Support Your Local Naught

Philanthropy is an odd thing.

This weekend was marked by an odd exercise of futility. I have some friends that have formed a band. I'm not really sure if they're good and once you read this post, you'll know why I haven't fully formed an opinion on them. They had one prior gig some months ago. That time I was there, it was populated mostly by all the bored twelve year olds in town that could scrape together three dollars. It was decent enough for me to say "well if they ever play in public again I'm sure I'll go." And that was that. Well this weekend marked show number two. It had been several months so I was eager to go. Saturday rolls around and after a various number of maladies and an empty gas tank I arrive at the venue rather late. I open the door and as soon as I hand my three dollars for admission the band stops playing. Almost immediately as I walk in the door the concert ends. My entrance did not go unnnoticed, several people I know pop up and tell me that I was just in time to miss the whole thing.

I was quite bummed, I paid three dollars to watch my friends put instruments into the trunks of their cars. I didn't exactly feel cheated, I felt rather noble. I felt stately, like a rich patron of the arts. It's as if I opened the door and said "Oh look a local rock band played here, I should give them three dollars." That sounds better with that early twentieth century rich man's voice that I said it with in my head. Much like the Monopoly man. I'm sure it's something that would come up in a conversation between the Monopoly man and the man from Stratego.

I feel strangely amused by things that should make me bitter. This was hardly a big deal anyway. My "Patron of the arts" attitude I've strutted around with through all of this easily diminishes when I start to think that it was only three dollars. Giving up those three dollars only means three less trips around the dollar menu.

On an even lighter note, I'm watching Three's Company. I just love the implausibility of sitcoms. Since when do psychiatrists make house calls? Especially when it's not even to the patient's house but some other acquaintances. The fact that they only do this so the psychiatrist can be mistaken as a prostitute only makes me smile a little. On the implausibility scale I rank it a 9/10.

An implausibility scale, why that's just about as plausible as a prostitute making house calls.

Don't prostitutes have cubicles by now? Corner offices even?