toreador, don't spit on the floor

Last night I went to see my very first opera. Actually, no, that's not true. I saw a production of The Mikado at Hofstra University several years ago. It was rather forgettable. Not because it was an amateur production. No, no. I assure you that this particular mounting of Gilbert & Sullivan was quite competent. However, the cultural significance was diminished slightly in my mind what with all the jokes about Mineola and traffic on the Meadowbrook wedged into the beloved book.

Nassau County humor, in case you didn't know, has limited reach. Last night's experience, however, is one that will forever remain in my memory bank.

The Hot Russian and I, looking quite spiffy in our suitable opera attire*, attended the New York City Opera's presentation of Carmen at Lincoln Center.

You know, I always found it amazing that there was on opera based on the theme music from The Bad News Bears...

If any of you took the previous sentence seriously, kindly form an orderly line so that I can kick you in the teeth and then ridicule you in an efficient manner. Thank you.

But seriously folks, the opera was way cool. The acoustics, on the other hand, well... they sucked. I was eagerly anticipating ringing ears and blown-back hair when the mezzosopranos unleashed. However, the architecture of the theater all but prohibits soaring vocals from seeping past the proscenium arch. The layout of the stage just sort of swallows up the voices. 'Tis a pity indeed since the company was so talented.

Shitty sound aside, I was totally in my element. I am extremely grateful to The Hot Russian for hatching last night's plan and executing it. Thanks to her, I've already got a ballet under my belt this past season ("Manon" performed by the American Ballet Theater) and we have plans to see Madama Butterfly at the Metropolitan Opera, in addition to a few other artsy-fartsy events. Being a culture vulture suits me, I must say.

After the opera, we crossed Broadway for some red wine and dessert at Cafe Fiorello. I'm not sure which was more delicious -- the chocolate mousse or the cell phone conversation conducted at the next table. A bawdy blonde on her seventh martini (give or take a dozen) said, and I quote: "My girlfriend just got kicked out of the motherfucking symphony. She was escorted out by the police and everything."

Unfortunately, she gave no reason as to why. Maybe she's just reeeeallly fussy about her Wagner and vocalized her disapproval. Wanna know my best guess? I think she blazed up a doobie and got busted. Those Philharmonic fans are often more baked than the most ardent Dead Head or Phish fan. It's true.

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* Unfortunately, not everyone was so mindful of the dress code. If I may, I'd like to play Mr. Blackwell for a second... Dude, flip flops? At the opera? Seriously? And you, young lady, in the low-rider jeans, thanks for showing off the thong-shaped tan lines. Do us all a favor and save those unfortunate wardrobe choices for when you go to see Mamma Mia.