What on earth, lady who was sitting next to me last night during the band concert, was so important that you needed to text/internet surf your way through the entire thing? Wait, no- not the entire thing. You left before the last group performed, having received a phone call that sent you scurrying out of the auditorium. It was a relief, since you could not seem to keep your feet and knees from encroaching seriously into my personal space bubble. I'm pretty sure it was a fake phone call, though. Your phone rang earlier in the performance but when you fake answered it, it had not rung.
I'm glad your blackberry was more intriguing than the kids for you.
You were sitting to my left. To my right were the parents of a second or third grader who thought it was precious to recite multiplication facts. "Three times three is....NINE!". Her mom thought it was precious, too. I didn't.
Having been around the band concert block perhaps a million times before, I come prepared for people who talk, babies who cry, and women whose hair is so big that it blocks entire columns of the audience from having a clear sight line to the performers. I shrug off the people who, despite pleas from the band director not to do so, find a reason to bolt after their own precious sax prodigy has performed his piece. I'm used to the general chaos. I'm even ok with it, and I've given up the internal tsk tsk that enters my head when I see men and boys failing to remove their caps. I can even block out my general impression of my own community, and attempt to overlook the thong showing on the woman in front of me who shouldn't be showing it or the truly unappealing gap between her jeans and shirt. Same goes for the way too hairy dad wearing a sleeveless shirt. It is, after all, Florida.
But the texting through the entire performance? Unless you're secretly part of Obama's transition team, grow the hell up.
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