Goin 'Gnuts

Tea: Christmas:

Music: Fleuma, "Eternal Drowning"

Time: Night.

(Yeah, I know. Cheerful music the last couple of nights, huh? It's a good song, though. And wherever possible, I'm going to start posting links to the music so you can hear for yourselves.)

So I was going to write about the gnats, or midges, or whatevertheheck those little insects were that kept buzzing around me (and into my ears) while I was bagging leaves this afternoon. Then it occurred to me that I had twice as many encounters today with even more annoying creatures: People Who Are More Important Than You.

By "You," I don't mean you personally. But they do. In their world, "You" means anyone who's not them.

Case 1: I was driving to the bank, to cancel an automatic withdrawal (long story). I was in the parking lot, about to pull into a space, when a woman drove straight across my bow on her way to the drive-through lane. Never mind that I had to slam on my brakes -- which was, of course, only right. She was More Important Than You, and by "You" she meant me.

Case 2: On my way to pick up the two youngest from their (successful) drama callbacks at the high school, I saw a woman jogging down the sidewalk. The light ahead of her was red, and there was cross traffic. Rather than running in place until the light changed, however, she darted ahead, forcing a mini-jam as people (kinder than I might have been) let her cross. And well they should have done; obviously, she was More Important Than You ("You," in this case, meaning them.)

Gnats, you can swat. People, you can't -- not without incurring the wrath of weapon-bearing people in blue polyester. Pity. Any politician who can push through a "He Needed Swattin' Defense" would get my vote.

Law Enforcement Officer: "Did you swat this man?"

You (and by "You," I mean everyone within a hundred-foot radius of the Person Who Is More Important Than You): "Yes, I did. He took a full cart through the express lane."

"Never mind, then. He needed swattin'."

That's some change I could believe in.

Engage Ears, Disengage Thumbs

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Peabo Bryson, "Pretty Women"

Time: Night.

The drama department at the local high school put on Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street tonight. The venue was tiny, the set (which my son helped to build) outstanding and the production thoroughly enjoyable.

Imagine my (insert word conveying baffled, bemused anger) when I noticed that the high school girl in front of me was sending and receiving text messages during the second act.

You wouldn't do that on Broadway or the West End. (You wouldn't do it off-Broadway or even off-off-Broadway. You wouldn't even do it during an overblown, check-out-my-acting-for-Jesus production of, say, The Screwtape -- or, if you will, Ska-Rew-uh-Tay-Puh -- Letters.)

I share the belief that you learn how to play a big house by playing a small one -- and I believe that to be true not only for performers, but for what Robert Fripp would call the audients. Practice courtesy and respect for the company in a community theatre, and it will carry over should you ever score tickets to something big. And trust me, the more people pay for a show, the more they're likely to want you tossed out if you're disrespectful and disruptive.

I hope the young texter gets that message.

Here endeth the rant.

Tonight's story: Lord Dunsany, "The Unhappy Body"

Enough Already

Tea: White Grapefruit

Music: U2, "Angel of Harlem"

Time: Night.

I'm going to keep this short and simple.

It's beyond time to quit "othering" the opposition -- whichever side you're on -- in this election.

The people supporting the wrong candidate (or wronger candidate, if you will, as there doesn't really seem to be a completely right one) are still people. Misguided, perhaps, or merely with different priorities -- but people.

Ditto the candidates and their families. They're still people. Enough with the hating. Enough with the name-calling. Enough with "us vs. them."

As bad as things are now, we're all us. We can't afford a "them."

I'm skipping the scary story tonight. Two tomorrow. I'm in need of a little light right now.

Instant Gratification Overload

Tea: Lapsang Vanilla

Music: Wild Cherry, "Play That Funky Music"

Time: Night

So I've sent out ... (counting) ... 32 e-mails so far today and tonight to artists and gallery directors. (Yeah, I'm a bit behind on my correspondence. I'm trying to do something about it, at least.) Out of those 32 recipients, two have replied as of this writing.

Considering it's the weekend, that's not a bad number. Given the way communications used to be ... it's nothing short of phenomenal.

Say it's 1860, and I want to send a letter from St. Joseph to Sacramento. Enter the Pony Express, which -- if nobody gets popped out of the saddle -- will get the missive from point A to Point B in ten days. That's considered fast.

It took weeks, sometimes, for my father's letters to get home from the Pacific Theater during World War II.

Now, I can get calls from England in real time. I can send out almost three dozen notes in the span of several hours, and know they've all arrived safely in their destined in-boxes.

And you know what? I'm spoiled. We all are, I think.

It's easy to take quick communication for granted, even for those of us (yes, we dinosaurs do still roam the earth) who remember the days when hitting "send" meant licking a stamp and dropping a letter in a slot.

We take it as a given that people will be reachable -- by e-mail, by cell phone, by instant message. It's not a far leap to expecting them to be reachable at our convenience, not theirs, no matter the circumstances at the receiving end. Let a call go to voice mail? How dare she?

It's a symptom, I think, of a larger malady. Things -- long-distance conversations, fast transportation, putting food on the table -- are too easy for us, and as a consequence, we don't appreciate them as much as we should.

Shutting off our cell phones and unplugging our computers for a week would help us grow a bit fonder of instant communication, perhaps. But that's about as likely to happen as -- oh, I don't know -- an election in which looks don't matter and no cards get played.

Oops, got to go. I have a call coming in.

Shoot Down the Shootout

Tea: Marron Glacé

Music: Bob Dylan, "Mr. Tambourine Man"

Time: Night.

After today's UEFA Champions League final, I'd just like to take a brief moment to say one thing:

I hate penalty kick shootouts. Loathe them.

We don't decide Super Bowls by letting kickers alternate field goal attempts, Stanley Cups with best-of-five faceoffs or the World Series with a home run derby. (I'm not doing the usual basketball analogy. It's been done to death.) So why do we decide soccer championships (if regulation and a 30-minute overtime doesn't settle things) with penalty kicks?

It's anticlimactic. It's artificial. And it's avoidable.

Look, by that time both teams are exhausted. Someone's bound to make a mistake and give up a goal -- at the very least, an honest penalty kick.

Let the TV people howl. The only honorable way to settle a tie in a soccer championship is to go through the regulation 30-minute overtime -- and if things are still knotted up, go to 15-minute golden goal periods until someone puts the ball in the net.

Then -- and only then -- let the celebrations begin. That's how it used to be, and how it should be again.

Here endeth the rant. Now let's see if anyone at FIFA cares.

(Insert wry chuckle here.)

Yeah, right ...