Oh, the Red Butte Concert Series is afoot. As Dr Write pointed out--it's a blissful way to spend the summer evenings here in the land of salt.
Though last night (touched as I was by a bit of the ennui--which I also call Petite Syrah) I found the audience to be a bit disconcerting.
First off--everyone had blond hair. This is not unusual for the Scandinavian rooted stock that is Utah. BUT most of these were older blond heads. People who went to Lagoon to see the Doors and the Beach Boys play.
And then I had a moment of: I am a old blond too. What's the point of having blond hair if you're over 30? I'm becoming agist against myself.
On the other side of the coin was this young girl in front of me. She was, you guessed it, also blond. And the tannest and most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. She was, I think 8 or 9. But she was hot. And she knew it. And the boy who was obviously the son of her parents' best friends knew it too. And he ignored her like she was a napkin. Everything she did--take a drink of soda, stand up, eat a carrot, brush crumbs off her shorts--she turned to look to see if he noticed. And I, who was sitting behind saw that he did. But to her, no. He turned his head to look away every time.
He was about ten. His parents left before hers did. After he left, she relaxed. She danced around like a little girl should. She stood between her mom and dad and felt protected not only by their bodies but in the way they weren't pretending not to look at her as they looked at her.
I just wanted to go up and tell her--keep your clothes on. Next time you see this boy. He's not worth the amount of nakedness you'd have to show him to get him to look like he's actually paying attention. He already is.