On Saturday, Brent played a gig at a tea house off the Plaza. This place is a local hang-out for the unwashed, trust-fund-baby, bohemian set – outfitted with wicker chairs and tables, big pillows on the floor, and local art on the Moroccan gold walls. The place promotes itself as very zen, but we all know better. Inside of all the mellow, yoga-stretched, “enlightened” Santa Fites that frequent places like this are self-absorbed, narrow-minded, holier-than-thou drama majors just dying for their chance in the spotlight. They come in attention grabbing get-ups — the tall blonde in tight jeans and black sequined top that would have fit in more properly on a Saturday night in NYC, the 50+ year old man with hair dyed the color of Ronald McDonald Red #40 , the scruffy owner traipsing around in his loose-fitting hemp pants and tunic, holding one of 5 scruffy kids acting like the king of the castle while his staff behind the counter struggle to keep up with orders.

After the leader of the second band started to warm up his guitars onstage while the first act was still playing (citing “Hey, man. The audience came to hear me play!”), and I left my book on the pillow that I was sitting on to use the restroom (which, I thought was the international symbol of “This Seat Is Saved”) – only to return to the dirty owner and his oily family sitting in my spot with my book tossed to the side – I decided it was time to exit. Then, as I sat in my perfectly parallel parked car across the street from the tea house, reading my book with the window rolled down, waiting for Brent to finish his set, an older woman in a frighteningly hideous outfit of white pants, white fringed jacket, and white cowboy hat, complete with red and blue sequence from head to toe, white platinum hair, and red smeared lips, gets out of her car, comes up to my window, and asks me to move my car forward so that she can slide into the spot behind me. I snapped. I’m embarrassed to repeat what I said to her here, but it started with “What? So you want me to move my car because you can’t parallel park!?!” and went down hill from there.

Now today I read a story about how there is a movement afoot in Santa Fe to have WiFi removed from public places because some people’s perceived sensitivities to the radio waves makes it an issue under the Americans with Disabilities Act. Freaks. I’m so sick of these people. Their right to exist is so much more important than anyone else’s right to exist. Their “I get a headache from looking into the sun, so the government needs to stretch a huge sunshade over the entire state until I am comfortable” whine gets old. They seem to be the only 12 people on the planet who have “symptoms” from WiFi – have they not thought of other environmental (or just mental) factors that could contribute to their ailments? And in the meantime, they are going to fight to restrict my freedom to engage in communication and commerce via WiFi? Give me a break. Shawn Mullins didn’t get it quite right – the line should have read “Take me far away from Santa Fe!

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