Opera - Not Just for Crumblies Anymore

The median age of audience members at the Metropolitan Opera is 66 years old. I know this because I used to work there, and believe you me, on a good night at the opera it would be a challenge to shake a stick without hitting some serious facework.

There are many, many reasons for this: it’s an older form; the popular music of a pre-television (pre-vaudeville, actually) era, or the often esoteric work of contemporary classical composers that for better of for worse is not all that accessible to those of us used to melodic hooks and catchy lyrics. It’s an acquired taste. It’s long - often 3+ hours for a single show - and it should be, as it is also one of the more expensive forms of theater. The “best” box seats (with the best view of the audience, not the stage) go for $380. Orchestra seats are a mere $175-$275 a pop. For one show. So yeah, it’s understandable that younger opera enthusiasts are a rarity. I wouldn’t have gotten into it if I hadn’t been exposed to it so much when I was working there.

The Met’s admin offices are all tucked away inside the opera house, and the rehearsals and performances are all piped throughout the building via a series of Charlie’s Angels-esque speakers. So I’d gotten a taste for the music after a few weeks. But my real enthusiasm for this ridiculously over the top (and ridiculously pricey) art form came when I saw my first opera live.

To be honest: I don’t fully remember which one it was. Could’ve been Louisa Miller, a second-string Verdi work that wasn’t selling well (which means comps for the staff, yay!), or The Barber of Seville, with the Met’s old ginormous revolving set from the pre-Gelb era. Actually, now that I think of it, I think the first super-wow production I saw was Mazeppa, which was a new production that opened up to crappy reviews the first month that I worked there. It’s Tchaicovsky, so it was bangin’, but people thought the sets were campy and the concept overwrought. At least that’s what the reviews said. All I could think about it was big. Big and shiny. I like.

There’s the kicker. There is no amplification used in most opera (with the exception of opera houses with crap acoustics). Which means that if you’re sitting 5 storied up in the family circle nosebleed seats, watching the antlike figures on the stage, the music you are hearing is coming directly from their mouths with no help from science. It’s un-effin-believable. And when you relax and stop waiting for the plot to progress (which it will very slowly, or not at all) you can absorb the music going on in the pit. All those bits and pieces of orchestration coming together, the massive undertaking of a soprano filling a 4,000 seat theater with just the unaided sound of her voice, it’s mind-blowing. I always wonder in the scenes where the leads are singing directly at one another - do they need earplugs? Does the force of their companion’s massive vocal projection blow their hair back? It’s like an olympic event!

So yeah, that’s how I came to get behind opera. This amazement comes through patience and having an open mind and is totally worth it. AND since it is such a niche interest, you can have sublime dork-atiffic conversations with other opera enthusiasts and NO ONE else will know what you are talking about. I think that’s pretty damn cool. Those nosebleed seats cost $26 each, and they’ll loan you the binoculars for free. That’s where the real fans hang out.

Creatures That Like Me Best

Yay - first post for me, y’all.

I would like to take a few minutes today to write a little about something, or rather someone, very close to my heart. I began this thinking I would do a general blurb about my extreme love of dogs and how much I get behind dog ownership. And that honestly people who don’t like dogs are stupid and those who don’t allow their tenants to have dogs should be hit with sticks.

It’s my post, I don’t have to be fair or open minded about this.

But then I thought I’d better pay homage to the individual who inspired this primal affection in me: my special little guy.

Miyagi came into my life three and a half years ago when I was on my way to get a cat, to help with a horrific mouse and roach problem, from the ASPCA on 92nd and 1st in Manhattan.

We strolled past the cat pen in the shelter when we first arrived, but something was drawing us to the dog kennels. Something inexplicable. I would not have been able to tell you why at the time, but now I realize that the hand of fate was pulling me to him: a ridiculous 5 lb lump of chutzpah and joy. The tag on the cage read “MR MIYAGI.”

He was the most pathetic dog there, not accepting the treat offered by the kind volunteer that was showing us around. We decided that despite his age - he was 9 years old, they told us - he needed to come home with us. That same day we paid the adoption fee and signed an agreement that said we were taking him home with the full knowledge that he was anorexic and sickly and we couldn’t sue the shelter if he died. Didn’t matter. Look at him!

Three years later he and I have a closer bond than I’ve probably ever had with a person. He follows me around when I’m home, naps when I’m not. Curls up into a ball against my back when we’re sleeping. Is riDICulously cute in the meantime. But he’s still got an eating disorder andhe’s not friendly to most people. In fact, whenever I’m not around, I hear, he is downright mean and bitey to the point where no one can feed him or take him out. Yep, little dude’s got an attitude problem. But that’s why I’m so enthusiastic about him, and chihuahuas in general.

Think about it: we live in a city that forces us to acknowledge, and ignore, thousands of people every day. Some of these people have more money than we do, some have better jobs, bigger homes, nicer families and sweeter personalities. It’s hard not to feel swallowed up, not to feel your own sense of special individuality slipping away from you.

Then, you come home. Here is a creature that, of allllll the people in the world, thinks you are the best. So much so that no one else is worth his attention or his unbelievable cuteness. This somehow makes everything much, much better. Some days I think people would all be more friendly if they had their own Miyagis waiting for them at home.

Why we get behind it

Enthusiast (en-thu-si-ast) n. a person filled with enthusiasm for a particular pursuit; an ardent supporter: a Scrabble enthusiast, a Buffy the Vampire Slayer Enthusiast.

This, my friends, is what this site is all about, generally. We are generally enthralled with many, many things and wish to share our joy in discovery of new things with everyone around us. We think it’s nice.

Pop culture is riddled with downtrodden messages, pointless irony and nihlism, and we’d like to offer a counter-point of sincere excitement. There’s already a shit-ton of valid misery going on in the world, so why create it needlessly? Here are the things we get behind. We hope you will, too.