Stop me before I anthropomorphize more

I said a bittersweet goodbye to an old friend this afternoon. It was peculiarly sad. The peculiar part is that he is an appliance. My habit of investing things with sentient properties goes back many decades. This has usually been confined to my cars, which always seem to arrive supplied with names and genders. I’m not quite as loopy as Sally Middleton, the heroine of Voice of the Turtle, for whom even her toaster had feelings to be taken into account. That’s not a bad little rom-com, by the way. The movie is sometimes called One for the Book. It’s sweet, and funny, with a great turn by Eve Arden as the man crazy, perfectly named Olive Lashbrook. But I digress.

I might not have become so fond of my refrigerator, had it not been magnetized. As such, it became the perfect canvas for a photo gallery of my friends. At first, there were only a few, but in time, it became a massive rotogravure, covered from top to bottom (John’s images were everywhere, as were those of friends we made in Mexico). Only its handles protruded to give a clue as to its actual purpose. That, and a slight hum, and the occasional chunk of the ice maker. When it grew late, it made me happy to pause at the stairs to the bedroom, turn and say, “Goodnight, Fridge People.”

It, he, served me well for years, but then, there began to be issues, minor but multiple. It seemed to be time for a replacement. Tonight, however, it doesn’t seem that way at all, and I wonder if I should have put up with the inconveniences and hung onto my old faithful pal. He was that even after I had betrayed him. Today, having cleaned him out and denuded him of his coat of many photos, I sat waiting for the burly delivery men. I grew thirsty. Before I realized what I was doing, I filled a glass of ice cold, filtered water from his dispenser. He was still happy to serve me, on his way to oblivion. It seemed wrong. I put down the glass and gave him a sloppy hug.

ADDENDUM:

Something most curious happened after I posted this. Johnnie forwarded to me what Facebook sent her as a memory from five years ago. It was a photo of the old fridge as it looked on January 7, 2014. Nice, I thought, and how sweet. Then I lost my breath. Johnnie hadn’t taken that picture, nor had I. John had, and attached to it was a long message from him, explaining why. It was something he did every time, just before I would change the pictures. He told the significance of “making the fridge,” called it an honor, and named everyone who was represented there at the moment. He was still well, and my world was still whole. These were words I’d forgotten about, and it was most unlikely that I’d ever have seen them again. It broke my heart to read them, but the more I thought about it, he was speaking to me, from somewhere. My pessimism about what lies beyond was punctured, and I smiled.

On closer inspection

I’d make a dreadful damage assessor. As I said earlier, I spied with my little eye nothing amiss with the back of my car. As a precaution, and for insurance purposes, I took Dimitrios out to the collision facility at my dealer, in South Lake. If the repairs were as minor as I hoped, they wouldn’t exceed my deductible, and I’d simply have them fix it and be done with it. What a dreamer! There are, it seems, no such things as minor repairs. The estimate was $2500, and I was back on the phone to State Farm.

They said I could have the car repaired anywhere I liked, but they’d need to make their own estimate. This could be done, they assured me, at a place nearby that I could find easily. They don’t know me. It did sound easy to reach: near the veterans’ memorial park, and not far from a Walt’s grocery. I could picture it.

On the day of the appointment, the sun was blinding, even with shades on. No matter, I’d driven through the area many times. Or so I thought. Unfortunately, Walt’s is a chain, and, while I don’t imagine veterans’ memorial parks have been franchised, there’s clearly more than one of them around. I was nowhere near the address. I stumbled on a State Farm office and was told I was half an hour and two expressways away from my destination. Expressways have seen the last of me behind the wheel. I cancelled.

I called to reschedule and begged for an alternate route. The agent furrowed his brow (it’s amazing what you can hear if you listen closely) and finally came up with directions involving thirteen separate steps. This seemed both tedious and unlucky; still, I had no other option. The next day, Leon was over, and I asked if he’d mind reading the steps to me while I made a dry run to be sure I could actually get there. Resourceful Leon consulted Google and reduced the steps to three. Piece of cake.

The State Farm evaluator was a jolly fellow who works out of his van filled with computers, so many that it looked like my idea of the cockpit of a plane, or a space ship. He pointed out tiny depressions and tears in the textured part of the bumper that I had missed. This still seemed minor, but he explained that ‘texture’ can’t be fixed. It has to be replaced. Then he got down on the ground (it was a very cold day, and this gave me the shivers for him), scooted under the car and used a special phone to take pictures of damage I couldn’t possibly have seen.

Dimitrios is now in the hands of Service King, and I’m driving a sleek Toyota Avalon rental in a stunning shade of aubergine. I’m not paying for any of this, not even my deductible. The woman who hit me has the same insurance, and has admitted full responsibility. She didn’t have much choice given a passel of bystanders eager to denounce her recklessness.

I like the Avalon. I’ll like it more when I figure out how to turn the lights on, get the trunk open, and locate the gizmo to let me access the gas tank (there was no manual in the glove compartment). I drive it sparingly and carefully, keeping a nervous eye on the rear view mirror (though that wouldn’t have helped me escape the accident). I’ve named the rental car Julio. Perhaps a loaner shouldn’t get a name, but it really looks like a Julio. Dimitrios needn’t worry though. My heart belongs to him.

Triple play

Few things are as invigorating to me as live theater. At its best, there’s an electricity to it that can jump start my flagging spirits, refresh my zest for life, and renew whatever hopes remain to me for the human condition. At its worst, it’s good for a few laughs and some snarky conversation. Three times this month, I’ve experienced such stimulation. I’ve been meaning to write about them, but the holidays, a collision, and general laziness have gotten in the way. I’ll set it down tonight before it becomes ancient history.

The beginning of the month, my cousin, Donna, joined me for Massenet’s Cendrillon at Lyric Opera. I’ve seen two other operatic settings of Cinderella’s comings and goings, one by Prokofiev, the other by Rossini, both of which I preferred to Lyric’s current offering. Oh, there was much for the eye and ear to feast upon, beautiful voices in abundance, and sets and costumes so cleverly designed as to have you laughing before a note was sung. The step sisters were gowned to resemble pregnant spiders, and the prince, draped over his prince bed looked like a gloomy elf on a shelf. What kept me from losing myself in what was obviously intended as a holiday treat (and I may be in the minority on this), were several long and lugubrious scenes of extended lamentation by Cinderella, her father, and the prince. One “woe is me, I’m off to the river to throw myself in” aria after another, all prettily sung, but yikes! I tired of them well before they were over, and got the fidgets, I who can sit happily through five plus hours of Wagner without a murmur. It’s just that I like my Cinderellas a bit more sprightly than this. I wound up rooting for the stepmother, Elizabeth Bishop, who brightened the proceedings each time she spun out another ditty of self centered nastiness.

Next, I went with Donna, Tim, and Lois to the Oriental (soon to be renamed. Talk about self centered nastiness), to see the insanely funny The Play that goes Wrong. A delicious farce from start (and actually a bit before) to finish, it had us in almost painful stitches, especially when one of the actors broke character to admonish us, “You’re a terrible audience! This is a serious play. Stop that laughing. Stop it, I say!” The cast takes its lives in its hands as the set keeps falling down around their ears, We admired their dexterity but feared for their safety, An ambulance must have been on stand by at the rehearsals. Time well spent.

Finally, Tim, Ann and I saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Navy Pier. Tim and I found it a joyful romp, and fine Christmas fare. Ann would have preferred a more ethereal production, as would Chris Jones who thought it lacking in melancholy. He’d have been right at home at Cendrillon. Dream is one of Shakespeare’s most frequently staged plays, and it lends itself to a seemingly inexhaustible number of differing interpretations.  It contains such diverse elements that it seems difficult for any director to get them all right. I concede that this was neither the most magical nor wistful production I’ve seen, but there’s also an energy, a wacky exuberance to this play to which much justice was done.  The costumes were vivid and amusing, and the music was festive, without, I thought, doing damage to the text. Happily, whatever your taste, in a couple of years, someone will mount another one. I hope to be around to see what they’re up to.

Up a tree

That’s where I was, and what I’ve been. It’s why I haven’t been blogging, or doing much else until I was through. A couple of hours ago, I made the last of the stuffed animals comfortable in the parlor where they could inspect the Christmas tree at their leisure, as I intend to do as soon as I have some. All that remains is to tape up the Christmas cards in the cabana. I’ll get to that tomorrow, if I can pry myself out of bed in time.

I’d like to get the cards up before I pick up Ann, my Christmas Eve guest. Not that she’d mind if I hadn’t decked a single hall, but I’d like to make the house as spruce as possible for her, for me, and for anyone else who pops in over the holidays. Last year, I did it for John, because I’d promised him I would. It was important to him that I not be mopey over the holidays. As it turned out, I was very mopey indeed, but the house looked as festive as ever.

This second Christmas without him has softer edges, and will, I hope, be easier to take. I’ve had help. Adam lugged the disassembled tree, a battalion of ornaments, and myriad decorations from basement, attic, garage and shed. Talk about knowing where the bodies are buried! Steve and Johnnie came by while he was still here. They discovered what I’ve known for some time. He is indispensable. While the three of us pondered who should risk life and limb to climb the ladder and place the star and the smallest ornaments at the very top of the tree, Adam said, “Give them to me and tell me where you want them.” We watched in awe as he simply reached up and hung them without benefit of ladder or stool. He is almost six foot nine, and still growing.

If the top of the tree is a problem, the very bottom is another, though less risky. I usually have to lie flat on my back to string the lowest branches with lights. This time, Adam just scooted around the tree, lighting it most artfully. Several days later, after I had positioned every last ornament for maximum effect, Adam was back and joined by Leon. An unlikely pair, the hard scrabble street smart survivor and the home schooled Dutch boy, but they get on famously and are a pleasure to watch in action. They made short work of the outside lights and the miles of surge protectors and extension cords required for the fence around the tree and the carnival toys and miniature buildings to be lit or set in motion. Thanks gentlemen.

I’m not expecting many visitors. I’m not throwing the parties we used to. There’s a possibility that John’s young cousin may show up so I can meet his boyfriend. I’d like that a lot, but mostly, it’ll be me and the tree. Looking at it, I remember a much smaller, almost Charlie Brown-ish tree, sparsely ornamented. It was my mother’s, in her tiny apartment, in 1945, just after my parents divorced. A sad tree, but I loved it. It was the best she could do, and she did it for me and for Steve. I sat and stared at it the way I now stare at this overstuffed, crazy happy tree. It’s the best I can do. I do it for you, Mom.

 

Bam!

This isn’t at all what I planned to write about next. Several far more pleasant topics have been marinating until I had time to develop them. I shouldn’t be writing anything at all. I should be trimming the tree. But then this happened.

I was driving down Ridge, on my way to pick up a suit from the cleaners and take it to Zandstra’s to be altered. To be let out, I’m afraid. For several years, I’ve sucked in my breath and told myself that all I had to do to reclaim a perfect fit was just shed a few pounds. Maybe so. It doesn’t seem to be happening. Myself said, “Enough!”

I was paused at a stoplight, at peace with my fellow men and women, only the sunniest of thoughts prancing about in my noggin. BAMMM!! Dimitrios was as surprised as I was to be pushed several yards out into traffic. I shut off the motor and stepped to the rear where I noted with dismay the carnage the driver behind me had wreaked on her car. The grille was pushed in, the hood partly crumpled, and both a headlight and her license plate lay on the street.

I was afraid to inspect Dimitrios. When I did, I could scarcely believe my eyes. Not a dent, not even a scratch! Hooray for Nissan! I’ve been driving a tank without knowing it.  Two passing cars paused to tell me they’d seen the other driver weaving and looking down, probably texting. They sped on before I could get information to use them as witnesses. I approached the juggernaut and the driver rolled down her window. She looked pitiable, addled and resigned. as though this were at least the tenth bad thing to happen to her that day. She didn’t seem drunk, just rather ditzy, and sad. She said, pointing in the general direction of the gear shift, “It wasn’t working. I tried to jiggle it.”

Her hopelessness preempted any anger I might have mustered. She reminded me of a few people I’ve known, people who can’t seem to get out from under the dark clouds that pursue them, clouds often of their own making. When I was young, I feared I might be one those people.

In a tiny voice, she said, “I should call the police.” I told her I’d do it, but the sun was bright on my phone, and as I fiddled with it, a fire chief appeared at my side. “The police are on their way. I live across the street, and when I hear that sound, it only means one thing. I hear it a lot.” When the squad car arrived, I thought, “This is almost worth it,” for it disgorged a dashingly handsome patrolman, patient and polite with both drivers. After taking our statements and checking our credentials, he ordered a tow truck for her and sent me on my way.

I don’t notice any difference yet in the way Dimitrios looks or handles. My back was sore yesterday, but, after a hot soak, it seems normal. I’ve called my insurance company and will take D for an inspection at a collision center, but it’s possible that he and I have emerged unscathed.

I was lucky to have had my seat belt fastened, and been relaxed at the moment of impact. Luckier still not to have been walking across the street when that essentially driverless car bore down on me. Luckiest of all not to spend my life dogged by a dark cloud.

Tzatziki!

After a long day of hard-spending adventure, Lois and I crawled into her front seat,   catching our breath and pondering our next move before she turned on the ignition.

“Hungry?”

“Always.”

For several days, I’d been thinking about the tasty meals we’d had at a Greek place called The Stuffed Pepper. I suggested it. Lois informed me it was called something else now and might not be as good. She googled some promising yelp reviews, including one from a former friend and fussbudget foodie (to be clear, only the friendship is over, and not of my choosing. Fussbudgetry has no expiration date). We decided to risk it, but Lois didn’t recall exactly where it was. “Just go north on Indianapolis. I’ll tell you where to stop.” I may not have gotten the gene for navigation, but where food is concerned, my compass is true.

Just past 173rd Street, a dramatic sign, all green and black, with jagged edges, read: TZATZIKI. A great name, conjuring the sharply exotic, and meaning, we were to learn, a splendid, white, herbed sauce capable of enhancing almost anything to which you apply it. We settled in and ordered a large hummus with warm pita, calamata olives, and, at the suggestion of the owner, a heavenly concoction of tomatoes, peppers, olive oil and slabs of feta, called oven roasted feta. We could easily have made a satisfying meal of these and no more.

But of course we didn’t. Next came Drago chicken kabobs atop rice, Greek roasted potatoes, chick peas, cucumbers, tomatoes, red onion, and, of course, Tzatziki.

We finished with Greek coffee, baklava, and (forgive my spelling) guadipudico?

This was Greek fare as it is supposed to taste, as you always hope it will taste, but as it seldom does. We ate ourselves into a blissful stupor, roused periodically by the charming owner, who surprised us with an intriguing new slant on the state of Greece’s economy. He’s an amusing gentleman, proud of what he puts before you, and eager to discuss its preparation and give credit to those in his kitchen. They come to life with his back stories of them.

We staggered out with brimming doggie bags of leftovers. Even if I had a dog, Fido would get nowhere near these goodies.

It’s not a competition

People say that, when you’ve been crowing about an achievement, or grousing about a disappointment. Well, sometimes it is and sometimes it isn’t. This time it was. My book, Safe Inside, was in competition for book of the year in the Chicago Writers’ Association independent fiction category, one of two finalists. The awards were announced yesterday, but I didn’t find out until this morning. My publisher congratulated me on getting an honorable mention, and said I should be proud.

I was proud to have written the book, proud to have it published, and, indeed, proud to have been nominated. As to the honorable mention, it’s a bit too close to a participation trophy to permit much preening. I’m glad the Association liked my book. I’d be even gladder had they liked it more, but that’s not why I wrote it.

I had to write it. Had I not done so, it would have exploded out of me like an alien, Writing it was one of the most satisfying, most joyful experiences of my life. It kept me in happies for over ten years. Creating it jump started my endorphins, and then revising it with Karen, my editor, doubled my pleasure. Had it never seen the light of print, it would still have been worth my time and effort. To write is to exercise a control over people and events that is possible nowhere else in life. Even dictators must reckon with the unexpected, and nasty surprises. Not so with writers. In our fictional universe, we are God.

I was one of the lucky ones. My characters did get to caper about in public for a while. Had I won the award, it might well have extended their dance. I console my little hodge podge of a book with the notion that he came in second out of the hundreds, possibly thousands, maybe millions of books considered this year. Perhaps there were only two, but he doesn’t need to know that. Neither do I.

 

Winter larx

Twice this week, I’ve had the kind of day where one nice thing gives way to another and another until the whole day has gone by and you’re still smiling the same smile you started out with. You mean to pause for a frown, or just to give your cheeks a rest, but there isn’t time before you’re into the next good thing. I know how this sounds, and if I were reading it instead of writing it, I’m not sure I’d go on for fear of adult onset diabetes. I promise not to chirp in the next blog, so bear with me if you’ve the stomach for it.

The wind and snow came Sunday night, and by morning, autumn had been completely kicked to the curb. The cover I had tied down over the furniture on the gazebo was ripped off, the chairs were knocked on their sides, and a huge tree had been uprooted on the Clifford’s lawn next door.  The mountain range of leaves neatly piled at everyone’s curb for the year’s last pickup were buried in snow and smeared across our driveways. Scarcely a promising start, but then Lois showed up.

She had agreed to come with me to shop for a replacement for my ailing refrigerator. I’m not a shopper, neither was John. We were buyers. Still, it’s always fun to shop with Lois. This time, I think she wanted to make sure I didn’t mess up. We ran tape measures all over my fridge, wrote everything down, and then she took photos of it from every angle, inside and out. To my relief, she didn’t try to tip it over and snap it from the bottom. We went to Lowe’s, so I could get my military discount. After all, this was a major appliance. I found out all too soon just how major it was. I was expecting to see price tags of three figures. Silly me. Lois laughed as I gasped at what were supposed to be sale prices. One humdinger was going for $4500. You knock twice on the door to see inside without opening it. Everyone needs that.

I did get a real bargain at $1499 for the latest version of the Whirlpool I have. There’ve been surprisingly few changes, but I had to make sure the doors would still hold magnet photos. My current model is festooned with dozens of them, half of them of John. The harried sales clerk wasn’t sure, and didn’t have a magnet to test it. She was alone in the department, on a busy day, and her wrist was in a cast, having been slammed between two crated refrigerators in the stockroom. Nevertheless, she was the soul of pleasant patience as she roamed the aisles with us in search of a magnet.  I won’t see the newbie until January. I suspect the steel tariffs have slowed things down.

Lois and I are often a trio with Tim, and so it was on Monday. He was home because his company car was in the shop. The drive to pick him up was a treat involving off roads and fields made quite Currier and Ives-y by the fresh snow. We had a long, succulent, Mexican lunch at Cessina: salsa with a bite, good guacamole, a superior margarita, milanesa, tres leche cake, and, in Tim’s case, an unfortunate lap full of cold water (a coat passing accident). Tim might have borne with strangers thinking he had wet himself, but he wasn’t about to freeze, so we drove him back to change . . everything.  The glasses at Cessina are quite large.

I had raved so about The Green Book that they decided they had to see it. They were going to drop me off, but I wasn’t ready to let go of the fine and silly time I was having in their company, and I told them I wouldn’t mind seeing it a second time. It wouldn’t be on again for a while, so we spent the interim at Bed Bath and Beyond. Lois was loaded with coupons, and I found a rather wacky gift for a rather wacky person, neither of which I can discuss here.

The Green Book was every bit as enjoyable on repeated viewing. Viggo Mortensen has porked up to play a rough customer most endearingly, and Mahershala Ali proves his range with a character at polar extremes from his role in Moonlight. Here are two of the finest performances you’re going to see all year, and their chemistry provides a master class in the art of disappearing into a part. It’s funny and touching, with a knockout soundtrack.  It also moved me in a very personal way because of a memory it brought back.

At twenty, I ran off to join the army. I was in a busload of new recruits of mixed races headed for Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri. We were not only on the same bus, we were, except that they’d been drafted and I’d enlisted, in the same boat. We talked and got quiet and joked and got quiet again. Whatever awaited us, we were going to be in it together. But then we pulled up at a little gas station that had a lunch counter. All of us needed a pit stop. Then we saw signs over the washrooms like nothing we’d encountered before: WHITE, COLOREDS. Nobody said anything, we were all too embarrassed. Whatever we did, it was going to be very different when we got back on that bus. Then, one of the white recruits said, “This is bullshit,” and went into the “COLOREDS” washroom. We all did, despite some smoldering glares from the proprietors. They couldn’t object; there were too many of us, some rather burly. In The Green Book, and in real life, Don Shirley had to endure many such indignities, and far worse, without a bus load of support.

There was a lot to say when we came out of the movie. It’s always that way when they’re good.

Today was another good, larky day, though I didn’t stir from the house. But that’s enough for now.

A night at the opera

I was home on leave from the army. It was the fall of 1959. Warren Quinn had an extra ticket to Madama Butterfly, with Leontyne Price in the title role. It was Warren, one of my best friends at South Shore high, who first opened my ears to classical music. My leave time was limited, but I wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to spend time in his company. I had a crush on him then, though he wouldn’t find that out for about another thirty years. We sat in the nosebleed section of the upper balcony, but the voices, unmiked in those days, were strong, the acoustics perfect, and the music sublime. I thought, “where has this been all my life?” By January, I was a civilian again and used some of my mustering out pay to buy season tickets. I’ve held them ever since and don’t plan to give them up. They are a central pillar of my well being, and, as Charlton Heston said of his guns, they’ll have to tear them from my cold, dead hand.

It’s tickets plural because it means so much more if there’s someone in the next seat to whom you can turn to share your exhilaration or dismay. There’s always been someone, friends of both sexes, boyfriends, relatives, co-workers, college classmates, and then, for years and years, John. That next seat has never been empty until the other night.

It’s less easy now to interest company when they know it means opera. What was once a familiar aspect of popular culture has become alien, to be approached, if at all, with dread and foreboding. Depending on your age, you may find this hard to believe, but there really was a time when mass audiences found it agreeable at the movies when a character would break out with an aria. The Great Caruso was one of the biggest box office hits of the ’50’s. Late night talk show audiences used not only to recognize but welcome opera stars like Marilyn Horne and Beverly Sills. No more. Few of my friends think of opera as entertainment. Times change, and with myriad options for amusement, it becomes easy and comfortable to splinter off into narrow cultural niches, excluding all but the tried and tried and tried . . . and true.

This weekend, it was not disinterest, but illness that felled first a relative and then a friend and had me heading off to the opera by myself. For reasons I’ve recounted in previous blogs, I was not driving, but had booked a car. I had told them a car would do; I had no need of a limo. I’d have been content to squeeze into a smart car. What rolled up instead, and far too early, was the longest, blackest Cadillac I’d ever seen. The driver ushered me into the back and told me if I needed anything along the way, or a pit stop, to let him know. He locked my door and took the driver’s seat, several miles away. The windows were steamed up. I could see nothing outside. The interior was luxurious. And black. A couple of times, I tried to speak to the driver just to pierce the heavy silence. He couldn’t hear me. I’d forgotten my bullhorn. So much for pit stops.

I began to feel peculiarly entombed, in a coffin on wheels, whizzing toward a restaurant which wouldn’t be open when I got there. Where were the traffic jams? the construction? No, my speed jockey knew every possible shortcut. He dropped me off in the rain with half an hour to kill, and nowhere to kill it. I entered the hallway outside Rivers where there was no place to sit, just walls. Well, why would anyone come this early? But God bless Yolanda, the hostess. She spotted me and insisted I come in. “We’re not open yet, but this is a nasty night, Mr. Kingsmill. You need some wine. Let me get you to a table.” I was brought not only wine, but bread and butter, water, and the company of two of my favorite servers, Kelly and Jason. Sometimes, I feel truly and undeservedly blessed. No, not just sometimes.

Around five, I was joined by Mike and Julie, long time opera buddies. Mike was getting over a cold, but they hadn’t wanted me to dine alone any more than I wanted to. Too much time for solitary reflection, and it was a treat to have this amusing pair all to myself. After supper, I decided not to let my extra ticket go to waste, and offered it to Yolanda, in case she could get away, which she had once been able to when John got sick. Evidently, she couldn’t this time, for just as the lights went down in the auditorium, the seat I’d saved for her in the box was taken by a pretty young lady who I assume is a Rivers employee. Fine.

Except it wasn’t. She seemed befuddled. Of course, the plot of Il Trovatore is enough to befuddle anyone. The Marx Brothers made hilarious use of it in A Night at the Opera. But the singing was full-throated and rapturous, so much so that each aria and chorus were greeted with thunderous ovations. But not by our millennial newcomer. Not only did she not applaud, she regarded those of us who were doing so with a wary expression of WTF? She fled at intermission and won’t be back. I had noticed a bag lady outside the theater who might have welcomed a few warm hours inside, even if it meant an opera. Next time.

When my driver tried to install me once more in the rear of my hearse, I asked if it would be okay if I sat up front with him. It was. It was a lot less lonesome, and he turned out to be nice.

 

Hurtling into winter

It’s one-ish in the afternoon, and dark. It snowed while I slept. Autumn has been kicked to the curb. Color has been yanked unceremoniously from the trees. Begonias that bloomed valiantly until Saturday now droop like overcooked asparagus. Fortunately, I’ve had the good sense to squirrel away some sights, sounds, and flavors to warm me this winter.

Flavors first. Kitaro should put me on salary. In the space of a few weeks, I’ve taken six different friends there, none of them easy marks at the table. All six effused about both menu and ambience and said they’d happily go back with or without me. They sampled widely, as I mean to do, but for now, I can’t get enough of their pork dumplings and seared tuna. Then there was Gamba, always deeply satisfying, for Lois’ birthday. She tried a salad-y thing I’ve forgotten the name of, with everything you’d want for savor and crunch lightly done up in aspic. I fought her for it, between bites of my flatiron steak done to a perfect temperature introduced to me by the resourceful Josh: rare plus. Lois was with me again at Vito and Nick’s which Tim has long been raving about. The pizza didn’t disappoint; you can watch them make it, and the room itself is fun, like being in your Italian uncle’s basement. Finally, there was a small gathering at Giovanni’s, which I mention only because of the Caesar salad debacle. They do a good one, but oh my. $6.00 extra and then you are asked if you want anchovies (if not, why are you ordering a Caesar?} and how many. They need to know before totting up your bill. The little dears are now twenty-five cents apiece. Is Giovanni’s falling on hard times?

Sight and sounds: Siegfried lasts five hours, but to me they zip by all too quickly. The new production is quirky and surprisingly cheerful. Before the curtain rises, you notice a huge claw protruding from beneath it, evoking Where the Wild Things Are. The character of Siegfried can charitably be described as childlike. My box mate, Bernie, reminded me how satirist Anna Russell described him. “Siegfried is so strong, so brave, so handsome, so stupid.” The set addresses that immediately by putting him in a giant playpen, surrounded by toys, a high-chair, and walls scrawled with colorful, childish doodles, including the dragon to come (and what a fearsome dragon he turns out to be). My sole quibble with this imaginative stage design is that, as in last season’s Walkure, Brunhilda‘s ring of magic fire is represented by those goofy red neon broken links that defy you not to think of an Oscar Mayer weenie roast. It was gloriously sung and conducted, and despite all the whimsy, powerful enough to sweep you away.

There’ve also been a couple of good movies. The Happy Prince is possibly better than I think it is because I was sleepy and drowsed through the first half hour or so. There’s nothing happy about this prince, Oscar Wilde at the end of his life, just out of prison, broke and ostracized. It’s a meaty part for the right actor, and Rupert Everett makes the most of it.

As to Bohemian Rhapsody, which I’ve now seen twice (the second time to accommodate a pal), it may be worse than I think it is because, though I thoroughly enjoyed it, the reviews have been uniformly dismissive. The main complaints were that the script takes liberties with dates and sequences of events, and that it is conventional and predictable in the manner of musical bios of the ’40’s. When Cole Porter was asked how he could stand the hokey Night and Day, he replied, “I loved it! They used dozens of my songs, and I’m played by Cary Grant.” Like Porter, I’m afraid I wasn’t put off by any cheesiness. I was having too good a time bingeing on the sounds of Queen (I’m not much of a rocker, but then as now, every single Queen song made me sit up and take happy notice). And then there’s Rami Malek, the one element universally singled out for praise. No one thought he was miscast. It’s one of the year’s strongest performances. If you like nothing else about the film, the last twenty minutes, the Live Aid set, are riveting. Even twice.

Okay. On to winter. Now if I can only find somebody to shovel the snow.