Shut Up, Shut Up, I Beg of You, Shut Up

New York has no shortage of self-absorbed conceptual artists (read: douchebags) who spend more time talking about what their next “project” is going to look like than, you know, actually creating anything. This morning, as the N train trundled through the steamy bowels of the city, we got an earful of a conversation between a dude who could only be described as the Über-douche and his long-suffering female companion, who we can only hope was not actually humping this fucking guy. Here's a relevant snippet:

Über-Douche: “So it's going really well. I mean, this next thing, it'll, it'll … let's just say that this one's going to put me over the top.”

Long-Suffering Female Companion: “And it's what again? I know you don't really like to tal-”

Ü-D: “No, no, no, no, no: This time, I can definitely talk about it. It's going to blow your mind. Get this…” [At this point, he actually glances around the subway car to see if anyone's listening. We are, naturally, but we've got the earbuds in and look for all the world like we're reading this week's dog dick-dull issue of The New Yorker.] “… So what I'm doing is a project called '25 Sheep.'” [Pause for dramatic effect.]

L-SFC: “ … ”

Ü-D: “OK, so what I'm doing is, I'm going to get 25 sheep and I'm going to let them stay in the gallery overnight. They might shed fur [ed note: it's called wool] or piss and shit everywhere, who knows? The idea is for them to leave a very physical manifestation of their presence. Then, in the morning, I'll remove the sheep and leave the mess. And when people come into the gallery, all they see will be the fur [wool!] and the shit and there'll be a big sign that says, 'Last night, there were 25 sheep in this room.' Period. End of story.”

L-SFC: “ … ”

Ü-D: “What? Nothing? I mean--”

L-SFC: “No, it's just … it takes some time to absorb some of your stuff.”

Ü-D: “Well, it's not supposed to be something you get right away, you know?”

L-SFC: “Um, yeah. But I was just trying to think where you were going to get 25 sheep?”

Ü-D: “This is New York. You can get anything if you know where to look.”

L-SFC: “Soooooo, where you gonna look?”

Ü-D: [snorts contemptuously] “Oh, I have my sources.”

Long story short(ish), the guy gets off the train at Canal St, upon which our own prickly curiosity gets the better of us. We yank out the earbuds, fold the magazine back into our bag, and set our eyes on the L-SFC. Before we can even begin to construct our first question, she picks up on the vibe. (While we cannot see our own face at the moment, we believe it was probably composed in such a manner as to suggest that we had just smelled rotting meat.)

“That guy gets me so mad,” she says. “ The next time I see him, I'm just going to go, 'Baa!' right in his face.”

Us: “Baa?”

Her: “Yeah. Baa! Baa! Baa, motherfucker. Baa!”

She gets out at Prince, and just for a moment, our faith in humanity is restored.