Last night, mom and I went to feast our eyes upon the Treasures of the Ballet Russe. The Polovetsian conquerers leapt and their Persian slaves whirled, rife with the sweet innocence of the ballet, where you don't have to think about the meaning of slavery and conquest, of the slaves being ravished or forced to milk the goats, where they all simply dance, are gently lifted by the virile Russian swain. And certainly no worries about how the Russian wives feel, only that there exist two generae of beauties: the wholesome Betties, who leap like men and probably know how to fix a plow, and the diaphanous Veronicas, trilling and exotic. And of course no body odor of any kind in all the prehistoric, velvet-clad Baltics. That is why I love the ballet. Because even I can, for a moment, stand starry-eyed...which I hear is a danger in paradise.

Night-before-last, I attended a lush gala performance in honor of Doug Wolf's 30th year as director of the U's percussion ensemble. Colorful baloons with long strings were tied to the music stands, and they hovered and danced like a banner above the stage. My favorite moment was during the high school ensemble's rendition of "Nessun dorma" from Turandot. There was this kid with floppy red hair and gangley limbs sitting at the drum kit in the back, and it was he who struck the climactic gong...which overpowered the army of marimbas and, indeed, all of the senses combined.