The Dance of Idiots (Part II)

I looked at Billy and his face had contorted into an expression of obvious disgust. He waved her away like he were shooing away a fly and warned her, "You better get out of my space!" The woman seemed taken aback, but kept on dancing for thirty more seconds. Then she whirled around to head back to her seat, but not before issuing a sharp retort; she bent down towards Billy with her hands clenched at her sides and said something that, because the music was blaring, I was fortunate enough not to hear. He turned his head towards her as she walked away, and angrily said, "Shut up, you fat f***!" I don't know if she heard him or not. I just prayed there wouldn’t be trouble. Later, she would return to dance in the aisle once again. And again. We ignored her rotund form.

This bewildering night wasn’t over yet. As my full attention started to focus on Robert Cray, Dancing Guy stood up again and blocked my view. And to spice things up, with his standing three feet from his seat, Idiot Number 2, Salt-and-Pepper-Hair (remember when the ushers asked to see his ticket?) came by and stole his seat again!

The ushers returned to address Dancing Guy once more, and at the sight of them approaching, Salt-and-Pepper-Hair immediately stood up to leave. But Dancing Guy didn’t sit down. He had completely blocked my view of Robert Cray doing licks on his guitar. Five minutes later, Dancing Guy had inched his way left and was now blocking Billy's view, too. As Billy muttered something about knocking the guy's teeth out, I slid forward and gently tugged on the offender’s shirt sleeve from behind. To my surprise, he sat down immediately and didn't even look at me. I said to him, "Sorry, I couldn't see," about six inches behind his ear, which he ignored. Whatever dude, just keep your butt in that seat.

Overweight-Dancing-Woman stopped by a few more times, and I tried not to stare at her belly as she raised her arms and lazily swayed her hips. Mr. Salt-and-Pepper-Hair, finally, was nowhere to be seen. And Dancing Guy stayed in his seat the rest of the night. (Gentlemen, see what a lady's touch can do? And no teeth were knocked out or anything.)

The concert ended to roaring applause and a standing ovation. As we stood up to exit with the crowd, the gentleman seated behind Billy leaned towards him and asked, "Why didn't you get up and dance?" Billy laughed.

Idiot Dancing Woman. In retrospect, Billy could've just smiled and not done anything rude. On the other hand, she shouldn't have invaded his personal space. I also surmise that Mr. Salt-and-Pepper-Hair was either an unabashed opportunist, thick-skinned to a preposterous degree, or just a fan who didn’t care about the random thoughts of strangers. Lastly, Dancing Guy turned out to be a rebel, tough and dissenting with male authority figures (ushers) but acquiescing to polite females in the audience.

Are there these many idiots in the celebrated state of California? In this country? In the civilized world? Why can't people just kick back and enjoy a paid event while being considerate of every one else around them? Why do people act like they have rights but no responsibilities? I raise this question to the cosmos.

It was very cool seeing Robert Cray in concert. I’m looking forward to the next one, minus the dancing idiots.

The Dance of Idiots

Nov. 10, 2006. It was a lovely Friday night in Santa Barbara, California, and the autumn air was nippy. Billy and I flew in from Phoenix that morning to see the Robert Cray Band in concert. It’s a once-every-album ritual for Billy, where he avidly purchases the best tickets he can get to see his favorite artist, Robert Cray ("The Master", as he calls him) in concert.

The event was being held at The Lobero Theater, a small, intimate venue built in 1873. The halls of California's first theater were narrow and dimly lit, the intricately paneled ceilings illuminated with huge chandeliers. Its 680 seats were upholstered in an aged red fabric, and the faint smell of old dust hung in the air.

At about twenty minutes to eight, we made our way to the second row and settled in as I took in the darkly lit stage that suffused my field of vision. To the right, a set of drums with four huge accompanying Matchless amps; center stage in the back was a bass guitar with its own set of amps; left of that were two keyboards forming an L, and even more amps that looked like antique travel trunks; and front center was the microphone at which the Master would play and croon.

We were seated in the center section, second row, at the two seats to the very left, which meant that Billy was right next to the aisle. Little did I know that our proximity to the stage, and Billy's to the open lane, would later come into play on this bizarre evening.

The theater filled up with enthusiastic fans. The band came on stage to loud cheers and applause, and the concert ensued with an electrifying air. The two ladies to my right were really into it, dancing in their seats and occasionally letting out an enthusiastic yelp, yet remaining pleasant. Which is more than what I can say for a couple of idiots that came out of the woodwork as the night wore on.

In the middle of the first song, a twenty-something-year-old guy with shoulder- length hair stood up and started to dance, without any consistency as to when he would flail an arm, throw a fist in the air or just stand there with his hands in his pockets. And yes, he was in the first row, albeit four seats to my right, blocking peoples' view of The Master. In between songs when the lights were dimmed, two male ushers would approach and tell him to sit down. This scene would play out repeatedly through the night: ushers would tell him to sit down and point to his chair in a manner that bordered on aggressive; he would give them a hard time and pretend he couldn't hear them; he would perhaps utter a profanity or two; he would sit down for 90 seconds, then stand up again as the current song overtook him. Voila: the night’s First Idiot. Next thing I know, the ushers walked him over to the right side of the theater. An ordinary-looking couple came in late, and one of them sat in his seat.

Now the seat in front of me was taken, not at first but eventually, by a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. As if on cue from a bad script, the ushers came to the front once again, but this time with a different purpose. They asked the people in the first row, "Is this your seat? Can I see your ticket?" Mr. Salt-and-pepper-hair nodded yes to the first question, then five seconds later got up to leave. Hmmm… nice to meet you, Idiot Number 2. How many more before the night was over, I wondered.

After just two songs with a wide open view of the stage, Dancing Guy came back and sat in the seat that Salt-and-pepper-hair had vacated. I guess this was the seat he had actually paid for. But it meant he was right between me and Robert Cray.

In the middle of all this, The Third Idiot made its appearance. It came in the form of a woman in her late thirties, who stood about 5’2”, was 30 pounds overweight and wearing a tight shirt and jeans. She came walking down the aisle, stopped in front of the stage and started dancing by her self. I tried not to stare at her. And everything went perfectly fine, until that one climactic moment during a fast song when she gestured at people around her to get up, and, noticing everyone’s polite non-compliance, she bent down towards Billy and told him loudly, "Get up off your ass!"

[To be continued]