Executive Experience

So Sarah Palin is going to be McCain's running mate. Whoopideedoo.

It has always bugged me that governors are put on a pedestal when it comes to running for President. Yes, they have "executive experience". But as far as I can tell, Senators get a fair amount of experience in government as well.

Today I heard John McCain highlight all of Palin's "executive experience" and he included her time on the PTA. Give me a break. By that standard, I am already building my Vice-Presidential résumé. When I am Chelsea Clinton's running mate in 2028 she can tout that I was Governor of Connecticut & Rhode Island, Archbishop of Boston, shift manager at an Arby's franchise and President of Boston Opera Collaborative.

The video below has Tom thinking that he has a shot in 2028 as well.



Listen closely for a Whalers reference.

Don't stop thinking about tomorrow

I have no recollection of why we were there, but when Bill Clinton spoke during convention four years ago the whole gang was watching in the Paraclete dining room. As soon as we heard the beautiful sounds of "Don't stop thinking about tomorrow" as he walked out, we all had a moment of silence for the President we loved.

Maybe it's a function of my age, my susceptibility to good oratory, or my progressive tendencies, but I long ago drank the Kool-Aid on the Clinton Administration. Don't get me wrong: I love marital fidelity and honesty, but the faults of the man in those regards couldn't outweigh how much I agreed with the work done during his Presidency (his inaction in Rwanda being the notable exception).

When his introducer yesterday was rambling off the positive economic statistics that went along with his Presidency, I couldn't help but feel like I was watching one of those episodes of The West Wing in which President Bartlet gives himself a pep-talk by reminding himself how many jobs he created and how many kids have health insurance. (I'm thinking particularly of the scene when he's talking to himself just before the press conference at the end of Season 2. RIP Mrs. Landingham.)

I thought Beau Biden's intro had the perfect "gotcha" moment when he revealed his father's speech impediment. The subtext was definitely "Remember all those times you made fun of my dad for his gaffes? WELL HE HAS A STUTTER! Don't you all feel like jerks". Regardless of whether anyone felt like a jerk, Biden the elder went on to give a pretty impressive speech that got 'em all weeping. His mom looks like a real pistol too.

Tuesday night of the convention

Bill Clinton finds limitless ways to draw attention to himself (crying? Really?), Rahm Emanuel may have been a little drunk, and Mark Warner puts a lot of faith in the success of the Chevy Volt.

I know Hillary was the big story last night, but I was excited to hear Deval Patrick. Even though he was in the hot spot between Warner and Clinton, the only station that ran his speech was the Fox network station, because they ran it live during the 10 pm news. I think that Patrick is an extraordinary speaker, although I have to wonder if he quoted Barney Frank on a dare. The first time I heard him speak live, he happened to be speaking with another “skinny guy with a funny name from Chicago” (his words).

Not only did most of the networks (including PBS!) ditch Deval, CBS actually interviewed Mitt Romney during Patrick’s speech. Offensive!

I can’t help but remember the fun we had when the DNC was in Boston four years ago. We joked at the time that it was like Spring Break for Democrats. We were out late every night, scoping out famous wonks and trying to crash delegate parties and watching speeches at bars. Most of my friends have that peculiarly New England mentality that seems moderate around here but is phenomenally liberal to the rest of the country. Because I fancy myself open-minded I try to pretend I could at some point in a million years vote Republican, but for that one week I could get excited and say “screw it, I'm partisan!”

I think I’m having that week again.

Let the Ritual Alone

Two disclaimers:
1. This is going to be about liturgy
2. I do not believe there is such a thing as a 'bad' mass. (That does not mean I can't question certain liturgical principles.)

I went to Mass in western Massachusetts this morning. Around communion time I finally pinpointed the feeling that had plagued me since the opening rite: I felt rushed. Here is a pet peeve of mine: when presiders rush through the ritual and then take their sweet time with their tropes and announcements and remarks. I do not go to church to hear you ramble! I know you told all the visitors how welcome we were about 4 or 5 times, but what would really have made me feel welcome would have been to have had time to breathe during the speed-spoken Gloria.

I just want a little time to process! I just want a little space to absorb. I remember going to a mass out in Ohio, where the pace is much different from in New England, and they put a LOT of space in the mass. I remember thinking how brave it was, to allow stillness and silence to be a part of the 'music' of the mass. You can't have music without rests, right?

So once again I betray my liturgical bias when I beg all you celebrants out there to Let the Ritual Alone. It works on its own. It doesn't need constant comment. Just slow it down, give us space to breathe, and preside without being domineering.

Thoughts on Beethoven

We had an orchestra rehearsal this morning for Beethoven's 9th. It should be a crime to make people sing that music before noon.

Last night was the Mass in C. I have sung that piece a number of times before, and its one of my favorites. Unlike most Beethoven, it's a pleasant sing.

Tomorrow we sing the 9th, after which I should need vocal rest for a few days. The fourth movement's redeeming quality? Its voicing includes triangle.

the secret life of cleaning persons

The sun is setting on the second day of our Tanglewood residency. I sing the Mass in C tomorrow, and then the 9th Symphony on Sunday. All Beethoven, all the time.

I was thrilled to discover that they are finally implementing a good recycling program at work in September, after years of having to take my white paper and soda cans home to recycle. Once, my first year, when I was still overindulging due to the thrill of having free soda all day, I had a pile of soda cans on my desk waiting to be taken home. Because deep down I am a high schooler, I had made them into a pyramid, using the Sierra Mist and Diet Pepsi colors to make a nice design with the cans. I came in one day and all of the cans were still in the pyramid, but they were in a completely different order, which led me to believe that someone, when cleaning up, had rearranged them.

Similarly, I came back to the hotel today to find a delightfully clean room: the trash was empty, the shower was clean, the beds were made. The only thing that was different was that clock was set an hour faster than it had been set when I left in the morning. How peculiar...

a trip to Providence

Last night I drove down to Providence for an audition. Two nights ago I couldn’t sleep, with what I thought was nervousness over the audition. That was odd to me, since I very rarely am nervous before I’m going to sing for someone (why should I be nervous? I sing all the time. And I’m not terrible at it. So why stress?) Last night I couldn’t sleep either, so apparently it wasn’t the audition, but it does mean that I am anxious about something else and haven’t figured out what it is yet. Going back to work in a few weeks may be the instigator.

Anyway, this audition was contingent upon two things:

1. Finding a dress that would cover my knees, which are completely shredded from my recent bout of vertigo/clumsiness

2. Finding a way to roll up my passenger side window, which had been stuck since last Thursday.

I am getting spoiled since I have been driving the Jeep. When I was driving the old heap, I was never shocked when something went wrong. You didn’t know when you would snap a belt, or leak oil, or have a wheel fall off. For the sake of nostalgia, let’s look at the old rustbucket.

So I buy a “new” car (hey! 1999 is really new for me!)

I will admit, it’s nice to drive a car and know that it will start every time. But I’ll admit, when my window started clicking and wouldn’t roll up, I thought to myself “These blasted E-lectronic cars! They make everything electronic so they get you coming and going!!” All I’m saying is this wouldn’t have happened with my old crank windows.

Yesterday morning I took the car down to my mechanic, since I needed an oil change anyway. I have the best mechanic in the world (other than you, Dad!) here in Southie. If the world can be divided into people who do what they can get away with, and people who do what is right, my guy falls squarely into the second camp. It also doesn’t hurt that we think similarly: when I explained the situation to him, he mentioned that he could easily get the window up, and I could just not use it. I said “oh yeah that’s fine. You just need to close it. You don’t need to fix it.”

And now it’s closed. Life is good. And the audition went pretty well too.

I hope these cuts and bruises make me look tough

I am not a gifted athlete. Those who know me will recognize that as an understatement. I only started running half-marathons out of stubbornness. I’m not good, and I don’t plan to ever be good. One of the few things that make it easier for me to run is that I have such an active imagination, so I can daydream for miles and not realize how hard I’m working. It’s the running equivalent of when you are on the highway and realize you can’t remember the last 40 miles.

Unfortunately it appears I have to start paying closer attention, because I fell again today. I landed on the same spot on my knee that I tore up last week, so the scab was ripped off and blood shot everywhere (GROSSOUT!! My students would love that). I did not go down fingers first this time, but have a brand-new nickel-sized cut on my right palm.

There was a lot of blood, so I had to go over to Sullivan’s and get a few napkins to mop up before I started running again. That was hardly my proudest moment.

I had been looking forward to the dingification of my new running shoes which are still dorkishly gleaming. I didn’t expect to have it come from a spattering of blood.

dinner with a kindred spirit

Tonight I had dinner with a good friend. Over dinner we talked quite a bit about both local and national politics, and were discussing the possibility of going to hear speakers who, as J put it "know more about this stuff than us".

Me: Can you believe they even exist? But it is thrilling to hear them speak.
J. Yeah. Both of them.

We went on to watch Best of Will Ferrell volume 2. We had tried to watch this a number of times in the past and had been foiled by reasons that seem really amusing to us and are not amusing to anyone else. There was a sketch which included Alec Baldwin which, being near the end of Best of...Volume 2, was not terribly funny, but it did get me thinking about some of ABs better work. I present to you what I find the best work he has ever done:



Now that takes practice.

on crying in the practice room

I think that I have finally found an English-language aria that will work for me. I have been working on “Have Peace, Jo”, from Mark Adamo’s Little Women. This is Beth’s big aria, and those of you who have read the book (which should be all of you!) will remember that Beth is The One Who Dies. (Before you even ask, I can’t play Meg because Meg is a mezzo. All of the good Meg’s are mezzos – Falstaff, Little Women…that’s really it). Beth sings her aria on her deathbed, to her sister. Needless to say it is emotional stuff, and today I got a little weepy in the practice room when I got to her “I love you, Jo, so much…”. By a little weepy I mean I sobbed and couldn’t practice anymore.

It’s a singer cliché that “you have to go over the line in the practice room so that you don’t go over the line in performance”, and while that sounds nice, don’t be surprised if you see me vaulting over the line someday on the stage. There is a fair amount of music that I have a hard time singing. Most of it is in English, most of it is 20th or 21st century, and all of it is disgustingly beautiful. “Ain’t it a pretty night” and Knoxville: Summer of 1915 are the two biggest culprits.

I finally set out to learn Knoxville…for a competition last spring. The text is from A Death in the Family, by James Agee, and describes a summer evening spent with family. I find Barber to be so relentlessly gorgeous, and the text so moving, that I am moved to tears every few measures. When it came time to sing in competition, I held it together and sang well. I went immediately to the grocery store to pick up a few things after the competition, and found myself in the ‘Pastene’ aisle. I should know better to admit this, but everyone in my family loves Pastene products, and you can often find our kitchen table littered with yellow-labeled jars. Lupini beans in particular make me think of my father. Pretty bizarre, I know, but after holding it together for that competition, I sobbed in front of the lupini beans, wearing an audition dress, too much eyeliner, and a sparkly barrette.

Guess who i ran into today!

She goes back to Rwanda in 4 months. And Sister Augusta isn't the only former roommate I saw out and about (yes, you read that right) - I also ran into a girl who lived in the mods with us, who I hadn't seen since BC.

I fell again

On my run today I think I brought my summer 08 tumble count up to my winter 08 number. The combination of momentum and lack of attention resulted in this being significantly less funny than other recent falls have been. I skinned or otherwise damaged almost my entire right side (with the blessed exception of my face), which combined with the bites all over my right leg from running through the brush yesterday gives me some smoking hot legs. I also jammed two of my fingers in a way that leads me to believe that I subconsciously thought I could break my fall solely with my ring and middle fingers. After shaking it off I proceeded to cry for at least a half mile.

What I have noticed, in my extensive experience of falling, is that the whole time I am going down, right up until I skid to a stop, is that I really believe that I am going to right myself and avoid a tumble. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, but I'm going to ice my hand and let you figure it out.

Another conversation

The Greenpeace guys were out in full force by the Conservatory yesterday. I feel about Greenpeace much the same way I feel about door-to-door evangelists: I appreciate their fervor, and support many of the same ideals, but I can't understand why they can't understand how annoying they are and that no one likes what they do.

Greenpeace: Hey hey hey!
Me: Sorry, I hate the environment
GP: Well, that's ok, because I love you! (walks beside me and touches my arm)
Me: Please, don't touch
GP: Help us out! I love you!
Me: I love you, too. Good luck. Bye.
GP: (giggles)

cars and Connecticut

Me: Did I see an exhaust pipe in the garbage?
Dad: Yeah, that was from the blue Chevy - wait, no, maybe green.
Brother: No, Dad, the green Chevy was last weekend

A trip back home always yields a memorable exchange or two, usually over the dinner table. This was featured last night when I took everyone out for my mother’s birthday. I made an impromptu trip back to CT in honor of her birthday, which in the spirit of discretion I will merely describe as ‘a big one’. We’ve never been big on birthdays in my family (case in point: For my 25th birthday my parents got me…an Entertainment Book), but I didn’t have anything on my calendar so Sunday afternoon I hopped in the car.

Speaking of cars, my parents don’t drink coffee.

That last sentence will make sense in a moment. Because my parents don’t have a coffee maker, I “have” to go to Dunkin’ every morning while I am here. The closest Dunkins (yes, there are more than one that can be considered close - this is New England after all) are both in Rockville, which has, shall we say, a unique sensibility.

So yesterday morning I rolled out of bed chatted with the brother for a bit, and got in the Jeep for a trip down the road. When I pulled into the parking lot I saw a rusted out ‘91 Camaro with its hood up. Selfishly I thought to myself “I really don’t want to get involved”.

And yet… as I was opening the door a woman came over to me and asked if I had jumper cables. I opened the back of the car and pulled out the Penzoil Box, which rather than holding oil holds all of my supplies. I found myself hoping that for some reason they wouldn’t be in there so that I wouldn’t have to hang around, but I knew better. I’m a Felice, after all, and since the year we came downstairs Christmas morning to jumper cables all lined up around the tree, none of us has gone very far without them.

The woman then pulled her car around to help her friend, as they both commented that neither of them knew how to use the cables. As I brought them over a man approached, and I just handed them over and went in to get my breakfast. I have learned that when there is a guy around who wants to work on a car, I should just get out of the way and let him. They get really bothered by chick gear heads.

They were still working on it when I came back out. The jump-er started making small talk, while I admired the fact that her bra was entirely visible out the back of her lime green tank top, and that she had immortalized someone named “Scott” on her lower-back tattoo (or “Tramp Stamp” as certain people like to say). She liked my sandals because they were purple, she liked my dress, she liked my car. Meanwhile, the car still isn’t taking a charge. The guy is now under the car and is asking the driver for some tool, which she doesn’t have, but she pulls out a metal pipe that he somehow manages to put to use. I ask what he needs (because I probably have it in the back of the car), but he doesn’t respond. The woman in green says to me “I think it’s so funny when girls have tools in their cars”.

How funny would it have been if I hadn’t had the jumper cables when she asked for them?

Anyway, the car never took the charge, they gave me back my cables, and we all parted pleasantly. Later in the day I went on a run through some of the nearby small towns, enjoying the smells of tobacco drying in barns and of manure at the local farms.

I head back to the city in a few hours.

My recent adventures at the Boston Public Library

Despite its name, Ordinary Time tends to yield some of the most moving (and most familiar) readings in the lectionary. This weekend we read about Elijah’s ‘small whispering sound’ and later the calming of the storm. I am not sure that I had noticed this detail before: Jesus makes the disciples all get in a boat, and then goes somewhere else! And I thought that I would do anything to have private time…

Today I did my long run (I’m only a few weeks into training, so my long run still isn’t very long) by South Station and up to the Common, then home through Chinatown. Something about the Common always makes me feel like I am visiting the city for the first time. When I realize I am not, then I get all excited again about the fact that I actually live in a great city, with tall buildings, brownstones, and beautiful parks. Maybe it’s all those years of reading “Make Way for Ducklings”.

I paid for an August T-pass which has given me more incentive to go into other parts of the city since I have been back. Most days involve a trip to the Conservatory to practice and later a stop at the library. I can probably blame my mother for my love of cities, and I can definitely blame my mother for my love of libraries. I have been poking through the DVD collection recently looking for whatever opera I can find. Somewhere in the mess that is their AV department I found the Glyndebourne Figaro with Renée Fleming, which I will have to watch before the end of the week-long loan period.

Armed with my library card, I’m trying to read some novels that I wouldn’t normally read (I’m in the middle of one right now) but am also indulging my sociology-dork side. I find that when I am sick of music and theology, I end up taking refuge in policy or history books and magazines. For that reason, I just read E.J. Dionne Jr.’s Souled Out: Reclaiming Faith and Politics after the Religious Right. I can’t take great credit for reading books by authors with whom I know I will agree. Dionne is a progressive Catholic from New England – sound like anyone we know?

One book that Dionne referenced in his book was Urban Exodus: Why the Jews left Boston and the Catholics Stayed. That tome is now on my nightstand, ready to be read next.

My newest purchase, and how I afforded it.

Courtesy of Boston.com, we have the rankings of New England universities by top starting salaries. Boston College is ranked 9th in New England and 48th in the nation (but fear not, little brother, Fordham wasn’t far behind in the national rankings). Let it be known that I do not subsidize my lifestyle by stealing from copy machines, like the Middlesex county administrator recently caught on tape doing just that. There is security footage of him taking money from a number of vending machines and appliances, but for some reason it’s the copy machine that I find particularly pathetic.

I finally used one of the Bath and Body Works coupons that clutter my kitchen yesterday when I purchased a bathroom scale. I was conflicted about buying one, since according to reports scales make women crazy (like I need help with that), we shouldn’t worry about numbers, its all about how your clothes fit…in short, I felt that buying a bathroom scale would ruin my feminist cred. But one of the great things I have found about getting a little older is that I have stopped basing my decisions on what I “should” or “shouldn’t” do (I ‘should’ keep living in community, I ‘shouldn’t’ have a TV), and I now base them on what I want to do. I had suspended my gym membership for the summer, and the gym is where I usually weigh myself, and I had lost 10 pounds and wanted to know if I’d lost more, so I bought the stupid thing. So I’m not the countercultural free spirit I used to dream of being? Somehow I’ll survive.

This is where you tremble in awe at my limitless capacity for overthinking.

Speaking of shoulds, I felt that I ‘should’ get an analog scale, because I love clocks with second hands and rotary phones. But since I actually wanted to know what I weigh, I went with a more precise version. One I really liked came with a body fat analysis function, but I knew that was a bad idea. I really don’t want to know that. I settled on one that wouldn’t take up too much space in my ittybitty bathroom, and brought it up to the register. The woman at the register asked me if I needed a gift receipt, and although I’m sure she says that to everyone all I could think was “who gives a scale as a gift?” Maybe it goes on people's registries, but let it be known: I don’t ever want to get a scale as a gift.

In other news, the leadership team of BOC had a wrap-up meeting for Magic Flute yesterday. I’m always so impressed with my colleagues, with their vision and their diligence. Sure, we disagree and holler like any good family, but it’s worth it.

The HappyDent Chronicles (or Italy's lingering effects), plus the wages of Loaves and Fishes

My gum of choice in Italia is named HappyDent. It comes in small boxes and loses its taste pretty quickly, but the name is just so charming that I would always buy it. And let’s be honest, secretly I was calling it FeliceDent in my head.

I don’t mind admitting that I still hadn’t unpacked my boarding bag, and that it had been sitting under the far end of the kitchen table for two weeks. Last night when I was swiffering the kitchen I determined I should probably unload it, and I was shocked to discovered that HappyDent melts over time (or perhaps just from spending two weeks of dog days in a hot apartment). I reached into one of the pockets to pull out a pen and my hand was covered in what seemed like toothpaste. That’s what I get for leaving things so long…but I’m so used to things like that happening that it didn’t really disturb me.

Friday night was another beautiful wedding of two beautiful friends. They are both campus ministers, so they are liturgically literate and know many musicians. Ergo, there was a nice group of us making music together during the liturgy, and the music was creative and well-chosen.

Because this weekend’s Gospel was loaves and fishes, I sang a whole lot of Panis Angelicus this weekend. I really can’t complain, because I could have been singing “I am the Bread of Life” over and over instead. I know that song is a crowd pleaser, and I appreciate that it is meaningful and beautiful, but it is not a ton of fun to sing.

Happy Monday everyone. I'm going to make an omelette.