I’m at the airport. Waiting. We always get to the airport plenty early, but that’s fine by me. I have this thing about time. And I get terribly upset if I’m late.
There’s free wireless here, but blogging more than this little blurb would be ridiculous because my brain is not quite in function mode yet. I plan on keeping it that way; may as well be ready to space out on the plane. (And I have my earplugs and noise canceling headphones to help with the noise of the plane.)
One thing I did want to quickly write about:
Last night, as I was walking up the stairs of the dress circle of the opera house at intermission, an older man with a British accent was busy telling the youner woman accompanying him about the opera. “Aside from Porgy and the widow you can’t understand a words they’re saying,” he said. “They may as well be singing Chinese.” Then he proceeded to say that everything was far to rigid but that, “That’s not Gershwin’s fault. It’s ours.”
He was clearly annoyed with the whole thing. And I have a feeling he is always there to critique in a negative way. He had that air about him. I can’t figure out why people like that attend performances.
And now, over & out.
