"Next Year in Bamako" ossia "I don't want to hear, I don't want to know"

Well, gentle readers, I was supposed to be productive and clean my apartment today, but I am afraid I got off to a bad start and never did find my groove. Last night I went out to clubbing with Pablo, my new-age Mexican friend. Pablo is on a very restrictive diet right now because he has elevated levels of yeast in his system. He got his ears candled (after discovering that he was a number eleven in his numerology book and realizing that it was therefore important to cleanse before determining his life-path) and the woman who candled his ears said that he had a rash and had to give up everything but organic vegetables, herbal tea and brown rice. He even gave me his prized package of Serrano ham that he had shipped from Seattle, saying "ju know, it is so jummy, but I cannot eat it." He was solemn, almost like those mothers in war movies who pretend they are not hungry and give their children the last piece of bread. I was feeling mischievous so I proceeded to eat some chocolate in front of him. He reached out, and cried to the heavens like a man condemned, "ay, I want chocolate, ju are so mean." I told him he was being racist and he told me that I was being more racist. Only in Canada.

Anyway, since Pablo wasn't drinking alcohol ( is too much yist) , I was drinking for two, so I don't remember much other than a bizarre scene at a house party consisting of a room full of gay Mexican men watching a drunk Chilean girl named Felicia doing a mock striptease to Madonna's Sorry. As Pablo's roommate Edgar said "when you party with Mexicans, you never know what to expect!" Incidentally, the opening lyrics to that song are "I heard it all before, I heard it all before. I don't want to hear, I don't want to know".... I think that is an appropriate response to the current state of Madonna's music, and perhaps pop music in general. Maybe I should sing this song to my therapist? Sorry Doctor S, you know I love you. I mean, you know I, um, respect you?

After the excitement of the evening, I was glad that the clocks were being turned back so I could get an extra hour of sleep. After all, it is spring back, fall forward. Of course, I realized my mistake when I was woken up by landlord pounding on my door at noon demanding the rent. Ha ha. April fool's! No rent! Whoops. Note to dad: I am financially solvent and pay my bills online and am not a drunk. I merely play up the debauchery to make myself look more interesting and cutting edge as a writer. The fact of the matter is that I spent most of yesterday translating a Mozart aria and doing vocal exercises in mezza-voce (with closed vowels) that limit my reliance on the vocalis muscle and therefore allow me to sing more lyrically in my passagio. Oh, and I will send you my T4 slips this week. And thank-you for giving me 5 copies of The Wealthy Barber at various times during my adolescence and for helping me with math.

Speaking of dad, you should all know that I am gainfully employed in the public service of Canada because my dad went to high school with the head of a federal department (paging Justice Gomery!). One day in the elevator, my dad said "hey, my son needs a job" and his friend said, "sure thing, ear" (ear was my dad's nickname in highschool). But you know, my dad really did fulfill a mitzvah (Jewish good deed). After all, Maimonedes said that the highest level of charity is to find their son a stable job. Especially if that said son is going to choose something where the chances of supporting himself are questionable at best. Something like opera. Well, my dad, ever the practical one, said "you can do both! Just join the foreign service. Then you can get posted to Paris and sing on the side." I didn't have the heart to tell him that one's fist posting is usually to places like Mali. I can see it now... Ben Schnitzer, tenor, performs Puccini arias with Opera Bamako...

Well, I am off to bed. I just spent the last few hours in singing, among other things, the Apotheosis scene from Faust. It goes something like this: Marguerite gets knocked up, and wrought with guilt, kills her child. She is imprisoned, and invokes the angels to save her.
Then she dies. Some help. Anyway, the devil, Mephistopheles, pronounces her thus "judged", but then a chorus of unseen angels (that would be moi) cries that she has been saved and that Christ will come again and save us all. Does Gloria Steinem know about this?
Sometimes I think Pierre Boulez was right when he said that all opera houses should be blown up. I mean, really. Fortunately, the music is so sublimely beautiful that you forget about the plot. Unless of course, your set consists of a giant puppet and a noose (as ours does! Hooray for Conceptualism! The puppet represents children and control and the noose represents, like, death. And rope.).

I am looking particularly forward to staging this scene on Passover, as Vancouver Opera in their infinite wisdom has decided to schedule rehearsal for both nights. I also learned that in the spirit of sharing, the French decided to call Passover Paque Juif (Jewish Easter). Aww... a resurrection, just for me? Thanks! Except, its not really what I asked for. If the Jews ever needed another reason to continue leaving France, this would be it. So,

Next year in Bamako! Next year, may we all be free! Wait, they speak French there too.
But that is the result of colonialism, so it doesn't count.

Regardless, I am going straght to hell because of my evil writings! Unless of course I invoke the angels. But wait, does that mean I have to die? SO confusing.