Put Your Phone Down, Already.

Call me stupid (stupid!), but when I am at a concert — a live music experience I paid good money to enjoy — I like to pay attention to what’s going on on the stage. I even like to pay attention to what’s going on in the audience, because that’s part of the live experience too; the conversation the musician has with the crowd. I like to sing along to every word, loudly (no-one can hear), and dance my ass off. I want to immerse myself in the heady physicality that a concert is — the way you can feel the bass drum thump in your chest. It’s a glorious escape from the mundane, non-music-filled life outside the venue.

What I do not want to do is text my friends and check out the internet.

And yet, that’s what people do. Mostly girls. I don’t get it. OK; that’s a lie — I do get it — they’re addicted to the digital extension of their hand and can’t bear to be out of the loop for a second. They simply cannot bear to slip it in a pocket, or (gasp!) turn the damn thing off for a couple of hours.

The other night I was at a concert that rocked my face off — yet one side of me there was a young guy, clearly a fan, who sang along about 50% of the time, and the rest of the time he was tapping away at his phone with his thumbs. On the other side, a girl who never smiled, busied herself with her phone 98% of the time. She seemed really bummed out by the dim lighting and dancing people making it difficult for her to concentrate on the screen. Next to her sat four other girls doing exactly the same thing. Maybe they were all there together; it was hard to tell. They didn’t interact with anyone at all, not even each other.

The only thing that distracted them from their incessant scrolling was when a fight broke out in the seats up to our left, and the security had a hard time getting one of the drunken participants out of the arena. She then texted her friends about this. 

I’d provide a photo of her, but I didn’t have a phone on me. And my phone doesn’t have a camera on it, anyway.

Damn, people.

Wacky Weed

When I first moved in to the rented house in which I live, I attracted the attention of my neighbors by weeding the garden. This, apparently, was enough of an oddity to cause them to ask, with bewilderment, why I did such a thing; after all, it was a rental. They said it in italics, like that. The implication (in addition to a quick glance at the neglected, overgrown gardens all around), was that it was a waste of time; that it was probably someone else’s job; that putting in all this backbreaking work for a few years only to pass it on to some other tenant when I left, was madness. I answered their question the only way I knew how: I said “I live here.”

It’s not simply that I want the place where I live to look groomed, beautiful, welcoming, and to be productive (I grow a lot of herbs and vegetables); I genuinely like gardening. Weeding is my Yoga, my garden my Gym. All the back yards where I live are sort of joined together, and all back onto a deceptively rural looking alley that is bordered by a wooded slope among which prowl deer. The entrance to the alley is framed by a hill covered in old growth ivy, which is periodically interspersed with flowers, according to the season; snowdrops, lily-of-the-valley, roses, peonies, lilies, and more. It’s a very pleasant place to turn one’s car into. The alley itself is not made impassable by overhanging branches or vines; underfoot it is not obscured by trash or debris.

This is because I weed it, too. I do this — which benefits all of my neighbors — simply because I want to, and unless they caught me doing it, they’d have no idea it was me. That suits me just fine. I don’t even tell my elderly landlord, who lives in the house at the alley entrance, that I keep his clematis in check, his lawn from becoming choked with dandelions, and his hedge trimmed. Because weeds tend to procreate with windborne seed, I weed my neighbor’s unruly gardens too. And when, in the middle of winter, and no weeding can be done, I shovel the paths and sprinkle salt on his steps. Hey — I’m out there already, right? Might as well.

But I’m not writing this to slap myself on my back. It’s to complain bitterly, about the cowboys he hires to take care of the garden. They purport (according to the sign on the side of their truck) to be horticultural experts. They are not. Once a year at this time (mid-July), when the grass isn’t growing fast enough to mow (and charge him for), they have a thorough once-over with the weed-whacker. In fact, they use the weed-whacker to perform every single one of their horticultural functions. The general idea seems to be to reduce everything in its path to three inches in height, as if they were giving the property a military haircut. No matter what lies in its path, down it comes. Flowers in full bloom? Down. Tomatoes bearing big, fat fruit? Down. Actually, they didn’t fall down so much as slump, then turn limp before I noticed that the stalks had all been cleanly sheared off at ground level. Last year, they also buzzed my herbs, all of which were growing in what I assumed to be fairly obvious borders. And how did I know that they had not simply been chewed down to nubs overnight? Because the plants themselves lay scattered all across the lawn where the weed-whacker had sprayed them.

I have asked my landlord why he employs these guys, given that they clearly don’t know their ass from their elbow. I didn’t use those exact words. He said that he’d always used them. And that was that.

A few days ago I noticed that the stalks of the recently flowered lilies in the alley had begun to turn dry, and were ready to be plucked from among the ivy. I did not act fast enough, however. Today I went out to find the entire hillside had been defoliated, the remains making a thick, clinging layer that was suffocating the ivy underneath. The whole thing looked a mess, like a hurricane had come through. A lovely shady laburnum tree near the garages had also been subjected to a “trim,” and looked as if it was weighing up whether losing 60% of its leaves was worth surviving or not. It was buried trunk-deep with its fallen slender branches, like some grotesque victim of an unspeakable war crime. “What have I ever done to anyone?” is asked me. OK, it didn’t. Plants can’t talk. It they couldn’t they’d be screaming.

I went out and pulled the straw-like crud from the ivy bank, and pulled the thistle stubs and lifted up the branches. I made three black contractors bags full. This should have been the cowboy’s job. Instead, they just walked through and left it all there. This is because it can’t be blown away, but requires actual climbing up the hillside, bending over and stuffing bags by hand. It’s hard work. I have not yet mentioned that it was 100 degrees. While I sweated away, a neighbor maneuvered past me and said absolutely nothing.

“You’re welcome,” I said under my breath. “Have a nice day.”