Putting the Pop in Boston Pops

You may have heard about the fisticuffs in the balcony last night at the Boston Pops. It was opening night. This must've been the undercard. Maybe it was part of the fireworks accompanying "The 1812 Overture." Maybe it was all a stunt for a night of movie themes ("Fight Club" or "Rocky").

Why am I so amused by this? It could easily have been me. It has almost happened, once in New York and most recently in Berlin, Germany, at the Deutsche Oper Berlin, on Easter Sunday no less. From what I understand, the reasons for the real brawl and my would-be brawl are similar: talking.

Well, it's no shock that any blogger would be a talker. Certainly no shock to anyone who knows me. (Sorry to disappoint anyone whom I had fooled into thinking I had any sense of refinement or decorum.) But my excuse is personal. Our hushed murmurs (not hushed enough for some) typically consist of these excited words in reference to my daughter on stage as a ballerina:

"There she is. Where? No, there. Oh, yes. I see her. Now. There. Wait. Third from the left. Right in front. Shhhh. I see her. Wait; I lost her. There. Cool."

All of which sounds like a Samuel Beckett play, which would be perfectly apt, because the Berlin ballet we saw was a portion of Richard Wagner's "The Ring" ("Ring um den Ring" in German if you must know) as choreographed by Maurice Bejart. It might just as well have been by Beckett, in German, for all the comprehension I was able to conjure up. The shushing disdain from the well-dressed gent on my right was palpable, splendidly Teutonic, and dripping with condescension that hung like lead in the atmosphere, until I silently announced to myself, "Screw it, get over it, Horst." I still wanted to kick his ass, though. As if I could.

So it could easily have been me banging it out in Berlin instead of brawling in Beantown. And because these two fellas really went at it, instead of politely dancing around it, I have a certain existential "Fight Club" admiration of their pure rage. For them, it wasn't "What would Kierkegaard do?" [WWKD?] but "What would Hemingway do?" [WWHD?]

I sent a link for the news story about this to a colleague, formerly of Boston. She emailed back to say, "Just because you can afford the symphony doesn't mean you don't have 'Southie' in you." Something like that.

As if I'd know. As if my housing-project past couldn't erupt from me like the alien coming out of the chest in "Alien," the 1979 sci-fi thriller.



Sometimes I wish it would. Maybe things would've been a tad less frustrating at work today.

Bipolar Bear Berlin Madness

You may've heard about Knut, the cuddly polar bear cub at the Berlin Zoo. In fact, if you have not heard about Knut, you are the only one, the lone ignoscentus among the legions of the global Knut cognoscenti. (Blog about it, if you have not heard about Knut. It's newsworthy in and of itself, since knowing about Knut automatically puts you in the know. Take Leonardio DiCaprio; he's so in the know he and Knut are on the cover of the upcoming issue of Vanity Fair, fitting enough to be vain so famously, in a photo taken by the famous Annie Lebowitz.)

We saw Knut today at the Berlin Zoo. Knut was allowed to live after his mother rejected him; that's rich for all kinds of Freudian musing, speaking of another famous German.) Knut was allowed by his handlers to make a personal appearance between 1400 and 1500 hours. The press of crowds remined me of Beatlemania! Barriers held throngs back; uniformed guards controlled crowds by megaphone and stern reproach. Batches of people were allowed a 10- or 15-minute glimpse of the bear celebrity -- as popular as a bare celebrity -- human version. Women and children -- well, children -- were allowed along the first ring of viewers (speaking of that, we saw on Sunday a very original ballet rendering of The Ring yesterday; the short version, two hours; sort of a take by Maurice Bejart by way of Samuel Beckett by way of Richard Wagner -- at least to these eyes because the narration was all in German; it should've been called The Pole because there was more of long poles being swung than any ring or ring or Ring(s).) Back at the zoo there were international TV crews. Pushing. Bustling. Feverish excitement.

I saw a few glimpses, being in the Outer Ring.

Exciting? No. Mildly entertaining for a few minutes.

I get the cuddly and warm thing; I get the saved and rescued victim thing. But it's a polar bear (one that PETA ironically wanted killed)!

Later, back at the panda bear exhibit, a small handful. At the Washington, D.C. National Zoo, there would be throngs for the pandas (not thongs; they wouldn't fit).

Fame is such a fickle animal.

How bipolar.

What disturbed me was the artifice of it, the mob mentality of celebrity. If somehow a komodo dragon was deemed the object of fame, or a muddy hippo, or a violet macaw, would we be braving the lines and jockeying for space and snapping pictures, because this was Famous? This was a Cool Celebrity Animal? Probably.

The bipolarity of fame and fortune; celebrity and anonymity.

Thanks for your comments and your views; more later this week, perhaps; maybe some pix too.

Tschuss.