Moth-balls and sweet wrappers

Once a year the one-eyed town in which I live comes alive with festivities in all forms. This just happens to be that week, so last night I decided to get my yearly dose of culture (alone of course, since better half is basking in a first world country ... see previous post).

Invariably I get stuck in a cloud of moth-ball fumes emanating from society's most experienced, that almost have me suffocating throughout the show. Not a problem, nothing like a bit of an involuntary high to help me sit back and relax while listening to the music.

And then it starts, the relentless unwrapping of minty condiments. I am not sure if they had invented plastic wrappers yet, but I am sure composers rue the day the world was graced with these horrors. I am always amazed at how percussive crackling can always be heard right at the most intimate part of the music. So my main questions are:

1. Why are mints always unwrapped at the quietest part of a performance, and not at the part where the trombones are most likely to drown out the sound?
2. Will the universe ever grace me with the fortune of being suffocated by, for example, aftershave fumes emanating from the surrounding hunks? I doubt it, because then I probably would not be focusing too much on the show, and considering they only happen once a year, the universe would never let such a great waste occur (that and gorgeous hunks tend not to go for these kinds of show in the first place).

Lesson for the day:
Start teaching gorgeous-cologne-wearing-hunks-who-don't-like-mints how to appreciate classical music.