American In Paris…

Tonight it’s off to see some Gershwin with my dad and my son. I should say that one of my joys of parenting is somehow getting my son to agree to go what he just calls “opera,” which he just wants to avoid. I’ve been taking him since he was relatively young, not least because babysitting costs made it a “get him or ticket or don’t go” approach. His favorite was when he was seven and my dad insisted on driving out to Ohio for the Wooster College Light Opera company’s summer doings: basically, a lot of Gilbert and Sullivan and early 20th century stuff like the Music Man, all smooshed in over three days. Brad was doing two shows a day with us–he really liked the Music Man—and I’m sure he’s going to present me with a therapist bill for this one day. But if I can’t bring him to cultural events (however “culture” is relative here) and have him say “but…Dad!” then really, what kind of parent am I?