In the midst of all the talk about Black Friday and Cyber Monday, I heard a blurb on WFMT about a new production of Franz Lehár’s “The Merry Widow,” just in time for the holiday season. The story involves a debt-ridden country attempting to capture the millions of a wealthy widow in order to save their economy. A contrived stimulus package. This has a strange ring of reality about it.
Opera and reality?
Now while I personally enjoy opera, I am the first to admit that there is nothing created by humankind that is more bizarre. Think about it: singing a dialogue, generally in a foreign language, then reflecting upon this dialogue with soaring melodies that challenge the bounds of the vocal physiology. All the while, this supported by a symphonic ensemble, a stage crew, prompters, lighting technicians, and an adoring public prone to wearing capes and peering through the darkness of the theatre via little golden binoculars held in place by “mother of pearl” sticks. (Okay, so I have exaggerated a bit about the capes and the opera glasses. But, only slightly.)
When people have expressed reluctance to attend opera because of not understanding the language, I have always insisted that even without knowing the language, there will be enough happening on stage to give one a basic understanding of the story.
After attending a performance of Kodály’s “Székely Fonó” (The Transylvanian Spinning Room), I may wish to amend that.
My encounter with this opera took place at the grand Hungarian State Opera in Budapest. This is a house built in the late 19th Century in a Renaissance/Baroque style and a lavish tribute to the operatic art form. Like opera, itself, everything about this palace for performance is a bit “over the top.” Since the Kodály work was new to me, I attempted with no success to research the story in advance. Having failed, I was reassured by my mantra to others: “there will be enough happening on the stage to give a basic understanding of the story.”
In this staging, the house lights lowered and you heard the sound of a steam locomotive pulling to a stop. Stage lights revealed several figures in black trench coats and black hats standing in front of the curtain. As the idle train hissed the sound of escaping steam, two figures divested their dark coats and hats to reveal heavily decorated Hungarian folk dress. In an immediate blackout, the train is heard to pull away and in a bit, stop again. The lights go up on the same group and two more people divest revealing brightly-colored folk costumes. This continues until the whole group stands before us in their traditional native dress. At this point, the music began and the curtain opened onto a large room filled with spinning machines. In the background there was a simulated forest with various wooden bridges on and over which people in black trench coats sometimes appeared. (Remember the train?) Downstage, near the edge is a box from which objects/props were removed from time to time. There was a bridge across the orchestra into the audience over which people sometimes left. I don’t recall if anyone ever returned from that direction. People sang. People embraced. People sometimes looked really sad. A couple of times I caught the glimpse of a smile. (Someone either happy or out of character.)
Despite watching everything intently, I have no idea what this opera is about. I can only say that everyone who started out singing was still singing in the end and seemed happy about things. The people in black trench coats were no longer hovering ominously in the background. The music was up-tempo.
Since the month-long wedding of Fernando and Christine back in 1589, opera has captured the imaginations of music lovers. My good friend, Mike, recently purchased season tickets to the opera. Having grown up in a less urbane part of the Midwest where there were not a lot of opportunities to hear opera, he wanted to experience a new musical idiom. Sadly, Mike’s first encounter was opera on hormones: Wagner! Some of these operas last for days with nothing even approaching reality.
Once, at a performance of “La Bohème” at Chicago’s Lyric Opera, a stage that boasts the largest proscenium opening of any opera house in the world, the curtain opened to reveal the humble loft of the starving artists of the story. In this design, rather than being a small hovel amid the Paris skyline, this loft encompassed the whole of the vast opening of the Lyric stage.
The older lady seated to my left whisper loudly to her friend beyond. “It’s no wonder they are so poor; trying to heat that place.”
Lady, it’s opera. Like our economy, don’t expect anything reasonable. Just sit in the dark and hope to understand.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Where is Bletchley Park when you need them?
Lately, each time I boot up my laptop, I am interrupted by a popup admonishing me to update my Sweet IMs. You know, those “happy faces” inserted into online chats to convey a reaction or mood. Having never used the program, I have no idea why I ever thought it was a good idea to have it. If I am unhappy with something, I find it far more effective to say such than to insert a scowling happy face. Which, in itself, is a contradiction of “terms.”
We are a society of messages. We even use license plates on our autos to convey a characteristic or status. MBA 87 obviously means a graduate degree in business. I assume that 1987 was the year that it was awarded and not the age of the recipient. My favorite was the woman who drove the vintage Rolls convertible. Her plate: SNOB.
I once asked a young woman in our office to explain why her automobile license plates read “Hurtles?” “Do you do everything rapidly?” She looked at me with a very puzzled expression and asked for an explanation of my question. “Your license plate, it reads HRTLES. Is it because of your tendency to drive over the speed limit? Or perhaps you perform tasks quickly?
“No,” she exclaimed with exasperation, “I’m heartless.” She was without a significant other.
I am generally at a loss with the cryptic tendencies, which creep into our language either by vanity plates or the written word. I must confess from the outset, I am not an abbreviator. In fact, I have never appreciated abbreviations. My sister annoys me when she says “scripts” for prescriptions and I steadfastly refuse to IL for Illinois when I do that rare thing and send a “snailmail.” But, on the other hand, I am able to answer “yes” or “no” to a question, which, down south is considered rude. In that culture, you are supposed to take your time – ease into the reality – before moving beyond ambiguity. “Let me think about that. You know, hmmmm, no mam, I don’t think so.”
It is all about expediency. We are in a rush to get things done, unless, of course, it concerns a senseless war, national healthcare, or potholes in Chicago Streets. Our conversations become clipped with monosyllables. Our online emails and chats are rife with shortcuts. And nobody seems to remember the difference between you’re and your. O sorry, UR.
Online messages read like a code from a previous war. IB, LOL but AAYF. BST WAG1? R U CAZ? (I’m back, laughing out loud, but as always your friend. But seriously though, what is going on? Are you crazy?”)
Just as we now give a Ph.D. in Comic Book Studies, we will soon recognize Emoticon as a world language. With almost 4,000 recognized Internet acronyms, perhaps many R already there.
I need to run and nuke my breakfast!
XOXOXO
MUAH
BFN
We are a society of messages. We even use license plates on our autos to convey a characteristic or status. MBA 87 obviously means a graduate degree in business. I assume that 1987 was the year that it was awarded and not the age of the recipient. My favorite was the woman who drove the vintage Rolls convertible. Her plate: SNOB.
I once asked a young woman in our office to explain why her automobile license plates read “Hurtles?” “Do you do everything rapidly?” She looked at me with a very puzzled expression and asked for an explanation of my question. “Your license plate, it reads HRTLES. Is it because of your tendency to drive over the speed limit? Or perhaps you perform tasks quickly?
“No,” she exclaimed with exasperation, “I’m heartless.” She was without a significant other.
I am generally at a loss with the cryptic tendencies, which creep into our language either by vanity plates or the written word. I must confess from the outset, I am not an abbreviator. In fact, I have never appreciated abbreviations. My sister annoys me when she says “scripts” for prescriptions and I steadfastly refuse to IL for Illinois when I do that rare thing and send a “snailmail.” But, on the other hand, I am able to answer “yes” or “no” to a question, which, down south is considered rude. In that culture, you are supposed to take your time – ease into the reality – before moving beyond ambiguity. “Let me think about that. You know, hmmmm, no mam, I don’t think so.”
It is all about expediency. We are in a rush to get things done, unless, of course, it concerns a senseless war, national healthcare, or potholes in Chicago Streets. Our conversations become clipped with monosyllables. Our online emails and chats are rife with shortcuts. And nobody seems to remember the difference between you’re and your. O sorry, UR.
Online messages read like a code from a previous war. IB, LOL but AAYF. BST WAG1? R U CAZ? (I’m back, laughing out loud, but as always your friend. But seriously though, what is going on? Are you crazy?”)
Just as we now give a Ph.D. in Comic Book Studies, we will soon recognize Emoticon as a world language. With almost 4,000 recognized Internet acronyms, perhaps many R already there.
I need to run and nuke my breakfast!
XOXOXO
MUAH
BFN
Thursday, November 26, 2009
A Title Worth Respecting
When you get to be my age - somewhat “older than God´-you think back on your life. It happens with some regularity and often associated with a pile of pills you are about to ingest.
You realize that you have done it. You have managed, despite loftier intentions, to become quite ordinary. You have had your moment. There are no more career moves left. And unless, in an instance of bad judgement, you decide to “streak” the local Target, you have probably had your 15 minutes.
No, I am not considering checking out, but when someone who works on commission offers you the “Senior Discount,” you know its all downhill from here.
So you reflect on all the grand titles of all the interesting careers and wonder: “What if?”
To be a “laureate” either of the poetic or Nobel variety would be nice. To be President, not so, since people really like to openly voice their disapproval and I am sensitive. Senator used to have a ring of respect. Archbishop would probably be confused by the younger set with Ronald at McDonald’s.
By far, the most intriguing would be The Bulibasha. It is exotic, remote, and few people outside Romania even know its significance. Which, of course, would generate lots of discussion but there would be added security checks at the airport because of the proliferation of gold jewelry. Or being called The Metropolitan. (No, not like “The Continental” in the Conrad-Magidson song of the late 30s.) But Metropolitan with full headdress and big medallion in the Greek Orthodox sense of the word. I have always liked that title. To be so designated, however, would probably require much more than the freshman year “Introduction to World Religions” and the ability to shout “Opa!” when you see flaming cheese.
The Bulibasha is as much of a long shot as the Metropolitan. But both have interesting entourages and respect is often closely tied to the size of your entourage. (No double entendre intended.)
About three years ago I had an important career change. I became grandfather to the first of three delightful little ones. I never knew it could be so much fun. Visits with them are hilarious and filled with tons of energy and excitement. However, since I live apart and other grandparents get frequent face time, I have tried to have regular telephone interactions with each one. With this young age, you realize, early on, that you must ask questions to which they have a ready answer to assure yourself you are actually having a conversation. “What does the dog say?” “What does the cat say?” And so forth. You get the drift.
The oldest, now three, has become quite busy in his daily schedule and is often too much so to speak with Grandaddy. Recently, when pressed by his mother to come to the telephone and talk with me, he reluctantly accepted the phone and spoke firmly, “MOO!” then handed the phone back to his mother and resumed whatever he was occupied doing.
How frustrating it is when the old man can’t seem to remember the basic stuff! We have gone over this many times!
Thomas Hardy in an eloquently sad poem, “To Lizbie Brown,” writes of a man who sought to love a woman he never met. He was mesmerized by her and yet, never made a move to know her beyond the distance that separated them. In the end, he realizes when people “speak of me as not,” she will probably say, “and who was he?”
When my second grandchild, a red-tressed beauty of 2 recently gave me the title, “Grandmon,” I must admit that it surpassed all achievements I feared I had missed. When she speaks the greeting, it feels loftier than you could ever imagine. And hey, while not as large as that of the Bulibasha, my entourage of three isn’t so shabby on the playground at the local park.
It’s actually quite extraordinary.
You realize that you have done it. You have managed, despite loftier intentions, to become quite ordinary. You have had your moment. There are no more career moves left. And unless, in an instance of bad judgement, you decide to “streak” the local Target, you have probably had your 15 minutes.
No, I am not considering checking out, but when someone who works on commission offers you the “Senior Discount,” you know its all downhill from here.
So you reflect on all the grand titles of all the interesting careers and wonder: “What if?”
To be a “laureate” either of the poetic or Nobel variety would be nice. To be President, not so, since people really like to openly voice their disapproval and I am sensitive. Senator used to have a ring of respect. Archbishop would probably be confused by the younger set with Ronald at McDonald’s.
By far, the most intriguing would be The Bulibasha. It is exotic, remote, and few people outside Romania even know its significance. Which, of course, would generate lots of discussion but there would be added security checks at the airport because of the proliferation of gold jewelry. Or being called The Metropolitan. (No, not like “The Continental” in the Conrad-Magidson song of the late 30s.) But Metropolitan with full headdress and big medallion in the Greek Orthodox sense of the word. I have always liked that title. To be so designated, however, would probably require much more than the freshman year “Introduction to World Religions” and the ability to shout “Opa!” when you see flaming cheese.
The Bulibasha is as much of a long shot as the Metropolitan. But both have interesting entourages and respect is often closely tied to the size of your entourage. (No double entendre intended.)
About three years ago I had an important career change. I became grandfather to the first of three delightful little ones. I never knew it could be so much fun. Visits with them are hilarious and filled with tons of energy and excitement. However, since I live apart and other grandparents get frequent face time, I have tried to have regular telephone interactions with each one. With this young age, you realize, early on, that you must ask questions to which they have a ready answer to assure yourself you are actually having a conversation. “What does the dog say?” “What does the cat say?” And so forth. You get the drift.
The oldest, now three, has become quite busy in his daily schedule and is often too much so to speak with Grandaddy. Recently, when pressed by his mother to come to the telephone and talk with me, he reluctantly accepted the phone and spoke firmly, “MOO!” then handed the phone back to his mother and resumed whatever he was occupied doing.
How frustrating it is when the old man can’t seem to remember the basic stuff! We have gone over this many times!
Thomas Hardy in an eloquently sad poem, “To Lizbie Brown,” writes of a man who sought to love a woman he never met. He was mesmerized by her and yet, never made a move to know her beyond the distance that separated them. In the end, he realizes when people “speak of me as not,” she will probably say, “and who was he?”
When my second grandchild, a red-tressed beauty of 2 recently gave me the title, “Grandmon,” I must admit that it surpassed all achievements I feared I had missed. When she speaks the greeting, it feels loftier than you could ever imagine. And hey, while not as large as that of the Bulibasha, my entourage of three isn’t so shabby on the playground at the local park.
It’s actually quite extraordinary.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Thanksgiving Rituals
My purple-haired mother never stuffed the turkey. She felt she didn’t know it well enough to deal with it in such a personal manner. Instead we had a pan of good old southern cornbread dressing. No sage, no oysters, no canned broth with stale breadcrumbs which resembled…..Well, you know, it just doesn’t look that edible. Our dressing was made with fresh broth from a boiled hen, warm yellow cornbread from an iron skillet, and generous chunks of that fine bird sprinkled on top before baking. With the sautéed onion and the bits of celery, it was a smell to die for when it emerged from the oven. There was also giblet gravy which some poured over it. But not me! Too many giblets that I didn’t recognize.
I don’t do unknown food except for the “mystery meat” which appears on the butter-smeared sandwiches in Eastern Europe. You will find these in every take out shop in every train station from Prague to Bucharest and on most Malev flights. Heavy on butter, with bread three times thicker than needed and then a sliver of something. God knows, I have no idea what it is. It is obviously not toxic, or if so, there is an extended dormancy.
At Thanksgiving, I want my turkey to have legs and my dressing to appear in a Pyrex bowl. Citrus, pears, and apples inside the bird happened after I left home and knew the turkey better.
In October of 1979, my son, John, asked, “Dad, can we have a traditional Thanksgiving?” “Do you mean dressing up like pilgrims?” He said no; so feeling relieved I promised him a traditional Thanksgiving and promptly forgot our agreement.
A week before the holiday, he reminded me of my promise.
“John, what do you mean by a traditional Thanksgiving?”
We always had turkey and the standard side dishes – except no marshmallows on the sweet potatoes. We had long ago eschewed the oyster stuffing that his maternal grandfather had proposed. Too radical! We even served both the jellied, can-shaped cranberry sauce and the kind with whole berries just to placate each sensibility. So I was at a loss to understand what tradition was missing.
“Come with me and I will show you,” he offered.
Now, you must know something about John. Even at a young age, he was very big on image. When I trimmed back the azaleas to curb their jungle-like proportions, he was embarrassed because we had the ugliest yard on the street for several months. He was ashamed of his Schwinn 10-speed because it was not Italian.
Since I had promised, I followed his guide.
He directed me to drive to an upscale shopping area about a mile from our home. He motioned me to park outside a shop, which sold fine china and silver tableware. We were infrequent customers, so I knew their business. I followed John to the rear of the store to a display table set for a formal dinner. In the middle was the source of our “traditional Thanksgiving.” Gleaming in ornate splendor was a domed meat platter, sufficiently large to hold a 25lb. turkey.
It was priced at $8,000.00 since the Hunt Brothers had decided to drive the market that year.
To John, the image from his schoolbook of the Norman Rockwell family around a table with a silver domed platter between two single candlesticks was a traditional Thanksgiving.
We have never made it to have a “traditional Thanksgiving” in the illustrated textbook sense. There have been good years and some not so. There are even years when Boston Market did much of the cooking.
Happy Holiday!
I don’t do unknown food except for the “mystery meat” which appears on the butter-smeared sandwiches in Eastern Europe. You will find these in every take out shop in every train station from Prague to Bucharest and on most Malev flights. Heavy on butter, with bread three times thicker than needed and then a sliver of something. God knows, I have no idea what it is. It is obviously not toxic, or if so, there is an extended dormancy.
At Thanksgiving, I want my turkey to have legs and my dressing to appear in a Pyrex bowl. Citrus, pears, and apples inside the bird happened after I left home and knew the turkey better.
In October of 1979, my son, John, asked, “Dad, can we have a traditional Thanksgiving?” “Do you mean dressing up like pilgrims?” He said no; so feeling relieved I promised him a traditional Thanksgiving and promptly forgot our agreement.
A week before the holiday, he reminded me of my promise.
“John, what do you mean by a traditional Thanksgiving?”
We always had turkey and the standard side dishes – except no marshmallows on the sweet potatoes. We had long ago eschewed the oyster stuffing that his maternal grandfather had proposed. Too radical! We even served both the jellied, can-shaped cranberry sauce and the kind with whole berries just to placate each sensibility. So I was at a loss to understand what tradition was missing.
“Come with me and I will show you,” he offered.
Now, you must know something about John. Even at a young age, he was very big on image. When I trimmed back the azaleas to curb their jungle-like proportions, he was embarrassed because we had the ugliest yard on the street for several months. He was ashamed of his Schwinn 10-speed because it was not Italian.
Since I had promised, I followed his guide.
He directed me to drive to an upscale shopping area about a mile from our home. He motioned me to park outside a shop, which sold fine china and silver tableware. We were infrequent customers, so I knew their business. I followed John to the rear of the store to a display table set for a formal dinner. In the middle was the source of our “traditional Thanksgiving.” Gleaming in ornate splendor was a domed meat platter, sufficiently large to hold a 25lb. turkey.
It was priced at $8,000.00 since the Hunt Brothers had decided to drive the market that year.
To John, the image from his schoolbook of the Norman Rockwell family around a table with a silver domed platter between two single candlesticks was a traditional Thanksgiving.
We have never made it to have a “traditional Thanksgiving” in the illustrated textbook sense. There have been good years and some not so. There are even years when Boston Market did much of the cooking.
Happy Holiday!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Dealing With Atrophy
So today, after months of the relative inactivity of retirement, I decided to deal with muscle atrophy. I signed up for an intensive exercise program down the street. It is my goal to tone everything. For those of you who know me personally: yes, I know, that is a helluva lot of toning. But hey! truth is what you perceive it to be. (George and Dick certainly knew that to be a fact.)
To make all this venture seem to be even more "purpose driven," you know, like those people who jog along the lake in 20-below Chicago weather, I have opted for the 7 a.m. class. Facing the day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed! (I will let you know when I switch to the afternoon.)
I do not mean to imply that I am totally inactive.
I keep my mind exercised by driving daily in Chicago. It is no surprise that the Windy City was just acclaimed as the most frustrating city for automobile operators. Chicago drivers are the worst!!!! In our wonderful assimilation of cultures, we have also assimilated the worst drivers in the world. When the light changes red, four additional vehicles are likely to continue through the intersection. Even if you are 30 feet behind the line when the light changes red, if your blinker is on, you turn!!!! This is also good for the eye muscles, as you can surmise.
There is some degree of benefit for the “slamming on the brakes to avoid death” movement of the right leg. I have noticed it is markedly stronger than the left.
My favorite frustration is tied between two: the cellphone user and that person who passes on the right to get one car length ahead at the intersection. Sometimes events become a combination of many.
One morning, on my way to work when I did that sort of thing, there was a slight drizzle. The streets were wet and so when the light on McCormick Avenue began to change to red, I slowed and stopped. The car behind erupted with a series of horn blasts. When the light changed, the vehicle pulled around on the right and the driver, on a cellphone, shot me an offensive gesture with a middle finger.
Well! That was just too much. I followed the car for many blocks until the owner parked and headed into work.
I lowered the window and spoke calmly to the lady who had so rudely gestured to me. “You know, you may have a nice dress, a decent pair of shoes, and a so-so hairdo. But you and I both know, that each time you glance into the mirror you will know you are just a candidate for the Jerry Springer Show.” (Well, that is not exactly what I said, but that is the blog version. The actual aspersion had to do with rubbish from an assemblage of modular dwellings.)
Then I used my strong right leg to exit the situation.
I am living the “purpose driven life!”
To make all this venture seem to be even more "purpose driven," you know, like those people who jog along the lake in 20-below Chicago weather, I have opted for the 7 a.m. class. Facing the day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed! (I will let you know when I switch to the afternoon.)
I do not mean to imply that I am totally inactive.
I keep my mind exercised by driving daily in Chicago. It is no surprise that the Windy City was just acclaimed as the most frustrating city for automobile operators. Chicago drivers are the worst!!!! In our wonderful assimilation of cultures, we have also assimilated the worst drivers in the world. When the light changes red, four additional vehicles are likely to continue through the intersection. Even if you are 30 feet behind the line when the light changes red, if your blinker is on, you turn!!!! This is also good for the eye muscles, as you can surmise.
There is some degree of benefit for the “slamming on the brakes to avoid death” movement of the right leg. I have noticed it is markedly stronger than the left.
My favorite frustration is tied between two: the cellphone user and that person who passes on the right to get one car length ahead at the intersection. Sometimes events become a combination of many.
One morning, on my way to work when I did that sort of thing, there was a slight drizzle. The streets were wet and so when the light on McCormick Avenue began to change to red, I slowed and stopped. The car behind erupted with a series of horn blasts. When the light changed, the vehicle pulled around on the right and the driver, on a cellphone, shot me an offensive gesture with a middle finger.
Well! That was just too much. I followed the car for many blocks until the owner parked and headed into work.
I lowered the window and spoke calmly to the lady who had so rudely gestured to me. “You know, you may have a nice dress, a decent pair of shoes, and a so-so hairdo. But you and I both know, that each time you glance into the mirror you will know you are just a candidate for the Jerry Springer Show.” (Well, that is not exactly what I said, but that is the blog version. The actual aspersion had to do with rubbish from an assemblage of modular dwellings.)
Then I used my strong right leg to exit the situation.
I am living the “purpose driven life!”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
