A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

    For personal and civic reasons, I’ve become obsessed with the idea of cleaning and fixing up the blotch of dirt beside the river south of the ferry that is covered in pigeon shit, and used by the wind to fling dust and grime onto the dwellings whose inhabitants already suffer from noise and dirt of the traffic on Mare Island Way.   Repairs to this park got no votes in the recent participatory voting, but it needs to be done, for me, my neighbors, and the city.

     Casinos or not, we need good restaurants in Vallejo.  Now.  Whenever I consider dining out I don’t know where to go.  I think I’m living in the wilderness, where folks eat stuff that comes out of a freezer or a central kitchen thousands of miles away.  Ok, some of our joints may be fancier than others, but as far as I’m concerned it’s all just grub.  I want real cooking, real food.

     I cook and eat three meals a day at home, seven days a week, four weeks a month, and I’m getting a little tired.  Sometimes, I want to eat out, good, simple wholesome, tasty, fresh food – not chain food, canned food, bad food warmed in the microwave.  I challenge the chefs of Vallejo to come up with the good stuff.  You can do it! Let’s go!  

     I refuse to lower my standards and expectations of food as I do for local opera performances. 

I attended the opening of Tosca at the cold, drafty Mira Theatre, together with about 18 other brave souls, and I must say, it was a unique experience, starting with the strange pants the male singers wore, salvaged that morning, no doubt, from the bins of the thrift store down the street, which is probably the reason someone came out and made a plea for money after the first act. 

     Most of the singing wasn’t too bad. The orchestra earned their pay, except for the cellist who didn’t arrive until halfway through the second act.  She slid into her seat, unpacked her instrument, switched on the light of her music stand, raised her bow and entered the music seamlessly.  No one even blinked.  I’m guessing they left out the overture because she wasn’t there.

     The conductor, poor fellow, had to lead the band perched on the armrest between two seats in the first row, which must have been quite painful, to say the least.  He fell off once, and knocked out his light once, but was saved by the first violinist, without missing a beat.  

     In spite of all that, I confess I enjoyed my night at the opera in Vallejo.  Puccini may not have agreed, but Groucho would have loved it.