Harry Nilsson, Everybody’s Talking
I am cursed (or blessed) with a tendency not only to hear but to listen to the conversations of strangers—at the movies, in a restaurant, on a Starbucks line, or on our patio. I am intrigued by the disconnected word streams I hear as people pass by, and would gladly follow them down the sidewalk to see what happens. I’m not kidding, you could write a movie script based on just a few words. Come on, you love it too.
A stout woman, wearing flashy leggings and a Raiders’ tank top, walking her high-stepping pug and talking on her cellphone, “Well, I told him, ‘The good news is, she hasn’t had a drink for almost two weeks.'”
Two men in t-shirts, shorts, and baseball hats eating hot dogs at Costco, “So last night, there was a dog fight. In my bed. At three o’clock in the morning.”
A middle-aged, skinny-jeaned, messy-haired, Santa Barbara-mom type drinking a soy latte at The French Press, to a twenty-something, man-bunned, surfer-dude type drinking a chai latte, “I really don’t know what to say. She moved to LA three months ago and I haven’t heard from her since.”
A brown-haired, navy blue/brown shoes suit doing the walk-and-talk in downtown Portland with a silver-haired, navy blue/black shoes suit, “So he said to me, ‘If you can’t change a situation, change your mind.’ Wonder whose refrigerator he got that off.'”
Two Hollywood hipster screenwriters at Umami Burger in LA, discussing a movie pitch, “Send me a treatment—we’ll throw it up and see who shoots.”