What ever happened to private conversations?

I'm pretty sure I could support an entire blog dedicated to nothing more than things I've overheard at Starbucks. Most recently I heaped my things on the main table, took out my notebook, set myself up, and only then took notice of the two men talking in tones of fluctuating volumes. The loud parts were about doctors and tests, the lowered parts were about levels of contagious. All I'm saying is if you're going to have a conversation about how contagious you are (or could be) please please please don't do it at a Starbucks in midtown. And, for that matter, if you're going to have a phone conversation at Starbucks please recognize that we can hear you. So, if you're going to call tech support and ream out the accented technician you can't really hang up and just pretend like nothing really happened.

It's a curious building I live in...

I would have never described myself as paranoid, but I think living on the edge of Boulevard has had its effects. I got home Sunday only to find a Maserati parked out back. I'm convinced we now have drug dealers living or doing business on the premises. This is on the heels of a neighbor randomly showing up with a baby one day. All I'm saying is she was never pregnant and, one conversation would convince you she's not fit for adoption. The only plausible conclusion is that she stole a baby. As if all of that isn't enough, my incredible humping downstairs neighbors have picked up a new hobby -- this one lasts a little longer but nevertheless happens at 3 a.m. -- they've begun playing the bass guitar. I could get down with some good bass, but, surprisingly, these two lack anything that resembles rhythm.

That, in a nutshell, is my Atlanta home life -- crack heads, stolen babies and bass guitar.