When I tell you that the Met's summer parks performances are fun for the whole family, I trust you won't need your decoder ring to catch my drift. See, the marvellous thing about the series is it's a little bit like a picnic...rules are loosened up, everyone likes that. Heavens to Besty, I'd be elated if I could eat dinner at things I go to at the Met just because there's nothing on tv, cough Fledermaus cough. So with no-one too worried about what sets us apart from the animal kingdom, we are presented with a golden opportunity to rediscover children's love of opera. Not completely incidentally, children don't love opera. Don't even like it, and why should they? They fidget and fuss and occasionally scream during opera, especially in an age of such innovative schools of parenting as the "Everything You Do is Automatically Precious Because You Came out of my Vagina" school. The main rule of EYDAPBYCOMV mommying is you never, ever correct any behavior, and if everyone around you wants to murder you for prioritizing the little ones over every other breathing thing in the universe, just mow 'em down with the stroller for being such bad sports.
The Met's Rigoletto in Central Park this evening was, from my vantage, a little like those toddler+Carribean nanny+guitarist who somehow resists suicide Raffi sing-alongs at Tea Lounge in Brooklyn, if for some reason there were a recording of Verdi playing softly, forlornly, helplessly in the background. We stayed until all the "addio! addio!" business and then could not refrain from a little addio of our own. I had just finished my picnic dinner of $5 hummus from fucking Gristede's eaten with what turned out to be apple cinnammon flavored crackers, and was not feeing patient with the universe. Nora Amsellem sounded DADDY WHO PLANTED ALL THIS GRASS, while Mark Delavan remains NO NOT ORANGE JUICE I WANT APPLE JUICE NO THE OTHER KIND although slightly less so than I recall in years past, making some allowances for mics. Roberto Aronica, a new name to me, was more or less WHY IS THE LADY SCREAMING EVERYTHING AT THE FAT MAN. I'm sorry if you couldn't hear that, but hey, there are several more performances left if you'd like to find out for yourself. If you go, bring pesticide.