I missed a Reds game this week. On a summer night in a park in Cincinnati, a man sang and a band played, and the
cicadas tried to butt in but became part of the chorus. I sat in a park with the full trees overhead and the wooden boards of the little amphitheater below. The only artificial part of the entire evening was the reflective flash of screens as various audience members held up cell phones, snatching a photo, a flicker of video. This was a waste of electrons and time. We all failed. You couldn’t really be there unless you were there.