(A quick sketch from the bus: a vaguely scummy-looking white dude boarded, clutching a baby carrier complete with sleeping baby in one hand and his breakfast burrito in the other. He proceeded to sit opposite me and talk into his cell phone, holding it in front of his mouth like a walkie-talkie. I had a great view of his jagged teeth. Because there were women in the vicinity, at some point someone mentioned the baby. "He's four months old," daddy told everyone within earshot, "yesterday was the first day I seen him. I's in jail when he's born. His momma come to me with him and says she don't wont im. Says 'have a nice life with your son,' and I'm raisin im now." He then began to hand out wallet-size photos. "there's two of my kids," he said, "and here's two more. Here's the other two. And here's the otherns." "How many kids you got?" inquired the heavyset woman directly to my right, in between bites of her breakfast sloppy joe. "I got seven daughters and this here little boy," he told us all, and went on to let us know that he was 31 years old and had eight children "by five different women." He confided in us that he "used to like to smoke pot and chase women." At some point the phrase "I'd dip in and out" was used. The bus stopped somewhere between the public housing apartments and a motel famous for its numerous murders and he departed, sleeping baby in hand, bound for greener pastures and more willing pussies.)
"Like most North Americans of his generation, he tends to know way less about why he feels certain ways about the objects and pursuits he's devoted to than he does about the objects and pursuits themselves. It's hard to say for sure whether this is even exceptionally bad, this tendency."