Jump in, vamanos!

My girlfriend and I took my niece to a production of Dora the Explorer at the newly restored Opera House. Uncle Matt splurged and got some pretty good seats. On the way into the theater, vendors were hawking toys by selling directly to the kids.

Hiya kid! Do you want a cra cra crazzzzy flashlight? How about a fu fu funnny hat?! ZOINKS!

Beat it crack head, with your dirty pool selling tactics. She doesn't want a cheap $19 Malaysian-built spinning flashlight.

Do you like your flashlight? It's pretty cool isn't it? Look at how it spins when you turn it on. Wow! You are quite welcome. It's my pleasure. Can I try it? No? Oh OK. No, that's cool.

We were running a little late, and the production was already in progress, so the usher wouldn't let us proceed to our seats until after the opening act. Hey I understand. No worries. I didn't want to create a distraction for those who spent good money and had the decency to show up on time. Who am I to spoil the show? So we waited patiently in the hallway behind the thick red velvet curtain.

It was my first time to the Opera House—ever—so I was checking the place out while my niece was busy playing with her flashlight. I was really impressed with the level of detail in the architecture, and thought about how much of a pain in the balls it must have been to paint. Tons of ornate detail. And they did a really nice job too. The place was stunning.

Finally, the usher stepped aside to let us pass, and that's when it hit me. A wall of shit. 3,000 dirty diapers crammed into a stuffy and noisy room. It smelled like the opening scenes of Slumdog Millionaire. Hundreds of parents were disciplining their children while babies cried. Yeah, now I can see why we weren't allowed to disrupt anyone's experience.

Stephen, no! Stop it. Stephen sit down. Caitlin—don't hit your brother. Sit quietly. Sit QUIETLY DAMN IT!!!

Nice acoustics in this place, I thought. I wondered what it must have been like to see some of the historic performances like West Side Story, Phantom, The King and I, or Camelot. Or an Opera, maybe? I would have had to look up those names so I didn't list them because I don't think it's fair to my readers to Google>Wiki something and pretend like I know what I am talking about.

(that would be dishonest: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Show_tunes)

I looked over at my niece who was still grappling with the fact that Dora, Boots, and Swiper weren't in cartoon form. That must have been a weird thing to digest for her undeveloped little mind. My girlfriend was smiling at me lovingly. No doubt fantasizing about how I would make a great father someday. She's wrong. I will be a terrible father. I am a good uncle. Not great, but good. I think. But I am not to be trusted. I hear stories on the news about neglectful parents leaving their children in cars, or forgetting them at daycare, or worse leaving the car seat on top of their car roof, ala Johnny Knoxville, and pulling away into traffic completely oblivious to the ensuing chaos. I would be one of those guys.

People would blog about my awfulness. Even this guy. Talking heads would slam me as the photo of me, from Facebook, was projected over their right shoulder. Radio shows would field a stream of callers who were out for blood.

My thoughts drifted, and I started calculating how much dough this production was probably raking in as I do with every event I attend. I estimated that there were probably over 1,500 people in attendance at $50 a pop. Factor in the $19 flashlights, snacks and juice boxes, and these guys were making a fortune. I wondered how I could break into this industry. I would be rich, rich, rich!

Dora began skipping from one part of the stage to the other, in search of a map or something, and I don't know if it was the double-strapped backpack but this Dora looked a lot different from the cartoon character—she was STACKED. I am a boob guy. I will watch anything, including horrificly sad A&E Intervention shows if the heroin addicted girl has bombs.

I know it's sad and depressing, but I want to see if she pulls through. We aren't out of the woods yet. Look at how crushed her family is! Her poor grandmother. I can't believe she stole her dead grandfathers war medals and pawned them off. Jeez, this is devastating.

I was suddenly fascinated with the performance, or more accurately, obsessed with the lead. I leaned over and made a gesture to my girlfriend about my findings, and she just rolled her eyes realizing that, even here, at this family orientated event, I was consumed with breasts. But I couldn't leave it at that.

How about that Dora, huh? Quite the actor, eh? I mean wow. Wow wee.

So thank you Mr. or Mrs. Casting Director for giving the men in the audience something to root for. I mean talk about seeing the bigger picture. It was almost as much a stroke of genius as the people who greenlit Blue Crush. Everyone wins. Female audience members feel empowered by the completely inaccurate portrayal that women can shred just as good, if not better, than men. Talk about suspension of disbelief! And the men can comfortably ogle the women in bikinis pretending to be just as moved by the inspiring albeit fictitious storyline.

That is what they call a win-win in the MBA programs.