Definitive proof that not only does your Ipod in fact read your mind, but sometimes it likes to fuck with you.

Last Saturday afternoon I was running out to Coney Island for the opening of an exhibition at the Coney Island Museum, curated by a friend of mine, Meridith McNeal (who incidentally is a terrific artist in her own right). As the N train pulled into King's Highway, the conductor announced everybody off-a train ahead had broken down and they were stranding us here on the windswept platform until they could clear the tracks. I was already very late, so this was very unwelcome news.

And then, just as the train pulled away, Dolly Parton's bluegrass tune "Train, Train" started up in my ears. Mockingly, Dolly gaily sang about the train taking her to Memphis as the N disappeared around the bend. Then, as I settled in for the long wait, my little white friend proceeded with a long, unbroken run of echoing pedalsteel murder ballads and strings-drenched songs of hopeless lost love. After 25 minutes or so I wanted the next N to arrive just so I could throw myself in front of it.