placido domingo is a Chinese emperor.

I took myself on a date to the opera on Monday night to see Placido Domingo headline The First Emperor, an original opera written by the man who won an Oscar for his score of that iconic [heh] Chinese film, "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon."

Woke up at 7am on Monday morning and trudged up to the Metropolitan Opera house to buy standing room tickets for the sold-out show. Did all the research: box office opens at 10am. Get there a couple of hours early, they said. It's a civilized line, but it's still a line, and you never know what those unpredictable opera-goers will do for their Placido.

In no huge surprise, I was the first one there at 7:58am. Thought I felt a little silly, an older couple from San Diego eased the situation a little bit by arriving about ten minutes after me. We spent some time chatting, commiserating about the cold and talking about our rush ticket experiences, and then we turned to our books and other distractions for a couple of hours. After reading the entire paper and [almost] finishing the crossword puzzle (curse that Will Shortz and his clever clues!), I got my little $20 ticket. Position number 3. Don't ask me how I ended up with Standing Position number THREE when I was the first person in line. I don't think I'll ever know.

"Did you *stand* for three hours, Jenn?"

nope. At intermission I strategically made moony eyes at everyone going for a little leg stretch or a beverage, but with no success. Finally, when I'd given up, a women with a thick Southern accent and an awesome brocade jacket turned to me and said, "You wanna' SEET?" and mercifully handed me a ticket in the fourth row, front and center! I spent the rest of intermission and the second half of the opera rapt and giddy.

It was wonderful, but I've become a big dork for opera. I turn into this huge pile of melty putty when I close my eyes and listen to the almost tangible sound of a male tenor voice. There's nothing like it. You can feel it in your core.

And production itself was stunning. The colors and the fabrics and the costumes actually had a few people sighing. Placido was, well, legendary. And while the mixture of Asian music elements and traditional Italian opera seemed a little cacophonous, I was just too happy with myself by the end to really care.

march 1998.

Nine years ago, in March, my father dropped dead on the corner of 32nd Street and Madison Avenue, in front of a green wooden bench opposite the entrance to the science library there. I was still inside, lingering in the magazine lounge, flipping disinterestedly through an issue of Variety magazine, making sure not to arrive early for our arranged meeting time just through the doors. He was going to jog to the library from his office -- fifteen blocks or so, less than a mile -- and from there, we were going to walk home to Spring Street, where the plan was to make some kind of simple dinner. I can't remember what was on the menu, but I remember we were going to use the toaster oven.

Maybe if I hadn't let those 5? 7? 10? minutes pass, loitering in the library, I would have said something to my father's face that day and been sure that he'd heard me. But by the time I stepped outside and saw the small crowd of people gathered around a figure lying on the ground -- is that Dad's orange running jacket? -- I could not be sure that anything I said, questions I asked, pleas I made, were registered by him.

I do not remember if I approached the growing crowd of onlookers slowly (I did not want to be involved) or quickly. I do not remember when I realized it was my father on the ground. I remember looking at his face and asking if he could hear me. I remember someone calling 911, looking up at him? her?, thankful that someone in the crowd had a cell phone at all. I remember telling them something about my father's age? name? medical history? I remember sirens and I remember forgetting just about everything I'd learned in that CPR class. I remember thinking that maybe he'd snap out of it, settle out of it, and wake up and talk to me. And we'd go home and make chicken nuggets or corn dogs or whatever frozen dinner I'd been looking forward to.

Even today, most of my friends don't know the details of that day. The fact that my father died when I was still sixteen years-old is strangely both one of those things that is incredibly private, and yet, widely known. Having dead parents seems to be the elephant in the room, that way.

Yesterday a beloved character on a television show lost his father to cancer. At the end of the episode, another character finds him standing outside looking into a damp, dark Seattle night, and he says to her:

"I don't know how to live a world where my dad doesn't."

And she replies,

"Yeah. That never really changes."

I feel a little embarrassed saying this, especially about a television drama, but the sentiment resounded with me very deeply.

change and the new year.

A select few of you know that I've started a new job, where I'll be an editor at a new web company with a focus on keeping the weather from hitting 70 degrees in January again.

Well, that's not all we're focused on, but you get the idea. The company's green, and I'm all for it (even if I have a lot to learn). And so if I tell you to turn off the lights in rooms you're not using, just remember, it's my job now.

Some of you may also know I'm running a marathon with my sister in April. Well, actually, most of you probably know that, given that the only readers of this blog are probably people I've also already asked to donate to my charity. The training's going well -- I'm up to about 8 miles now, a distance as foreign to me as it is to you -- and I promise to write a more extensive post all about the achy tendons and funny conversations I've had while running with this team.

Others of you may know that I'm maid of honor in my first wedding, which is in less than two months. I've seen the dress, I've flipped through the wedding magazines, I am considering getting my makeup done. It's all very new territory.

And most of you know that I'm working on a collection of short stories about my grandfather, a project made even more real for me by the award of a small grant from the Urban Artist Alliance/New York City.

In sum, I am hoping that you can forgive me, then, for being a blog boob and neglecting this little website. I'll try not to let it happen again, and assure you that the next post will be less personal and more topical.

Happy New Year!

where I go to collect myself.

Peacham, VT. New Year's Eve 2006.