real quietly–it’s late–he taps on the phone booth. It’s filled with kids, facing inward over an ipod. They’ve got a song on and headphones over the telephone so who knows who’s hearing it, their mom or a call-in show or someone who hung up after one track to look up stevie wonder memorabilia on ebay and resell it to rural dial-up customers via columbia house-style direct mail solicitations–memento speculation, they call it. He read about this last week, in his minesweeper discussion group. Everybody there has other interests, and they emphasize that. The kids are pressing the ipod’s viridescent display to the glass, it’s an audiobook.