He was a celebrated Italian castrato singer of the 18th century.
I am a middle-aged-white dude-high school English teacher in full Hail Mary mode, going long on the MFA, seconds left in the game.
He was one of the greatest singers in the history of opera.
Large gospel choirs make me cry. I stopped listening to opera when I quit drinking.
He studied in Naples under Nicola Porpora.
I studied in Athens, (Ohio) under Dr. Bartolomeo Martello. You got a good heart Antonio, but you got nothing going on up here, he said, poking me in the forehead.
At age 15, he made his debut at Rome in Porpora’s Serenata Angelica.
At age 15, I made my theatrical debut running the spotlight for a community theater production of Guys and Dolls.
He formed a lifelong friendship with the poet/librettist Pietro Metastasio.
I formed a lifelong friendship with the bartender/misanthrope Joe Thompson.
His reputation spread throughout Italy and to Vienna and London.
I got a call from the superintendent once asking if I could tutor his daughter for the SAT’s.
He was admired for his pure, powerful voice, his technical proficiency, his skill in florid embellishment.
I have a recurring dream where I am a world famous auctioneer.
In 1737, he went to Spain, where his singing alleviated the deep-seated melancholia of Philip V, nightly for nearly 10 years.
In 2003, I moved to Montreal, where my unemployment aggravated the blossoming romantic indifference of my girlfriend, daily for a little less than a year.
He was dismissed from his post at court by Charles III for political differences.
I defended myself in court once and had the charges dismissed. My attorney friend told me not to ask any questions I didn’t know the answer to.
He accumulated great wealth and spent the rest of his life peacefully in Italy.
I’m not holding my breath.
