Saturday, October 04, 2008


“The opera ain’t over until the fat lady sings.” - Ralph Carpenter

“It ain’t over until it’s over.” - Yogi Berra

“The opera ain’t over until the fat lady sticks a knife in her kishkas.” - Mr. Debonair


We just got back from the Atlanta Opera’s production of Madama Butterfly, proof positive that a good performance has the power to affect your emotions...even when you know exactly how the story is going to turn out.

Madama Butterfly is a musical tragedy. American naval officer marries Japanese girl; she takes the marriage seriously, while he does not. She is in love; he has a case of the Hot Pants. He abandons her, returning three years later (blond American wife in tow) to find that he has a three-year-old son. He asks to take the son so that his new wife can raise him as her own. Butterfly, heartbroken, agrees - and kills herself.

Schmuck, thy name is Pinkerton. Self-delusion, thy name is Butterfly.

Bringing opera glasses (we were in the nosebleed section) may have been a tactical error. The soprano who played Butterfly did a magnificent job, but she was not the sylph-like teenager you’d expect to see in the role. More like Madama Brunhilde than Madama Butterfly, if you get my drift. Downright scary when seen through the Close-Up Lens. But that is neither here nor there.

Mr. Debonair Goes to the Opera. If I had any more culture, I’d be yogurt.

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