I spend my share of time in airports. I've learned that maintaining a sense of calm acceptance is the only way to endure. Seeing asshats in line at the gate, berating the airline employee for the weather, the delayed crew, mechanical problems -- acting as if that person is single-handedly fucking with them. There's no point. No point in getting angry. More often than not, the situation is entirely out of your control.

One jag-dork in LAX, slamming his hand on the counter, was insisting that the person at the counter check other airlines for flights, as ours was going to be delayed an hour and a half. When the counterperson said they couldn't do that, the dickhead started demanding that she check for any flight leaving in the next hour, where he could get a connecting flight home. When she tried to explain that that would inevitably get him to his final destination later than waiting, he hissed, "I didn't ask you your opinion. I told you what to do." She calmly pointed him over to another counter and said, "Sir, if you go over to that counter, they will be able to take care of you." And as he walked away, she picked up her phone, called the other counter, and said of the man approaching, "I don't care what you do, but keep him off of this flight."

I thanked her. I was up in line because I was going to offer to cede my seat to a woman and her baby who were on standby. The counter person smiled at me, and in response to the dickless one, she set me up in the legroom-tastic exit row.

Last night, I went to a free concert in Millennium Park, The Decemberists, playing with the Grant Park orchestra. The Pritzker Pavilion is a huge Frank Gehry design. There is a 4,000-seat pavilion, and a long lawn with an intricate trellis overhead, which has speakers suspended throughout. It sounds lovely. Lookee:



The skies were threatening. I was by myself. So I chose to try to get a seat in the pavilion instead of plant on the lawn. The concert, again, was free. But the front half of the pavilion is reserved for people who donate to the orchestra. Fine. The back half of the pavilion was open to the public. I took 10 minutes to find the line where they were letting people in to the seats. Slow and orderly. But they needed to take a count of how many seats were left. So the line was stopped, just before I entered. "There are still a few hundred seats left, folks. But we need to count them so we know how many more people we can let in. Should be about 10 minutes."

Within minutes, there were several hundred people lined up behind me. But people kept coming to the front of the line, demanding to be let in. "My friends are here, they saved me a seat." The response of the event staff was perfect. They said, "I'm sorry, but it is a free concert. Those seats aren't reserved. They aren't paid for. We're letting people sit, first-come, first-served. If you get in line, you will probably be able to get a seat."

But people wouldn't take that for an answer. Brandishing camera phones, "Look, here's a picture of my friends next to the seat they saved for me! If they're in, we're all in!" Or "I've been to other concerts here, and I've never had to wait in line, and you have no business telling me I can't sit in my usual seat." I am not kidding. People actually had this sense of entitlement for a free concert. The event staff, again, were being courteous and firm. The wan little indie kid behind me fretted, "It's getting chaotic here."

"Chaotic? You don't know from chaos you little emo pansy. I was in the 'nam!"

As promised, we were let in within 10 minutes. Finding a seat was no problem. Finding a seat next to someone who had bathed in recent memory was slightly more so. But I was able to move seats several times until I was under the shelter of the pavilion. Good thing. The skies opened several times during and after the show. Lightning was leaping across the sky, which made me concerned for the folks on the lawn, underneath what could serve as a latticework lightning rod.

I enjoyed the show. The band was playing with a guest orchestra, and they had a hard time meshing sometimes. But it was ambitious, playful, and often beautiful. I would've loved to tape it for you, but I learned a long time ago that that's just wrong.

But this one sounded lovely, in a very Bacharach-esque arrangement:

Labels: eaten by a whale

This entry was posted on Thursday, July 19, 2007 at 9:38 AM. You can skip to the end and leave a response.