Fashion

OK, I'm ready for my Businessboy Fashion Show. Got to get this thing done so I can enjoy my evening.

Loading Dark Pants Number 1 . . . Interfacing with big blue shirt and belt. Sheesh. Apparently I'm a little bigger in the middle. Let's see: move around a bit. Go look in the mirror. Not bad. A bit of a kid playing grownup, but passable. Testing out charcoal blazer. Um, somehow not with these pants.

Testing Brown Shirt Number 1, a fairly ugly thing by Calvin Klein. OK. Jumping around. Pretending like I'm doing business, business, business. Reaching here, reaching there. Moving papers. Not bad. Let's try a tie just for kicks. Feels like something to wear under a graduation gown, but serviceable.

Let's switch to Dark Pants Number 2. (But first: I just remembered that I have a scale. Let's see how gravity's pulling these days. Ha! I can blame the pants! I'm still floating between 140 and 145. I can live a good two weeks into Armageddon with that mild amount of stored food.) OK, with these nice pants we'll try our funky shirt with a bit of peach in it. Um . . . this is definitely a last-day, going-back-to-California ensemble.

Now for the Grand Finale: a faithful old Ben Sherman shirt followed rapidly by Brown Shirt Number 2. . . . And we're good.

With a little help from a hotel iron, I'm ready to go. Go Businessboy, Go!

Ungkaharla

K., darling: nothing cut and pasted here!

. . . and watch me blog despite all. It's 10:30. Frankly, I've had a coffee cup full of oat and honey cereal and half a glass of partly frozen Gatorade. And this is an improvement over the heaviest ten-dime bag of BBQ corn chips and the darkest Guinness I can find. And my armpits smell like stale onions -- both of them!

But I tease you: I've been rawkin' out! What you do, see, is hop on that F-line and get off at Van Ness, stroll into that Conservatory, say hiya to Manny, and cruise on up to the fifth floor. Just for kicks, let those window seats go -- those grand pianos with a view of the setting sun -- and take the Schimmel in the practice room with the support pillar.

Take out your Ravel and try out that third movement you started Saturday morning. Damn, girl, those notes are setting up house in your fingers! A month ago there was no Ravel. Then there was a Modéré. Then there was a Menuet. Then there was an Animé. Voilà: une sonatine.

Last night in a dream I fell upon my piano teacher: "This is my piano teacher," I explained. "I love him!" and I hugged him like a tree. After my lesson (in the recital hall) I found a large classroom with a beautiful piano and worked some of the new ideas into the Ravel, then tried out the complete Beethoven sonata (Op. 10, No. 3) and the two Rachmaninoff preludes.

I also awaited a reply from the East:

East: "Have you made right by the master of might today?"
Me: "Love is sharing."
East: " . . . "

Did I break the pattern? Was there a specific answer to the East's question? Certainly there is a response to my statement . . . but where is the East's reply? Tomorrow perhaps.

Review: Ariodante

I may occasionally resort to trickery to keep my blog alive. The following lists come from an email I wrote to a dear friend this morning, and they qualify as a dying blogger's review of San Francisco Opera's production of Handel's Ariodante, which I saw last night after spending the day at home in a malaise tragique:

Ariodante was fabulous! And that's despite several bad things:

1. It lasted from 7:30 to 11:00.
2. The dress circle was its usual 80 degrees and stuffy. One woman near me said, "What's that smell? Someone needs to bathe. It smells skunky." The man next to her said, "It's probably Italians." Ah, the opera.
3. The opera takes place in Scotland, but everything was Roman. Lots of columns.
4. There was MUCH MUCH swishing of very large capes -- not nearly as bad as Giulio Cesare at the Met, but still: stop the capes!
5. All the men were pretty weak, especially the bass. He chose to perform his role in a warbly Sprechstimme. I don't think he ever landed on a pitch, especially when he aimed for those impressive low ones.
6. Ruth Ann or Susan may have forgotten a line at the end of Act I. There was a strange silence, some half-hearted singing, and then the full voices got back on. (The lukewarm village dancing behind them may have caused the kerfluffle.)

In other Ariodante news:

1. The audience clapped when Ruth Ann walked on, but not when Susan did.
2. Ruth Ann blew us away with her fast, high arias and da capo ornaments.
3. The audience went WILD WILD WILD after Susan's slow aria in Act II. The B section emotionally drained her Ariodante, and she performed the repeat lying on the floor. One of her ornaments took her to the very bottom of her voice (I'm guessing F or E?) and then leapt up to her very top (B?). A man who sounded like Harvey Fierstein screamed out "BRAVA!"
4. I still felt like Ruth Ann stole the show, but the audience was most excited about Susan in the final bows. (But then Susan was also last.) They were both great.
5. I have a renewed admiration for Handel and for singers of Handel. I found myself nestling happily into each new aria, listening for that B section, and looking forward to the virtuosity in the repeat.

Dying blog

My blog is dying! I don't want it to die! There are still beautiful things to write about: