Ok, so you know how my Friday night went.  Even with the disturbing “pew pal” next to me, Footloose was still a lot of fun.  So much fun, in fact, that I went back on Saturday to see it again.

I thought if I had a different seat, the odds of Mr. “Blue Light Special” finding me would be fairly slim.  I looked for him, anyway, and wore my really hard soled work boots just in case he showed up.  I thought it might be fun to grab his cell phone and smash it under my boots, shouting, “How’s the texting going now, High Tech Harry?”  But I decided that wouldn’t be a good thing.  Not that I didn’t want to; it’s just that too many people knew me and I have this squeaky clean reputation to uphold.  (Insert laughter here)

I arrived at my seat.  No guy texting Stinkhead, Alaska.  All was well.  It was going to be a great night.  I could feel it in my soul.

The lights dimmed.  The orchestra began to play.  My daughter told me it’s called an overture, not a preamble.  I sort of slid down in my seat, relaxing, looking sooooo forward to my daughter’s entrance.  The stage lights came up.  And so did the voices of two girls sitting right behind me!

I mean as soon as the musical started, so did they, with  loud, raucous, chatting back and forth like they thought it was a circus or something.  “Ooh baby, he’s really cute!”  Yeah, he is, but look at that dress.  It’s so shiny.”  “It is, but did you see the way she did that jump?”  Yep. I did, but look how cute that other guy is.”  “Hey, I wonder if we can get some popcorn?”  “I don’t know.  You wanna go out to Sheetz after this thing is over and get some fried baloney?”  “Yeah, that sounds good to me.  And some deep-fried donuts too, huh?”

“Sheesh,” I thought.  “At least Ju-Ju-Be Brain’s cell phone was silent.  These girls are talking like politicians on steroids; a hundred miles an hour, loud, and no sense at all.”

I wondered what the odds might be of this sort of thing occurring to the same person; namely ME.  I think they’re staggering.  I bet there was a better chance of being struck by lightning in the desert, while being chased by a nomad with a really long, sharp knife, bad teeth, and garlic breath, after I had been stung by a scorpion carrying some deadly, life-threatening disease.  It didn’t seem fair.  But there they were, chatting like they were the only people in the place.  And they must have thought the wind was blowing so they needed to shout above the roar.

The only thing I could think of that might be worse was if Dexter Texter was on the other side of the auditorium messaging merrily away at the same time.  I shuddered imagining the mics cutting out and those two talking all at the same time.  “Almo…para…” “HEY GIRL, YOU WANNA GO BOWLIN WHEN THIS THING IS DONE?”…”Knocki…on…heavs…or”…”YOU KNOW IT GIRLFRIEND.  BOWLIN RULES!”…”Almo…para…dse.”

My wife, ever the diplomat, finally turned around and told them to be quiet.  They did, but I was sure there was going to be a fist in the back of my head at any moment.

After speaking with a good friend about why this sort of thing happened to me, I decided it was that “Law of Attraction” thing working again.  I’ll tell you all about it next week.

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