resonant frequency

February 15, 2002 in Bar Louie (Evanston)
I was sitting across from a friend of mine during the kind of "let's hang out" that occurs when two people realize that all their other friends have left town. We're not bad friends-- quite the contrary-- there just seemed to be an added something that necessitated "getting out" to relieve; a vague, nagging feeling somewhere between desperation and obligation. Desperation from the knowledge that if you don't "get out," you'll spend a weekend watching that Iron Chef marathon*. Obligation from the thought that you should probably save your friend from the same fate.

We should've at least been chatting about something. There was plenty to talk about; happenings since we last saw each other, gossip to catch up on, movies to watch, etc, etc. But, after a very brief conversation, we sat there in silence.

15 minutes passed. Still, no talking.

His eyes kept drifting over my shoulder to a TV. He was entranced by that special MTV / ESPN flashiness designed to capture even the most fleeting of attentions. I was no better off. I was busy being absolutely overwhelmed by a voice coming from my left. The owner of the voice wasn't talking about anything interesting and wasn't particularly attractive. Her voice wasn't loud or annoying at all. In fact, her voice was wholly unremarkable in every sort of way except for its ability to completely possess my attention. I couldn't form a coherent thought or even grunt a reply in a timely fashion to the occasional question or remark. The entire time she was speaking, all I could do was helplessly stare at my beer as the voice reverberated in my head demanding to be processed and shutting everything else down in the meantime.

What about that voice allowed it to cut across all my filters and to strike directly at my attention? What about it annhilated all my other thoughts and sharpened my concentration to obsessive singularity? It was like a cut on the roof of my mouth that I just couldn't stop tonguing. It was like the damn red LED of my alarm clock marking off the hours during a bout of insomnia. It was like an itch in a sweaty cast. It was like cleavage. Can't stare. Must act like it's not noticed. Girlfriend will get annoyed if it's hers, worse if it isn't. Sure to get caught... but good lord, it's just so... damn... sumptuous.... Eyes are irresistably drawn to it like a moth to a lightbulb.

I am very curious about what makes all these things so annoyingly fixating. I figure that if I could discover the magic essence within them that makes them so, I might be able to do something about my own flighty attention. I might be able to concentrate on tasks and perhaps get some goddamn work done every once in awhile.

This piece has already taken a very long time to write. I'm in a coffee shop:

• an old man sitting at the next table over clears his throat, coughs, snorts or does some other sort of flem-rearranging roughly every seven seconds.
• a yuppie picks up his cell phone every few minutes to stream some random jargon (bullshit) into it.
• the barista has an exquisitely hideous laugh she unleashes at every inane observation her punctured colleague makes.

Progress is a tad slow going because I can't seem to think of anything outside of my irritation.

It's generally accepted that explanations for human behavior can occasionally be derived by examining possible adaptive benefits. What about the behavior would help primitive man survive and flourish in his environment? Therein, one may often surmise the origin of, the "reason" for the behavior, even if it doesn't make sense in modern times. But here, I'm still at a complete loss; fixating and oogling seem like such counter-adaptive traits. Given a tribe running from a pack of predators, all the guys who stopped to consider the slow-motion undulating flesh of the women running in front of them probably didn't last very long after that. They all die happy, but after a very brief period of time, all the ooglers should've been eliminated.

But, here we are.

My friend Carol has a different take on it. Perhaps, it isn't a particular characteristic inherent in any one of these things (cleavage to random uninteresting conversations) so much as it is a lack of filters. She explained that during a summer she spent in Paris, she didn't pay attention to any of the other conversations at the coffee shop because she couldn't understand any of them. When she came home however, she was drowning in English conversations again and she couldn't help but to listen to all of them. No matter how inane or idiotic the conversations were, her brain would pick up and try to process any and every one it could understand simply because it was no longer in the habit of filtering them out.

Thinking back to that night, back to that bar, maybe I just didn't get out enough. After all those nights huddled in my apartment watching Law & Order marathons, my conversation filters atrophied and left me helpless. I simply had to listen to that voice. My attention was like the Godfather on the day of his daughter's wedding; had to listen to every goddamn idiot that came through the door. But, what was worse? The fact that I couldn't concentrate, or the fact that there was a little voice in the back of my head all huffy and annoyed at the fact that I couldn't concentrate? Couldn't do anything about the former. Did something about the latter.

That meta-cognition that whined about needing to get out, and needing stimulation. That nagging conscience that dragged my ass away from my TV in the first place. That self-awareness that was now complaining about how nothing was being said.

I drowned it with a beer.

This left me content to let the other voice resonant in my head for much of the rest of the night.

Stupid, but content.

*Don't get me wrong. I love Iron Chef. I still don't understand what the hell a "squeeze-on" is, but I do love the show. There's just this very special feeling of worthlessness I get when I realize I spent an entire evening watching an Iron Chef marathon.