dichotomies

Chloe and Laurel strolled arm in arm around the clay track in the park on Chrystie and Canal, like the teenage Chinese girls who shuffle lazily down sidewalks in patent leather heels with hands at their mouths to stifle their giggles about boys. They circled the green astroturf, populated by a few tai chi groups, a practicing boys' soccer team, mothers with their babies in strollers, and old men contemplating the birds. It was late morning on the first warm day in April, and the sun shown down warm on their countenances.

Laurel had been, for a good fifteen minutes now, harping on a recent scientific study that reinforced the notion that red wine prolongs life, based on the administration of loads of the sweet poison into the mouths of poor, unsuspecting mice. She was now knee-deep in detail about the various controls and variables presented in the study, explaining how remarkable the positive results were. (Laurel was taking her facts directly from the JAMA. The chief topic of her personal interest was wine, and she often spent a long afternoon in the library in order to add to her knowledge.)

"That reminds me," said Chloe, "did you read that really entertaining short story in the New Yorker by Noah Baumbach? It was based on that study, I think."

"No, who's Noah Baumbach?"

This was typical Laurel. Chloe had always been fascinated by Laurel's ability to know everything and nothing all at once. Like a full encyclopedia with surprise blank pages here and there.

"You know, the director of The Squid and the Whale, one of your proclaimed 'favorite movies of all time'?"
(Of which there were many.)

"Oh, right... I knew that name sounded familiar. Did I tell you about the boy I saw in the subway the other day?"

That was another thing about Laurel. Not only did she simply fail to answer posed questions, she also possessed an uncanny ability to jump from one disparate topic to another with great ease. Chloe figured this was the way it went in Laurel's brain, that her mouth was simply the funnel through which every thought in her head simply poured out as it was produced. "No, you didn't mention it."

"Oh! Well... I was standing on the N train and in walks this tall, handsome boy dressed in a rumpled plaid shirt and jeans. He had this great messy brown hair and green eyes and was reading N + 1..."
(Her favorite magazine.)

"...But then my eyes had the misfortune of finding his shoes...oh, his shoes!"

"His shoes?"

"They were those leather dress shoes that are pointy-toed and square-toed at the same time!"

Chloe knew these well, a curious phenomenon of unexplained, insufferable ugliness.

"And then it was ruined!"

Certainly, this struck Chloe as very superficial, but legitimate, nonetheless. To Laurel, this knight in shining armor was not so anymore, ten seconds into seeing him, all because of his unfortunate shoes. He was at once enticing and grotesque, like a bowlful of delicious, creamy chocolate ice cream with a generous sprinkling of asparagus.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noah_Baumbach

http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2009/01/26/090126sh_shouts_baumbach