Opera in the Park--in Two Acts

Part I—The procurement of sustenance

So last night was Opera in the Park, one of my favorite nights in NYC. For two nights, thousands of NYers descend upon the Great Lawn and, for the first time all year, are completely quiet! What a fucking phenomena!

And maybe everyone is quiet because everyone is a tad drunk. See, part of the tradition is that you bring wine, food, and make a little picnic for yourself.

Last night after my squash game I went to the wine store to pick up a bottle of wine. I know a bit about wine, probably more than your average twenty-four year old who did not grow up in Europe and whose parents aren’t oenophiles—basically I know what grapes I like, a few producers, and styles I prefer. This is usually enough information to tell the clerk in a shop what I am looking for and get a decent bottle.

Since we were just going to nosh on some crackers and cheese (I did bring green beans and other greens in the hopes of not eating too much crap—like that fucking happened, thanks booze!), I was looking for a bottle that could stand on its own. I told the guy that I was looking for a “fun” rose—a bit fruity, something that would play on my palate, and just be a bit playful all around. Not a wine where I am chugging because it reminds me of vinegar. Traditionally the word “fun” is not really used when describing a wine, but, I am not an expert but I enjoy playing with adjectives, especially in food and wine where in the right company I have been known to say things like, “An orgasm on my tongue”, “a party in my mouth”, you get the picture.

He immediately pulled out a massive liter bottle of this pinkish hued wine.

“Oh this is a fun wine! It’s one liter and 10% alcohol, it’s like getting two bottles for the price of one!”

My alcoholism follows me, even unintentionally.

But he was right, it was a great wine. A bit fruity, and light on the palate, and I did feel it after a few plastic cups full.

Part II—The Expulsion of sustenance

Nothing screams contradiction than watching opera then using a porta-potty. A traditionally high brow form of culture, and people are lining up to pee and poop in a plastic container.

After intermission, it seemed the everyone in central park needed to “break the seal” at the same time. Usually I avoid these portable toilets like the plague because I am a germ a phobe but, being a bit drunk, and peer pressure that my friends were going, and the pressure on my bladder, I decided to chance it and go in one.

My friends and I are waiting in line, and this Eastern European woman cuts the line that is about five people deep. It may be because we are a bit drunk, or maybe that we are all secretly a bit white trash as we can only afford to see opera when it is free in a park, but this woman on line starts to go off.

“What nerve! She turned to me and told me, ‘you go next! Ok?’ and then cuts the line and walks right in. I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes!”

“Yea, that is pretty foul,” I sympathize with her.

“Who does that! We’ve all been waiting in line.” The woman then knocks on the door of the port-potty, telling the woman inside to “hurry up.”

This solicits a few laughs from the line. But I am an attention whore, and know that I can be a bit funnier and maybe it is that I am a bit drunk and have a bit of the white trash gene in me,

I yell towards the plastic container, “Hey, this isn’t life under Stalin anymore, in this country we wait our turn.”

People laugh. This gives me a bit more courage to be a complete jerk. So I walk up to the door and knock on it, “NYPD! You just cut in line!” in my deepest bass that I could muster.

The woman who instigated all of this turns to me and slurs, “You know what? I am going to body check her when she leaves! That’ll show her!”

I think to myself, it’s one thing to poke fun at a woman and her culture and pretend to be the cops, it’s another to cause physical harm.

Instead I respond, “You know what? Go for it! She’s Eastern European, they all play hockey. I’ve seen Mighty Ducks.”

Ten minutes pass, and the woman walks out. As the woman in front of me goes to walk into the portable toilet, she holds true to her word, and body checks the woman.

When it’s my turn to go, I walk in, lock the door and see how the Eastern European chick had the last laugh out of all of us—she shat all over the toilet seat. I calmly walk out, and hold in my pee. There is no way that I am going to pee on a defiled seat, my legs are strong, but they cant hold me up that high.