Night Out
Went to the Long Beach Symphony last night with Iza to see Pepe Romero play classical Spanish guitar with the gang. We bought our tickets late and wound up with balcony seats, to which we also arrived at late. There seemed to be but one usher serving time in the Siberian rafters, and by the time she came to our assistance the music had already started, and it became too much for her to direct us to our places. She instead indicated to us a pair of seats on the aisle just one row back, and suggested we alight until someone complained.
Perhaps picking nits from these quarters is not completely warranted, as we should have arrived earlier; but we didn't, and we did drop a C note for the event.
The consequences of our tardiness were immediately apparent when it became clear that the gentleman directly in front of me had not only very large ears, but also an active and unusually large head. I found the rhythm of his contrapuntal cranial spasms about twenty minutes into the show and was able to predict the angle wherein he would spend the least amount of time and adjust accordingly.
Just behind us, as we entered the second piece, there emitted an unusual gurgling sound, which upon further aural consideration was found to be the output of someone's runny nose. It wasn't as distracting when it found time with the music, but at those times when it was out of sync I felt that I was sitting in a scuba diving class during flu season. Iza was sorely tempted to offer tissues during intermission.
The conductor, or dictator in Polish (ed-is it really dictator? no, but it sounded pretty funny at the time) was an effusive fellow, and between pieces found real pleasure in congratulating the featured performers and guest artist Romero. So enthusiastic was he that at one point I thought they were going to up and leave the stage to get a room at the Weston.
Romero was excellent, as was the LBSO, and the performance was well received. We decided to remove to our assigned seats during intermission, as they were not actually occupied as we were originally informed. We entered on the opposite side of our section and found only two humans that would need to adjust momentarily for us to gain entrée. This was not to be as simple as it would seem. You see, the lady of the pair had been using one of our seats as a resting place for her outer garment, as had another patron found similar repose for his raiment on the other.
The unspoken negotiations were very nearly hostile as coats were removed, pupils narrowed to slits and stiff body language became a physical barrier to forward movement. The man on the aisle seat merely glared as we entered the fray, but the woman managed to catch my leg between her knee and the seat in front, that required me to use an excess of force to free it from its temporary detention. As a gentleman, I excused myself to an aged and angry mug, and then sat perfectly still for a time in an attempt (successful, I may add) to not clobber said mug with my shoe.
Next Saturday we plan to attend a lower, yet no less noble performance of classic Spanish guitar, and dance, at the classy El Cid in L.A. where I plan to satisfy my pent up urge to stomp my foot.
