What's Opera, Dick?

This past Saturday, I had one of the more surreal moments of my life. And considering my life, that's saying something.

I had Paw Duty, taking my dad around to all the places he needs to go to get his shopping done. It turned out to be short and easy and fun, and we had a nice day. But that wasn't the surreal part. It's always kind of fun to go out with Paw. We laugh a lot.

But boy, did we laugh on Saturday.

I got into the car to head out for Paw Duty, and my radio was turned to the only station I ever listen to. See, I'm not big on the radio as a rule, and when my radio is on, it's only turned to one station. The NPR station out of R'noke.

My favorite Saturdays are "Saturday Classics" afternoons. I don't know, I like them. The fare is light and recognizable, and the announcer is happy and makes the occasional classical music joke, and it's generally just a happy few hours of show.

However, all that fun and frivolity comes to a screeching halt when The Met is in session. That would be your Metropolitan Opera, and when they rev up their motors, local programming is no more.

And apparently The Met had decided to put on a big show Saturday.

Now, I don't have a bit of trouble admitting that I'm just your regular old gal, and I hate opera. I think it's dumb. I don't get it. Sure, I might like the one-off song from an opera, "Largo al Factotum" comes to mind most readily, but I like Michigan J Frog's Looney Tunes version way more than any tenor who might be singing it on a stage. And many's the time Mr M and I have entertained ourselves singing the lines from "What's Opera, Doc?," "Oh, Bwoomhilda, you'we so wovewy." "Yes I know it, I can't helllp it."

But there it was. I got in the car on Saturday and started it up, and there was opera staring me right in the ear.

However, after only a few seconds of listening, I realized something odd. This wasn't your run of the mill old-time Italian or German or French fare. This opera was...well, it was modern!

And it was weird! I wasn't sure I'd ever encountered a modern opera. So I listened on the five or so minutes to Granny and Paw's, and that's when I first began seeing my soul lift from my body and hover around.

I mean, it was opera and no mistake. Overblown voices singing their dialogue. (That's what I hate about opera. Sing the damn songs and speak your dialogue, thank you very much!) But the dialogue was just, well, it was weird. "Ahhhhh, we're in the car, and we're driving, and isn't it looooovely!"

Shaking my head, I arrived at Paw's. He was waiting for me at the door and came out to the car. I didn't have to turn off this piece of weirdness. When he entered the car, I hiked the volume a bit and told him I was listening to possibly the oddest thing I'd ever heard.

And so we headed to the store and listened. Paw seemed to be as bemused as I was, and when a soprano sang, "This is a lovely piiiiece of laaaand, what a beautiful spot for a piiiiicnic!" we both got the helpless giggles and tried our damnedest to figure out what in the hell this must be about. Paw started calling it the "Down Home Opry," about country people going out to have an "all day meetin' and dinner on the grass," and I took to calling it (via the Andy Griffith Show) the "Traveling Religion Opera," about Pentecostals traveling along trying to convert people. But sadly, we reached our store, and we had to leave our show.

So we went in the grocery and got our stuff done. And came back to the car, started it up, and this piece of theatrical claptrap was still going on. We laughed just at the fact that it was still going, and still tried to figure out what in the hell these people were singing about. We didn't get far.

I got back to Paw's, and helped him carry in groceries, and hung out with him and Granny for a little while. But I had to get back home again, to tend to Milo and to make a meat loaf because Mr M was coming over that night. I got in the car to go home. The opera was still, well, raging.

And I say "raging" because things had really picked up since I left Paw! A man was using a whip on another man! And he was singing, "I'll use my whiiiiip! Whip! (crack!) Whip! (crack!) Whip! (crack!) Whip! (crack!)" And a woman was wailing, "Ohhhh, do not whiiiiip that maaaaan!"

And that's the first time I started to think, "Oooh, this is an opera about the Civil War!"

And that thought was all but confirmed for me when a man sang, "See him standing like a Stooooonewall! [Stonewall Jackson, right?] And he [and I'm not making this up, folks] stinks, stinks, stinks, stinks, stinks with success!"

Well, I was having a surreal ball, and I had to run just a quick couple of errands for myself before going home, and man, was I happy about that, because I got to listen to this shit some more, and then came the point where I got back in my car to finally start heading home, and then something musical slapped me right in my rube face.

After the whipping (crack!) and the Stonewall and the stinking with success, all of a sudden the music slowed down, and a woman started to sing. And here's what she sang.

"IIIIIIIIIII am the wiiiiiiife of Maaaaaao Zedonnnnnnnnng!"

What?!?!

Well, this just put me into outer space, and I was almost home at that point, my soul beating me and my car home by a few minutes, and to be honest, I just wanted to sit in my car for the next half-hour and listen to this awful drek-o-rama.

But!

But I remembered I had the R'noke NPR station tuned in on iTunes!

I got out of the car, loaded my groceries and other sundries into the house, pulled up iTunes, and played NPR in the house. It was 3:30. I was thinking there couldn't be more than a half-hour left of all this, I mean, "Weekend Edition" had to start soon. And after that half-hour, when it was all over, I'd have to hear what in the fucking hell I'd been listening to.

I listened while I made up the meat loaf. I listened while I spot-cleaned the house. I was done until Mr M came, and this crapola was still going on. I sat down at the computer and continued listening.

And then, finally. Massive applause. It was over!

Well, it wasn't over, but the second act was. And after the second act ended, an announcer came on telling me what the hell I'd been listening to off and on for the last 3 hours.

And hey, there might be people out there way smarter and more erudite than I, and you might already know, but I had been listening to an opera called "Nixon in China." Written by someone named John Adams (no, not the president) in 1987 (see?).

And I almost turned it off there and then, having gotten my answer and expecting Mr M, but I figured, "Oh, what the hell. I've invested this much time in it, why quit now?"

And boy, am I glad I decided that. Because what I've had missed....

As Mr Announcer told us his very self, Act 3 of "Nixon in China" takes place while Henry Kissinger is in the bathroom. (I guess this allowed Nixon and Mao to converse freely between themselves.)

And so I got to hear the opening of the act, where a big-voiced man playing Kissinger sang, with gusto, "IIIII have to gooooo to the tooooilet! Wherrrrre is the toooooooilet?"

I kid you not. I totally blacked out at that point and remember nothing after it.

And so at 5:00 it was finally over (four hours after it began), and "Weekend Edition" finally began. But it didn't matter what the news of that day was, nothing could beat a place for a picnic, a man being whipped, and Henry Kissinger having to pee.

And yes, it was still dumb, but it was dumb in a way that made me and Paw laugh hysterically together. After it was all over, I called Paw and told him what we'd been listening to, about how I started to think it was about the Civil War, then the wife of Mao Zedong showing up, and about Henry Kissinger going to the bathroom. And he laughed even more.

And so, thanks, Mr John Adams. I know you wrote your opera in all seriousness, and have probably entertained highbrow people and made them think and rub their chins and discuss your work at dinner parties, but you also unknowingly made a regular old gal and her regular old dad laugh together and have a really fun bonding afternoon.

I doubt you'd appreciate that very much, but the gal and her dad sure do.