have made Barbara Walters’ makeup person for the Monica interview drool rivers, halting mid-sentence, pressing in motionless pique against the orange Nokia. The wordless message is clear: my outburst, my incidental and fragmentary laughter is not welcome here on the Saturday-afternoon streets. This telephone call [doubtlessly of the vitally important Which bar haven't I worn my leather pants to yet? variety] is irreparably ruined through my heinous misdeed. Apparently, I am being too loud. You are, no doubt, as shocked as I at the sudden revelation that this brings to light. On the cloister-quiet streets of this city, the sheer volume of my laughter is apparently enough to render impossible even the simplest telephone conversation. My deafening presence on 4th Avenue thwarts communication. I, disciples and suppliants, I am the loudest thing in New York City. Well. I mean, how exactly does one deal with this sudden knowledge? Does one turn to drink? To religion? Is there, perhaps, a chat room on Yahoo that might offer some spiritual assuagement? Maybe something this profound can never really be fully assimilated. It is nonetheless a sort of End: freedom, innocence, and the overpriced yoga-class-in-a-trendy-gym-like silence which I have long prided myself on perpetuating - all are gone, like so many blasts on the Foghorn of Fate. Yet that I should kneel in grateful supplication to that gentle angel of the wireless airwaves is clear. Through her own Montel-fed issues of entitlement, I have been shown a new path. First, I shall construct a shrine to her, Our Lady of Perpetual Pissiness, in the lower-level café of the Union Square Virgin Megastore. A one-hundred foot-high cell phone, built of the bones of innocents and Urban Outfitters employees and resting atop a pillar of Pottery Barn boxes and bags from Aldo shoes, will provide a direct line to the Voicemail of the Divine. A river of triple lattés will flow eternally below it, while attendants in black leather peacoats will usher the faithful into the seven-mile-wide radius of impenetrable silence surrounding the shrine. I expect it to become world-famous within days, especially following a glowing write-up in the short list of Time Out New York and some obscure, catty, and yet possibly flattering reference in La Dolce Musto. And if you stop by, for god’s sake don't forget to pick up a souvenir sparkly seed-bead bracelet made by poverty-level Croatian immigrants living in Queens. I hear Madonna brought one to Rosie O'Donnell when she visited her show. As for my own spiritual transformation - one thing is certain: this column will no longer be broadcast on the internet. From now on, I shall simply stand midtown and yell. Above 23rd Street, earplugs are advised.
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