I was dating this guy who considered himself musically cultured. He told me very few people understand or appreciate his taste in music. What a relief.
He wanted to take me to an outdoor concert. I was thrilled, thinking it would be the Samuel Barber/Bela Bartok at Tanglewood. He took me to the Boston Pops. The drive through window of orchestras, say I.
I asked him if he would be interested in an upcoming program at Tanglewood to which he replied “no that’s all very noisy, unstructured”. Oh shit. I am very noisy and unstructured. And it was Stravinsky. Stravinsky! My hero. I said I would like to take him as my guest. He asked me why it is that I like such composers as Bartok and Stravinsky — does it have anything to do with my being bipolar?
Under that theory, his interest in banal crap like the Pops could have something to do with his manhood — or small cock as we under-cultured say. I hadn’t yet seen it and maybe the Pops thing was a fluke and snobs don’t like Stravinsky because you can’t count it and I already learned to overlook his pompous, entitled rich guy attitude just as I hoped he would overlook my forthcoming histrionics on the cultural relevance of The Rite of Spring at cocktail parties. Or that I dress like Minnie Mouse and throw the finger at house parties.
I shifted all this furniture around for one reason: he was ridiculously hot. Still, I lived in fear of a Kenny G concert.
Well, doncha know, he joined me at a pretty hip joint in town to hear some jazz: people I knew well, great young players from NYC including a serious chick who really, really plays. She is amazing. He thought it was tolerable, didn’t like how the music just went all over the place for no reason but mostly he didn’t understand her popularity.
“I don’t see why she would be invited to play at the White House. Maybe it’s a “black thing”. A racist too! The mother load. but why oh why couldn’t he be Jewish and say shvartzas! Think of how much better this tale would be with the word shvartza in it!
We left the club, I sucked a tooth through the hole in my lip and, when we arrived at the “bistro” for fuck sake, I mean he called it a “bistro”, I was sort of mentally checking out and ready to just poke this whole thing with a stick.
There were no prices on my menu so I took a stab at what would be the most expensive thing and didn’t eat it. I told him I couldn’t understand why he thought this place was 5 stars. I would give it “one spade”. He didn’t get my meaning. He’s cute, Fatova, hold onto that. And well off. And he overlooks all of your quirks. Well, the two I had thus far revealed.
We leave the bistro.
Him: “In time, I will educate your palate.”
Me: “I’m not giving up Popeye’s Chicken”.
He laughed because he liked sarcasm when it had nothing to do with him. I laughed because I never had Popeye’s Chicken. We held hands because it was a posh area and daters do that.
I kissed him goodnight- oh what thick hair and for his age barely any grey and he’s cute, he is cute and he dresses well and that hair….still not enough to get me into bed sober. I was holding off on that. Oh to be guzzling Night Train out of a paper bag, dipping McNuggets in 3 different sauces while pitching pennies against the stone wall opposite me and listening to Coltrane’s nervous breakdown solo on “Straight No Chaser”. Even this scene, in my opinion, was more cultured than anything he could conjure. I was one-up culturing him in my mind. For a week.
Then he took me to the Met: Tosca.
I only know about 5 operas enough to wield an opinion and this was one of them. But when we stepped in and I saw the opulence of the place I felt overwhelmed with a sense of inferiority. I walked in small steps, shoulders down. I didn’t belong here. I started thinking about the McNuggets in the alley.
But from the orchestra’s first note, I leaned forward in awe and remained so for the entire 36 hours of the opera. I cried twice, didn’t look at him once but…the opera has its flaws. I mean imagine saying every mundane thing in a sing-song voice: can I borrow your sunglasses? I’ll have a Whopper with cheese no onion. Singing dialogue is like the opening act at a rock show: tough it out cuz fucking KISS is coming!
The arias are breathtaking. The orchestrations are crafted around them like the settings of gems. And the entire time I was thinking that I am a part of a dying art. I fear that opera will be the first art form to become obsolete in our time. I was overwhelmed.
When it was over he patted my hand. Is this 1875, why aren’t I suffocating from my corset? The opera meant nothing to him. It did not move him. The opera is a requirement of old money like eating cold varenyky after it fell on the floor is for mine. He goes through the upper class motions handed down to him. Probably wearing a butt plug, you know, to feel something like a punishment for some mistake at Yale and the word “mommy” probably works into this, good heavens maybe sex to Souza marches because the upper class can’t fuck to anything but 4/4 time! The nouveau riche go so far as 3/4 time and are consequently much better waltzers and faster at sex.
Returning to the hotel:
Him: “We aren’t going to have sex, are we?”
Me: “Nope.”
I was too wacky and full of unexploded mines in my past and he would be trying to keep the butt plug a secret. I would think him a musical idiot, he would eventually have a problem with my being Hungarian.
All that was left was to watch the news, fall asleep, part company. I let him watch Fox News without making one crack.
I mean he took me to The Met! Any other guy would have had alley sex for that. With 3 dipping sauces.
