Bottom line, there’s a lot of dissent and discord.
But I have found the one thing we can all agree on: We must stop having people sitting or standing behind the candidate while the candidate is speaking.
It’s distracting.
I try to listen to what the candidate is saying, keeping my mind open and giving everybody a chance. But there’s a slew of random people sitting behind him, and I start watching them instead of the candidate.
Look at that hot guy in the front row.
Does he have a wedding ring?
If not, does he have a pulse?
That’s all I ask.
A functioning circulatory system.
Blood pressure.
North and south.
Don’t forget south.
I forget why, but it’s important.
Or if there’s no hot guy, there’s a woman behind the candidate, looking down at her phone the entire time the candidate is speaking.
Which drives me nuts.
What kind of person sits three feet away from a person who might become the next President of the United States and looks at her phone during the entire speech?
I try to watch the candidate but all I can think of is, what is she doing on that damn phone?
I forgive her only if she’s reading a novel.
One of mine.
But I doubt that she is. My readers are geniuses who pay attention when something important is happening, like a speech by the potential LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD.
Plus, I get distracted by the outfits that the people in the background are wearing. I try to size up who they are, what they’re like, whether they’re like me, and whether they’re just slobs.
Full disclosure, I’m just a slob.
Worst of all is when they wear funny costumes, because I’m completely distracted by them. Once when Donald Trump was speaking, behind him was a person dressed exactly like a wall.
I got distracted.
It was a terrific wall outfit.
I’d like to see Wall Guy on Halloween.
What does he wear?
Dockers and a polo?
And then there’s the times the candidates are interviewed outside, standing or sitting on director’s chairs. Sure as shooting, there’s a group of random people behind them, looking motley as all hell.
In fact, “sure as shooting” is a poor choice of words, because that’s what distracts me. Every time I see the people who stand so close to a presidential candidate, I worry if they’re going to shoot the candidate.
It’s not funny, but it’s true.
I can’t help it.
It’s how I think.
I try to watch the candidate during the interview, but instead I end up watching the random people, praying that none of them goes for a weapon.
It makes no sense to let them stand there.
It’s an assassination-waiting-to-happen.
Those people don’t have to go through a metal detector to stand so close to a candidate because, at this point, the candidates are only candidates. But one minute after the candidate gets elected, they get security.
Until then, all they got is me.
And then during one of the debates, I got distracted by a bunch of kids in the audience, because the houselights were on and the kids made faces, bopped around in their seats, and tried to get on TV.
In other words, they acted like kids.
First, I was annoyed at the kids, but then I started worrying about them.
I knew they were going to get yelled at on the ride home.
Then I worried they were going to be punished by their parents, teased at school, and embarrassed for the rest of their lives, labeled as The Kids Who Acted Out At The Debate.
Don’t they know the adults are the only ones allowed to act out at debates?
And then there was the debate where some woman in the audience kept whooping. We couldn’t see her, but we could hear her, like the most distracting laugh track ever.
So from now on, let’s have the candidates speak in a bubble, with no random people watching, clapping, or wearing wall costumes.
This election is stressful enough.
Topsy-Turvy
Francesca
My best guy friend and I live two blocks away from each other and we share one very particular interest: Gilbert & Sullivan.
William S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan were the writer-composer duo that created fourteen comic operas in the late nineteenth century. Their humor is satirical, heavy on wordplay, and pokes fun at Victorian England and theatrical clichés of the day.
Don’t make that face. Before Hamilton and rap musicals, there were patter-songs.
While others bonded over keg stands in college, my friend and I grew close standing onstage in various G&S productions. So when he found the Gilbert & Sullivan Society of New York on Facebook, we had to go to a meeting.
I remember when we first walked into the church basement where the club meets, someone helpfully asked us if we were lost. (This happened again at the second and third meetings we attended).
We’re about fifty years younger than the average member.
That didn’t stop us. My friend and I were both close to our grandmothers, and we appreciate the value of intergenerational friendship. The members showed us the only authentic, top-notch diner in midtown, and my friend redesigned the group’s website to actually make it functional.
The problem is that for nearly a year, we didn’t pay any dues, though not for lack of trying.
The first time, the club president said it was a month before the end of their membership year, so he insisted we wait to buy in at the next meeting.
But we didn’t go to the very next meeting. We went a few months later and offered again to pay, but the treasurer wasn’t there that night, and whomever we spoke to was worried he’d lose track of our twenty bucks.
After that, we felt so guilty for singing for free and mooching the refreshments of Nilla wafers and apple juice, we wouldn’t take no for an answer.
The treasurer still resisted. “Well, it’s the middle of the season, so I could prorate your dues…”
“Don’t worry about it, really,” I pleaded. “I’m happy to pay, we want to support.”
“All right then. And if you both join today, you can save money with a joint membership.”
“Sure.” Anything to get him to agree and alleviate our guilt.
We paid in cash. Then he told us to fill out a form to get our membership cards and monthly newsletter, The Palace Peeper.
With great pride, he informed us, “We send out a proper paper newsletter—not a virtual one on the email.”
To be fair, I sound like this when I talk about Snapchat. Time comes for us all.
It was only when we were filling out the form later that I saw there was space for only one address.
“Oh no, I think they think we’re married,” I said to my friend.
“Nah, you just have to write small.”
We looked at each other for a beat, brows furrowed.
I know, what did I think joint membership meant? A platonic, bring-a-friend discount? I can only say our misunderstanding was genuine. I’m so single that married-people-perks don’t immediately come to mind.
We certainly never said we were a couple.
But then I started thinking … we do always attend meetings together.