He was a tyrant. By all accounts, he had no problem beaming his baton at you if you squeaked an incorrect note or hurling the score at you if your reed was maladjusted. He had no sympathy for singers either. If he thought you weren't projecting or enuciating well, he would jump out of the pit and onto the stage and grab your jaw to show you what you should be doing with your mouth, besides kissing his ass.
He could have been a Leonard Berstein, or a Sir Henry Wood: both phenomenal conductors, both a bit crazy and lacking finesse when it came to criticism. But he wasn't and will not be. He has been and always will be a B-list conductor. I might even call him a C-list conductor. His resume reads of small town community symphonies and village festivals. None of which have seemed to instill any sense of humility in the man.
Knowing the stories behind the man who stood at the helm of the Kansas City Lyric Opera for 40 years, I was all but giddy to see for myself the man behind the myth.
But what I saw on Friday night was a shell, albeit a portly waddling shell, of the monster known as Russell Patterson.
His arthritis and weight issues kept him from doing a full bow to the roaring crowd at Washburn Universities White Concert hall in Topeka. He needed the help of the concertmaster just to make it up the 8 inches to the podium.
And his conducting. Oh, the conducting. If he didn't look like he was lifting 5 lb weights while holding himself up on the back rail of the podium, he looked downright bored by the whole occasion.
Here, in small-minded, boorish and uncultured Topeka, was a festival that has it's roots in a 20 year old idea that some of the best classical musicians meet up in central America to have a "jam session" for a week. They called it the Sunflower Music Festival. And even with the worst conducting I've seen to date, they made the most sonorous sounds I've heard yet in Topeka, outside of my own home CD player.
Handel's Water Music was light and airy while Mozart's 21st piano concerto was sublime.
The audience noticed. They stood up after ever piece.
Poor souls. This kind of music is obviously a rare treat for them.
Myself, I'm just darn lucky. Here I sit in St. Louis. Monday I saw a small section of 1st century Rome pop out of the grounds of Forest Park in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar by the St. Louis Shakespeare Festival. That morning I went to see the Chihuly glass exhibit set in the incredible grounds of the Missouri Botanical Gardens. Then last night I got to sit front and center to see Opera Theatre St. Louis' interpretation of the first opera I ever saw: The Barber of Seville. (it was also a small birthday treat since my birthday was Monday and the last time I saw it I stood for 3 hours in the 4th balcony) It was also appropriate that while the Staatsoper of Vienna took a classical, period reading of the opera, St. Louis decided to put it in 1920's Spain, but set against and very post-modern backdrop.
Today I saw a very cute, very well sung Hansel and Gretel. Tonight I see the American premier of Jane Eyre and tomorrow, Street Scene.
Not to mention, all the time in between I get to spend with my brother, hanging out with my sister at the lesbian bar, having dinner with my aunt, chatting up late nights with my mom and spending any free time in places like Tower Grove Park, or Forest Park, or the Central West End or shopping the Soulard Farmers Market.
I may be gone for a while. This Friday I head to a camp for underprivileged inner-city kids in Springfield, Illinois and then to a camp for kids with cancer the next week.
And feel free to donate generously to either camps as your birthday present to me.
Love!
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Thursday, June 8, 2006
The bread story
I don't have much going on. I did find out today, however, that 1.) my services will not be needed at opera camp this summer. I have a slightest feeling that the director of the camp is pissed because I wasn't going to have my school fork over the $700 to have her "opera on the road" come out to my school. and 2.) Blockbuster has reinstated late fees. I discovered that when I got a letter from a collection agency. I, of course, called the local store to bitch. The manager replied, "well, we did post it." I asked if they did the mailings on the massive scale they did when they got rid of them, or put enormous signs in the windows saying, "THE START OF LATE FEES! THE END OF MORE!" or even bothered to put anything up on their marquee? ALL things they did when they got rid of them for a while. Of course they didn't. He offered to cut the late fees in half, but I'm still pissed and want them all gone.
So I'll share a happier story that I did not pen.
I've mentioned her before and probably will lots of times if I continue this blog.
In college, my freshman year, I made a friendship that has forever changed who I am.
Her name is Jill. And in addition to being my best friend, she was also my only girlfriend (EVER) and the first person I told I was gay.
With time and distance (she's now in New Mexico) we've drifted apart. Though when we talk, it's like we've haven't missed a beat.
She's an excellent writer and for the longest time I was afraid to send her e-mails because they paled in comparison to the vignettes she almost daily sent me. But she guided me along and helped me be a better writer (among being a "better" everything)
These little spaces between thoughts? You can thank her for that.
There was a time when she knew more about me, and me about she, than any other person in the world. We had a strange and immediate connection and, sometimes, instead of having lots of deep conversations, we'd discover the deeper sides of ourselves by happenstance.
One of my biggest flaws is that I am perennially looking for the greener grass. I never realized it until a conversation we had at the local Hy-Vee in Waverly, IA.
She wrote the story down and was planning on using it in a novel about two characters named Sam and Dan. My middle name is Daniel. I have no idea why she chose Sam(antha) for her character.
In any case, I'd thought I'd share one small part of the story as told, so eloquently, by Jill. I had shared some of the stories, by word of mouth, with my friend Ted, who always cast a doubtful eye on some of the stories I told.
What follows is an e-mail version Jill sent me after I told her my problem of retelling our story.
-Kevin
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sweetie, if you need to, you can tell Ted that I said every word of this story is true.
The Bread Story.
Here is the defining moment of our lives.
Picture us: we are standing in the bread aisle of a grocery store in Iowa. I reach for a loaf of Amana whole wheat, a delicious, hearty, perfect bread, as Dan reaches for this small, pebbly little loaf of something with berries. I know for a fact that if we were to flash back to a vision of Dan's kitchen table twenty minutes previous to this moment, we would see a third kind of bread, mostly eaten. I turn to him as he begins to lift the loaf to say, "Are you dissing my bread?"
Amana whole wheat is my all-time favorite bread. Ever. It's perfect. Good crust, hearty without being grainy or chunky. No pieces get stuck in your teeth. Energy providing. I'd suggested it to Dan a few weeks previous to this moment for his power lunches at his new job trying to be a summer construction worker, and he'd loved it. And now here he was, buying a new bread. With a third at home.
"Huh?"
"Well, are you dissing my bread?"
"No! I loved that bread."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Oh, I like trying a new bread every time," he says, casual as hell.
"Every time?"
"Yeah."
"But what if you find a really great bread, Dan? Wouldn't you want to spend as much of your life as possible enjoying a great bread you really love?"
"What?"
"What if you move, and you can't find the great bread in your new town? What if they discontinue this bread and you've squandered your time on other breads instead of appreciating a really great bread when you had the chance?"
And Dan looks at me and says, "But what if there's a better bread?"
And my heart dies a little.
"Excuse me?"
"What if there's a better bread? And what if you find a bread that's not so great? You could tell people to stay away from that bread. Oh Sam, wouldn't you feel good about knowing you've saved someone from a bad bread?"
"Well, that's silly. I would just point them in the direction of my bread, and that way they could know they're getting a good bread."
"What if you move?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"What if you stay with your bread for years, Sam, and then one day you come to my house and have a different bread and you have this amazing awakening in which you realize that you didn't even know how sick of your bread you really were, and you've wasted your life on a boring bread. And here I am! A bread expert, ready to guide you through your journey to a new bread. What if as a bread lover with a knowledge of great variety and taste, you could do the same for another person? Wouldn't that make you feel good?"
I sigh.
"Listen, let's just get some peanut butter, Sam."
"Okay, as long as it's creamy."
He sighs and walks down the aisle.
While we are not yet willing to admit that this conversation is about something other than bread, a strange thing happens that seems like a sign. At the very end of the aisle, a sad loaf of plain store brand bread slinks off its shelf to the floor landing at our feet. I pick it up and try to shove it back into the perfect bread-shaped hole it left among its mates, but it does not fit. It just keeps slinking back to the floor.
Neither of us knows what this means, but we both consider this as the beginning of our story.
jkn
So I'll share a happier story that I did not pen.
I've mentioned her before and probably will lots of times if I continue this blog.
In college, my freshman year, I made a friendship that has forever changed who I am.
Her name is Jill. And in addition to being my best friend, she was also my only girlfriend (EVER) and the first person I told I was gay.
With time and distance (she's now in New Mexico) we've drifted apart. Though when we talk, it's like we've haven't missed a beat.
She's an excellent writer and for the longest time I was afraid to send her e-mails because they paled in comparison to the vignettes she almost daily sent me. But she guided me along and helped me be a better writer (among being a "better" everything)
These little spaces between thoughts? You can thank her for that.
There was a time when she knew more about me, and me about she, than any other person in the world. We had a strange and immediate connection and, sometimes, instead of having lots of deep conversations, we'd discover the deeper sides of ourselves by happenstance.
One of my biggest flaws is that I am perennially looking for the greener grass. I never realized it until a conversation we had at the local Hy-Vee in Waverly, IA.
She wrote the story down and was planning on using it in a novel about two characters named Sam and Dan. My middle name is Daniel. I have no idea why she chose Sam(antha) for her character.
In any case, I'd thought I'd share one small part of the story as told, so eloquently, by Jill. I had shared some of the stories, by word of mouth, with my friend Ted, who always cast a doubtful eye on some of the stories I told.
What follows is an e-mail version Jill sent me after I told her my problem of retelling our story.
-Kevin
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sweetie, if you need to, you can tell Ted that I said every word of this story is true.
The Bread Story.
Here is the defining moment of our lives.
Picture us: we are standing in the bread aisle of a grocery store in Iowa. I reach for a loaf of Amana whole wheat, a delicious, hearty, perfect bread, as Dan reaches for this small, pebbly little loaf of something with berries. I know for a fact that if we were to flash back to a vision of Dan's kitchen table twenty minutes previous to this moment, we would see a third kind of bread, mostly eaten. I turn to him as he begins to lift the loaf to say, "Are you dissing my bread?"
Amana whole wheat is my all-time favorite bread. Ever. It's perfect. Good crust, hearty without being grainy or chunky. No pieces get stuck in your teeth. Energy providing. I'd suggested it to Dan a few weeks previous to this moment for his power lunches at his new job trying to be a summer construction worker, and he'd loved it. And now here he was, buying a new bread. With a third at home.
"Huh?"
"Well, are you dissing my bread?"
"No! I loved that bread."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Oh, I like trying a new bread every time," he says, casual as hell.
"Every time?"
"Yeah."
"But what if you find a really great bread, Dan? Wouldn't you want to spend as much of your life as possible enjoying a great bread you really love?"
"What?"
"What if you move, and you can't find the great bread in your new town? What if they discontinue this bread and you've squandered your time on other breads instead of appreciating a really great bread when you had the chance?"
And Dan looks at me and says, "But what if there's a better bread?"
And my heart dies a little.
"Excuse me?"
"What if there's a better bread? And what if you find a bread that's not so great? You could tell people to stay away from that bread. Oh Sam, wouldn't you feel good about knowing you've saved someone from a bad bread?"
"Well, that's silly. I would just point them in the direction of my bread, and that way they could know they're getting a good bread."
"What if you move?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"What if you stay with your bread for years, Sam, and then one day you come to my house and have a different bread and you have this amazing awakening in which you realize that you didn't even know how sick of your bread you really were, and you've wasted your life on a boring bread. And here I am! A bread expert, ready to guide you through your journey to a new bread. What if as a bread lover with a knowledge of great variety and taste, you could do the same for another person? Wouldn't that make you feel good?"
I sigh.
"Listen, let's just get some peanut butter, Sam."
"Okay, as long as it's creamy."
He sighs and walks down the aisle.
While we are not yet willing to admit that this conversation is about something other than bread, a strange thing happens that seems like a sign. At the very end of the aisle, a sad loaf of plain store brand bread slinks off its shelf to the floor landing at our feet. I pick it up and try to shove it back into the perfect bread-shaped hole it left among its mates, but it does not fit. It just keeps slinking back to the floor.
Neither of us knows what this means, but we both consider this as the beginning of our story.
jkn
Tuesday, June 6, 2006
sleeeepy
First let me inform you all that ANYONE can now comment. I realized after someone e-mailed and said they would comment after they got a membership on eblogger that I had my settings screwed up. It was a pretty easy fix.
And even though I fancy myself fairly handy with a computer, the words "HTML code" scare me in a way that Superbowl parties scare me. They both involve languages I can't speak.
But I was able to write in some code to make my page just a bit prettier. (small golf clap, please.)
I can sum up my favorite part of summer break (or any break, or weekends, for that matter) in one word. Naps.
For anyone who knows me, you know I'm a sleeper. I friggin love to sleep. And I feel SO good after a nice 10 hour sleep or a 2 hour afternoon nap... Preferably in a beam of sunlight. (btw, off topic, that pic was snapped by my roomates in my favorite bedroom of all time. It was small, efficient and got GREAT afternoon sun. My mom made the curtains and in-fact, I still own everything in that pic except that lamp.. rest it's cheap wal-mart soul) I'm not sure why, if it's just because it's hard-wired in me, or if it's because I have such vivid and awesome dreams that make my waking world pale (comeon.. When am I ever really going to get the chance to fly in a car or jump from mountain peak to mountain peak in real life?).
And for the longest time, I used to be the fellow who would fall asleep the minute his head hit the pillow. In fact, my freshman roommate commented that I slept more than any other person he'd met. (I didn't put much stock in the comment seeing as how he graduated with 15 people and lived in a down of 200.)
But lately, for some unknown and somewhat disturbing reason, I can't fall asleep at night. It's been going on for a couple years now.
Dustin has made remarks to the effect of "what are you feeling guilty about?" which again, I don't put much stock in, even though, in typical Kevin style, I overanalyzed it and that comment alone kept me from falling asleep.
Even when I was with my ex, whom I detested and was counting the days and calculating my escape from, I slept fine. In fact, it pissed him off to no end that I had no problem falling asleep while he would lay in bed, sighing heavily, until he'd get up and go watch Buffy reruns.
These days, though, I just can't shut my brain off at night. I have no idea what I USED to think about when I fell asleep. I know I've always made lists in my head. But that never stopped Mr. 40-Winks from finding me.
I'm usually VERY good about getting big things done that need to get done, just for fear that it will keep me up. And today, I got my last big thing done. I got my new contacts which have been awaiting my pick-up since November. It's a long story, but I was afraid that, once again, it would take 5 visits to the eye doctor before he'd hand them over. He takes his job too seriously. He's an OPTOMITRIST for christ's sake. He treats me like I'm a parent trying to adopt and he has make sure I'm a fit parent for these damn lenses.
Granted, I'm also a forgetter... BIG TIME. That's one reason I can't hold a grudge. I completely forget I'm mad at someone. There are only three people alive in this world that I have not forgotten why I don't want any contact with them.
To avoid libel suits, I'll approximate names here.
One is a kid I went to elementary school with. His name was Flint Keamann. His dad owned the one and only car dealership in our town. The kid just thought his shit didn't stink. But for some reason, he thought mine did. Not only was he the ONLY kid who ever made fun of me to my face when I was bald from chemotherapy. But then, in junior high, he pissed on my gym clothes (to which the P.E. teacher nonchalantly said, "well, I GUESS you don't have to dress today.) Then he put exlax in my lunch dessert. And even if he's joined the preisthood, I'd just assume he was defiling young boys.
The other is a girl from H.S. Her name was Shisha Tear. I mostly hung out with her in H.S. because she was the only one who would do "cool" things with me. (I take that back. It was pretty cool stealing road signs with Adam.) But she was flaky as hell and I was ditched by her more times than a short-self-conscious-over-weight-closeted gay boy's ego could handle. But the kicker came in college. Living 8 hours from home meant a clean start for me in college. I had good friends, but I always talked about my friends from H.S. Mostly Shisha, Adam and Jacquelyn (check the previous post's lists for more info on these folks.) And I REALLY wanted my new college friends to meet them. Well, Jacquelyn had her life at college and I actually went to see her once. (great party Jacquelyn.) But I Shisha had made plans to drive up with Adam to see me one long weekend. Since Adam didn't have reliable transportation, the whole gig depended on Shisha. And the day before they were going to drive up, I called Shisha to confirm plans and she said something to the effect of "oh, yeah, well, I can't do it now.. I have to go, um, you know, to, yeah."
And that was the last time I talked to her. That was 1997.
The third person is my Dad. And that's some dirty laundry I'd rather not air here.
But other than that, I'm over things pretty darn quick. Simply because I forget. But big things, I don't forget.
Sure the house still needs to be painted, the lighting fixtures need to be replaced and the yard isn't done and sometimes I think about all the things I'd like to do to the place, but that's way down the list since that all costs a pretty penny.
But you'd think on summer break when the most I really have to worry about is getting my dog's anal glands cleaned (which, holy cow, is quite the experience... yum) I'd be able to fall asleep great!
Alas, tis not so.
So, in my typical fashion of over-thinking, I'm wondering, am I now my ex? Is Dustin plotting his escape? (Edit: No. He was just being a sociopath.) Am I being the naive one? Should I look into Ambian?
And even though I fancy myself fairly handy with a computer, the words "HTML code" scare me in a way that Superbowl parties scare me. They both involve languages I can't speak.
But I was able to write in some code to make my page just a bit prettier. (small golf clap, please.)
I can sum up my favorite part of summer break (or any break, or weekends, for that matter) in one word. Naps.
For anyone who knows me, you know I'm a sleeper. I friggin love to sleep. And I feel SO good after a nice 10 hour sleep or a 2 hour afternoon nap... Preferably in a beam of sunlight. (btw, off topic, that pic was snapped by my roomates in my favorite bedroom of all time. It was small, efficient and got GREAT afternoon sun. My mom made the curtains and in-fact, I still own everything in that pic except that lamp.. rest it's cheap wal-mart soul) I'm not sure why, if it's just because it's hard-wired in me, or if it's because I have such vivid and awesome dreams that make my waking world pale (comeon.. When am I ever really going to get the chance to fly in a car or jump from mountain peak to mountain peak in real life?).
And for the longest time, I used to be the fellow who would fall asleep the minute his head hit the pillow. In fact, my freshman roommate commented that I slept more than any other person he'd met. (I didn't put much stock in the comment seeing as how he graduated with 15 people and lived in a down of 200.)
But lately, for some unknown and somewhat disturbing reason, I can't fall asleep at night. It's been going on for a couple years now.
Dustin has made remarks to the effect of "what are you feeling guilty about?" which again, I don't put much stock in, even though, in typical Kevin style, I overanalyzed it and that comment alone kept me from falling asleep.
Even when I was with my ex, whom I detested and was counting the days and calculating my escape from, I slept fine. In fact, it pissed him off to no end that I had no problem falling asleep while he would lay in bed, sighing heavily, until he'd get up and go watch Buffy reruns.
These days, though, I just can't shut my brain off at night. I have no idea what I USED to think about when I fell asleep. I know I've always made lists in my head. But that never stopped Mr. 40-Winks from finding me.
I'm usually VERY good about getting big things done that need to get done, just for fear that it will keep me up. And today, I got my last big thing done. I got my new contacts which have been awaiting my pick-up since November. It's a long story, but I was afraid that, once again, it would take 5 visits to the eye doctor before he'd hand them over. He takes his job too seriously. He's an OPTOMITRIST for christ's sake. He treats me like I'm a parent trying to adopt and he has make sure I'm a fit parent for these damn lenses.
Granted, I'm also a forgetter... BIG TIME. That's one reason I can't hold a grudge. I completely forget I'm mad at someone. There are only three people alive in this world that I have not forgotten why I don't want any contact with them.
To avoid libel suits, I'll approximate names here.
One is a kid I went to elementary school with. His name was Flint Keamann. His dad owned the one and only car dealership in our town. The kid just thought his shit didn't stink. But for some reason, he thought mine did. Not only was he the ONLY kid who ever made fun of me to my face when I was bald from chemotherapy. But then, in junior high, he pissed on my gym clothes (to which the P.E. teacher nonchalantly said, "well, I GUESS you don't have to dress today.) Then he put exlax in my lunch dessert. And even if he's joined the preisthood, I'd just assume he was defiling young boys.
The other is a girl from H.S. Her name was Shisha Tear. I mostly hung out with her in H.S. because she was the only one who would do "cool" things with me. (I take that back. It was pretty cool stealing road signs with Adam.) But she was flaky as hell and I was ditched by her more times than a short-self-conscious-over-weight-closeted gay boy's ego could handle. But the kicker came in college. Living 8 hours from home meant a clean start for me in college. I had good friends, but I always talked about my friends from H.S. Mostly Shisha, Adam and Jacquelyn (check the previous post's lists for more info on these folks.) And I REALLY wanted my new college friends to meet them. Well, Jacquelyn had her life at college and I actually went to see her once. (great party Jacquelyn.) But I Shisha had made plans to drive up with Adam to see me one long weekend. Since Adam didn't have reliable transportation, the whole gig depended on Shisha. And the day before they were going to drive up, I called Shisha to confirm plans and she said something to the effect of "oh, yeah, well, I can't do it now.. I have to go, um, you know, to, yeah."
And that was the last time I talked to her. That was 1997.
The third person is my Dad. And that's some dirty laundry I'd rather not air here.
But other than that, I'm over things pretty darn quick. Simply because I forget. But big things, I don't forget.
Sure the house still needs to be painted, the lighting fixtures need to be replaced and the yard isn't done and sometimes I think about all the things I'd like to do to the place, but that's way down the list since that all costs a pretty penny.
But you'd think on summer break when the most I really have to worry about is getting my dog's anal glands cleaned (which, holy cow, is quite the experience... yum) I'd be able to fall asleep great!
Alas, tis not so.
So, in my typical fashion of over-thinking, I'm wondering, am I now my ex? Is Dustin plotting his escape? (Edit: No. He was just being a sociopath.) Am I being the naive one? Should I look into Ambian?
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