abozlee

Went to an opera once.  I decided I am NOT an opera person.

First you have to get dressed up.  Now fashion is not something I do.  Generally I tend to squeeze casual until it screams.  So the thought of getting dressed for the opera, that is sort of formal filled me with dread.  But, dressed I got. 

I looked like an Emperor Penguin.  An Emperor penguin that had WAY too much krill.  The sort of penguin that could feed a medium sized pride of hungry lions for oh, half an ice age.  I kept a weather eye out for killer whales.

In short,  I looked absurd.

So off to the opera.  Don't even ask the title, it was some bit of Italian fluff that meant nothing to me, I do not read, speak or understand Italian.  I was told this opera was penned by some gomer named Joe Green.  Never heard of him.  Went to school with a kid named Green, but he was dumber than a bucket of pond scum.  I could not see him writing an opera.  Must be a different Green.

So, the lights go dim, I had a moment of panic when that happened, wondering if they had fed me bad booze, but no, I was told it was SUPPOSED to be like that.  The large, young men who dragged me back to my seat were, all in all, quite nice about it.  I assured them I would not panic again.

So the music starts.  I expected to see the band, and figured what the heck, if I didn't like the opera I could watch the band.

No such luck.  They put the band down in a hole.  Somehow I didn't think the title "Band in a Hole" had a very good ring to it.  They played well, but I had to ask, were they mutant?  Did they all have one eye?  Why put them in a hole?  Made no sense.

Then the singing started.  One large, stout, sweating man began bellowing in Italian.  For about 20 minutes.  I was baffled.  A nice lady said "wait for the subtitles."  Oh.  That helps, right?

Actually.....No.  It doesn't.  Not even a little.

The result of 20 minutes of sweating bellowing in Italian?  "The weasel dines on sourdough."  What the HELL does that mean?  Is this an animal opera?  I have not a clue.

But, there is hope!  Another, equally large, equally loud man begins bellowing in Italian.  The difference between the two?  The second guy sweats even more. 

Small rivers of sweat began running into the hole.  I hoped the folks in the band could swim, or at least tread water. 

Twenty minutes later the subtitle came up, hope springing eternal I hoped it would shed some light on what the first man was on about. 

No such luck.  After twenty minutes the title flashed "Flaccid yet corpulent."  Oh yeah, that clears things up. 

Then a whole group of people in their underwear came out, prancing like they just got a whole load of fire ants in their Fruit of the Looms.  They bellowed a bit, but they didn't have a subtitle, apparently people prancing about in their drawers speaks for itself. 

Halftime!  Everyone files out to get food and drink.

I didn't stay.

Opera?  I would rather have malaria.

I used to do a lot of public speaking.  Frightens the hell out of me.  But that which does not kill me better run like hell.....

This is the second SF con I have attended in the past 20 years. 

The people are getting older.  Hmmm....Not good, I seem to have a little more gray in my beard and have gone all pear shaped myself: Thin at one end, thinning at the other, and rather larger through the middle.  Not sure I like this very much.


As I said, I used to do a lot of lecturing, mostly on Soviet space and military subjects.   Which, as you can imagine, used to get quite a bit of attention seeing as it was the height of the Cold War. 

And you get to collect some stories. 

I tried to call a friend in Virginia to make arrangements for dinner.  I dial.  Phone rings.  Man answers.

"CIA," says the serious sounding man on the other end of the phone.

I am a bit surprised, when did my friend work for the CIA?  Odd that, he didn't say anything about it.  "Pardon me?"

"CIA" said the now annoyed sounding serious man.

"You mean THE CIA?" I ask.

The serious sounding man now sounds even more serious and even more annoyed.  I look out the window expecting to see a crew of ninja CIA operatives dropping from black helicopters.  "This is the CIA, pal, we do NOT answer questions."

"Oh," I said, "I must have dialed the wrong number."  The line goes dead.

I look up the number and dial VERY carefully.  My friend answers.  I explain what just happened.

After a couple of minutes of giggling he explains it to me. "Out number is the same as that CIA guy, you trransposed the last to digits, happens all the time, and you would NOT believe the calls we get!"

Hmmm...Wonder if we could sell them?