Bounce Bounce Bounce

Hair stylist: Did I dry your hair too pageant-y?

Me: [fervent handshake] YES. YES. Thank you.

In Which I Get Cultured

Last week, I went to see La Traviata at the Met. Yes it's an opera but relax-- it was a matinée.

My aunt and uncle are huge opera people, and they somehow got me a last minute ticket in row G. To put that into perspective: it's like watching a baseball game from the dugout, or being in Beyonce's weave at a Beach House concert.

(Anyone? No?)

I'd only seen one other opera-- Carmen at the Lyric in Chicago. That's not including, of course, billions of "popular music" concerts, on- and off-Broadway shows, plays and assorted Light Opera Works at Northwestern.

I showed up on time and was promptly escorted up the stairs of the Met. As seasoned professionals, my aunt and uncle have a no-nonsense routine and I happily followed it. Spoiler: preshow espresso and coat check, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries at the first intermission, director's office for more champagne during second intermission. Extravagant dinner post-show. And scene.

The whole thing was a fascinating study in how I could live, if I had decided to go with a major in banking or forgery. For example: the couple next to me were suitably impressed that a 22 year old had scored such impressive digs front and center, saying that it had taken them decades to move on up. They couldn't figure me out.

Him: Where did you go to school?
Me: Boston University.
Him: Ahh so you are in law school now?
Me: ... No.
Him: Ahh but you live in the Upper West Side?
Me: Nope, Brooklyn.
Him: Hmm. I see. Well...

CURTAINS rustled. I watched the chandeliers descend. The little subtitles on the seat in front of me flicked on. Nobody was using mics, that's for sure. I may have had a bit of a moment during the first act.



La Traviata is a pretty rad story, actually. It's the opera Richard Gere takes Julia Roberts to see in Pretty Woman, if that rings any bells. A courtesan and a man fall in love, move to the country. Shenanigans ensue, she has to break up with him, duel is fought. She gets sick, he finds her and forgives her, she dies in his arms. And the music! And the scenery! The costumes! This was the final performance of the Verdi-contemporary production. All the scenery and costumes are getting shipped off and the next season will have a modern retelling.



[tears]

The cool thing about being so close was seeing the exhaustive overacting. Everybody was working it out for the back row. And the guy playing Alfredo? Stone cold hottie.

It wasn't an oooopera opera-- the performers were amazing without all the silliness. These videos are a bit over the top vocally, but I didn't find it to be that way at all for my show.

My next opera would hopefully be something Mozart. Of all the piano music I learned over the years, only two Mozart pieces stayed in my fingers.

Although, to be fair-- if champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries are involved, I'd go to any Wagner production and smile the whole time.

Moving Day

I call this one, "OWWW SHIT!"

Between that, another scratch on my leg, and something hurting on my toe, it's been a while since I've seen this much bloodshed.

Today was moving day (obviously)-- just me, moving on up, down to Williamsburg. It's a 3-week sublease, this time in a beautiful loft apartment with two roommates and a tiny bedroom that can just about fit me and a suitcase. Loft bed, too. We will see how that goes.

I decided to move via the bus, because it's about a 25 minute ride each way with less than 5 minutes walking. The taxi/cars around here can charge whatever they want and I wanted to avoid that hassle.

There were 2 solid exchanges between apartments: I brought a big suitcase and a little one each time. The second, I washed my (now) former apartment's bedding-- having a washer/dryer on the same floor and inside my apartment building is Fan. Tas. Tic.--while eating a Papa Lima sandwich.

The last trip to the Greenpoint apartment was when I realized I couldn't take the bus again without decapitating myself. My crap had been breeding while I was away. A big wheely suitcase, a full blue IKEA bag, a full Steve Madden bag, and my smaller carry-on still crowded around me when I got back. WHERE DID ALL THIS CRAP COME FROM? HOW DID IT GET HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?

So. I returned the room to its former glory (see figure 1 below) and then took a car. The driver magically charged me the actual amount this time, so there was no exchange like the one I had last week:

Me: "Thanks! How much?"
Surly Driver: [long pause] "Uh, $10."
Me: "I'll give you $6."
Him: "Sounds good."

Asshole.

I dumped all my stuff on the sidewalk and struggled to get it inside the building. Two muscly young men watched me in interest, leaning on their truck 5 feet away. When I got it all past the door in two trips, a group of self-proclaimed "strapping" British men on their way up offered to help me wheel my big suitcase into the elevator.

And thus, I have discovered that I have British neighbors who are extremely nice living somewhere upstairs. Ca-ching!

(Notice how unbelievably sexy my old room is. I will always remember it fondly, even if the building will always be a crack den and the G train sucks.)

Our House

Bar.

Long-haired guy with American Apparel v-neck and tats stands around.

(We think he's cute but meh kinda dirty)

He comes over and introduces himself and we immediately want to know about the tats all over his arms.

[Long description of three verses on his forearm that don't make any sense.]

[Silence.]

V-neck: "Yea, it was a magnet on my mom's fridge."

Bartender: "Mine would just say, "Poop, chocolate, chicks."

[Laughter at V-neck.]

V-neck: Mm. Yea.

[He wanders away to get another drink.]

SCENE.

**Lesson: DON'T GET STUPID TATTOOS.

Oilpunk Is a Thing?

Oh fuck yea! Oilpunk! None of this Steampunk nonsense... Instead, I can do my random jazz era crap that I love, all while checking email and texting people.

Cool.

Does this mean I would get to finger wave my hair more?

Not EVERYONE Has Left for Break, Thanks.

[After waking up from 2 hours of on-and-off fire alarm testing in my building]

[Knocking on the door]
Me: [grumpy, pjs, unwashed hair, glasses] Yes?
Man: Fire alarm testing. [Jiggles long stick at me]
Me: Yea. I know, I heard. All morning.
Man: I need to... [tries to step around me]
Me: [unmoving] What?
Man: I need to test your smoke detectors.
Me: Fine. [standing sullenly by the door, holding it open, as man awkwardly tests each smoke detector]
Man: Ok great, thanks.
Me: [shutting door in his face]