Erg, I'm a little hung-over. Not in the traditional sense, at least I don't see how that's possible, but, arg, that's how I feel. Maybe it was the Opera coupled with a whopper of a late-night glass of wine and a few fewer than usual hours of sleep. Maybe I'm not cut out for the bobo life? I jest, but really, maybe I'm not.
So, the Opera. I'd never gone, but you see, it was one of those inside jokes. For absolutely no reason, Nick and I, who knows how it started, had been la-la-la-la-la-la-ing the most famous song from Rigoletto for weeks. Well, we in honesty didn't know it was from Rigoletto at the time, we looked that up later and then, when we learned that Rigoletto was slated to play this week at The Met, Nick suggested we go as a sort of pre-birthday outing. Who's gonna' argue that, especially when $15 nose-bleed seats were still available.
We were sat in the benefactor-challenged top tier, in one of those boxes to the side of the stage. We crammed our seats up against the railing and veered our heads over the edge to see the action, and, boy, did Opera live up to it's reputation. There was womanizing, cursing, numerous revenge plots, PG-rated sexual content, murder... and just wrongness. I couldn't peel my eyes off that car wreck! All the while sneaking peeks at the small, individual screen feeding me a word-for-word translation. I was bleary eyed and made uncomfortably conscious of the fact that my body was crammed in an odd angle by the title character, Rigoletto - a hunchback! Man, and did I mention, this opera is three hours long?