feis dad of the opera

I guess someone associated with the San Diego Opera read my last post. And, unbelievably, instead of being really, really angry, they were just plain angry. They emailed me, I emailed them back. They called me. I listened to their voicemail. Then, a few days ago, we actually got to communicate with each other the old-fashioned way. By that I mean, we texted each other.

Anyway, long story, short: we came to an agreement. My dissatisfaction for the opera not only comes from my lack of sophistication, intelligence and upbringing, but my lack of knowledge. If I knew the inner workings of what made up an opera (and maybe could speak French), I might learn to appreciate it more.

They suggested the best way to learn more about operas was to actually participate in one. This came as quite a shock to me, until I realized that there must not be a huge pull in today's society to be an opera star.

Dad: "Son, what would you like to do when you get older?"

Son: "I don't know, dad. I'm only twelve."

Dad: "You've got to start planning now. Maybe you could be a fireman or policeman?"

Son: "Don't make enough money, pops."

Dad: "How about an engineer?"

Son: "I'd rather be a trash collector or an accordion player."

Dad: "Yeah, you're right. Whatever you do, don't be an engineer."

Son: "How about a football or basketball star? Maybe play baseball? They make the big bucks and get all the hot chicks."

Dad: "Even better, you could sing in the opera."

Son: "You're an idiot."

Dad: "Yeah, I'm an engineer."

Irregardless, they wanted me to take a shot at it. I guess they're thinking maybe we could bring in the Irish dancing crowd? Drive up attendance by 75% or more. So, I've signed up to do a one night gig next fall in one of the biggest operas around. Here's the promotional posters they created.






I'm thinking I'm a shoe in for an Oscar. No, that's movies. Maybe a Grammy. No, that's for real music. Well, maybe they'll give me a hot Krispy Kreme donut or two.

Yum.

feis dad

Feis dad goes to the opera

Last weekend I traded in my dancing shoes for a pair of Z-Coils and spent three days in San Diego as a chaperone with my oldest daughter’s band and choir class. Yep, feis dad became band dad for a weekend.

At first, I thought I was trading up. No accordion music. No curly wigs. No obscenely bright dresses.

Then came the night at the opera.

You haven’t experienced pain, real pain, until you’ve gone to an opera with over 120 extremely tired middle-schoolers. Actually, the kids were probably the best part of the experience. They were well behaved and most took it in stride. This was accomplished by a stern lecture on opera etiquette by their band director … and the fact that they slept through most of the show. As did the adult chaperones.

We had all gotten up early that day for music camp and an afternoon at the San Diego zoo, so everyone was exhausted by the time we got to the opera. But you can’t blame it all on the zoo (not even with all those darn hills).

Some amount of responsibility must fall on anyone who has ever been involved in producing an opera. Come on, singing a story? Really? And to Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet?? In French??? And did I mention it was three-and-a-half hours long? It took the actor/singers thirty long minutes to die in the final act. I could hear the nearby kids mumbling, “Just die already!”

An opera on Shakespeare? Get real. Shakespeare is bad enough when you have to read it. But singing it? And in French. Why French? If I recall my history correctly, Shakespeare was English and opera is an Italian thing. Maybe the producers thought it would give it an “artsy” feel?

Sorry, just because you sing the story in a different language doesn’t make it any better. Watching Knight Rider reruns dubbed in German doesn’t really add anything to an already bad show. Maybe a few hundred years ago this would have been fun, but now we’ve got Xbox and Youtube.

All this said, I tried to watch it with an open mind. Maybe I was wrong? It’s happened before. Maybe I would be pleasantly surprised …

Nope.

I would say it held my interest for about … say ten seconds. Now, I know what a lot of you are saying, that I lack sophistication, class and proper hygiene. All of which is true. But in my defense, just because something used to be popular centuries ago doesn’t mean it’s still worthwhile and we should continue to support it.

Let me give you a few examples:

The practice of sacrificing virgins to appease an angry god. Yeah, the guy who thought this one up was a real Einstein. It’s like burning your best crops before you get to eat them. Aren’t you glad we don’t do this anymore? Instead of a night at the opera, we could have gone to a “Night Sacrificing Virgins into the Volcano of Death,” which would have been a real bummer for those who were selected for this honor (though the bus ride home would have been less crowded).

The practice of Castrato. Not too many years ago, the Europeans castrated young boys before their voice changed in order to preserve their ability to hit those really high notes. Yeow. It hurts even writing about it. And these kids didn’t really have a choice in the matter. This was decided by their parents who had been brain washed to think it was an honor or they wanted to get rich off their kids possible fame. Where did this fame come from? You guessed it. The opera. And I thought it was painful just watching it. And the worst thing about all this? These boys weren’t able to pass down their incredible voices to future generations. Yesh. Talk about a no-win situation.

The practice of watching The Lawrence Welk Show every Sunday night. I personally remember this ritual. We’d finish dinner early, just so we wouldn’t miss anything. My grandmother would take her spot on her chair, gently place her full set of dentures down on the TV tray and watch the show in complete rapture for an hour as Lawrence, the Champagne Lady and the polka accordionist strutted their stuff. I’d have to watch in silence, all the while thinking that when I grow up, I was never going torture my kids in the same way. The good news: I’ve been able to keep my promise. The bad news: I’m still the one being tortured. Unfortunately, The Lawrence Welk Show has been replaced by American Idol, which my kids love and is far worse than anything Mr. Welk could dish out.

As you can plainly see, some of the old ways are best kept in the past. Just as there is no reason for virgin sacrifice in today’s world, the same can be said for the opera. And at $50 for the nose bleed seats, this isn’t the cheapest way to get a good nap (this distinction is held by any episode of The Bachelor or Bachelorette).

Now, I’m not saying these people aren’t talented. I’m sure the lead woman performer could break glass with her voice. Which she seemed to try to do repeatedly. But, again, is this something we want to encourage? I can make extremely disgusting sounds with my hand and armpit, but you don’t see me doing it up on a stage for a bunch of people in Tuxedoes do you? And listening to her hit those high pitches was like having a root canal. Without Novocain. On the wrong tooth.


To be fair, there are a few positive aspects of going to the opera.

- Twenty-minute intermissions between acts

- They sell beer. Drinking alcohol would probably make the whole thing a lot more fun (though, being a chaperone, I wasn’t allowed to indulge this time)

- The sets were fairly cool (what I could see from four freakin’ stories up)

- And, finally, no accordion music

Hmmmm… I guess it wasn’t that bad after all …

Here’s a clue: I don't have a clue

Last weekend I drove my two dancing daughters to Albuquerque for a feis all by myself. Let me say that again for those who didn’t grasp the significance of the last sentence. ALL BY MYSELF. No feis mom along. Nada. Zip. Zero.

I believe this was a huge accomplishment in my life. Sort of like my first time wearing big boy pants and leaving the comfort of my diapers behind (which, truth be told, wasn’t that long ago). Yep, I did it all by myself.

That being said, I’m surprised nobody died.

Nevertheless, what amazed me most was that people were coming to me, asking questions about the feis. Me. Yeah, right. I haven’t a clue.

This is how I usually ride out a feis.



As you can see, even without feis mom here, I had a chance to “rest my eyes” for a few minutes while another feis mom helped my DD’s with their hair. I think it worked out for the best. For some reason, they weren’t keen on my idea of using duct tape to secure their slinky wigs of doom. Go figure.

Anyway, after I helped get them ready (by not helping) for the feis, we moved down to the ballroom and I immediately took up the following position:



Now, any sane person would look at me intently playing ATV Race on his daughter’s iPod Touch (I can’t afford my own since I just bought two new solo dresses) and think, “This guy doesn’t have a clue,” right? Then why in the heck would people bother to ask me questions?

One guy, possibly even more clueless than me, started asking me about taking pictures during the feis. If he’s reading this, I have to apologize. Up to this point in my life, I hadn’t won a single game in ATV Race and I was hot on the tail of the leader. So, I tried to answer his questions and still race at the same time, with about 95% of my concentration going toward the race. The conversation lasted about two minutes, with me mumbling some sort of answer while twisting convulsively to trying to speed around the ATV in front of me. The whole encounter didn’t turn out well and he went away unfulfilled. Again, sorry, but you should know better. I haven’t a clue.

But he wasn’t the only one. Other people (who evidently thought I had a clue) were asking me for directions, opinions on the judges and whether or not so-and-so danced better than another so-and-so. FYI. I can’t tell the difference between a slip jig, hornpipe and the macarena and to me a “good” dance is anytime someone doesn’t fall down. That’s about the limit of my expertise on the subject. Again, I haven’t a clue.

If this wasn’t crazy enough, a feis mom who I know well (and who should have known better) asked me, “How long do you think the awards will take?” I gave her an incredulous that said, “You’re asking me?” She quickly recovered from her significant lapse of judgment and decided she might do better by asking someone (or something) with more of a clue … like the pool boy or a chair.

Other than those pesky questions, I think the weekend went fairly well. My daughters made it to all their dances and they even placed in a few. Although I’m convinced their success was mainly due to my attention to detail, my dancing advice and my over abundance of energy, the next time I’ll let my wife do the honors. I might take the weekend and do something a little less stressing … like running a marathon or donating a kidney.