Bullfights make me giggle. I've never been to one, of course. We don't do that sort of thing in Nebraska. Bullfights are normally a serious, polarizing concept. Either you believe they are the supreme artistic dance of death, or you believe they are the most despicable example of animal cruelty.
Tomorrow night Steven and I will finally see the Dallas Opera production of "Carmen". I've been looking forward to this for months, and not just because Teddy Tahu Rhodes will be wearing the pink stockings of Escamillo. I'd be just as excited if Daffy Duck was performing the role of the matador.
Most of what I know about opera I learned watching Looney Toons in black and white on a 15" television. The rest I learned from silly routines with Captain Kangaroo, Dancing Bear, and Mr. Moose, or from my dad's songs about spittoons.
A year ago I went to my first opera, and I couldn't wait to get out of the Music Hall. After my second opera, though, I was hooked. Since then my friends have helped me overcome my Looney Toons background. Still, when I close my eyes and listen to the cd, I'm likely to see Daffy Duck strutting on my eyelids in his hat and cape.
In 1966 we went on a family vacation to Estes Park, Colorado. We stayed in a cottage motel on Highway 7. It looked way, way down the hill on a golf course and homes. Every evening a small boy came out of one of the homes and played bullfighting with his small black fluff dog. The little boy would swirl about with a bath towel, yelling, "Toro! Toro!" The little dog would go crazy with glee and charge all around the backyard. Their perfectly matched exertion and joy were contagious to those of us spectating from far above. Each time we watched the entire performance. I wasn't all that much older than that little boy, but I sensed a gulf from his carefree immersion in the present moment.
Play hard. Listen well. Suspend disbelief.
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