The Golden Compass in <50

Gorgeous cinematography, interesting mythology, some likable characters, visual effects and CGI were quite impressive, but the parts were way better than the sum. I didn’t dislike it.

Who Says Caroling isn't Glamorous?

Andrew, Trish, Kelli and I spreading holiday cheer to the humble masses at the Newburgh Mall in Newburgh, NY. Hurray! Caroling season is officially over.

Bloody Good

In a word, bloody. If you are not comfortable watching someone’s throat sliced open and seeing blood spurting from the carotid artery with pulsating life-like accuracy, Sweeney may not be for you. I suggested seeing the movie on Christmas day with the family until my sister, Trish, prudently advised against it, citing mom’s delicate sensibilities. I thought it would be a nice way to spend the holiday with the family, seeing a big movie musical together. She was right, I was way wrong.

Tim Burton has created an incredible adaptation, successfully translating the operatic scope of the stage work to film. I was never jarred out of the moment by the singing nor did the singing ever feel forced or out of place - unlike in Dreamgirls where even I had to hold back some awkward laughter at that first sung dialogue sequence. Future movie musical directors (and current for that matter) take note - you must set up the musical “rules” at the onset in order to acclimatize the audience to the world you are creating. Mr. Condon, you should have known better after the success of Chicago. If the characters don’t sing dialogue until half way through the film, it is startling when all of a sudden they do.

Though typically Burton-esque, the sepia-toned cinematography and depressive gloom is tailor-made for Sweeney. The contrasting “By the Sea” sequence is an enlightened change of pace and much needed relief from the surrounding darkness.

Although I truly miss the booming baritone of a Hearn or Cariou, Depp acquits himself quite nicely and his nuanced acting, perfect for the big screen, makes up for his more pop-inflected vocal interpretation. It took me a bit longer to warm up to Bonham Carter’s Lovett. But once you let yourself stop comparing her to Lansbury or ever LuPone, you start warming up to her more sexily manipulative Lovett. Die-hard Angela fans will never be satisfied, but it is refreshing to see a new take on an iconic performance. My only complaint is that Carter’s light vocals made it very difficult to understand the clever Sondheim lyrics, often swallowed up by the gorgeous orchestrations. Many chat boards complained that Burton and his cohorts drained the comedy from the work, specifically citing "A Little Priest." I disagree, I think most of the comedy played very well and fit in stylistically with the generally more naturalistic acting throughout. Playing specifically for laughs wouldn’t have fit this version - it would have read too wink, wink, elbow, elbow - here’s the punch line, aren’t we funny.



















Borat - I mean, Sacha Baron Cohen - was hilarious, at least for the few moments I was able to pry my eyes from his bulging (prosthetically enhanced) nether regions. Anthony and Joanna were fine, nothing extraordinary. Although I understand the vocal choice for Joanna, it was still a disappointment to hear “Green Finch” sung with the same pale and anemic coloring as the actress portraying her. Anthony fared better vocally, but was a bit too wispy and androgynous for my taste. Conversely, Burton casting Toby as a young boy worked surprisingly well, heightening the relationship between Toby and Lovett. The mother-son dynamic truly humanizes Lovett. The stage Toby is more of a mentally challenged adult and Lovett’s pity reads less sympathetically. I’m willing to bet some theater companies will adopt this convention for the stage.

The musical cuts made complete sense, and only theater fans and Sondheim fanatics will miss hearing these sequences. I admit I missed them, but mainly for the loss to Sondheim neophytes in hearing the brilliant “Kiss Me” quartet and frightening “Ballad of Sweeney Todd.”

On a side note, we arrived half an hour early and the line wrapped around the theater lobby. When we exited, they had barricaded areas for the Sweeney crowds to wait. Seems like a hit - at least in musical-friendly NYC. Just the adrenaline boost we needed to continue Christmas shopping down at Macy's Herald Square, which is open 24 hours until Christmas Day!

"Why is the smart son always the gay son?" - William Finn

Last night Trish and I were fortunate enough to catch the William Finn revue, Make Me A Song. Unfortunately for you, it’s just posted its closing notice for December 30th. I highly recommend catching this entertaining and insightful retrospective of one of musical theater’s under appreciated composers/lyricists. I can understand if Mr. Finn’s music is not to everyone’s taste. His musical style is generally intimate and avoids the bombast of the “popera” genre and pseudo-rock that now passes for legit theater music. Unlike many current musical theater composer/lyricists, Mr. Finn writes songs that are situation specific, not just generic anthems or power ballads with empty sentiment and generalized lyrics. Thus, a simple road trip song (“Hitchhiking Across America”) becomes an ode to missed opportunity, and what could have been just another sentimental love song (“Unlikely Lovers”) instead illuminates the love/hate dynamic of a rocky long-term relationship. Lucky for the audience, this specificity lends itself to an even deeper connection to the performers - we feel like they are our best friends, divulging intimate personal details over drinks at a local bar. Hell, I got teary-eyed three or four times during the show’s short ninety minutes. But then again I’m a total pussy - although not as big a pussy as the gay boy sitting next to me who was bawling in mere anticipation of the tearful moments, i.e. continually looking to his companion, furrowing his eyebrows and forcing tears at least a stanza before the moment would actual occur! Get over it Mary, we all (meaning the gay musical theater cognoscenti) have every word of Falsettos memorized, too, we just don’t need to throw it up in everyone’s face. This is perhaps my number one audience pet peeve, somehow telegraphing to others around you - whether by singing along, exaggerated and/or early reaction - to show off how much smarter you are than the rest of the ignorant masses. I’m sure in my youth I was guilty of such theater snobbery, but I hope I’ve since grown out of these urges, or at least learned to suppress them - but enough ranting.

The four performers, Sandy Binion, D.B. Bonds, Adam Heller, Sally Wilfert and pianist Darren R. Cohen, are truly singing-actors. Call me old school, but I would much prefer a well acted, emotionally grounded interpretation to a string of kick-ass belted high-E’s backed by a vacant stare. What a pleasure to be treated to it all, minus the vacant stare. The evening’s surprise was D.B. Bonds whose voice the entire evening was like buttah’ and then out of nowhere starts riffing like a big black women on the “Fishing with My Dad” song. And on top of that he’s also tall and handsome. Damn you D.B.! Props as well to Mr. Heller for proving that being a character actor and having a beautiful voice are not mutually exclusive. His gorgeous head voice in “Unlikely Lovers” and almost operatic high notes on “Republican” were highlights. And lest you think I’ve forgotten the ladies, Ms. Wilfert’s rendition of “Anytime (I Am There)” left not a dry eye in the house. And Ms. Binion, whose lower range far exceeds most men’s voices, possessed a control and consistency over her powerful belt that the current generation of pop screamers should take note of and emulate.

Cast (clockwise from top left): D.B. Bonds, Sally Wilfert, Adam Heller and Sandy Binion

I Am Legend: Dr. Willy?

Trish and I braved the wind chill this evening to catch I Am Legend. Risking frostbite paid off and we were rewarded with an empty theater and choice seats. By the way, if you’ve never tried pretzel bites, do it! The “cheese” dip is so gross it’s good. I’m sure it’s all chemical, but who cares? It’s yummy. Anyway, I really enjoyed this movie, despite an almost too abrupt ending. Though I’d still recommend it, during the home bound subway analysis with Trish, some of the holes in the story's logic started to really annoy me. Don’t get me wrong, the special effects and post-apocalyptic New York City sets were stunning and the first two thirds of the movie definitely had my adrenaline pumping. Just don't expect anything too philosophically deep or intellectually stimulating. And why should you - or I, for that matter - as it's Will Smith, not Anthony Hopkins. The quasi-religious overtones thrown in at the end totally bogged down the plot and definitely seemed like an afterthought. I think they should have expanded on Dr. Neville’s day-to-day survival as well as creating more mutant confrontations. Yes, there were definitely some awesome nail-baiting moments, I have the gnarly cuticles to prove it, but I wanted more. I’m a vampire/zombie movie freak so I wanted to see more blood, damn it! Perhaps more survivors showing up so that we could lose a couple?

I was also prepared to be annoyed by Will Smith’s regular "everyman" shtick, but he gave a remarkably contained and nuanced performance until he got all “Will-y” in the last 20 minutes. He's also sportin' some major salt and pepper in the 'do. No matter, the gratuitious six-pack abs shot counterbalanced the gray quite nicely. Now for the problems -Spoiler alert - these are my few quibbles, which again, didn’t really affect my viewing pleasure but totally riled me up for the whole subway ride back to Astoria.

• Why did Dr. N have to chase deer? In all of NYC he couldn’t find a net or a trap in a deserted store? Why didn’t he set up a deer feeder (he was growing corn), lure them out and then just pick them off? There just seemed like an easier and safer way than speeding down Broadway in a car with a high-powered rifle.
  
  
• If the virus couldn’t survive the cold, then wouldn’t the areas in the far north and far south hemispheres be fine? What about winters in NYC? They’re pretty darn cold. I don’t understand how in three years a scouting plane from some unaffected territory hadn’t flown over “ground zero” to investigate.
  
  
• Dr. N as a scientist didn’t notice that the cold affected the mutants? Seems like it would be a pretty obvious observation to make.
  
  
• Could these zombies swim? Why didn’t he set out on a boat to avoid them?
  
  
• If all the bridges and tunnels into NYC were destroyed, how did Anna get into the city?
  
  
• Why did Dr. N have to sacrifice himself at the end? Couldn’t he have just waited for the very last minute, then pull the pin and jump behind the door? I mean, they make a big deal of Anna saying there’s plenty of room. They could’ve made it an itsy bitsy space that only held one person. At least then it would make more sense to sacrifice himself.
  
  
• If God told Anna to go to Vermont, did she just randomly drive around the state until she found the colony?
  
  
• If Dr. N knew how strong the mutants were, why didn’t he fortify the whole house and not just the windows and doors? Why didn’t he create other “secret hiding” areas in the floor, etc. for emergency cases? I mean, he had three years!
  
  
• Why are the mutants so hungry? There are herds of deer everywhere.

Again, I still recommend the movie and I was definitely never bored. But I wish they had at least tried to patch up some of the minor holes in the logic. At least they wrapped it up so that there couldn’t really be a sequel, at least not with Will Smith in it. In summary, cheap but fun thrills without substance, which is just fine for winter escapist fare. Now I just have to count the days until Sweeney!

Man With Van

Finally, the last vestiges of my former roommate have been expelled from my apartment. Don’t get me wrong, he was extremely polite, friendly and most importantly, paid the rent on time! But the hall closet has been bursting with his leftover stuff for the last three months while he’s been getting drunk all over Asia. He’s actually playing in the pit orchestra of 42nd Street on its Asian tour. But for pit musicians, tour is just an excuse to get wasted every night after the show since you’re low on responsibility and high on disposable income and free time. No disrespect to those musicians who act otherwise, but that has been my impression from the several years of touring I have endured. And I’m certainly not passing judgment on those who do, I’ve just had the unfortunate luck to have to appear shirtless on my last tour and any extra calories I allowed myself were certainly not wasted on alcohol. Now Ben & Jerry’s is another story. I’d gladly spend an extra two hours on the treadmill for a pint of Chunky Monkey - oh, or even better, a bacon cheeseburger, medium rare.

Anyway, back to my roommate. Hopefully, he’ll never read this. But we, (former roommate) Chris and I, had given him the nickname “Milky White” - the name of Jack’s cow from Into The Woods - because he’s blond and extremely pale. I know what you’re thinking, but it really just popped into our heads because when he first moved in with me, we couldn't think of his real name and all we could think about was how pale he was - nothing malicious intended. No, really. Anyway, Trish hasn't had a closet since she moved in this past September. Instead, she’s been using the next best thing, her bedroom floor, on the assumption that MW would be moving his belongings out upon returning from tour in October. He instead ended up extending his tour of duty until next March! So I graciously informed him that I’d be keeping his security deposit to pay for the extra months of storage and that I’d be moving his belongings into a lovely storage unit in Long Island City.

Since I’m just a paycheck shy of homeless and Trish has no income, we hit Craigslist for a “Man With Van” ad. Luckily, we found someone dirt cheap. But being extremely suspicious after 14 years of city living, I promptly hid every item of value in my closet in case this guy was looking to pocket some “extras.” Not that we really have anything of value to pocket, save my beloved flat screen TV, and I would have fought to the death to guarantee my continued viewing of Ugly Betty, Heroes and Lost in HD. Do not mess with my HD. Fortunately, the move went extremely well. The “man with van” and his hulking assistant were polite, efficient and best of all - cheap. Email me if you want a reference. Moral of story - cheap can be good (except perhaps in the case of prostitutes and maybe cheese).

Better Late Than Never!

I know the wedding was weeks ago. But here's the promised picture of the cake I created for the happy event!

Where are the Mer-men? And I Don't Mean Ethel...

After re-reading my Little Mermaid review, I realized that I may have been a bit negative about certain aspects of the show. In fairness, I guess I should be providing some suggestions to balance my criticisms. Since the show is in previews for the next couple of weeks, the Mermaid creative team will have plenty of time to implement my simple, yet inspired suggestions. Ms. Zambello and Mr. Schumacher, if you’re listening, and I’m sure you are, please note the following changes that will vastly improve your little show. In no particular order:

• Use Ursala's big shell piece to hold Triton captive, not those wimpy eels. Then when Ariel breaks the magic shell, have those tentacle things turn on Ursula, holding her captive and powerless. Then you’re also set up for the inevitable pointless sequel (High School Musical II - anyone?) where Ursala escapes and you rehash the exact same script with different songs.

• Someone needs to tell those eels to tone it down a notch. I’m no prude, but watching them interact made me feel dirty in a bad way. Are they supposed to be gay eels? Can eels even be gay?

• Why are there no mer-men besides Triton? There are references to them, but you never see one. Also, why is Triton’s tail all limp and dragging on the floor while the mermaids tails are all bouncy and upright?

• Axe the frog hand puppets in “Kiss the Girl.” They look like Sesame Street rejects.

• That whole "mermaids and humans together for one night" ending is just plain stupid. Have the wedding on the boat with the mermaids skating - er, swimming around it. Then utilize my vastly superior closing scene as follows:

Full Chorus: (sung) Now they can walk, now they can run, now they can play all day in the suuuuuuuuuuuuun!
(subito piano in orchestra) 

Ariel: (underscored) Will I ever see you again, dad?  

Triton: When you need me, sing and I'll answer you in the roar of the crashing waves. 

Ariel: I love you. 

Triton: (to Eric) Take care of my daughter. (Triton raises ugly pitchfork thingy, boat begins to floats up, Triton and Ariel extend arms to each other for final farewell gesture) 

Full Chorus: Out of the Seeeeaaaaa! 

Ariel, Triton, Eric: (continuing phrase) I'll finally beeeeee! Part of your woooorld! (Chorus underneath: ah, ah, ah)

And curtain.

Not a dry eye in the house.

Francesca, Thomas - if you have any questions, feel free to drop me an email. Love you, mean it!

Is That a Conk in Your Pocket, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

OK, I admit it, for months I’ve been obsessed with the bootlegs of Sierra Boggess singing the Little Mermaid on Youtube. I guess deep down I’m just a teenage girl with a Disney princess fantasy – but really, who doesn’t? So I’m only slightly embarrassed to say that I bought a ticket, actually two tickets (one for me and one for my sister), months ago – um, for her birthday. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Tonight we finally got to see the mermaid sing (and dance). The good news – the classic movie tunes still work remarkably well when transferred to the stage (Ariel’s simple ascending three note theme still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up) and the newly written music, although not nearly of the same caliber, still surpasses in pure craftsmanship most of what’s been written in the past couple of years. Alan Menken simply knows how to write a singable, soaring melody. The bad news – the last twenty minutes is a big, hot mess! SPOILER ALERT, DO NOT READ FURTHER IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW SPECIFICS – but remember, this is Disney, folks! They don't utilize the fairy tale's original, tragic ending. Do you really think the House of Mouse is gonna’ have its perky heroine witness the man she loves marry another woman then throw herself into the ocean out of extreme grief? Not likely. This stage version utilizes the movie's "happily-ever-after" ending, which wouldn't bother me so much except that the artistic team has created some truly inane dialogue and pointless staging. Forthwith is the last scene of the musical. I will paraphrase since I’m going by memory, so please forgive me.

Grimsby: I’m honored to have your daughter marry the prince. Will we ever see
you again?
Triton ("standing" on land, is he amphibian?): That depends. According to you I’m only a silly legend.
Grimsby:  Can you stay for the wedding?
Triton: Well, for this occasion I will let our two worlds celebrate together for just one night. (He waves around lame Christmas-light covered pitchfork. Stage fills with smoke. Human gay boys prance onto stage, mermaid ladies glide in on skates. Are we on land or in the water?  Gay boys spin mermaids around real fast and they sing a reprise of “Part of Your World.”)

Curtain.

It just doesn't work. It's way too "nice" and generic. Even the audience seemed confused by the abrupt theme park-like ending. It reads like an afterthought; as though they got to the last hour of the last rehearsal before the first preview and the director said, "How the hell are we gonna' end this thing?"

Ursala's death is pretty lame as well. Maybe it works from the orchestra section, but it's painfully obvious from the mezzanine that Ursula's walking toward a trapdoor. I mean there are little red lights on it! I'm sure they’re there for safety reasons, but come on. That's all you could come up with? And FYI to the director, the big bad villainess shouldn’t be stepping away from Ariel, she should be going after her. Ursala is saying something to the effect of, “Give me back my shell you bitch!” yet she’s walking away from Ariel because the friggin' trap door is 8 feet to her left. Change the damn blocking already, it doesn’t make sense! And poor Norm Lewis as Triton is straddled with more bad direction. Example - after signing away his soul, his ugly pitchfork thingy lights up (it looks like a big plastic fork with Christmas lights on it), theme park lightning affects go off, he hands the scepter over to Ursula, lays down on floor and is held down by Flotsam. Or was it Jetsam? I'm not sure, but it doesn't really matter. We're supposed to believe a waif thin, gay eel is "holding down" super buff Norm Lewis? Even stripped of "magical powers" Norm/Triton could bitch slap that eel into next week.

I do have to give props to the cast, though. The performances in general were impressive. I found Sierra Boggess quite charming and her singing was darn near flawless. Damn, this girl has a huge range and looks gorgeous in shells and a tail. My only complaint is that it seems she was coached to put on a "Disney voice" at times which seemed a bit thin and anemic, though pretty, compared to her full-voiced singing elsewhere. Oh, and the scene where she gets her "land legs" was pretty bad, too. Her cartoonish miming and over-exaggerated hobbling was pretty awful. She needs some method work – tie some ropes around her thighs, let her legs fall asleep, and then let her try to walk. You’ll get some realistic hobbling then.

I enjoyed Sean Palmer's performance as well, although I wasn't fully convinced until his big song, "Her Voice" when he finally started acting like a real person and not a cartoon. Until then, he was playing the prince like a spoiled 16 year old rather than a man about to turn 25. His vocals also impressed, except for the last note of “Her Voice.” He did the old "straight tone into vibrato" technique and was incredibly flat until his vibrato kicked in. I know it’s the current trend, but it worked against him. Either 1) change the vowel to better accommodate the high placement 2) lower the note or 3) let him use vibrato. It totally ruined the whole song for me, which I was enjoying until that very last badly placed note. Audiences forgive anything if you end well. No matter how many perfect high C's you hit in the middle of the song, they will only remember the final clunker.

Titus will probably earn a supporting Tony nom for his turn as Sebastian. His vocal range is higher than most women I know. He was always sincere and committed and genuinely appeared to be having a good time. The sisters and flounder had a great production number in Act I that helped flesh out their thin characters a bit. Again, Norm Lewis is totally wasted. He’s the Fantine of this production, appearing intermittently in the first act and basically disappearing in the second. Oh well, a paycheck is a paycheck.

Despite complaints from earlier reports, the set and costume design didn't really bother me. I actually thought they were quite interesting in an impressionistic sort of way. No, it’s not a realistic reproduction of an undersea world, but that’s what your imagination is for. The stage did appear somewhat bare at times, specifically during Kiss the Girl and most of Ursula's scenes . I admit the two giant wine bottle openers on either side of the stage were rather odd, but pretty to look at. Perhaps the designer’s take on coral? My report card - performances: B+, physical production: C-

Why Does God Hate Trish?

Today was my first Caroling gig of the season at Woodbury Common Outlet mall. The gig itself was pretty uneventful, but the car trauma the night before was quite exciting. After Friday’s Holiday Concert fiasco, I decided to crash in Jersey for some well-deserved R & R before returning to NYC. After spending the day binge eating (Popeye’s chicken, chocolate, and McDonald’s dollar menu items), Trish and I packed up mom and dad’s van. If you’ve been keeping up, Trish’s car had a nervous breakdown on the way to Virginia last weekend so we exchanged it with the family van while her car goes into the shop for some mechanical therapy. Back to Saturday - we filled up the gas tank and got on the highway only to notice that none of the dials on the dashboard registered. Did I mention that we also had TDF tickets to Cymbeline that evening at Lincoln Center? So we pulled over unto the shoulder, said a little prayer and tried the ignition again. Same thing, only this time the “check engine” light came on. “Why does God hate me?” Trish muttered. So I promptly called Don, who schedules and runs the caroling company. “There’s a problem with the car so you better start getting plan B together.” I also offer him my Cymbeline tickets and he replies, “Lord no, the last thing I want to do right now is listen to Phylicia Rashad talk.” Don eventually calls me back to let me know that he has reserved a rental car for the day and that I’ll need to use my credit card. No problem, what’s another hundred bucks on top of $15,000 debt already? Meanwhile, Trish is on the phone with dad. Apparently, this has happened before. The remedy? - slip the key in as slowly as you can. Then wait. And while pushing the key into the ignition, turn slowly. Of course, this method instantly brings the dashboard back to life but it's too late for us to try and catch our show. So we decide to continue binging for a couple more hours. No sense wasting fried chicken.

The gig itself was pretty routine except for the security guard asking us if we were going to do a better job than last weeks group who had a "horrible tone." Oh well, you can't please everyone.

Someone Please Compose a Happy Chanukah Song

Another weekend from hell is over. The Pineda Four (Juan, Val, Trish and I) once again pulled a show out of our asses with only one rehearsal, this time a holiday concert benefiting the LOC. I have to admit this was not one of our finer achievements. We hadn’t really even yet recovered from our parents' anniversary fiasco (was that really just last weekend?!). I mean, the fake wedding cake is still sitting in the back seat of Juan and Val’s van! By the way, as promised, I will soon post pictures of this magnificent piece of fake pastry art but I need to repair some of the minor dents and scratches. It was a rough ride back to NJ. Anyway, this concert was doomed to fail considering how well our anniversary reception show went. We surely hit our prayer quota over the anniversary weekend. A second miracle within one week’s time was probably just too much to ask for, especially when the four people asking are heathens.

So let me fill in some gaps. Thursday night was our combined first rehearsal AND final dress rehearsal for the holiday concert. “Warning, Will Robinson” and cue floppy robotic accordion arms. Oh well, panic at this point would have been redundant considering the travails of the previous weekend. We even suckered Chin Wen, an area piano teacher to volunteer her accompanying skills gratis. Actually, I think this was Val’s ulterior motive for inviting her to Thanksgiving dinner just weeks before. Way to think ahead, Val. But back to rehearsal - we sang through a couple of cheesy standards and some traditional songs and added the kids ensemble into a few numbers. Trish reluctantly pulled out Oh! Had I Jubal’s Lyre, Maureen whipped out Rejoice Greatly and we made up an arrangement of Oh, Holy Night to tie it all up. To make sure we didn’t get slapped with a lawsuit we even threw in some Chanukah songs for good measure. Now I’m all for equal time, but Chanukah songs are just plain depressing. Are there any rousing, happy Chanukah carols that end with a major chord? Anyway, I ended up staying at rehearsal until very late and took the midnight train back to the city. And even though I got home after 1:00 am, I managed to stumble into work on time - actually early - the next morning, thank you very much. I coasted through the work day thinking I'd make it through incident-free. But Murphy's Law is a bitch and before I knew it, I was knee deep in a sh*t storm.

Just as I was getting ready to sneak out of work to catch an earlier train to NJ, my boss, surely sensing I was up to no good, materialized out of thin air and appeared before my desk. He decides - twenty minutes before 5:00 pm - that he will be flying to Iowa for the weekend to attend an Obama rally (you know he just wanted to meet Oprah). I need to make all the travel arrangements as well as cancel all his weekend appointments, NOW. F*ck! How dare he ask me to do actual work during office hours. Does he not know I have personal business to attend to? So selfish. So I smile, pull my arm out of my coat sleeve, and reply, “No problem.” Just one year at Morgan and I’ve become a total corporate a**kisser! So now I’m running around like a hustler on crystal meth, frantically making phone calls, booking hotel rooms, blathering nonsense and cursing under my breath to no one in particular. To top it off, he can’t take a regular carrier. He needs to get on a buddy’s private jet from an airfield in NJ. God forbid he's forced to sit with the common folk. Oh, to be cursed with the burden of wealth. Luckily, I’m a natural pessimist, so I had already purchased two train tickets the day before in anticipation of just such a catastrophe. I raced to Penn Station and made the 6:03 express with a few minutes to spare, and even got a seat. Then I waited.

And waited.


And waited.


And waited.


Until finally the dreaded announcement, “Ladies and gentleman, due to a stalled train in Secaucus, trains are running behind schedule. We apologize for the inconvenience.” Sh*t, sh*t, double sh*t! When the train finally gets moving 20 minutes later, it crawls and stops and crawls and stops and crawls and stops the whole way. I make my third panicked call to Trish. It’s now after 7:00 pm, the concert is at 8, and I’m still in Newark. Oh well, warming up is highly over-rated anyway. Isn’t that what the first act is for?

When I finally arrive at 7:40 pm, there are maybe 5 people in the audience. I busted my ass for 5 people? Val assures me that people are coming later and then tells me that I have to accompany our guest artist, Michelle Trovato, who appeared as Adele in our recent production of Die Fledermaus. Awesome, more sight-reading!

I won’t bullsh*t you, all in all the concert sucked, even by our low standards. The only saving grace was Michelle’s performance. She busted out a flawless version of Gesú Bambino (with me sight-reading at the piano) and a hilarious reprise of Adele’s laughing song making the rest of us look like talent-free a**holes. Other concert “lowlights” in no particular order - Val and I butchering the end of Panis Angelicus; the deathly slow tempo of Oh! Holy Night (as well as just about everything else we sang); me sight-reading accompaniments of aforementioned Jubal’s and Rejoice; me staring at Juan’s mouth so I could lip read the upcoming lyrics for the second and third verses of Silent Night; me singing nonsense syllables during the German verse of Oh Christmas Tree; and me stopping the concert and making Trish come over to the piano to help look for the piano music for White Christmas right before she had to sing it.

Anniversary Rewind

I know I haven’t really blogged about the actual Anniversary party last weekend, but with the upcoming benefit for the opera company and me starting my new position as a corporate bitch, I don’t even have time to take a dump let alone write. Although I guess I could take my laptop into the bathroom with me and kill two birds with one stone - hmmm. Ha, now you’ll have that nasty image in your head while you read the rest of this blog. Moving right along, I’ve decided I’d just comment on my favorite moments from the weekend since there is just way too much that happened. I also urge you to click the comments link at the bottom of this article and add your own happy (?) memories to my list. Herewith, in no particular order are some of my highlights.

• Upon greeting Valerie for the first time in two years, Tita Rory ran up to her and excitedly began rubbing her stomach. Mortified, Val bellowed, “I’m not pregnant, I’m just fat.”

• The decorator failed to set up enough tables for the 250 guests (in a hall meant for 175) and Trish scolded his sissy ass into setting up more. In a related note, said decorator (sidebar: he claims he’s straight and has a girlfriend - right) also screwed up the table numbers so that the seating chart had groups of 20 sitting at 10 tops. Trish then had to announce the proper table numbers and had guests play musical chairs, getting up and walking them around the hall until she frustratingly just let people sit wherever there was an empty chair.

• Mom has obviously never hired servers/waiters for a large event because she decided that four people would be enough to bar tend, clear tables, serve desserts and maintain the buffet. Instead, the kids, the cousins - Daphne and Marion - and Trish’s friends Billy and Steve ended up filling water glasses, busing tables and taking shit from the snooty assholes at the Filipino table - yes, that would be you, table 2. I mean, come on, there were obviously seating problems and then you see the guests-of-honor’s kids hustling to fill your water glasses, plus you’re getting a free meal and then you’re gonna’ complain because the buffet line is too long? Get your sorry asses back to Manila if you don’t like it!

• I don’t know what dad was thinking, but barely half an hour into the reception there appeared to be only one bottle of wine left. When I asked dad where they were keeping the rest of the wine, he calmly explained that he put the 12 bottles right behind the bar. 12 bottles!? For 250 people!? Oy. I just smiled and said, “OK” and we immediately sent Gerry off to Sam’s Club for 3 more cases. Incidentally, soon after we also ran out of silverware and plates and we had to phone in an additional order to Gerry.
  

• Several guests came up to me and complimented me on how beautiful the cake looked. They were so impressed that I had made it myself. One guest was particularly complimentary about how well the cake was iced and commented on how similar it was to the very expensive cake she purchased for her daughter’s wedding. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was made out of spackle and Styrofoam. The fondant pearls, however, were edible, although laced with hot glue. On a side note, I baked and drove down 10 sheet cakes to serve at the party and planned to ice them the day before, but because there just weren’t enough hours in the day, we scrapped that idea and decided to serve Trish’s birthday cake in lieu of a wedding cake.

• Even with no rehearsal and a last minute decision to use music on stands instead of trying to memorize, the reception show went over like gangbusters. We basically ad lib-ed the whole thing and most of the choreography. Being the sap that I am, I of course started crying during “My Romance.” I think there may be some incriminating video floating around, but I will sue your asses if you post that shit on Youtube so keep it to yourselves.
  

• Because my fat ass has not seen the inside of my gym in almost a year (that’s a $1,000 down the toilet I could have used to buy a real wedding cake), I was mortified to discover that my suit pants would not button closed. I panicked and had Trish order pants online, one size up, and hoped that they would fit properly. Well, they ended up fitting perfectly except they weren't the same material as the jacket. Actually, they were the exact same color, but the striping was different widths. I basically thought, "F*ck it, no one will notice." And nobody did! Hopefully the next time I have to wear the suit I will have lost, or at least drastically reduced, my muffin top and will be able to squeeze into the correct pants.

I encourage family and friends to click the comment link below and add your favorite or most embarrassing moment to my list!

More Love for Target

I just have to share a funny exchange I overheard (read: eavesdropping) between a mom and daughter while I was trying to pick a hand lotion from the glittering array of brands on display at the Queens' Target. Props to unbridled consumerism!

Sloppily dressed, overweight mom:
"I’ll just buy this one, it’s the cheapest."
Gangly greasy-haired, white trash daughter pointing to most expensive brand:
"Why don’t you buy that one, it says it relieves stress."
Sloppy mom grabbing cheap bottle and trudging away:
"If I just got rid of you and your father, I’d be fine."

See post below for more details about my field trip to Target last night.

Haul Out the Friggin' Holly

The fun just keeps coming, don’t it? Right on the heals of the big Anniversary party and reception show (which, by the way, was a smashing success, especially my “King of the World” moment during Val’s tear-worthy My Heart Will Go On), the crazy four, Juan, Val, Trish and I, start rehearsals for the LOC Holiday concert. Never sticklers for preparation, we have yet to pick all the music. I mean, we still have, like, 36 hours, right? Seriously, we need to start planning a smidge better. Anyway, I just got through emailing with Val and we’re throwing around ideas. I’m definitely going to do a cheese-irific version of I’ll Be Home For Christmas as well as Ave Maria, which I can just pull out of my ass, and Grateful by John Bucchino. Other than that, things are pretty much up in the air. We should honestly start planning now for next year. I was supposed to head to NJ after work for rehearsal today, but Val has asked me to stay home so she can teach the music to the chorus of LOC young artists that will be performing with us. Per usual, we will be flying on adrenaline, sugar and creative BS. At least we’ll look fabulous in our tuxes and gowns. If you’re going to be in the central NJ area, come watch us sing and probably make a whole lot of sh*t up on stage this Friday, 8:00 PM, First United Methodist Church of Scotch Plains, 1171 Terrill Road, Scotch Plains, NJ.

I Love Target!

So just about quitting time this afternoon I get an email from Trish suggesting a trip to Target. She was apparently bored and going stir crazy being cooped up in the apartment all day. You have to understand that Trish is a textbook case shopoholic. And due to the loss of her debit card last week (along with her wallet and drivers license) I’m sure she must have also been suffering severe retail withdrawal symptoms. Her new card arrived in the mail the other day and I’m sure her fingers were just itching to sign it and slid it through a scanner.

We decided to make it a full-out white trash evening, which is kind of a misnomer, considering most of the foot traffic at the Queens Target probably consists of illegal aliens. I mean, there is nary a white face to be seen in that neck of the woods. Anyway, we decided that a lovely dinner at Taco Bell would fit our evening’s theme perfectly. So after I got home, we jumped into the van and headed out to scenic Northern Boulevard. Our eyes, as always, were way bigger than our stomachs and our tray was piled high with -itos and -itas. And whatever marketing genius has convinced the American public that Taco Bell’s fast food is “healthy” fast food ought to receive a Noble Prize in some category (come on - if Al can win one for basically writing a souped up term paper, anyone can). I always forget how tasty the food is there. If only it was as pleasant on the way in as it is on the way out.

I know we are always bombarded by reports of how big box retail is the devil, but I love me a Target fix every couple of weeks. And don’t tell Michael Moore, but I love me a Walmart Superstore, too. There is just something truly magical and completely All-American about being able to buy panties, artisanal chocolate, Lysol and a CD player all under one joyous roof! And don’t even get me started on the super cool shopping cart escalator at the Queen’s store, magical.

Again, the idea that you can buy anything you want under one roof is freakin’ awesome. We wandered around that store for almost two hours without an agenda. Just aimlessly wandering the aisles waiting for something to jump out and scream, “Buy me now!” We ended up with a cart of completely random items - chocolate, T-shirts, Christmas cards, candles, shampoo, a belt, a vacuum - oddly, we didn’t leave with the one item that Trish actually was looking for, a shelving unit. Oh well, that means we just have to look for the closest Walmart.

Party's Over

Here are some pics from the big event this weekend. More details and pics to come. But here's just a sampling:

Cousins (and sisters) Marion and Daphne after their waitressing stint just a couple hours earlier. Yes, the family lawyer was busing tables and taking drink orders because there were no servers for the party. Good times for all!

The Kiendals (cousin Tiffany, Paul and little Lily) looking like they're ready for bed.

Eternally youthful cousins Margot and Alan. Good genes or pact with the devil?

Cousin Rosanna w/ her new, extremely tall beau Jamie and Alan (again).

Two Wookies in Love

What do you do when 90 miles into a 350 mile road trip your vehicle begins to groan like two wookies in heat? You ignore it and keep driving, of course!

So we were just about to cross the Maryland border when I was startled awake thinking Chewbacca was nearing climax in the back seat. My felon sister, Trish, driving sans license because her wallet was stolen from her purse earlier in the week (we're sort of trying to keep that on the DL from the parents, so please forget you just read that), was in full panic mode. Shifting gears made absolutely no difference. In fact, when the car slowed to around 60 mph the sound only amplified and it was like we were sitting inside the turbine engine of a jet plane during take-off. The noise was migraine inducing - imagine someone polishing the inside of your skull with steel wool. I wanted to literally peel the scalp from my head. The odd thing was the faster Trish drove, the quieter the noise. So through some extremely dangerous on-road trial and error we discovered the torture zone to be between 55 - 60 mph and above 70 mph, just mild migraine territory. We were now forced to speed through the rest of our trip or suffer ear-splitting engine noise. It was like a bad remake of Speed (remember that Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves movie where the hijackers rigged the bus full of innocent passengers so that it would explode if they went below a certain speed? - if not, I hate you and your youthful ignorance) only no Keanu, no Sandra, no bus, no hijackers, and no passengers other than us - hmmm, not like Speed at all, really.

Anyway, I am not ashamed to say that I am mechanically-challenged. And I'll admit the thought of being forced to drive at least 70 mph and weaving in and out of DC traffic didn't thrill me either. So at the risk of suffering for the next four hours, we decided to suck it up and call dad. In typical dad fashion he calmly advised pulling to the side of the road and checking the muffler - it was probably just nothing. Then he yawned and told us he would leave a key underneath the doormat because he and mom were tired and heading to bed. Thanks for the concern, dad.

For you Faustosspot virgins (and regular readers with bad memories) let me back track a little. This weekend is my parent's 40th Ruby Anniversary party which is just a lame excuse to eat too much, get wasted and collect lots of useless gifts. But because I can't afford to take a day off from work, Trish and I decided to drive to our parents' house in Richmond late Thursday; thus, hoping to miss rush hour traffic and not waste all day Friday on the road. Fast forward to dying car.

After speaking with dad, who really didn't seem very concerned that his two favorite children were now forced to speed down I-95 to their possible deaths in a fiery car crash, we decided to pull into a rest area and re-assess our situation. We headed to the restrooms first, praying the car might just spontaneously repair itself. Well, the sheer act of stretching and getting some fresh air in the absence of background engine noise helped calm us down tremendously. And I decided to take dad's advise and take a look under the car. I had no idea what I was looking for or what I would do if I found it, but I got on my hands and knees and started looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Road Trip, Part II (Wookies Cont.'d)

I have no idea what the "ordinary" underside of a car looks like, so looking for something "out of the ordinary" is pretty much a moot point. However, even I could not fail to notice the huge gash running the entire width of the muffler. Problem solved. Or at least problem identified. We called dad again and he told us that we could still drive it, we'd just have to suck it up and put up with the noise. So Trish and I pushed onward to Virginia.

All seemed fine for the next three hours. Just the occasional outburst from the car engine. I even sort of got used to it, enough that I was actually able to doze a little here and there. Then I about 50 miles from Richmond I was jostled awake yet again by Trish's shriek. "Do you smell that?!" She screamed. The car instantaneously filled with the overwhelming odor of burnt rubber, sulfur and feet. Of course, we were so close to home that we decided to just cross our fingers and keep going, hoping the car wouldn't burst into flames, at least until we pulled into the driveway. We cracked the windows, pulled our coats around our shoulders and wrapped our scarves around our nose and mouth to block the offending odor. So then we're freezing, we can't breathe, and we looked like two terrorists on our way to a car bombing.

Drama queen that I am, I was actually hoping that the car's hood would dramatically burst into flames as we pulled into the driveway. That way we could make a huge show of climbing out through the car windows and run screaming away from the flaming wreckage. I can already see the cinematographer's wide angle shot (this scene will be quite dramatic in my movie biopic) of the burning car rolling into the driveway of my parents' suburban postcard house. But nothing of the sort happens. Sigh. Mom and dad don't even wait up for us. So much for being met at the door with concerned hugs and kisses and mugs of hot chocolate. We didn't even get the pleasure of wallowing in self-pity over our last four hours of suffering and mental anguish. Wallowing is just not the same unless there are witnesses to console you. So instead we unpacked the car and just went to bed, our excitement bubble deflated by snoring.

Extreme Cheese Factor

Calling all cheese aficionados. Here is the song list for our parents' 40th Anniversary reception show. I think you'll find it sufficiently cheesy, and by that I mean more like canned spray, not a nice aged Gouda.

1. Love is a Many Splendored Thing
2. Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life
3. Happy Together
4. Hey Jude
5. Ain't No Mountain
6. Knock Three Times
7. Physical
8. My Hear Will Go On
9. My Strongest Suite
10. My Romance
11. Together

Pretty cheeserific, wouldn't you say? We're doing a scripted "This Is Your Life"-type presentation and each song relates to mom and/or dad or was popular during a significant year of their lives. so family, if you're going to be there, don't you dare record this. If I see us on Youtube I'm suing!

I was in NJ until late last night recording. Therefore, the amount of flubbed notes on the tracks is directly proportionate to the lateness in the evening at which it was recorded. Example: the ending button on Together in no way relates to the key of the preceeding song. It's flat out the wrong chord! C'est la vie. But it was 11:58pm and I had to be at the train station at 12:12am. Anyway, I did make it back to Astoria before 2:00am and managed to somehow get my lazy ass to work by 8:40am. Interesting how motivating a paycheck can be.

Speaking of paychecks, looks like I'm going to become a permanent fixture at Morgan Stanley. I have decided to temporarily take a break from "the biz" to become a corporate bitch. Although even negotiating an offer from "the man" causes me to die just a little bit inside; I will finally, after some 15 odd years of foraging between sofa cushions, sustain a quality of life hovering above bag lady - no disrespect intended toward bag ladies, of course.

Another Sign Armageddon is Approaching

OK, so my last blog was pretty cynical and mean, but my sister just called and gave me another reason to believe that people are intrinsically evil. I lost my cell phone at the Met last week and nobody turned it. Then my sister lost her phone on the bus the other day and nobody turned it in. Then the subway refused to run the other night when we wanted to celebrate the birth of my beloved friend, Jaygee. Now, I hear someone on the NJ Transit train has stolen my sister's wallet and the gift bag we had prepared for Jaygee! I can't wait to go to bed. On the upside, they sky has finally cleared and the sun is out. Except it's shining so brightly through the office window that I can't see anything except for bright yellow spots. Surely this must be the beginning of degenerative eye disease.

Totally Inappropriate Rant or Why Public Transportation Sucks or I'm Just A Little Bit Racist

First off, Happy Birthday to my always youthful and gorgeous friend, Jaygee. I hope she got sloppy drunk and sick on BBQ wings last night at her party. Unfortunately, the Gods have decided to keep us separated by smiting the N train last night. After spending half an hour sitting two stops away from Queensborough Plaza due to a “stalled train,” Trish and I decided that drunken debauchery was not in the cards for us and we hoofed it to the other side of the tracks to head home. Again, it seemed those wacky Gods wanted us to get off our lazy asses and get some exercise, because a train failed to appear on the Queens-bound side as well. Which makes me highly suspect of that “stalled train” excuse. A stalled train in BOTH directions? Really? More like some bored, sadistic conductor getting his rocks off, I suspect. Anyway, we decided to walk home - yes, walk - instead of waiting for a train that was obviously never going to arrive. As luck would have it, a bus pulled up just as we were stepping onto the street. But since it was Let’s-Make-Fausto’s-Life-Miserable Day (currently only celebrated in Queens, but I believe it will be going National any day now), it was jam-packed with annoyed subway patrons. The inside of the bus looked like one huge poofy coat with twenty random arms sticking out of it. When the doors opened, half a person literally spilled out. Of course, some ghetto Latina teenager, wearing requisite silver hoop earrings the size of basketballs and a big poofy coat as well (yeah, I know that’s totally inappropriate, so please feel free to set Al Sharpton’s bag of crazy on my ass), decided she was going to get on that bus if it killed her and everyone else and started telling people to, “Move in, yo.” She then proceeded to push her way into the bulging puff of padded coats hanging out the door. Oddly enough, she was miraculously sucked into the mass of padding and arms to become one with the mother-coat and the bus took off for their home planet of Poofcoatopia. Which I think is somewhere in the South Bronx by way of the Tri-Borough bridge. Suffice it to say, we continued to walk, taking full advantage of the beautifully mild evening, compliments of our depleted ozone layer; or what President Bush most likely refers to as a "figment of the liberal imagination." Well, he better not be asking to sleep on my couch when Texas is under water, although I guess Queens will probably be as well. Can you tell I’m just a bit annoyed by how the whole evening progressed? Did I mention that I lost my cell phone the other day as did Trish? Oh, yes, I think I did. I am not in a good mood this week! Oh well, I do enjoying basking in cynicism and anger once in a while, I think it's healthy! And tres New York. Sigh. Back to surfing the...I mean "working."

Sugar High

Hallelujah! The fake wedding cake has been completed and it looks pretty darned good if I do say so myself. Stay tuned for photos as I will wait until it's at its final home in Richmond before taking any glamour shots. Turns out that the actual decorating wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be, it was just extremely tedious; like trying to fold 20 loads of laundry in one sitting except without the same satisfaction that comes with knowing you'll be able to slip on a clean, spring-fresh scented t-shirt when you're done. Instead, you only get to stare at it and imagine what it would have tasted like had it not been made of styrofoam and spackle. I think I worked on it for at least 5 or 6 hours. Most of that time was spent rolling various-sized small fondant "pearls" to attach all over the cake. It looks great, but took forever to execute. I was so tired by the time I starting "pearling" the third tier, that I started eating a "pearl" for every 3 or 4 I was rolling just to keep my energy up. I was jittery and tired like Whitney after an all night binge only without the profuse sweating (have you seen those concerts she did for HBO? - her pores were like faucets!). I actually watched "Elf" twice in a row on TNT and was well into my third viewing when I decided to call it quits. Great movie, by the way ("Why don't you just say it. I'm the worst toy maker in the world. I'm a cotton-headed ninny-muggins.").

The rest of the day was just as tedious. I sat at the keyboard during cake breaks and tried to lay down the tracks for the songs we're going to perform at the anniversary "show" this weekend. I'll probably hate the tracks when I listen to them again later in the week, but I couldn't bare to sit at the keyboard for more than 20 minutes at a time. All four of us (Juan, Val and Trish) are burning the candle at both ends trying to get this shindig together. We are so in the weeds - I'll be maniacally baking and freezing sheet cakes all week in preparation for the 250 (!) guests that have RSVP-ed; we also haven't rehearsed the reception show or the actually church music at all - just picked it out; Val is trying to scan, edit and compile hundreds of family pictures to put together a video slide show for the reception; we have to pick a show for next summer's High School theater program; Auditions are coming up for both Juan's Oklahoma! and my Madame Butterfly; we have a Holiday Concert coming up in two weeks that we have yet to start rehearsing for; I have to find a storage unit and coordinate the move of my old roommate's belongings out of my apartment (he's in China with the 42nd Street tour); I haven't cleaned the bathroom in weeks and the apartment is just plain nasty; I haven't started any of my Christmas shopping; I lost my cell phone yet AGAIN!; Trish lost her cell phone as well (and we have no land line); and on top of all that, I may soon be unemployed from my current temp job! Yeah! Between all of that, I hope to also book a few more church gigs and plenty of caroling jobs so I can scrape together my rent. I know, I know - "stop your bitching" you're saying to yourself. I'm sure I'll be complaining about having nothing to do in January when I'm living in a cardboard box in Times Square. Actually, I'd probably choose Union Square if I had to, much nicer neighborhood and less tourist traffic.

The Magic of Spackle

I've just frosted three layers of yummy styrofoam cake in Juan and Val's basement. For anyone in need of fake icing, light spackling compound is the exact same consistency of buttercream icing. It's really rather disturbing and I had to keep myself from licking my fingers because it looks so real. I'm really hoping this cake won't end up looking too ghetto, but I guess they really have no choice and it's too late anyway. Oh well, I'm going to head to bed and let the "icing" dry overnight and then I'm going to try a light sanding.

Giblets, Part Deux

So I found out that Val actually does use the giblets to make gravy (although she does strain out the innards before serving) and that giblets do not come in a can except in certain brands of cat food. So my previous post about housewives fighting over cans of giblets makes absolutely no sense at all. Oh well, that's what you get for being misogynistic I guess.

Right after my first T-day post I got so tired from the tryptophan that I didn't have the energy to write about the rest of the meal. Suffice it to say, I had more than enough to eat. I won't go into details because quite frankly it's boring - stuffing, turkey, mashed potatoes, blah, blah, blah. So I'm going to put my sweats on and head for the gym for an extreme workout, and by workout I mean heating up left over mashed potatoes and gravy, sitting in my underwear and watching reruns of Ugly Betty saved on my DVR.

The picture to the left is not from Thanksgiving (I believe it's Trish and I suffering immensely after eating half-pound burgers, onion rings and cheese fries at Cheeburger Cheeburger in Westfield), but it is pretty much representative of how I felt after devouring Thanksgiving dinner, dessert and second dinner. Stay tuned and later I'll post a picture of me just minutes before giving birth to my food baby Thursday night.

Recommended Reading

In honor of my striking brethren in Local One, I am recommending the book Making It on Broadway: Actors' Tales of Climbing to the Top by David Wiener and Jodie Langel. An easy read, it divides the actors' experience into pertinent sections (survival jobs, landlords, first gigs, etc.) and compiles a short anecdotal quote from a Broadway actor relating to the topic at hand. At times truly hilarious and utterly depressing, it puts a microscope to the world of big-time commercial Broadway theatre.

Although I have never worked under the Production Contract (Broadway and most Broadway tours), the attitudes and situations featured are all too familiar to me. I myself have been guilty of "long-run-itis" described in detail in one section. Of course, I'd like to blame most of these instances as the insecurities of a neophyte actor and I hope I've outgrown those impulses and attained a more professional demeanor (I'm sure there are many who would refute that). Though admittedly unprofessional, I do have fond memories of extreme upstaging and focus stealing, moving mole matinees, uncontrollable fits of laughter forcing me to turn upstage exposing quivering shoulders to the audience, and competitions to see who could sing the highest, most outrageous harmonies on the offstage mics during the show because we were simply "bored." In retrospect, totally inappropriate - but I can't deny that I enjoyed myself at the time.

I've probably come full circle and am now a professionalism Nazi. I'm always scolding my students for not taking their stage responsibilities more seriously. Oh well, I guess there is a middle ground somewhere. Until I find it, I'll just continue abusing my young charges and glow in the memories of past indiscretion.

So please feel free to let me know if you'd like to borrow my copy - and by borrow I mean get your cheap lazy ass up from your computer and buy your own copy because whenever I loan out a book (or CD or DVD for that matter) I never get it back!

Size Matters

I can barely move and I'm nine months pregnant with a huge food baby. I'm very close to the point of sticking a finger down my throat to alleviate the pain. I need to take a long nap and wait for all of this to pass - literally. So I will continue with details later tonight after I've a had an hour or two on the porcelain throne. I want to know what all of you ate tonight - so post your comments and the most decadent food orgy wins!

Giblets

FYI - from Wikipedia:

"Giblets are the edible offal of a fowl, typically including the heart, gizzard, liver, and other visceral organs. The term is culinary usage only; zoologists do not refer to the "giblets" of a bird."

Ewww - honestly, my first guess was the round bony end of the drumstick. I was going to post a picture of giblets, but they are just plain nasty looking.

What's a Giblet?

The hours crawled by this afternoon at my temp job. Visions of stuffing and mashed potatoes made me groggy and sleepy. Luckily, I was able to skip out an hour early and headed home before taking my chances on NJ Transit for the dreaded bus ride to Scotch Plains, NJ. First, I had to make a stop at my bank because someone has been using my debit card to pay for their electric bill someplace in upstate New York. Note to criminals - if you are going to commit credit card fraud, do not use it to pay for something as easily traceable as an electric bill you dumb f**k! - but that's for another rant.

My contribution to the table this year is a homemade apple pie. Now usually I buy one from Little Pie Company (note there is no "the", so don't all be writing and trying to get up in my "bidniz"), namely the sour cream apple walnut pie - it's like buttah' - as my imaginary Jewish grandmother would say. I wasn't able to bake the night before because Magic Flute let out at 11:15 and I lost my cell phone - AGAIN! - somewhere in the Met and couldn't find it. And some genius has decided that the most convenient hours for a "lost and found" to be open is from 2 to 4 pm, Monday through Friday. Hello!?!?!? Who's free from 2 to 4 pm, Monday through Friday? Answer: actors and the unemployed, which makes no sense since neither can afford to go to the opera. Some dude at the Met is making a mint selling cell phones, glasses and single gloves on eBay. But I digress.

So I jammed all the ingredients I bought last night into an insulated bag and into my rolling back pack. I've recently upgraded to the rolling kind because I'm getting old and don't care about looking cool anymore carrying it by one strap over the shoulder. I'm sure in a decade or so some scientist will publish a report about all the lopsided adults in this country resulting from excessive use of backpacks over one shoulder during adolescence. All you cool kids, please start alternating shoulders or just wear them over both shoulders as they were meant to be.

Anyway, the bus ride was oddly uneventful and I hit absolutely no traffic. Once I got to Juan and Val's I started unpacking so that I could bake and go to bed and rest up for the gastronomic orgy to come tomorrow. Guess what this genius forgot to pack? The apples, of course. So I had to head out the A&P and buy friggin' apples. Fine. The grocery store was again weirdly empty. Has everyone decided to skip Thanksgiving this year? Although I would have bitched the whole time, I was sort of hoping to see a mob of crazy sweatsuit-clad housewives (and husbands, don't get all feminist on me) ripping each other's hair out for the last can of giblets. What are giblets, anyway? Tiny gibs? Well, disappointed at not having witnessed a pre-T'day food fight at the A&P, I drove back to Juan & Val's, baked my Paula Dean apple pie, and now on my way to bed. Can't wait to eat myself into a food coma and complain about it all day.

I'm a Cheap Date

Hey LOC young artists, if you don't think you can afford to go to the Met, think again! Here are a couple of cheap deals.
From the Met website:

"Student Discount Tickets for full time students, age 29 or under, are available at 10 am on the day of the performance (pending availability), and may be purchased at the Metropolitan Opera Box Office. Prices are $25 for weekday performances and $35 for Friday and Saturday performances. A valid student ID and proof of age must be presented at the time of purchase. We are aware that some elementary schools do not provide a student ID.

Exceptions will be made when the student is present at the time of purchase.

Limit two tickets per performance."

Also, for anyone:

"The rush-ticket program returns, thanks once again to a generous gift from Met Board member Agnes Varis and her husband, Karl Leichtman. Two hundred orchestra seats are available for $20 each Monday through Thursday, excluding galas and opening nights of new productions."

Just arrive 2 hours prior to the performance (actually, you should try to get there earlier. Trish arrived 2 1/2 hours early for La Traviata w/ Renee Fleming and there were already over 200 people in line. But it was Renee).

It's Good to be Queen

Diana Damrau is a freak of nature! According to the stagebill, she pulled the Queen of the Night role out of retirement for a second farewell run (Trish and I saw last night's performance). She supposedly retired the role in 2006, but due to a scheduling snafu we were lucky enough to see one of her final Queen’s. Even more mind-boggling is the fact she sang the role of Pamina just three days prior in the same production. Sadly, I wish she could have played both roles last evening. Genia Kühmeier, as Pamina in her Met debut, sounded like a 13-year-old boy soprano - albeit a very good 13-year-old boy soprano; rarely a glimpse of vibrato and sometimes a hair under pitch on high entrances (most noticeable on the first note of Ach, Ich fühl’s). I’ll admit she did have some gorgeous high pianissimos and her acting was quite good. Although I didn’t dislike her, she didn’t really register for me one way or the other. But back to DD - after seeing so many lyric coloraturas just stand there and squeak out the role, it’s nice to see a real dramatic coloratura give us a full-voiced and well-acted Queen. Her performance was nuanced, emotional and solid. Her Der Hölle rach received a well-deserved prolonged ovation. My sister, not familiar with DD commented, “She’s crazy!” - in a good way, of course.

I'll admit that I only bought the ticket to see DD having seen the Taymor production in its original incarnation in 2004. This Flute has aged very well. It's still fresh and well executed, with audible gasps and ah's from the audience as sets revolved, bears cavorted, food floated through the air and birds danced en pointe.

Joseph Kaiser, singing Tamino, possessed a pretty, full legato voice and his top had a nice ring, although occasionally a bit nasal. I might add he's also a solid actor and easy on the eyes (although in that Cher a la 1970's wig, and geisha girl make-up, it's difficult to tell - fyi pic to the left is not Kaiser).

Stephane Degout possessed a clean, focused sound and filled out Papageno's tights quite well (if you see this production, you'll see why they're called that) and was charming and funny throughout - definitely an audience favorite. His Papagena was equally charming and effective in her transformation from old lady to young nymph but not so successful in the vocal department, all but disappearing beneath the orchestra and Degout.

It's interesting to note that last night's performers seemed to mine the book's comedy much more ably than the original cast I saw years ago, namely the three ladies and Monostatos. The whole cast seemed to be fully committed and enjoying their time on the stage. Some random thoughts: I love the dancing bears but wish I could have seen Taymor's take on other beasts; the concept of the three floating heads appeals to me, but I'm not sure it always works; the ending always seems rather abrupt to me and doesn't quite satisfy after everything that's come before it; the rumbling of the sets behind the scrim while Sarastro tried to sing his aria in one was totally distracting and seemed somewhat disrespectful to the performer.

The Wedding Singer

The problem with having siblings who perform is that you always end up being the sideshow at any family event. I don't mind singing at the occasional wedding but sometimes things get a bit out of hand. Case in point, the reception "show" for the upcoming parents' 40th. Aside from already preparing a mini-recital for the actual mass, we have also been ordered to prepare a personalized skit a la "This is Your Life" for the reception. I know mom said that it didn't have to be "big," but for those of you who know my mom you are well aware that she only does "big." Subtle is not in her vocabulary. Therefore, besides trying to make the show relate to the milestones in their lives it must also have clever dialogue, include many songs with staging and choreography and be uproariously funny. On top of that we also have to compete with the recent memory of another reception "show" we put on several years back for our Uncle's anniversary. Right now it's basically a big cheese-fest with lots of crazy songs from the 70's and some other random pop music. Did I mention we have been asked (read: ordered) to include "Love Is Many Splendoured Thing"? I'm warning the lactose intolerant to head for the bar when the show starts.

Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain...

Next week is my parents' 40th Anniversary bash. As you can guess, the family's been pulling out their hair trying to get preparations ready for the big day. For sanity's sake, Trish has limited answering calls from mom to just one a day. The new phone technique I have implemented has been to preface each of my calls home with, "I can't talk, just answer 'yes' or 'no'."

On top of the never-ending calls, guess what idiot volunteered to bake the wedding cake? Moi, of course. OK, so my wedding cake experience is basically nada, unless you count having seen every episode of "Ace of Cakes" as "experience". It's not that I'm a stranger to my oven; I in fact bake a mean batch of brownies (from scratch, thank you very much) and am no stranger to the virtues of parchment paper on a cookie sheet. But we're talking 250 hungry guests, half of whom are Filipino and therefore have never uttered the words, "No thank you, I'm full."

When I agreed to supply what most couples would consider the centerpiece for the evening, the date was nearly a year away. I thought I had plenty of time to bone up on my piping skills and fondant rolling technique, and by "bone up" I mean "learn." But a year sure does fly by quickly and now I'm scrambling to find a way to create an incredible culinary masterpiece with basically no cake decorating skills. Luckily, we were able to talk mom into letting us present a fake cake so at least what's under the icing can be bought and carved out of Styrofoam. Any ideas? I hear that you can use spackling compound instead of buttercream icing, but I want to make sure that the cake looks real. I had grand ideas of making each gum paste flower myself and individually painting the detailed leaves. Screw that. I'm gonna' have to see if the craft store has them pre-made or if I can go to a bakery and get some made for me. Suggestions would be most grateful.

I've already experimented and come up with the "real" cake which will be "hiding" in the kitchen, pre-sliced, until the fake one is carted off the dance floor. It will be a white cake with butter cream icing and either/both strawberry and cherry topping. It got the thumbs up from Juan, Val, Trish and Trish's friend Billy (who was in this week from Virginia and got screwed because of the Broadway strike) and turned out even better than I expected considering my measly budget. I won't reveal the secret recipe until after the big event in case anyone attending ends up reading this. I don't want to ruin the experience for anyone. So you'll just have to keep posted if interested.