Foolery

Customer Service: Good, Bad, & Ugly

A few weeks ago in one afternoon I experienced extremes of customer service: the rare excellent and the less rare stink-up-the-place.

First, the excellent customer service. I have been dragging my feet about using recycled printer ink cartridges for lots of different reasons, but my ink ran out suddenly in the middle of a job at work. I drove a few blocks to Cartridge World, a local franchise, and bought a refilled ink cartridge. If I liked it I planned to buy more, but this was a test.

It worked beautifully.

For three days.

Inexplicably, my printer stopped working and gave me a strange error message. So I called Cartridge World, where Jeff told me what to do, and asked me to call him back to keep him updated.

It didn't work.

I drove back with my receipt and the offending ink cartridge in hand. Jeff asked me numerous questions, explained what had likely happened, then gave me not one but TWO replacement cartridges in trade. "For a back-up, just in case," said Jeff.

I'm happy to report the replacement ink cartridge has been working perfectly for at least two weeks, but more important, Cartridge World's customer service was fantastic. Jeff listened to me, solved my problem, and effectively halved my cost for my trouble. This is how retail is supposed to be.

 

But I saw another side of retail customer service that day, and it was pretty awful. I've wrestled with how to present this, because I didn't want to smear an otherwise terrific company with whom I have been very happy for years. So I will call them Stinkbug.

Stinkbug is a web-based full-service photo processing business -- prints, calendars, photo books, photo storage, and more. I generally love everything about them. But I had a problem and sent them a nice e-mail -- not asking for anything, just telling them about the problem and asking how to fix the problem. The answers I got were somewhat defensive, decidedly canned, and ultimately unhelpful. Here are the e-mail exchanges (all names but mine have been changed and all emphases are mine):

 


and here was the response:

 

*Laurie here: THAT'S THE PROBLEM. The date did NOT show up on the proof or I would NOT have approved it!

 

Click on this one to open it so you can read it:

 



**Okay, is it just me, or was this REALLY SNOTTY?
***Here's what's really funny about these instructions: I have been using the latest version of Firefox since 1.0. This was not the problem.

So, am I just being silly, or would this have ticked you off, too? As far as they are concerned I'm handled. They never checked back and I never pushed it further. Next time, though -- if there IS a next time -- I will be taking screen shots of the proof pages and I will NOT be paying for their mistakes.

At least I still have the Chico Cartridge World -- *sigh* -- my new business crush.

Love,

Foolery

La Rondine: Love, Lust, Beer and My Soapbox

Opera, in all its forms, requires the wholesale suspension of disbelief.  Whether you're watching the 350-pound maiden play the coquette to drive all the boys mad . . .



(Photo stolen from these guys)

or the witnessing the orotund, balding tenor as he sweats like a dock worker . . .



(Photo stolen from these guys)

or even sitting through the whole Luke and Laura thing from "General Hospital," and what was THAT all about?

(Photo stolen from these guys)

. . . we as the opera audience are asked to suspend our disbelief.

And so it was on Saturday morning when I joined my mom at our local theater for the latest Live in HD broadcast of the New York Metropolitan Opera.  It was the first New York performance in decades of Giacomo Puccini's La Rondine (which is pronounced "La RON-dee-nay").  We suspended our disbelief that this late work of the master Puccini could be almost unknown.  We suspended our disbelief that in the nightclub scene (Act II) the singers portraying the students, shopgirls and wanton women were more likely to be AARP members than Gen-Xers.  And we suspended our disbelief that, at a time when the New York Metropolitan Opera is more vibrant than ever, embracing advanced technology to reach new audiences, and staging immensely talented performers (who also happen to be svelte and attractive) -- at this point in time, our local NPR affiliate, KCHO, has chosen to drop opera from its weekly line-up.  Oh, the shame.

But enough soap-boxing for the moment . . . you came here for a story, right?




(Photo stolen from these guys)

The story is pretty much the same story as told by that awful, awful song "Never Been to Me" from 1977, and if you have the stomach, here's a link.  (I recommend laughing loudly as you watch in case there's anyone in your house who might think you enjoy that sort of thing.)  In a nutshell, the heroine Magda is a kept woman who lives the high life in Paris, but does not love her wealthy banker lover Rambaldo.  While she is comfortable and well entertained, Magda doesn't realize how unfulfilled her empty, loveless existence is, until she is reminded of a brief flirtation she had once, long ago, while she was still young and innocent.  On a lark one spring evening Magda dresses in a simple and girlish dress and sneaks out to that same nightclub of her lost encounter, Bullier's.

Up until this point the opera has been surprisingly straightforward, with not too much monkey business.  And, in fact, compared to most librettos, this one is rather unvarnished, even dull.  Still, missed connections and a lot of people turning a blind eye allows Magda to pretend to be a young shopgirl named Paulette, and she almost gets away with it.

Fake Paulette meets a charming young student named Ruggero, and within minutes they are sucking face in public.  Sounds pretty much like the nightclubs I went to in college, except that there didn't appear to be any beer bongs on stage.  Unrelated: I successfully curbed my urge to yell, "GET A ROOM!"

This story takes place in 1920s Paris and the Riviera, and every vignette looks like a slightly modern Toulouse Lautrec painting, lively and lush.



(Painting stolen from these guys)


(Painting stolen from freeparking on Flickr)


(Painting stolen from maggiedalianmaggie7 on Flickr)

On the stage, as in life, people don't usually get what they deserve.  While nobody dies in La Rondine, and Puccini opts instead for a quiet, tragic defeat of the two lovers, the story is still terribly sad in the end.

La Rondine's stars are Italian tenor Roberto Alagna (a good twenty years older than his character Ruggero, but this is opera, so never mind),


(Photo stolen from these guys)

and his real-life wife, Romanian soprano Angela Gheorghiu, who is -- gulp -- my age.


(Photo stolen from the Met)

Their voices were beautiful together in the mid-ranges, but when they aimed their voices for the rafters Laurie mentally checked out a bit -- just a bit.  The maid Lisette was played by an adorable young woman named, coincidentally, Lisette.  She was a joy.

If you don't like a lot of kissing then you may want to skip this one, as Ruggero was a lusty bugger, and I think he may have gotten to second base with his Fake Paulette right there in front of God and everybody.

And here in the cultural jewel of the North Valley, as we would have you believe, it's getting harder instead of easier to hear live opera.  Oh, the hand-wringing over lack of art and music in schools!  Oh the finger-pointing in general.  And yet, while in 2008 our local NPR station raised far more money than ever before, it chose to eliminate opera from the airwaves.  Oh, the protesting.

While I understand that a public radio station is a business, whether it's a not-for-profit business or not, and KCHO can't air the Saturday Metropolitan Opera broadcast if no one wants to hear it, I still cry bullpucky! 'scuse my vulgarity.  I accepted it, with sadness, when KCHO dropped the opera this year, because they said they needed to establish Saturday programming with a broad appeal.   Bullpucky -- she did it again!  I've been trying to listen on Saturdays, and the awful stuff they've replaced La Rondine, et al with is mostly unlistenable.  I just can't see throngs of people lining up to hear third-rate folk and world music, which I like, in theory, but which has really stunk every time I've tuned in, and jeebus, don't we have ENOUGH folk music on Sundays?

So much for our claim to culture here in the North Valley.  I can no longer suspend my disbelief.

If you have any interest in my previous opera reviews, which were much more fun and probably even less informed than this one, check out these links:

La Fille du Régiment

Juan Diego Flórez

Carmen

Il Barbiere di Siviglia

I kid, I kid, because this truly was a wonderful experience, and I highly recommend going to see the command performance of La Rondine on January 21st (tickets can be purchased on-line or at your local theater).

Weather Man

OKAY THAT'S IT.

I cannot take it anymore.

Starting today, no weather guys, most especially Kris Kuyper, will be allowed to use the word "towards" due to extreme overuse.



"TOWARDS Monday, we should see a new system moving TOWARDS Eureka and then heading TOWARDS Redding on Tuesday.  But TOWARDS Wednesday look for dry weather, carrying us TOWARDS a beautiful weekend."

AARRGGHH!

Where the HELL did you learn to SPEAK ENGLISH??!

TOWARDS Papua New Guinea?

For What It's Worth: La Fille du Régiment, One Plebe's Opinion

"Mama?"

"Mmmmfffpphphhphmmfff."

"Mama?  I really like spending time with Grandpa."

Now I'm awake.  "You DO?  Aww, that's nice, Smed.  Why?"

"Because when Grandma leaves us with Grandpa, she leaves us one cookie.  And after she leaves, Grandpa gives us another one."

Chuckle.  "Awww, that's sweet.  You know, he --"

"And then he gives us ANOTHER one!"

Oh.

But cookie glut or no, Smedley and Sparky had to babysit Grandpa today, because TODAY was the big day: the day that Grandma and I, along with my uncle who drove up for the occasion, went to the see La Fille du Régiment, a comic opera by Gaetano Donizetti, as presented by the New York Metropolitan Opera.  (At our local theater via live satellite simulcasting, not in New York City.)

I wore a little mascara, although I usually don't.  This was my choice:

That'd be the waterproof kind.  Why?  Because I knew I'd be crying like Sally Struthers as soon as the house light went down, that's why.

I was right, of course.  As soon as the overture began the waterworks started.  Oh well, all y'all know I'm a sap, and now my uncle and a whole crowd of bluehairs know it, too.

I fell in love with the conductor, Marco Armiliato, within seconds.  I think I may need to have at least one of his children.


(From his bio here)

Later, I even fell a tiny bit in love with the funny, charming and talented baritone, "Sergeant Sulpice," who is in real life Alessandro Corbelli, and not Julia Child.


(From his bio here)

Of course there was this guy . . .


(Photo stolen from these guys)

. . . maybe you've heard of him?  Juan Diego Flórez, my new Secret Boyfriend.*  Show stopper, heart stopper, can't-be-upstaged-by-anybody Juan Diego, *sigh*.  While he did not do an encore in today's performance as he did on Monday night, his masterful singing tested my waterproof mascara over and over and over.  The aria in the second act, in which he's down on one knee, nearly despondent, begging Marie's aunt not to marry Marie off to a wealthy nobleman -- all while singing -- had me so choked up I almost made pig noises trying not to sob.  Well, I made one pig noise.



But really, I have developed a Girl Crush on Natalie Dessay.  And so did

Every.
Other.
Person.
In.
That.
Theater.

no matter what they might say.  It was impossible not to.


(Photo stolen from her very own web site)

She was fresh, vivacious, and hilarious -- when was the last time you heard someone describe opera as hilarious?  not recently -- while simultaneously owning as beautiful and facile a voice as almost anyone, and that's saying something for me, since sopranos tend to annoy the pie out of me.  Plus, how many big opera stars would wear a grungy wife-beater?

And this photo is from the scene in which Tonio (as played by My Secret Boyfriend Juan Diego) professes his love for Marie, who is now My Girl Crush.  Marie managed to peel potatoes, for real, while she sang.  Although in truth I would not have wanted to eat the potatoes she peeled.

The little boy lederhosen is not My Boyfriend's best look, even if he does have cute knees.


(Photo stolen from her again)

I could go on and on about the set design, replete with humorous touches; the marvelous supporting cast; and the music, which never once bored me, as operatic music sometimes can.  But I won't say any more, because I figure if you've read this far, you're really just looking for my address so you can come murder me in my sleep.  Sorry.

We shuffled out of the theater with the rest of the geriatrics, blinking into the bright April sunlight, sunglasses down to hide the tear tracks.  Okay, that was probably just me.  We drove home to rescue Grandpa from his two short cookie-loving babysitters.  We stopped on the way to buy strawberries from the fruit stand.  The end.

p.s.  There is an encore performance Sunday, April 27th at most of the same theaters around the world where this played today.  If you can, GO SEE IT.  If you can't make it and are despondent and considering flinging yourself off of a cliff, DON'T.  Instead, watch for news of another encore performance of La Fille du Régiment at the Metropolitan Opera's web site.   They may just do it.

*With thanks and apologies to Mrs. G at Derfwad Manor, because the term "Secret Boyfriend" comes from her, I think.

A Conversation with Laurie and Mean Laurie

I'm a pretty laid-back person.

Try telling that to your kids.

No really!  I'm so laid-back I sometimes have to remind myself to breathe.  Listlessly.

You got me there.

So I'm about to exert myself here and suggest -- nay, INSIST! --

Nay?

that you treat yourself to a theater experience this weekend.  Saturday.  Saturday morning.  THIS Saturday, not NEXT Saturday.  I cannot stress this enough!  THIS Saturday morning.

SO laid-back.  Lighten up, Francis -- what's so special about THIS Saturday?

I'll tell you.  You wanna know?

I wanna know.

Sure you can handle it?

Look, I'm losing interest here.

Okay.

EYE CANDY.

Oh, like we can't get that at the theater any time.

Okay, EYE AND EAR CANDY.

Ewwwwwwww.  Ear candy just sounds sticky.

Okay, smartypants, I'll show you.

It's this guy.


(Photo stolen from this site)

Huh?  Huh?  Did I tell ya?  I mean, WOO-HOO, right?

Okay, I'll give you that, but . . . EAR candy?  What's with that?

I'm getting to that.  Wait, I gotta find it . . . okay, HERE.

I am so sure.  Opera?  You want me to listen to OPERA?

C'mon, it'll be good for you.  And besides, did you SEE that guy?  Singing to you?

I'll say it again --



which is bested only by having a man -- THAT man, tenor Juan Diego Flórez -- sing to you in Italian, maybe . . . wearing silk . . . crap, where was I?  oh yeah -- you HAVE to go to your local theater Saturday morning to see the live New York Metropolitan Opera performance of La Fille Du Regiment (The Daughter of the Regiment).  It will be simulcast live, just as the opera is on Saturdays over the radio -- only this is video.  But back to Mr. Wonderful.  In his most famous aria "Ah! Mes Amis" Flórez  hits nine high C's, which is one of the things which cemented Luciano Pavarotti's place in operatic history --

That and his shoe-black hair.

-- and the audience goes WILD every time.  You can feel the electricity, and you just KNOW they're gonna give him a thunderous standing O when he's done.  And they will, I promise.  I could also entice you by saying that this is a fun and light-hearted, funny opera (no linebacker women in horned helmets here).



Natalie Dessay is delightful and cute as a bug's ear and will be thrilling (because she's frightfully up to the challenge of Donizetti's vocal acrobatics), and the sets, and the LIVE EDITING people -- LIVE EDITING!  Tons of cameras and microphones that you can't see, LIVE!  It's like the Oscars, only with SUBSTANCE and CLASS!  and the music, and the costumes, and Donizetti . . .

You lost me there, chief.

Yeah, I know.  Okay, so I'll just lean on this --



I mean, Jeebus, how much more do I need to say?

If you want to see Monday night's history-making performance by Mr. Hubba-Hubba above (that's Juan Diego Flórez) of “Ah! Mes Amis” -- go here or listen to it here.  Or, type his name into Youtube.com, like I did, and sit back and cry like a baby, like I did.

Make sure they know that's Wimpy Laurie, and not Mean Laurie, doing all that crying.

I will.

It Could Be SO Much Worse

Often on Saturday nights, after the girls have showered, when we're all just sitting around, Chas likes to give us something to be thankful for, to ratchet up our family's sense of well-being and gratitude.  He turns the TV to a station that broadcasts people who are so much worse off than we are.  We watch in silence, sometimes wincing at the painful scenes playing out in someone else's world.  It isn't fun, it's rather grim, but we all feel so thankful not to be those poor, poor people.

If you'd like to feel blessed, too, just watch.

And this one, too, just because I can.

Foolery Gives it To Ya Straight: Carmen

Because you probably didn't spend your Saturday afternoon making soup and cleaning the kitchen with the radio on, I'll just bet you missed the Metropolitan Opera's NPR radio broadcast of Carmen, one of the most popular operas in the world.  Well, I'd better explain it to you then.

See, Carmen is a beautiful gypsy woman in Spain.  She's rather trashy, but we don't hold it against her, because she's also a thief, and we do pretty much hold that against her. Think Cher.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

Well, not so much . . . try again.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

That's closer, although I don't think they had collagen injections in those days.  So Carmen works in a cigar factory and she meets a very handsome, though upright and proper, Don Jose, a soldier.  How about Enrico Caruso?


(Photo stolen from this site)

. . . although I think he's a little young for Cher.  Don Jose ignores the flirtatious Carmen, which, of course, makes her crazy, and she teases him.  Lord, she's a shameless flirt.

So, of course Don Jose falls for her, and falls hard.  Was it her beauty?  Her voice?  No, it couldn't have been her voice; remember "Half Breed"?  Maybe it was her penchant for wearing rubber bands on aircraft carriers?


(Photo stolen from this site)

Don Jose falls like a stone for this strumpet, and goes AWOL from the army to join her band.


(Photo stolen from this site)

MY EYES!  MY EYES!  Uhhh, sorry, not that band.


(Photo stolen from this site)

No-no-no-no-no, I mean her BAND OF GYPSIES, TRAMPS AND THIEVES!


(Photo stolen from this site)

Okay, now you've got it.

So.  Don Jose runs off with Carmen, who really doesn't give a rip whether he does or doesn't, and -- hey, who's that sparkly NEW guy?  The toreador Escamillo, va va VOOM!


(Photo stolen from these guys)

. . . only not so swishy.  One thing leads to another, yada yada yada, and Carmen is on Escamillo's arm going to the big fiesta.  (She's probably trying to steal his wallet.)  Don Jose shows up and is enraged to see the love of his life looking like a cheap floozy . . .


(Photo stolen from these guys)

. . . so he does the only logical thing -- he stabs her.  You'd kill her, too, if she sang like Cher.  Oh, and there are some other people in this, too, and a LOT of singing.  And great costumes by Bob Mackie, and really, really great music that you won't hear on Adult Contemporary 105.7, and not a word of English.  Did I mention that the whole thing is in French?  Yup.  Carmen is a French opera about hot-blooded gypsies and Basques in Spain, as performed by an Armenian-American who pretends to be Cherokee.*  The end.

I didn't even know Cher SPOKE French.*

*Neither Cher nor Bob Mackie had anything to do with Carmen, or any other music, for that matter.

I'd Like to Ignore the Members of the Academy . . .

I think it may be Oscar Weekend, but I'm not absolutely sure.  I should have a ballot or something to follow along, just in case I actually watch the ceremony.  I have a spotty history of Oscar viewing.

Maybe I should start with a list of the awards up for grabs . . . nahhhh, too time-consuming.  I can remember the important ones.

Okay, here are my picks, based on my 2007 movie-going experience:

Best Supporting Actor:  Anton Ego, "Ratatouille."

(Graphic stolen from these guys)

Best Hair:  Colette, "Ratatouille."

(Graphic stolen from these guys)

Best Vermin:  Remy, "Ratatouille."

(Graphic stolen from this guy)

Best Use of Household Utensils in Unconventional and Endearing Fashion:   Linguini, "Ratatouille."

(Graphic stolen from this guy)

Best Embodiment of Snooty Parisian in a Domestic Film:  Skinner, "Ratatouille."

(Graphic stolen from these guys)

Best High-End Cookware Appearing in a Domestic Film and NOT in My Sordid Feverish Domestic Dreams:  Gusteau's Copper Pans, "Ratatouille."

(Graphic stolen from this guy)

Folks, the votes are in, and that should tell you all you need to know about this year's Oscars, and about me.  Happy Oscars!  Merci beaucoup.  Bon nuit.

This Just In

This really says it all.  I have no future as a writer, unless I'm willing to write Janet and mark episodes.

I am!  I am!  Janet, call me!

If you don't believe I rated that high, go here and check it out for yourself.  Just paste in the address of the site you want to check.  I'm just going to sit here and cry softly for a while.

My Date With Reverend Al (Oh, and Chas, Too) Part 2

Dinner was over, and Chas and I were comfortably full and happy.  We glided back down to the main floor, our senses shocked, as the elevator doors opened, by the sounds and smells of a very full and bustling Indian casino.

As we threaded our way through the throngs and the pinging machines, Chas yelled in my ear that he had never actually played slots before.

WHAT?!

Okay, now I was on a mission.  Quarter, quarter, penny, HERE!  Nope, false alarm, that's another quarter . . . ah, here's a nickel!  We were standing among nickel slots.  Now, lemme see . . . where's the coin slot?  No coin slot.  Oh, a bill feeder -- I get it.  Chas pulled out a dollar and fed it in.  20 credits -- go!

20 credits -- gone.  Well, not quite.  20 isn't divisible by three, and the machines bet three nickels at a time.  When you get down to your last dime -- literally -- you are issued a paper credit which you have to cash in if you want the dime.  I couldn't imagine what it would feel like to claim ten cents.  I wouldn't let him cash it in even if he'd wanted to; I wanted the souvenir.

By now it was almost time to find the concert venue.  We were early, but neither of us really likes gambling, so we might as well go in.  We found our seats and watched people until the show started.

The show -- wow!  What a performer Al Green is.  After thinking about it for a few days I realized it was just as much tent revival as concert, and audience participation was just as much a part of the night as music.  Now in his 60s, Reverend Al can't sing nonstop and full throttle as I believe he used to do, so he paced his show nicely to give his voice breaks.  He frequently interrupted his own singing to rally the audience, or tease us, or change things up -- all, I'm sure, to pace his voice.  You would, too, if you were famous for a dolphin-frequency squeal that even my 4-year-old daughter couldn't do.  That's gotta hurt, but you know what?  Reverend Al can still do it!  And he did it again and again.

Grandma is just getting the kids to sleep now . . . wonder if they brushed their teeth . . .

Al did all the hits you'd want him to -- Tired of Being Alone, Let's Stay Together, Let's Get Married, How Can You Mend a Broken Heart, and Here I Am -- and ended with Love and Happiness.  He threw in a few bars of the most unexpected version of Amazing Grace I've ever heard, playing it in a  S - L - O - W  12/8 time, and pretty much letting the audience figure it out and take it over, before he charged off in another direction.  I missed only Call Me and I'm Still In Love With You from his big, big hits.  But he did a kind of medley of great soul/R&B songs from the early 70s that were as good as or better than the originals.  His version of Marvin Gaye's Let's Get It On was the best I've ever heard, because he leaned on and almost acted out the words; it was like I heard them for the first time.

His band was as good as they could be.  There were 10 musicians, including a horn section; two female back-up singers; and two very young men dancing on alternate songs.  Green began featuring each of the players on the first song, which I've never heard any performer do, but again I think it had more to do with resting his voice than anything.  Still, he was a generous and appreciative band leader, which brings me to my last observation:  he wore white gloves on stage.  I was transfixed trying to figure out what he was going to do with those, until I realized that he was doing it already: he was actually leading the band, not just fronting it, and the gloves ensured that his hand signals could be seen against the hot stage lights.  The man directed, choreographed and controlled everything that happened, and he knows what he's doing.  I'd go see him again in a heartbeat.

Chas and I had fun making silly comments to each other throughout, as usual, only it wasn't easy, since we had to yell into the other's ear.  At one point we both swooped in to make the same observation at the same moment, cracking skulls in spectacular graceless fashion.  Nerdy parents really shouldn't be allowed out on dates.

Poor Reverend Al was losing his voice from the air conditioning, and after an hour and a quarter or so, maybe a little more, the show was over.  We joined the milling crowds pouring onto the escalator back up to the slot machines, and the date was over.

We didn't get lost on the way home, our babysitter didn't invite her boyfriend over for the evening, we weren't pulled over for speeding, and there was no awkwardness about a goodnight kiss.  Other than that little lingerie debacle in the bathroom, how could I have done better than that?

My Date With Reverend Al (Oh, and Chas, Too) Part 1

Standing in a stall of a public restroom, stripped to the waist, fumbling with a bra -- this is NOT how I expected this night to go.  It had all started normally enough . . .

"Do you have the tickets?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where we're going?"

"Yes."

This conversation typifies conversations with Chas: my six words to his one.

We were on our way to our date, driving BACK to Chico -- didn't I just flee this town an hour ago? -- and beyond to the town of Oroville, and the Gold Country Casino.  We'd been clutching tickets to see Al Green -- yay Al Green! -- for about a month, and the night was FINALLY here.  I wore my favorite orange sundress, and don't you judge me for wearing summer clothes after Labor Day; it's still hot around here.  The dress has this complicated crossing strap system, so naturally I had complicated matters even more by taking my bra apart and crossing the straps.  Brilliant!

Somehow (and I won't tell you how, to protect the guilty) we got lost on the only freeway to Oroville.  Half an hour lost.  Our 5:30 dinner reservation, which would have been tough to be on time for under perfect conditions, was dust in the wind.  But I had heard that the restaurant was worth seeing, so up we went in the elevator to the sixth floor, expecting only to get a glimpse of the place and apologize for being idiots, then leave.  Yes, the restaurant was lovely, designed in descending tiers, like a wedding cake, so that every table has a view (although the late afternoon heat made the blinds necessary).  But surprise!  The maitre d' was exceptionally accommodating, considering our tardiness and the busy night, and got us a table by the window.

The Steak House menu was somewhere between straightforward and arty, which is a good place to be.  As we looked everything over I was so glad we had the $100 gift card I'd been given by a very kind and connected business associate.  And, in case you think this kind of date was too good to be true for a goof like me, you're right.  I had to mess things up, so it was my bra straps.  They were clearly out to see and be seen.  Chas's eyes kept drifting down to my shoulders, so finally I had to bolt for the bathroom, strip to my waist (not what I usually like to do in public restrooms), and fix things.  I was hoping that the casino didn't have security cameras in that bathroom, but really not caring enough to live with crazy bra straps.

All better.

Back to dinner.  We both ordered the seared rare ahi tuna, served on a sea of wasabi cream sauce with lovely vegetables and something red mixed in; I wasn't paying attention.  But it was divine, if you like raw fish, and I do.  A slab of almost-raw fish as thick as your wrist is something to work up to, but I recommend it for the adventurous.

Cocktails were excellent, service was exceptional -- am I destined to fall down the stairs?  Because this is just WAY more good stuff than I'm used to, OR deserve.  We left a healthy tip for Candace and Josh, who gave superlative service.  They DO deserve good stuff.

Hmmmm, kidlets will be brushing their teeth at Grandma's house about now . . .

TO BE CONTINUED

But Wait, There's More

I'm all done wallowing now.  I think I've gotten it out of my system.

Saturday morning I cleaned the kitchen after brunch (we girls were feeding cows and cats this weekend, so we ate late breakfasts).  At 10:00 on KCHO, our local NPR affiliate, a special 2-hour program dedicated to Luciano Pavarotti came on.  I was glad to have lots of dishes and pans to clean, and some cooking to do.

The program had been created in 2005 to honor Pavarotti on his 70th birthday.  Most of the discussion dealt with his career history, and was therefore in the past tense, but every once in a while the present tense would sneak into a sentence (he was alive and well when the program was recorded), and it was startling.

Two glorious hours of the most impressive of Pavarotti's lifetime of performances, each one more fantastic than the last.  From the effervescent and playful "La Donna è Mobile" (the Duke's aria from Rigoletto), to Schubert's reverent Panis Angelicus, to his signature aria "Nessun Dorma" from Puccini's "Turandot," I was a blubbering fool.  As I have said before, Pavarotti's voice always brings tears to my eyes, but I just needed a good wallow, I guess.

The most striking contradiction about the man hit me between the eyes as I fussed about my kitchen inventing things to clean: Pavarotti was known for his crystal clear singing voice and superb diction, but it didn't extend to his speaking voice.  Radio provides no visuals to distract the listener, so I simply closed my eyes and listened to recorded interviews with the man.

He was a mush-mouth.

Maybe that's not fair, because English is not his first language, and I have no way to judge his Italian diction.  But listening to his spoken words pour out of my radio, I expected them to reverberate like bells off of my kitchen walls, or dance through the room like refracted light.  They didn't.  They hit the floor with a thud like cold oatmeal.

How could a man with so much verve and energy on stage express himself in such sodden tones when speaking?  Perhaps he was ever protecting his voice, but come on, man, how about a little expression?  I pictured Don Corleone on cold medicine.  With a lisp, I might add.

Still, as I scrubbed my sink I got to hear Pavarotti's famous 1972 performance of "Ah Mes Amis" (from "La Fille du Regiment") at the New York Metropolitan Opera, in which he nailed nine high C's, seemingly without effort.  The Olympic equivalent would be nine back-to-back perfect 10s.  He had to take 17 curtain calls that night.  And to hear him sing a high F (F5) above the high C was transcendent.

I'm glad his funeral has come and gone, because I couldn't take one more tribute show, although I'm sure I'd tune in anyway.  It was beginning to bug me that a whole generation knows him as the fat guy who sang with Sting and U2 and (oh God) the Spice Girls.  His choice to mix with the rabble was probably good for opera, but it diminished him.  But I never really minded -- I just refused to listen to such drab music.

So I have a clean kitchen and red puffy eyes, and two mystified daughters.  I need a vacation.

Il Barbiere di Siviglia, Baby

My mind makes promises my inner writer can't keep.  I mentioned about a month ago that my wonderful mom had treated me to the opera (at a theater near you!) just after Mothers' Day, and that I would write about it "later."

 

Later than what?

 

(photo stolen from www.metopera.org/)
It's later.  The opera in question was "Il Barbiere di Siviglia," or, for plebeians like me, "The Barber of Seville."  If, like me, your only exposure to this marvelous comic opera by Gioachino Rossini was from Bugs Bunny, then surprise!  you already know by heart the overture, and the character Figaro's opening aria, the thrilling "Largo al Factotum."  Think lots of la-las and machine-gun fire Figaros . . .

 

"Figaro qua, Figaro la, Figaro qua, Figaro la,

Figaro su, Figaro giu, Figaro su, Figaro giu . . ."

 

as Figaro is apparently bemoaning his plight (as the busiest, most sought-after barber in Seville), that everyone wants a piece of him.

 

Someone at the top of New York's venerable Metropolitan Opera has figured out that the world has gotten used to the extreme close-ups that cinema and television can afford, and the luxury of having cameramen, directors and editors to focus our attention where it should be at any given moment.  So, for the first time, the Met brought live opera to theaters around the country and in Canada for six of its 2006-2007 productions.  Because the performances were taped live, with seamless live editing in front of full audiences, none of the intensity of seeing a live opera is lost.  In fact, I kept wanting to applaud, but felt ridiculous doing so in a movie theater.

 

Rossini's "Barber of Seville" has one of those improbable -- no, impossible -- and silly plots which are a specialty of operas and daytime television.  Don't expect nuanced acting performances or subtleties of any kind, because everything is over-the-top in a comic opera.  Do expect vibrant music, grand costumes, and thrilling arias and ensemble performances.  And a shaving cream fight.

 

This particular production was beautifully directed by Bartlett Sher, in his first Met performance.  His name meant nothing to me -- again, I am a pleb -- but Broadway enthusiasts know Sher well, apparently.  The sets were cleverly designed to roll easily around the stage, and whole scenes often shifted in the background as the singers performed on a special catwalk in front of the orchestra pit, so the action never stopped.  Sher's production achieved a swirling, giddy feel to match the nimble singing and energetic music.

(photo stolen from www.metopera.org/)

Okay, I got all of that stuff out of the way to tell you this:  you think you hate opera, right?  When you think of opera you think of Wagner, big fat women, very very loud people, people who just won't die, people who insist on singing while dying, and lots of blood.  Well, you're right, and I won't argue with you.  That describes a lot of opera, but you have to work up to that stuff.  Start here, with Rossini, and especially with the clever Figaro.  You'll be hooked.  And there was nothing fat about Rosina, played with verve, charm and sex appeal by Joyce DiDonato.  Holy cow, I was pretty sure she was gonna pop over the top of her bustier at any second, if you know what I mean.

 

The most important thing I have to tell you about this production is that (if you ever get to see it on DVD, and I'm checking weekly at the Met's web site, believe me) you will come away from it in drooling, embarrassing, junior high LOVE with at least one of the male leads, if you prefer men, and maybe even if you don't.  Peter Mattei, the Swedish baritone who plays Figaro, could probably have crooked his finger at any lady in the audience that night, and she would have jumped up onto the stage.  Juan Diego Flórez, as the dashing young Count Almaviva, is too short for me.  Oh, and I'm married.  Other than those two things, though, I can't think of one reason not to run away with him when he calls.

 

(photo stolen from marci pants on Flickr)
Here is the link to the Metropolitan Opera 2007-2008 HD season:

 

http://www.metoperafamily.org/metopera/broadcast/hd_events.aspx

 

Eight operas will be brought to the big screen next season.  I plan to see at least two of them.  Watch for my reviews . . .

 

. . . later.

Poo Tickets

I'm actually going to recommend a movie to you -- well, some of you.  Most of you, close your ears, because you won't like it.

Any recommendation coming from me is funny because I pretty much stopped watching movies about fifteen years ago, when I first had my store.  Don't buy 'em, hardly rent 'em, so I've missed most movies you could name.

So out of the blue my friend Jed in Australia told me he was sending me a movie that he thought I'd like -- an Australian film.  It played just fine in my DVD player, but we watched it in black and white, and I don't know if it was supposed to be!  The film is called "Kenny," and it's a mockumentary.  If that's all you know about it then you know more now than I did before I dropped it into the player last week.  We were halfway through the movie before I was sure it wasn't a DOCumentary.  Here's a site where you can read a REAL review of it:

http://www.infilm.com.au/reviews/kenny.htm

I loved it as much as any movie I've seen in years, but I'd recommend it to about three people.  It deals with the subject of "poo" quite a bit -- constantly, really -- so if you can't handle that, you can't watch the movie.  Briefly, Kenny is a big lovable guy who manages a toilet rental company that supplies porta-loos to festivals, fairs, and other large events.  Now don't worry -- no sight gags are involved, though it certainly  would have been easy to do.  No effluent is shown on camera, and no one falls head-first into a porta-loo.  Just keep telling yourself, "It's 85% water, it's 85% water."

The F-bomb is dropped quite a bit -- it's an Aussie film by and about Aussie men, after all, and they're not pantywaists -- but other than language there's nothing offensive about it.  Oh, well, language and the poo.  Poo tickets -- my new phrase for toilet paper.

Let me know if you're brave enough to rent it.

Playing With The Enemy -- A Book Review

The story of Gene Moore’s life would never have made a good book.  Not that he, as a family man and self-made business owner, wasn’t a dynamic and interesting person; it’s just that he was a middle America Everyman who came into adulthood as World War II ended.

That’s probably how Gary Moore, sone of Gene and author of the book Playing With The Enemy, probably would have believed . . . before.  Before he found an old letter addressed to his father.  Before he wouldn’t take no for an answer, this time, when asking his father about his past life one night over dinner.

That night Gary Moore was able to crack his father’s hard exterior, and the story of Gene’s youth poured out of him.  I can only imagine what it must have been like to hear it for the first time, as the son.  It’s the stuff movies are made of, and I hear a major motion picture is in the works for Playing With The Enemy.

No matter who they get to play Gene, the two undeniable stars of the story are the game of baseball and World War II.  It’s a surprising but unbeatable combination, and when you add in the tantalizing fact of a secret mission, the tale gets even juicier.  I won’t spoil the story for you, although if you pick up the book you can learn far more than this just by reading the flaps and reviews.  Suffice it to say that Gene was an extremely talented, likeable young man in an extraordinary situation who was tested, who failed, and who ultimately succeeded in human terms.

Gene Moore’s story is compelling because it’s true, and the fact that his son Gary coaxed it out of him 24 hours before Gene died makes it seem very “Hollywood” indeed.  But don’t be fooled -- this is not the story of a superhero, so don’t look for that.  This is not the ultimate Hollywood underdog story either, although there certainly are elements of that.  This is the true story of your retired neighbor who waters his roses every morning in his undershirt.  This is the true story of the man down the street who drives to his business every day, long after he needs to work, because it’s his life, his passion, his responsibility.  This is your grandfather or great-grandfather’s true story that he never told you; that faraway look he would get in his eyes when the conversation turned to “the old days.”  The people who lived through World War II sacrificed in more ways than we can ever know, and this is just one extraordinary tale.

I have a special interest in this book, as our family friend Val Laolagi did the wonderful illustrations that grace the pages.  That’s how I learned of Playing With The Enemy.  Thanks Val -- I am so glad I read it.  Once I got going I read most of it in two days.

I gave Dad the book for Christmas, and if there’s someone you know who appreciates a dramatic story from the World War II era, I recommend Playing With The Enemy.

I BLAME THE WIND

Okay, Jeff, here’s my review of the Dwight Yoakam concert (Red Bluff, 9/21/06).  I originally wrote it for the Dwight Yoakam message board, which is called the Lonesome Roads Hotel, or LRH.  All right, all right, go ahead and pelt me with jokes about THAT – I can take it.

I realized as I watched the three-ring circus swirling before me that if I had to choose one word to summarize this show, it would be

DISTRACTIONS.

The show was to start at 7:30, so my friend Richard and I hurried to the fairgrounds to get a good seat.  We sat fourth row back in the grandstand, dead center.  The weather couldn’t have been more perfect at 6:30 (by 7:30 I was revising my assessment).

The first distraction was the audience.  I grew up in the area, but I’ve rarely seen such a collection of characters.  I had made a small paper sign that read LRH in huge black letters, to try to meet up with two women I’ve talked to on the Dwight Yoakam message board, Theresa and Susie.  As the grandstands filled up I stood up and held up my sign for all to see.  Blank stares.  No LRH-ers around.  Lots of curious folk, though.  Instantly people were yelling, "What's LRH?"

I yelled back, "It stands for Lonesome Roads Hotel, and it's part of Dwight's web site.  I'm looking for people who I know from there."

"You mean you met them ON-LINE?" one woman yelled back, looking skeptical. Okay, now I felt like a jerk. "Yeah," I answered, and sat down.  Richard was laughing at me.  "Stick with me, Richard, and you'll meet the weirdest people and look like the biggest fool," I told him.  "Yeah, I know," he laughed.

An example of my ability to attract a freak show: before we even got to the grandstand I had an encounter with a very nice but very unusual guy while in line for a beer.  He and his friend had just bought drinks, and while we waited, the man started talking to me.  He looked homeless and smelled like the bottom of an ashtray. He said he was running for mayor of his town.  He couldn't have been nicer, very friendly.  Then he took a taste of his drink, and said, "Hey, this is good!  Wanna taste?"  Man, I didn't.

"No, thank you,' I said.

"No, it's really good, you gotta try it!" he said, handing it to me.

"No, really, thank you -- I don't care for rum," I said.  He tried twice more to make me drink it.  I think he was being friendly, but there was no way I was gonna drink from his straw.

Back inside the venue now – the next time I stood up with my LRH sign, an older man asked what I was doing.  Everyone was looking at me, and I suddenly felt three years old.  I tossed out a quick answer.

"I'm trying to meet somebody," I said, then instantly regretted it.  The whole group of people behind me roared with laughter.  There I was, standing on the seat holding a sign, with about 20 people laughing at me.  Richard just looked straight ahead and wouldn't turn around, but he was laughing, too.  "No no no!  I mean, MEET UP WITH someone!" but it was too late.

So I sort of gave up on the sign.  After that I was afraid to meet Theresa and Susie, in case they were plucked from the same shallow gene pool as the people in my section.  I was pretty sure the girls were down among the arena crowd, anyway.

The second distraction was the opening act, Corinne West and The Posse, a local group.  They were quite good, but they didn’t have enough energy to sway the crowd, who were well into their third beers by then.

The third distraction was the wind, which whipped up during the warm-up band and kept my hair firmly planted in front of my eyes.  Because the concert was held at the outdoor arena where the world-famous Red Bluff Roundup rodeo happens, there’s a bed of soft dry dirt under the stage and the pricey seats, and things quickly degenerated into a Sahara dust storm.  The funny thing is, all summer I was dreading sitting in 95 degree heat before the show started, sweating, with no breeze and lots of flies.  Joke was on me!   At least, no flies on ME. There were some people near me who I'm pretty sure brought their OWN flies.

The road crew were busy fussing with equipment on stage for quite a while, and I kept thinking, “Any minute the band will be out.”  And then Dwight’s tour bus pulled up.  It was quite a show watching the huge bus maneuver the arena gates to get behind the stage, and we realized it would still be a while before DY hit the stage.

Finally, a few minutes after nine o’clock, out came the band.  Richard was betting that the delay was because Dwight was getting his hat superglued to his head for the show, but he lost that bet during “Together Again,” when the wind sent Dwight’s cowboy hat zinging across the stage.  Dwight took it with good humor, though I couldn’t understand what he said because the audio was so poor.  That, the sound, was the FOURTH distraction.  I don’t know if Dwight was upset about the sound, because I didn’t see any real crankiness (he is known for getting cranky about bad sound during shows), but then we were way back in the bleachers.  I do know I could barely understand the vocals, and spoken words were almost completely lost to me.  There was wind noise in the mics, and feedback a few times, but if DY was upset I couldn’t see it.

The hat came off AGAIN during “Streets Of Bakersfield.”  I think he made the audience promise to give it back to him should it fly off again, or he'd have to leave to go get another hat!  At least, I think that's what he said.  Anyway, if you have seen Dwight Yoakam, you know how much a part of his image his hat plays, and he’s rarely seen without it, probably because of a Male Pattern Baldness issue.

I have never seen so much stage activity at a concert on the part of a road crew.  They were constantly handing off guitars for both Dwight and Eddie Perez, the lead guitarist. Oh, Eddie  – I felt sorriest for him because, although he didn’t have a hat to lose, his hair is as long as mine, and I couldn’t see the paper in front of me for the whipping hair when I had to jot down a note.  How Eddie ever played his guitar in such conditions is beyond me.

If I sound like I’m complaining I’m really not -- the guys were real troupers and the music was wonderful. The audience around us were very into the music, especially the drunk trio in front of us who tried to incite the crowd to chant “DOO-WIGHT! DOO-WIGHT!”  They tried many times, but the people around us were unimpressed.  “Dude, it’s DWIGHT!  Not DOO-WIGHT!” someone yelled.  Like I said, a distraction.  Who could help but watch this little drama unfolding? 

Also, I saw my first Dirty Cowboy Dancing that night.  I looked for Patrick Swayze but he was nowhere in sight.  There was an older guy really grinding on his swing partner, though.

The fifth distraction was the bus, of all things.  For some reason I couldn’t imagine at the time it kept repositioning itself during the concert.  When something that large is moving you can’t help but look at it.  Will it hit that other car?  Oooo, that was close.  I found out later that Dwight was directing his crew to move the bus to make a wind break.  They also stacked crates up on the north edge of the stage for the same reason.

I wanted to go down to the arena level when the Key Club kids left their gate posts, but the dust clouds were so bad down there that I knew I’d be asthmatic if I tried it. We could see the dust swirling in the spotlights like snow.  Bleacher seats were the best.  So we stayed put.

The encore, usually two songs, was cut to one.  Dwight made it clear that “GOOD NIGHT” meant “WE AREN’T COMING BACK OUT FOR NOTHING, NO WAY, NO HOW,” and no one blamed him.  I felt bad for the band, who were five lonely entertainers out there.  There seemed to be no interaction between them on account of the wind, and they seemed kind of grim, like, “let’s just get through this and on to Oregon.”

If I could tell the band anything, I’d thank them for a wonderful evening of music, and for very professional and polished performances in the worst possible circumstances.  They played a full 90 minutes in horrible wind, but never lost their cool.  Even with all that going on I had a GREAT time, I’d go again, and I’d recommend the show to everyone.  Just don’t hold up any signs.

Drawing Conclusions

I don’t draw much anymore.  Hardly ever, in fact.  So tonight after work, when I was drawing on the computer, Smedley watched in amazement.

“How did you DO that, Mama?!”

“I used to draw a lot, honey.”

“You DID?!”  I must not inspire much faith that I can do anything other than bark orders and read stories, I guess.

“Yes, I did.  In fact, I studied art and design in college,” I told her.  No response.  Okay, so the drawing I was making at that moment wasn’t much proof of my design major, and Smedley can certainly outdraw me on the computer.

So after the girls were safely down for the night -- I’m an optimist, because Smedley just hollered out “I TOOTED!” from her dark room -- I settled down at the computer to see if I can still draw.

RULES:  No erasing.  One time through.  Work quickly, lines only.  Save in black and white, then color it in and save in color.

Didn’t know what it was going to be, but it ended up being a self-portrait from memory.  It’s pretty funny.  Either I think I look like Elizabeth McGovern with a big nose, or I’m really terrible on this computer.  I know the answer.

Here are both versions, just for fun.

     

And here’s one of Smedley’s, entitled "Ducks in a Row."

Bad Graphic Design

Need a good laugh today? How about a bad laugh? Boy, I sure do. Thanks, Jerry, for sending this link to me. 

http://www.theboxset.com/message/

As a former Bad Graphic Designer myself, I really appreciate Bad Graphic Design. It is an art unto itself to create graphic icons so ambiguous that they represent five or six possible meanings. This web page celebrates the zenith of Bad Graphic Design. How exciting it is that this particular set of signs was created for the government (see web site http://www.ready.gov/ ) in the ongoing effort to make our citizens disaster ready.

Ready for a disaster? Better be, if you plan to check out the above link!

The Big Cookies

I’m always surprised by the post-Oscar griping.

Oh, don’t get me wrong -- I’d do it, too, probably, if I cared enough to watch movies.  But the last time I saw a movie in a theater was, um, okay, when, exactly, did "A Bug’s Life" hit the theaters?  And I’m not much better about renting -- I think the most recent was either "Monster" or, okay, well, "Monster."

But this year seemed different, somehow.  I’m actually looking forward to seeing about ten of the movies in contention for one of the Big Cookies.  Looked to me like most of them were very good, maybe even wonderful.  So I watched the Oscars.  Wow.  I WATCHED THE OSCARS.

But now the squabbling starts.

What about Felicity Huffman?

How come Joaquin Phoenix didn’t win?  Hell, he learned how to play a GUITAR for that role!

It was Paul Giamatti’s TURN, for crying out loud.

WHERE WAS HARRY POTTER?

“It’s Hard Out Here For a Pimp” -- what, are you KIDDING me?!  You MUST be kidding me.  Well, okay, that gripe can stand . . .

Okay, if clips are any indication, Philip Seymour Hoffman deserved to win.  He won.  End of story.  I think he was in fact channeling Truman Capote, not just acting.  Besides, he has three names, suggesting a SERIOUS actor.  When will they learn -- just add more names, and you’re a shoe-in.  Some guy named Stephen-Alfonse Walker Pomeroy III would almost certainly take home a Big Cookie.

I am, at this moment, contemplating adding upwards of thirteen names to my full signature to increase my credibility, and my chances of getting a Big Cookie.  Hey if Three 6 Mafia did it, so can I.

I would even be willing to learn to play the guitar.

Sincerely,

Laurie Boffo Swami Dearest Alfonso AlGrone III (so far)

The Cowboy Show

Had a rare evening out Friday night with my good friend Cheryl.  We went up to Paradise, a little town nestled in the hills above Chico, to the very grand Paradise Performing Arts Center.

Before we hit the theater we had a heckuva burger at Izzy’s Burger Spa (a name which was the source of much silliness and cackling during dinner, as we envisioned the employees subjecting the food to seaweed wraps and mud baths and all).

We had great seats in case there was going to be a mosh pit (which, to our consternation, there wasn’t).  Had we had the inclination, we could easily have lobbed our undies at the stage, but that seemed a bit passe.  So we behaved ourselves.

The show that evening was a one-night production called “The Cowboy Show.”  An evening of music, poetry and humor celebrating the romance of the American cowboy, and the performers were mostly local.  Jim Lynch was one of those performers, and a friend of mine, and the reason I was eager to make the trip up the hill on a cold, cold winter night.

I was in for quite a surprise.  These guys were born entertainers.  Who knew?  I thought there would lots of poems about Cookie’s chuckwagon and lonesome coyotes and eatin’ vittles near the fahr, and there certainly were -- great poems, too.  But there was so much more.

Cowboy music was well represented by Johnny Walker, Bob Weber and Mel Detmer.  Walker didn’t so much PLAY the harmonica as he incorporated it into his respiratory system.  I thought at one point he might collapse, and was fairly sure he was having a heart attack.  But he was spectacular.

Bob Weber took the audience through a sort of Reader’s Digest tour of both country and cowboy music, covering songs by Hank Williams, Hank Snow, Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, and others, to the accompaniment of his guitar.  Great style,  I just wanted to hear the whole song (especially “El Paso” and “Ghost Riders in the Sky”).  You can download four of Buckaroo Bob’s songs at this web address:  http://www.mpsmc.org/Activities/2005_Activities/0507_Poetry/cowboypoetry2005.htm

And Detmer, an a capella singer with a four-octave range, covered the folk songs and standards that might have been brought to campfire rings over a hundred years ago.  His “Home-Grown Tomaters” song was by special request, and included audience participation.  No one lobbed any undies, or tomatos, either.

The cowboy poetry recited by Jim Lynch and Jim King both met my expectations and expanded them.  Standards like “The Ragged Old Flag” and “Dangerous Dan McGrew” were more or less what I believed the genre to be, but I wasn’t prepared for the range of emotions and the depth of feeling to be found in some of the verses they recited.  Dammit, Jim, I’m a sap, and ya made me smear my mascara.

Intermission gave us a chance to get a whiskey, which, because we were driving, we opted not to do.  The snow had begun to fall by then, though it never stuck and didn’t reach the valley floor as forecasted.

Finally, but certainly not least, was guest performer Kent Rollins of Oklahoma (http://kentrollins.com).  With his hilarious stories of life in the cattle business and growing up rural, and especially his “shucks, Ma’am” delivery, my mascara was a goner.  I think I elbowed the lady next to me quite a lot while laughing, but that’s okay, she was doing the same.  Growing up, as both Cheryl and I did, in the company of cows, we could see what was coming before it happened, but no one present needed to know how to pull a calf to know how NOT to.  Harder to predict was the presence of a 38D bra on stage, or a watermelon.

We had a heckuva time, and I’m gonna work on Mr. Lynch to do it again next year.  Maybe someone will throw her undies at the stage next time.