Ragtime is to Fausto as crack is to…

a) crazy whore
b) eager, young financial analyst
c) Amy Winehouse
d) all of the above

Obviously, the answer is “d.” Have you never taken a standardized test before?

Yesterday afternoon I found myself at the Neil Simon Theatre seeing Ragtime. Again. That’s three times in a month. I’m totally obsessed! Granted, Trish and I took my brother, Gerry, who was up from Texas for the holidays. But even I can recognize the signs of addiction. Someone call “Intervention.”

Anyway, there’s not much more to say except that this show continues to kick just about every show’s ass that’s currently playing. Not that it’s a perfect production, but as far as gorgeous stage pictures, often inspired direction, thrilling music and solid ensemble work, not much on the boards can beat it.

As for Christmas, well, it was the usual family craziness. Both sets of parents (the brown and the white), me, Trish and my brother Gerry squeezed into Juan and Val’s Jersey house. I won’t go into details, but damn, it’d make a great movie. Between catering to the various parents, singing for Christmas mass at Juan’s church, Val streaming bodily fluids from several orifices (don’t ask) and everyone making sure there was always a steady flow of food and beverage from the kitchen, there wasn’t much time left for celebrating Jesus’ birthday.

We did manage to have a full family sit-down breakfast on Christmas morning, lovingly prepared by the men of the house, Gerry and Joey (Val’s brother). And we finally opened presents around noon, just in time for lunch! Sensing a theme? Besides the usual sweaters and pajamas, I finally got my Christmas wish - a Slap Chop! It’s the little things…

Merry Christmas, everyone! And I don’t care if you’re not Christian. Yes, you heard me. The p.c. police can just haul me off to Gitmo. Love ya, kisses.

Where have I been?

After posting about the blizzard and the holiday concert, I realized there's a month-long lapse in posts starting before Turkey day. So since I’m stuck at my desk at work while everyone else is living large on vacation, I thought I’d hit some of the Pineda family highlights from Thanksgiving onward. Happy Tuesday!

Stuff it!

This year we congregated at Chez Val et Juan (that's "Juan and Val's house" for you mono-linguists) for this year’s Turkey day gluttony. The excitement started early when Val decided to add a slice of her finger to the candied yams. Yum! And since timing is everything, wouldn’t you know, just as Trish and Val ran out the front door on their way to the Medemerg for some stitches, mom and dad (the brown ones) conveniently pulled into the drive way. After waving the parents back, the ladies raced off, leaving Juan and I to finish up the cooking. Thankfully, we only had some reheating and basting left to do.

As per the normal Pineda Thanksgiving ritual, the day revolved around gorging, sleeping and crapping. Come to think of it, just about any gathering of two or more Pinedas seems to follow the same basic pattern. At least we’re consistent. This gathering was small by Pineda standards, with Val’s Aunt Mary and Uncle Doug and Trish’s friend, Billy, joining the family for dinner. Note to self (and everyone else), ixnay on the universalsay ealthcarehay in front of Uncle Doug. Just trust me on that one.

Sadly, our attempt at Black Friday shopping fizzled. In our efforts to top last year’s miserable shopping failure, we set our alarm clocks for 3 am. But somehow we couldn’t drag our fat, tired asses out of bed. Instead, we slept in and hit the stores at around noon. We lasted all of an hour before giving up on the lines and nasty shoppers. Why does bargain shopping turn people into total biyatches?! Instead, we opted to get all Martha Stewart on the holiday and hit Michael’s for some crafting supplies. I then spent the rest of the evening creating the gayest Christmas wreath ever, complete with red lily’s and feather butterflies. Yes, feather butterflies. Don’t judge.

Here we come a-wassailing…

As some of you know, I’ve been caroling with my good friend Donald Birely’s company for years. Unfortunately, with the economy in the toilet people haven’t been willing to pry open their wallets to pay for some holiday cheer. With only a couple gigs for me this year, the old top hat and tails didn’t see much action. I did manage to snag a couple of sweet swag bags from one gig. Don’t worry Donald, I didn’t steal them, they were offered to me.

While we’re on the caroling topic, I just want to know why people insist on talking to us while we're singing. Do they expect us to stop mid-Fa-la-la to reply? Are they testing our caroling commitment and waiting to report us to the caroling police? Please help me understand. And since I’m already in rant mode - do people forget that we’re human beings, not Disney animatronics? No, we cannot sing non-stop for three hours outside in 20-degree weather because you like “the look” of us standing in that 2-foot snow drift in front of your store window!

Sorry, I just finally needed to get those complaints off my chest and in writing. My fellow carolers have been bitching for years now about the same things every year and nothing ever seems to change. Okay, I’m better now. The valium has taken effect.

The Christmas Tree Shoppes…

Well, this is my new favorite store. Why? Where else can you buy flashing snowflakes, toilet seat decals and travel-sized shaving cream all in one store! And what do shaving cream and toilet seat decals have to do with Christmas? Absolutely nothing! That’s why I love this place. Go visit, you won’t regret it. But I have to say "word up" to the Paramus store. You kick the Springfield store's ass.

Well, I think that just about hits the high points. I’m sure there will be more family hijinks and bitter feelings to report soon, so check back often! Happy Kwanzachristmanukah!

Let it snow, let it snow...

So I haven’t even been to my apartment in Queens since the blizzard of ’09 (photo courtesy of New York Times) hit on Saturday night. That’s because I was happily ensconced at my weekend villa in San Tropez nuzzling up to a prissy pink-umbrella’d drink. And by villa I mean Juan and Val’s futon, by San Tropez I mean Jersey and by prissy blue drink I mean 75 out-of-control teenagers. Yes, friends, this weekend was the second annual Very Merry Pineda Holiday Spectacular, a benefit concert for the Pineda Conservatory. Well, what can I say besides I’m glad the damn thing is over. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for all the people who volunteered their time and talent so as not to make us look like complete asses. But it’s darn scary putting on a show without ever having had a full run-through with all the costumes, props or musicians and without benefit of a technical or backstage crew. Face it, when you’re basically winging the whole show, something’s bound to go to sh*t.

Having said that, it’s only fitting we had to cancel our final Saturday night rehearsal due to a blizzard warning. Sigh - nothing’s ever easy, is it? At least we finally had the night off to cozy up to a roaring fireplace sipping hot cocoa on a bear skin rug. And by fireplace I mean futon, by sipping hot cocoa I mean making 70 phone calls to parents postponing our concert start time by 2 hours and by bear skin rug I mean a cat-hair covered Snuggie.

Well, the show itself was not a complete mess. There were a couple of cluster f*cks, some missed entrances, a few sour notes and some creative lyric changes. The Pinedettes (our younger and slightly less leggy version of the Rockettes) were a hit with the crowd. But the drama queen in me was secretly hoping one of the non-Pinedettes would snap and go all Tonya Harding on one of the dancers. There was definitely some animosity between certain girls and "the chosen." Is there anything more evil than a jealous teenage girl? Methinks not. Oh well, that'll teach 'em to skip rehearsal when I decide to choreograph a number. But all in all, the concert fulfilled its purpose - to get people into the holiday spirit, to showcase the kids and to raise money for the Conservatory. The overflow crowd seemed to have a great time. And who can complain really, when for the price of a ticket you also got booze and brownies! I’d say, Merry f*ckin’ Christmas to that!

The Lovely Pineda-ettes - the newest addition to our annual concert.

Ragtime................again!

My name is Fausto and I’m a Rag-aholic.

I’m almost embarrassed to admit that on a lark, I went and saw Ragtime again last night. Yes, it’s been less than a week since my last viewing. I don’t know what came over me. I guess after reading all those (mainly) glowing reviews, I just had to get on the “Rag” again (I’ll be here all week, folks - cue rim shot).

In all honesty, I was curious to see if positive reviews would affect the performance, having seen a recent preview for comparison. Well, one thing is for certain, the reviews didn’t seem to generate much box office heat. When I stopped by TKTS at 6 PM for a 7 PM performance, I pretty much assumed the pickings would be slim. Me: “What do you have available for tonight’s performance of Ragtime?” TKTS dude: “Eighth row center orchestra.” Really? Obviously, God wanted me to see last night’s performance, so I bought the ticket. I assumed the seat was probably just a random single house seat released at the last minute. But as the house lights went down, half my row was empty and there were empty pairs sprinkled all over the orchestra section. Yikes. Listen up, people, go and see Ragtime instead of crap like Mamma Mia!

I don’t know if I was suffering from heightened expectation or just over familiarity, having just seen and loved a performance just days prior, but I was slightly underwhelmed the second time around. I actually think I might have been sitting slightly too close to the stage. Many of the stage pictures that seemed spectacular and magical from the front of the mezzanine seemed less focused and clear from the front of the orchestra. Maybe it’s a Seurat thing. You need to step back to appreciate the big picture.

Anyhoo, the opening number looked much better from the orchestra section, though still - in my opinion - not quite up to par with the original staging. From our bird’s eye view in the mezzanine, the opening blocking resembled a well-rehearsed game of follow-the-leader. From the front, the crossing lines and contrary movement created the excitement and tension I found missing on our earlier visit.

The performances were pretty much consistent with what I reported last week. The development of Tateh and Mother’s relationship continues to be the most interesting new dimension to this Ragtime. Unfortunately, Stephanie Umoh’s stiff and bland performance was even more evident from the front of the house. And that “collapse” after “…buried you in the ground” is still painfully stilted and forced. Girlfriend is gorgeous and can belt crazy high, but her acting - yikes.

What was most interesting about last night’s performance was the audience’s reactions. Last week there was literally whooping and clapping before the end of just about every song. Not so last night. In fact, the audience seemed downright tame in comparison. My guess would be that more “real people” (i.e. non-theater folks) made up the bulk of last night’s audience. Since last week was a preview, I’d venture that many “insiders” and theatre geeks (like me!) were there to get the skinny on this new production. And theatre people, well, they can be a bit much. Anyway, I hereby promise not to buy a ticket to Ragtime until at least 2010.

Play-full Saturday

Usually I don’t have the energy or the concentration level (I am a child of the 80s) to sit through two plays in one day. But today’s picks both happened to be 90 minute, intermission-less one acts. So I thought, what the hell. It’ll be like sitting through one 3-hour play with a 4-hour intermission. First on the agenda, the off-Broadway production of The Understudy.

Mark-Paul Gosselaar has certainly come a long way from Saved By the Bell. For a dude who’s never acted onstage before, he’s surprisingly natural and confident. It also doesn’t hurt that he looks hot in a tight T-shirt and jeans. Rebeck’s written a tight, accessible modern-day farce. Justin Kirk and Julie White are expectedly excellent, but seem to be in a casting rut. Both are portraying characters we’ve seen them play many times before. And though I thought White’s performance in Little Dog Laughed was sensational, some of her shtick here seems a bit over-the-top for the intimate Laura Pels Theatre.

Intense doesn’t begin to describe Mamet’s Oleanna, the second half of our theatre double header. I sometimes find Mamet-speak a bit too contrived, and to some extent, that was the case here. I’m not filing for my MENSA card anytime soon, but it took me the first fifteen minutes of the play for my brain to wrap around those rhythms. I mean, I’ve never really heard anyone speak that way, let alone a self professed “stupid” student. Others around us were not as patient as I and obviously not open to giving the play a chance. Their audible sighs and impatient watch gazing spoke volumes.

Overheard behind me as we were leaving the theatre (for full effect, speak out loud with an exaggerated Jersey accent): “I hated everything about it - the acting, the set. Terrible.” Usually, I’m pretty respectful of people’s opinions. But this lady was hemming and hawing within the first five minutes. It was obvious her party had purchased tickets to see movie stars, Bill Pullman and Julia Stiles, and didn’t even consider whether the play would actually appeal to them. Mamet is not Disney. If you don’t want to think, go see Mamma Mia! (I seem to be on a MM bashing tirade lately, huh? For the record, I enjoyed the movie.)

Actually, I was happily surprised at the quality of Pullman and Stiles’s (good name for a steakhouse) work. Stiles especially, since I’d seen her in Shakespeare in the Park years ago and was, well, let’s just say that I was not impressed. The play raised some interesting questions about power, manipulation and sexual politics, but it’s definitely not something I’ll ever need to see again - except maybe with some stunt casting. How about Brangelina? Or maybe Travolta and Fanning (good name for a Western wear outlet). It’s a great academic piece and the play's final confrontation, as played here, is worth sitting through the somewhat slow-paced opening.

I’d also love to plug GoSushi on 52nd (I think) and 8th. It’s cheap and yummy and they give huge portions. It’s also great for people watching, especially the gay hipsters smoking outside next door at Vinyl - another Hell’s Kitchen favorite of mine. And while you’re in the Gay-borhood, stop by the totally over-priced, but fun Delphinium Home store on 45th and 8th. You can always find some kitschy, clever stuff that you can then go online and order for much cheaper. I’m totally getting one of the bamboo Umbra bath mats - which, by the way, was actually the same price in the store as online. Go figure.

Ragtime

Having been recently inundated with enjoyable but mediocre Broadway fare - Memphis, Finian’s, et al - it was almost shocking to watch the visually stunning and dramatically engaging revival of Ragtime. I’ve always been partial to the score, filled with bombastic anthems (ironically the main complaint of the haters) and dense choral music. But the current revival successfully brings the show down to a human level without losing its grand scale. In its original run at the cavernous Hilton Theatre, all hope of character nuance was lost due to the sheer distance most of the audience sat from the stage. Facial expressions? Fuggedaboudit. The cast were merely shmata-clad ants scurrying across that massive stage. The gorgeous music and sheer scope of the piece held the audience’s interest. At the smaller Neil Simon, we can finally fully appreciate the score, performances and amazingly clear, streamlined book whittled from the dense original novel.

I ain’t gonna’ lie. I do miss the original Graziela Daniele staging of the opening number, but Marcia Milgrom Dodge’s new staging and direction have other stunning moments, namely the first tear-jerking moment in Act 1 - the culmination of "New Music" - and the wall of silhouettes in the slum scene. I excuse some other “over” directed moments (those pointless red wheels in the Henry Ford section and the way-too-literal ice skating couples in "Gliding") because overall, the production is just so damn good. Step away from the props, Marcia, leave them for Stro.

The new cast members match or surpass the iconic performances of the originals, the exception being Sarah Umoh as Sarah. While her performance is solid, she’s no Audra. Get thee to a vocal coach! There is never a need to belt every single note. And that collapse after “…buried my heard in the ground” - a bit much. I do, however, love Christiane Noll’s portrayal of Mother. Though perhaps lacking the chocolate-y thick power belt of Mazzie, her characterization is complex and moving. Watching her fall out of love with Father and in love with Tateh is equal parts heartbreak and joy. Bobbie Steggert as Younger Brother is, excuse the cliché, revelatory. I admit, the character didn’t register much for me in the original production. But here, his portrait of a troubled young man unraveling is sad and disturbing. He is now the emotional impetus that propels the rest of the story lines along. Quentin Earl Darrington is a more human and likable Coalhouse. To me, he comes off warm and approachable, unlike Stokes’ regal, almost pompous portrayal. Sure, he has a couple of flat notes, but he has a warmth and natural roundness to his sound that Stokes lacks. To me, it always sounds like Stokes is thinking about how great he sounds.

Other pluses - a full orchestra (there’s a friggin’ harp in the pit and the orchestra actually tunes before the curtain goes up) and 40 (!!) cast members. Who knows when Broadway economics will allow that to happen again?

My dream replacement cast would be Carolee Carmello as Mother and the now way-too-old John Cullum as Father. And I don’t care how old she looks, bring back Audra!

Food coma conclusion - finally

I know, it's been weeks since I posted about the first day of our trip, but here's the rest of it. I was waiting for pictures, but got lazy and never downloaded them. So you'll have to just check back again once I've updated. They're worth it. Anyway, on with the road trip...

After our gut-busting food binge Friday, Trish and I decided to sleep in Saturday morning. We noshed European style in our pajamas on our Bleu Squid artisanal bread and cheese supplemented with some fresh fruit and salami from the exotic New London Shop Rite. When we were finally able to roll out of bed, Trish and I decided to head to the hills, literally, and check out some of the area wineries. Our first stop was a wash out. I won’t even deign to name it, since they pissed us off big time. All I’ll say is two words - customer service. Hello, heard of it? On second thought, yes, I’ll name the winery so you won’t waste your time there either - Jonathan Edwards Winery. Not a single employee acknowledged our existence (unless you count the slightly suspicious stares from the guys working the tasting bar). I must say, the grounds were beautiful, but that’s about it. I kept wondering why the winery’s brand was so familiar, and then I realized they share their moniker with a crazy psychic and an adulterous ex-presidential hopeful. That fact alone should have warned us to steer clear of the place. And to top it all off, when a guest asked if all the wines were locally grown, the sommelier answered that although all the wines are produced on premises, the grapes for all but one of their wines is imported from California! What the f$%^? Maybe I’m ignorant when it comes to wine production, but that just don’t sound right to me.

Anyway, we gave the stink eye to our rearview mirror as we drove away and decided to check out the nearby competition, Stonington Vineyards (side note: someone needs to fix the highway signage in CT! We blew by at least a dozen exits or turn-offs, forcing us to “U”-ie all over rural CT.). Unfortunately, by the time we got to Stonington we had missed the only vineyard tour of the day. On the up side, the Stonington staff did not treat us like third class steerage, so we decided to stay for a wine tasting. It’s amazing how a smile and “hello” changes your entire perception of a place. Sadly, the wine wasn’t all that spectacular. Most were mildly reminiscent of apple cider vinegar. Two wines did make the cut and I ended up purchasing a bottle for us and one for our resident Queens tippler, Chris Johnson.

As a casual imbiber, I was flushed and slightly buzzed from the tasting (as is evident from my cross-eyed stupor in the pic to the left). So Trish took the driver’s seat and we headed toward the coast. Instead of heading to the touristy Mystic area for dinner, we decided to take another roadfood.com recommendation, Noah’s Restaurant in Stonington. What a difference a couple of miles make. Stonington is Mystic’s hip, sophisticated, but quaint doppelganger. Only fifteen minutes east of Mystic, it has a small town vibe but the unmistakable understatement of old money. We drove straight down the über-cute main street to the very tip of the peninsula upon which the city sits. Trish and I were rewarded with a perfect unobstructed view of the bay and a small beach area populated by locals.

After hanging with the townies and soaking in the last rays of the day, we headed back downtown just in time to grab the last table at Noah’s cozy front bar. I had forgotten it was a holiday weekend and the place was packed. The food, though a bit pricy (OK, maybe we were spoiled by the all-you-can-eat gluttony of last night’s buffet), was excellent. And like everything else up here, seafood was the protein of choice - scallops and cod. Yum!

After dinner it was back to New London to check out another roadfood.com recommendation, Michael’s Diary. The empty parking lot didn’t bode well, but by the time I had settled on the benches outside with my mint chocolate chip ice cream, the place was packed with old ladies and little kids. I’m not saying that Connecticutians are racist, but it was obvious from their confused looks that they aren’t used to seeing brown people in these parts. There’s plenty of white trash up hear, but not many southeast Asians.

For the last day of our seafood splurge, we headed to Mystic Seaport’s Labor Day Fish & Ships Festival for Sunday brunch. Oddly, many of the tourists heading to the festival had no idea that there was an admission fee to enter the historic area. I don’t claim to be a genius, but even I looked up that basic info online before planning our trip. It was sad and funny - sick, I know - watching the faces of unaware guests as they trudged angrily up to the park fence and then abruptly turn around, loudly complaining about false advertising and deceptive marketing. Hello - Google, anyone? Learn to use it, people!

The Festival itself was sort of a let down. They started nearly an hour late and we were forced to wander around the replicated seaport village until they got the outdoor kitchen set up and running. I can appreciate history, but after walking though about a half dozen “quaint” old buildings, I was bored out of my mind and hungry. As for the food, there wasn’t much bang for the buck. Though tasty, $8 for four scallops and a couple of wilted greens is not exactly value pricing.

After a couple hours of Seaport exploration and some cheesy, posed tourist shots (below), we decide to head to another highly recommended seafood shack, Captain Scott’s Lobster Dock, for some real food. After many wrong turns and lots of backtracking, we finally found this hidden treasure behind some abandoned warehouses on the bay. Well, maybe “hidden” isn’t exactly accurate, considering the long line and full parking lot. But the menu of deep-fried seafood and homemade moon pies (!) convinced us to wait it out. We definitely saved the best for last. Cheap, big servings, fried - three of my favorite descriptives.

With our fill of seafood and quaint New England charm, we finally headed back to NYC. What better way to end a weekend of binging than by stopping at the world’s largest dairy! I sh*t you not. There’s even a huge neon side outside advertising its inclusion in "Ripley’s Believe It or Not." This place was awesome. Is there any other grocery store in America where you can shop for cereal and tampons, get a fresh lobster dinner and visit a petting zoo?! I think not. Definitely worth a stop if you’re driving through on I-95.
















link to part 1

Finian's Rainbow

Yes, it’s old fashioned and it’s - gasp - a unit set on Broadway that - double gasp - doesn’t move, fly or crash down on the stage. But so what? The show doesn’t need them. In the “old days” it was the material - book, score, performers - that held the audience’s attention, not the set or volume of the sound. Sadly, the Broadway machine no longer produces the kind of shows that work without the extraneous bells and whistles that modern audiences demand. But that’s a rant for another post.

I cannot argue that much of the book’s humor is dated and the story quaintly contrived, but holy sh*t, that score is stunning. God forbid a modern composer write for a soprano ingénue. Then again, there aren’t many modern composers who have the equivalent of “Look to the Rainbow,” “…Glocca Morra” or “Old Devil Moon” in their catalog, let alone in a single show. Luckily, we have Kate Baldwin and Cheyenne Jackson crooning these classics. Baldwin’s perfect as the Irish immigrant girl and her voice is clean and effortless. Cheyenne, as always, is dreamy to look at but is starting to display a distracting - and ugly - nasal quality in his singing. Looks like it’s time to see the ole’ vocal coach. Fortunately, his eyes and thighs keep you distracted.

Christopher Fitzgerald’s Og is obviously working the squat thrusts at the gym. He gives Cheyenne a run for his money in the gam department, sporting some freakishly developed calves and thighs for a leprechaun. But he’s thoroughly charming and at his best in the physical humor the character requires.

The ensemble sounds incredible. I admit, I nearly cried when the back-up vocals to “…Rainbow” began, it was so gorgeous. Trish, of course, would argue that I cry at everything. And the dancing, though not very innovative or overly inspiring, was efficient and clean. I also have to give a shout out to the costume designer for those incredible colored t-straps on the women’s character shoes.

Hey, I’m all for new and creative stagings of the classics, but sometimes we need a solid traditional take of a classic to remind us of what is missing on modern Broadway. And the recent Bye, Bye Birdie does not fall into that category, by the way.

Show overload

Thanks to some terrible planning on my part, I’ve been spending my nights living at the theatre. Not that I’m complaining - well, maybe a little since I’m dragging my ass to work every morning - but I saw Memphis, Brighton Beach Memoirs and Imelda on consecutive evenings Sunday through Tuesday of this week. I bought the BBM tickets weeks ago so had forgotten about them when I purchased the Memphis tickets. And as a closet blond (ask the cast of my first summer stock experience at the Theatre Barn in - gasp! - 1995 about that), I was planning to see Imelda next week until I realized that it closes this Sunday. Oops (“’Cause I’m a blond, yeah, yeah, yeah” - Earth Girls Are Easy, 1988 - anyone? Anyone?). So that left me with this week’s theatre triple play.

Despite a thin, cliché-ridden book, I found myself unexpectedly moved by this sentimental 50’s flashback. My hunch is that perhaps under less capable performers (full disclosure - Montego Glover is a casual acquaintance of mine) this show would be DOA. It’s amazing how excellent casting coupled with slick direction, production design and choreography can elevate less than stellar material. Not that the show doesn’t have its inspired moments. The first act is actually extremely tight and the storytelling streamlined. The emotional climax even evinced a smattering of audience sniffles at intermission. Act two is a different story. Often plodding and padded with extraneous (though entertaining) show-within-a-show musical numbers, the story meanders into Dreamgirls retread. I don’t necessarily think the story needs a “happy” ending, but the closing confrontation scene and concert feel anti-climactic.

Montego sounds amazing and belts inhumanly high. How she gets through eight shows a week is beyond me. Chad Kimball commits to the seedy side of Huey Calhoun, a flawed hick, creating what may best be described as a loveable asshole. Memphis isn’t quite up to the level of Dreamgirls or Hairspray, but the cast and production (almost) make up for its flaws.

The score is mainly solid, with the typical hook heavy power ballads in which pop songwriter David Bryan (of Bon Jovi) excels. The character driven songs are markedly weaker than the “radio” songs (“My Sister” being particularly cringe-worthy), but overall head-and-shoulders above the massively overrated Billy Elliott score.

Brighton Beach Memoirs is the polar opposite of Memphis. It’s a play about a working class Jewish family trying to get by in the wake of the Great Depression. Having never seen this particular Simon play onstage, I was sort of expecting a rapid-fire joke fest. Instead, I was treated to an emotionally nuanced coming of age drama. It’s worth the ticket price just to eavesdrop on sisters Kate (Laurie Metcalf) and Blanche (Jessica Hecht) when their claustrophobic living conditions finally induce an explosive act two confrontation. Who doesn’t love a resentment-filled domestic squabble?

The ensemble cast is uniformly excellent, with Metcalf a standout as put upon matriarch. Her mama epitomizes familial guilt. Maybe that’s I why I found the play so appealing. No matter your ethnicity, everyone can relate to family dysfunction and guilt.

Ever further from Memphis is Imelda: A New Musical. This tuner about the shoe-hoarding Eva Peron of the Philippines has good intentions but is wildly uneven. The director can’t seem to decide on the tone of the piece. Is it high camp? Historical drama? Moody rock opera? Within the span of 20 minutes we get a bit of each. Much of the problem lies with the storytelling. In an attempt to include every minute detail of the first lady’s life, they dilute the story to a series of “first she did this, then she did this, and then she did this” vignettes. In fact, the book and score (with its sometimes purposeless repeating of choruses to little dramatic effect) could benefit from an intelligent edit.

As for the score, it’s adequate but lacks character driven songs. Only two make a real impact, the very funny second act, “Imeldific,” and the biting, “Martial Law with A Smile.” The sarcasm and social commentary eschewed in these two numbers (but lacking in most of the score) prevents the show from rising above a mere history book lesson. The show is mired in facts rather than taking a strong viewpoint.

The book is much more successful at dramatizing the action. But there’s no seamless transition between scene and song and thus any dramatic momentum is immediately deflated once the music begins. It’s almost as if the book writer handed the script over to the composer with “[insert song here]” directions.

Jaygee Macapugay (again, full disclosure - she’s a very good friend of mine) successfully portrays Imelda’s arc from ambitious youth to manipulative woman. She’s also equally comfortable navigating between the comedic and dramatic elements of the book and score. I only wish she could sink her teeth into meatier material. Filling out the quartet of lead characters - where’s the quartet for the lead characters, by the way? - Liz Casasola (Corazon), Brian Jose (Ninoy) and Mel Sagrado Maghuyop (Marcos) all have their moments and fully commit to the uneven material they’re provided. There is a unique, universal story (probably several) lurking in this muddy treatment.

After the show, I kept fantasizing what Sondheim, Guettel, Tesori or even Jason Robert Brown might have been able to siphon from the same material. I guess I can dream.

Dream cast in the wrong musical...

The best thing I can say about Roundabout’s current revival of Bye Bye Birdie is that the theater renovation is beautiful. And the bathroom sinks - gorgeous. It’s a sad day in the theater when the bathroom hardware gets higher praise than the production on stage.

In a word, this production is misguided - bad casting, uninspired choreography (save the opening telephone sequence) and unimaginative staging. I can’t help lay blame on the director, Robert Longbottom. Having enjoyed his previous work in Side Show and Flower Drum Song, it’s baffling how there can be so many misfires throughout this production.

The cast is working like hell to keep their heads above water. Bill Irwin, whom I usually love, is just plain crazy (and not in a good way), going in and out of weird accents and employing a disturbing physicality for Mr. MacAfee, sometimes appearing as if he’s experiencing a petit mal seizure. It’s like he’s trying to make up for the director’s shortcomings through sheer force of his performance. And it doesn’t help matters that he sings painfully off pitch in the close harmonies of “Ed Sullivan.”

Poor Gina Gershon. She’s no Chita. I will say she’s stunningly gorgeous on stage and works her tight little ass off, but she can’t really dance or sing. Hello! - did the production team not read the character breakdown? I will give her an “A” for effort, though.

John Stamos is woefully miscast as Albert. Thick glasses and slicked down hair do not a nerd make. The man is hot and there’s no way anyone buys that he’s some nerdy everyman. Though he has a surprisingly pleasant singing voice, he’s not much of hoofer. His discomfort through the dance break of “Put On a Happy Face” was obvious and I instinctively gripped my knees and sunk deeper into my seat in embarrassment for him.

Teen star Nolan Funk has the sex appeal of a stapler. I’m sure he’s a wonderful person and on a more intimate medium like TV his appeal is more obvious, but on stage, not so much. Again, he was trying real hard, but swiveling hips in and of itself is not sexy. Even his underwear scene barely registered. Stamos in his underwear - now that what’ve gotten my attention.

Allie Trimm’s got the perfect look and voice for Kim, but is too young and inexperienced to pull a great performance out of Longbottom’s lackluster direction. I loved her in 13, but here she’s simply adequate.

Talented Dee Hoty is wasted as Mrs. MacAfee. But her and Irwin look like Kim’s grandparent’s. Her grounded and honest characterization (thank you) existed in a parallel universe opposite Irwin’s cartoonish ticks.

Matt Doyle’s Hugo and Jayne Houdyshell’s Mae are the only leads that rise above it all. Doyle is endearing and loveable and made me wish Hugo had his own song. Houdyshell’s bigger than life racist mamma was manipulative and nasty. You laugh and cringe at the same time. And though you can’t quite bring yourself to love her, you at least understand where she’s coming from.

The talented ensemble works their asses off and manages to make some of the mediocre choreography and musical staging appear better than it should. Nothing, whoever, could help “A Lot Of Livin' To Do.” Wow. They need to scrap the whole number and just start from scratch. The odd, unsynchronized jumping and twisted body positions are just plain weird. The number should have the unbridled excitement of West Side’s “Cool” or “Dance at the Gym.” Instead, it seemed liked the choreographer ran out of ideas and was just trying to mark time until the dance music ran out.

The candy colored sets and costumes are playfully retro and give us a hint of the fun that should inhabit the rest of the production. My one gripe - why is Rosie wearing black character shoes with an all white wedding dress in the final scene!? That’s just plain wrong. And I won’t even get into the body mic fiasco during Spanish Rose. Someone crazy glue that sucker into her wig. The poor woman was getting whip marks on her chest and back from that thing flailing around.

It may be telling that in this age of instant standing ovations, a good chunk of the audience, including me, politely remained seated during the curtain call.

Lest you think I’m trashing the entire production, the “Talk to Me” quartet sounded magnificent. Were the quality of the rest of the production on par with that musical tidbit, we’d have a hell of a revival.

This is a dream cast in the wrong musical.

The originals, Chita and Dick and...

...the new, if not wholly improved revival couple, Gina and John.

Playing catch-up

Chilling with Jude Law's Hamlet.

Damn, I'm behind in my postings. I know I still owe the rest of the details from my Connecticut food binge of a few weeks ago. I'm still on it and I should be posting soon with some fun pics. I just have to figure out how to work my digital camera. I'm a total idiot when it comes to new technology.

Surprisingly, in my anticipation and eventual anger over the Bye Bye Birdie revival, I completely forgot to jot down my thoughts on Jude Law's Broadway outing as Hamlet. So I'll keep it short and sweet. Yes, Jude Law has the acting chops, but the dreary and monotone production around him doesn't quite match his energy. If anything, Law could tone down the hisrionics a bit and internalize some of the great Dane's angst. He mainly plays varying degrees of anger and could benefit from a bit more variety. Maybe he's making up for the merely adequate cast surrounding him?

No one else on stage really registers the kind of charisma that Law exudes. There could have been some real fireworks on that stage had Law been paired with a more menacing Claudius, a stronger Gertrude, a more conniving Polonius and a less mousy Ophelia. And I wouldn't have objected to an extraneous nude scene either. A girl can dream...

Crazy night at the opera

So after all the coverage of the Met’s season opener, a new production of Tosca by Swiss director Luc Bondy that was widely booed on its opening night Tuesday, I decided to see for myself what all the hubbub was about. As the famous crystal chandeliers rose and the house lights dimmed, a distinguished man in suit and tie stepped onstage with a handheld mic. I couldn’t tell who it was, since I could barely discern any features from my cheapo seat. I thought, Oh God, Mattila better not be out tonight. That full-split, high-C-singing, vagina-displaying soprano is the main reason I want to see this production. The man speaks, “Maestro Levine has incurred an injury. Joseph Colaneri will be conducting tonight’s orchestra.” Phew. Okay, not great news, but I’ll live. Suit guy doesn’t leave the stage - Oh, Shit! “In addition, Mr. Gagnidze is experiencing a cold but will perform this evening. He asks for your understanding.” My opera date, Chris, a Met virgin, looks at me like “what the f*ck?” Then halfway through the performance, lightning strikes twice - or actually I guess this would be thrice. As the lights dim for the second act, suit guy steps onto the stage again. You can almost hear a collective audience gasp. “Mr. Gagnidze has fallen ill and can no longer sing the role of Scarpia.” Now I’m the one saying WTF. “Carlo Guelfi, who was down the hall rehearsing for Aida, has kindly volunteered to sing the role while Mr. Gagnidze continues acting the role.” Holy sh*t! There is definitely a buzz in the air as a tech guy brings a music stand out to the stage right lip.

Watching Gagnidze perform the role full out, while lip-synching to a live singer, was extremely weird. Not to mention crazily disorienting, since the unamplified voices all emanated from the “correct” bodies onstage, except his. And although I must credit Mr. Guelfi for basically running across the hall with no notice and jumping in to sing one of the most iconic bass/baritone roles in the rep, it was kind of distracting watching him hang out on the side of the stage nonchalantly gulping from his water bottle as his onstage body double dry humps Tosca on the floor. Ah well, the excitement of live theater!

Last night was the second performance of this production, and while not perfect, wasn’t the train wreck that I was secretly hoping for. I mean, nothing is worse than sitting through three and a half hours of mediocre opera (or mediocre anything, for that matter). Sure, the simplistic set isn’t particularly interesting, especially compared to the almost hyper-realistic Zeffirelli production it replaced, but I was at least hoping for “scandalous” or “outrageous” - no such luck. For most of the opera, there was just a bare stage with some tall brick walls. The second act set was just plain ugly - a 1950’s retro minimalist take on the Brady Bunch’s basement rec room. Did I mention it was ugly? It almost seemed like the second act set was meant for a different production but was accidentally shipped to the Met and they didn’t have time to exchange it. And did I mention it was ugly?

I can understand some disappointment for fans of the sumptuous Zeff production, but booing? The production frankly wasn’t interesting or outrageous enough to warrant booing. The much talked about clutching of the Madonna at the end of Act I wasn’t shocking so much as puzzling. It simply didn’t make sense for the character based on the characterization leading up to that moment. If anything, it served to wake up the old ladies in the audience for intermission. Some of the other stuff - the omission of candles and cross, Tosca’s Act 2 suicide attempt, the clutching of the knife during Vissi d’arte - just seemed like a director’s ego deciding to force change for change’s sake.

As for the performers, well, I’ve been a fan of Mattila since she gave us full frontal in last season’s Salome - not to mention the full split. I mean, she’s in her 50’s! You go, girl. I hate to use clichés, but the 3,000 audience members watched in spellbound silence during her Vissi d’arte. You could literally hear a pin drop. Oh, and someone please get Miss Thing some knee pads. I could almost hear her kneecaps crack as she hit the floor full force during an emotional collapse near the end of the aria. Alvarez sang nicely enough, and his acting was better than average for a Met tenor. The onstage chemistry between him and Mattilla was definitely palpable, especially during the flirty, intimate staging in the opening act. Actually, Bondy’s direction provided several nice moments, mainly between Alvarez and Mattila. Unfortunately, these moments weren’t enough to counteract an unwieldy set (did I mention how ugly it is?) and some random, dubious directorial choices (can you say “fellating ho’s?). Oh well, I have my fingers crossed for the upcoming new productions of Hoffman and Carmen.

Food Coma

Day 1: Friday, Sept. 4 (Yes, this is about 3 weeks overdue and still not complete, but hey, something's better than nothing)

With a sigh and shrug we bid the long, rainy summer of 2009 good-bye. I overheard in the elevator at work the other day that we only had three rainless weekends this summer. Take that, Seattle! (Yes, New Yorkers are competitive about everything) No wonder my doctor diagnosed me with a vitamin D deficiency. Thankfully, the Man upstairs cut us a break, gifting us a rain-free, extended Labor Day weekend. So armed with GPS and a roll of Tums, Trish and I packed up the mini-van for a weekend in Mystic, CT for some much needed relaxation and to break every Kosher dietary law. Sure, Mystic boasts tons of cool historic sites, a newly renovated aquarium and miles of scenic coastline, but this trip was all about the lobster (and crab, and shell fish, and…well, you get the idea).

The first stop on our gastric tour of the northeast was Abbott’s in the Rough for hot lobster roll and lobster bisque. This was one of the higher rated seafood shacks on roadfoad.com, so we decided to check it out. There’s nothing like freshly caught and steamed, hot, buttered lobster. Although I must admit the hamburger bun presentation seemed a bit trailer-trash even for this rustic setting. And talk about being “off the beaten path” - we’re talking no street signs. Thank God for GPS. Oh well, the view (see me gorging my yap bayside above), the bisque and the weather were worth the all the wrong turns and dead ends.

After finding our way back to downtown Mystic, we parked and decided to stroll. The main strip is basically a two-block tourist trap lined with storefronts hocking over-priced mermaid paraphernalia. Seriously, without Julia Roberts, Mystic Pizza would be just another run-down pizza joint. It’s not that I expected any different, but you can find way more interesting shops and food on any street in the East Village. Though I must admit, the hunky mer-men Christmas ornaments with torsos matching each of the Village People’s occupations were nearly too kitschy to pass up. But alas, even $25 seemed too much to pay for a glittery Indian chief mer-man. We instead opted for dessert at famous Mystic Drawbridge Ice Cream. Luckily, once you head off the main drag, the sea air and quaint, Norman Rockwell-esque clapboard homes lining the side streets make you forget the tourist squalor.

Hoping for more interesting retail options, we headed to Olde Mistick Village. What a disappointment. The paltry offerings included a general store, the requisite fudge and chocolate stores and some unimpressive theme shops. The one hidden gem in this pile of zirconium? Bleu Squid, a quaint bake shop/café offering handmade artisanal cheeses and homemade breads. Yum. Trish and I grabbed a freshly baked cheddar loaf and cranberry-infused cheese for an easy and cheap breakfast option for the remainder of our trip. Did I mention they sell icing shots? Yes, you read correctly, icing shots. Is that brilliant or what? They fill those tiny white cups that restaurants usually use for condiments with different flavors of cupcake icing. I might have to send this one in to Oprah for consideration on her “My Favorite Things” episode.

Trish and I are definitely food masochists. Because after finally checking into the hotel (yes, all of the above happened before ever setting foot in the lovely Holiday Inn in New London) and a brief power nap, Trish and I donned our elastic waist pants and headed to Foxwoods Casino for - wait for it - their all-you-can-eat buffet! We strategically planned to arrive at the casino around 9:30-ish in order to avoid the dinner rush and leave us a solid three hours to graze (the buffet stays open until midnight). Well, the buffet was just as nasty and wonderful as expected. Imagine an endless horizon of brown, gray and tan piles of steaming flesh and carbs. No vegetables allowed at this party, thank you very much. But the highlight of the buffet and main reason behind its $20 price tag is the seafood bar. There is nothing quite as disturbing as watching someone attack a pile of steamed crab legs.

Foxwoods - freaky how it sort of just rises out of the woods like that, huh?

Day 2 and 3 forthcoming...

Superior Donuts

Well, the title of Tracy Letts’ new play is intriguing enough. And given his previous Broadway outing, August: Osage County, garnered a best play Tony with Hollywood’s A-List-ers scratching each other’s eyes out for a chance at the Oscar-bait leading roles in the upcoming movie version (the chat rooms are buzzing that Meryl Streep and Julia Roberts are interested), my expectations were set pretty high.

Like AOC, the dialogue was quick, witty and full of some great one-liners (as one character is left dumb-founded for an answer, another retorts “you’re like George Bush on Jeopardy”). But unlike the brilliant dinner table blow-out in AOC, the final conflict - the fight between Arthur and Luther - was so badly choreographed it was almost laughable. Both actors seemed incredibly awkward and every punch and kick moved just a hair too slow to be believable. They either need to scrap the fight entirely or re-choreograph.

As far as the play, it’s solid. Although some of the peripheral characters border on cliché (the loud Russian immigrant, the rough-around-the-edges Irish lady cop, the crazy old alcoholic lady, etc.). But they’re all extremely likeable in a “Cheers” sort of way. The cast is solid to outstanding, especially Jon Michael Hill as the aspiring black writer. His relationship with the middle-aged hippie, Arthur, produces the play’s best verbal repartee.

I question the directorial choice of leaving the stage slightly lit during Arthur’s monologues. Intellectually, I understand what the director seems to be doing, but seeing the other actors move furniture while a main character is imparting important information seems defeatist.

Music Man like you've never seen before...

This may be the coolest, craziest and gayest thing I've ever seen, but I honestly LOVE it. Be patient and watch it all the way through. Trust me, it's worth it. I honestly couldn't stop smiling. This ain't your grandpa's barbershop (were those barrel turns at 00:40?!?!?! - genius!). I almost teared up with joy at 04:40. What next, a Kanye medley? Spring Awakening? I'm both horrified and excited by the thought of it. I heart barbershop.

Show overload

Trish and I nearly OD-ed on musicals this weekend. With the unlikely triumvirate of Mamma Mia!, Toxic Avenger and Tin Pan Alley Rag (with an added viewing of last seasons La Cenerentola from The Met on Great Performances via DVR) our ears were confused and bleeding. Can one be musically bi-polar? Methinks “yes”!

I am almost embarrassed to admit that I actually enjoyed the movie version of Mamma Mia! Yeah, it ain’t gonna’ win any Oscars, but it was just so unapologetically stupid and cheesy that I couldn’t help but laugh along. I mean, Meryl must have known how ridiculous the script was, but she still committed to the role as if she were playing Lady Macbeth. Brava! Unfortunately, without the fun of Remington Steele belting out ABBA or Ms. Streep balancing in platform shoes and sequined-body suit, the stage show bores. The sole exception is the freakishly talented Carolee Carmello. Okay, I am bit obsessed with her, but she kicks ass. Her “Winner Takes it All” literally woke the sleeping audience just in time for the final scene of the show. Oy, and the chorus girls f*cking up the dance - and I use the term loosely as our high school kids could easily duplicate the Broadway choreography - during “Man After Midnight”? No joke, one girl messed up a step and then shrugged her shoulders at the audience. Really? Why not just flip us the bird and scream “Suckahs!” Oh well. At least I’ll be able to quench may obsession with Carolee’s crazy vibrato this spring when she is released from her Mamma-shackles to co-star in the upcoming The Addams Family musical on Broadway.

On paper it sounds iffy - a rock musical by Bon Jovi’s keyboardist based on an 80’s cult horror movie. Sometimes even the craziest idea just works. Hell, I’m sure Sondheim got an earful when he first pitched a musical version of Sweeney Todd. The Toxic Avenger ain’t Sweeney Todd, but it’s 100 intermission-less minutes of harmless camp fun with a five person cast ingeniously playing dozens of different characters. The score ranges from average to great, but always fun and often with clever lyrics. How can you not laugh during a show that includes songs titled “My Big French Boyfriend,” “Hot Toxic Love” and “Evil is Hot”? Granted, American Idol runner up Diana Degarmo is no actress, but girlfriend can certainly belt and riff with the best of ‘em. And for the three straight men who read my blog - mammary alert! You’ll get quite an eyeful of Ms. Degarmo’s ample bosoms straining to escape her very skimpy bra during one quite naughty blouse ripping scene. For the rest of us, there’s Nancy Opal’s show-stopping eleven o’ clock number, “Bitch/Slut/Liar/Whore.” And yes, it’s as good as the title implies. On a side note, I wish more shows had 4:00 PM matinees. You can enjoy a nice long brunch, throw in an extra mimosa or margarita and still sneak in a power nap before the show. Producers take note!

I honestly thought I’d be “musicaled-out” by Saturday night’s performance of Tin Pan Alley Rag. But hearing songs like “What’ll I Do” and “Blue Skies” after a weekend of ABBA and Bon Jovi only emphasized the lack of melodic, tuneful scores currently on musical stages. Not that I don’t appreciate a good pop/rock score, but there’s truly more complexity and emotional yearning in just that first upward chromatic phrase of “What’ll I Do” than in most current full musical scores. (Sigh) Oh well, fingers crossed that Sondheim still has another show left in his 79 year old bones. As for the show, it’s basically a musical theater version of an E! True Hollywood Story circa 1910’s. It was informative and entertaining but not necessarily very theatrically groundbreaking - this happened, then this happened and then I died. Now let’s shoehorn a song that fits the scene. Luckily, both Berlin and Joplin had interesting enough lives and a catalog of incredible music to carry this wisp of a concept along. Enjoyed it, but probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much had we paid full price. Thanks TDF!

Probably the best performance of the weekend was from our TV. Well, not literally, of course. Where the hell has Elina Garanča been hiding? I guess she hasn’t really been hiding, given she performs regularly in the world’s top opera houses and has had her performance in the title role of La Cenerentola transmitted internationally on TV. So more accurately, where the hell have I been hiding? Anyway, I now have another obsession. I'm usually not a sucker for mezzos (the notable exception being the goddess, Marilyn Horne), but Garanča's got the goods. Besides being friggin' gorgeous (straighties see below) she's got a machine-gun accurate bel canto and has an easy, natural acting style. The CD’s are already on their way from Amazon. Speaking of CD’s, I know I’m way behind the times, but I still can’t get myself to do the whole MP3 thing. Call me old fashioned, but I like leafing through a booklet. Somehow digital images and pixels aren’t the same as a having those glossy pages in your hand. (Extra big sigh)

Summer - Part 2 - camp

Summer - Part 1

If anyone has doubts about global warming, they need only spend a summer at the Pineda Conservatory. The CDC theatre is basically a huge oven. Add the body heat of a hundred hormonal teenagers and an audience of parents and grandparents and, well, we may as well be performing on the surface of the sun. This year we’ve added a third program. Because really, after 100 kiddies you don’t even notice 10 more. We’ve thankfully also expanded our full-time staff to include several of the older children and last year’s fave guest artists, Señor Chris and Mr. Dan. And as usual, we had our share of problem children, late night set-building/painting and nasty fast food. In no particular order, here are some of my fave highlights and WTF moments of the summer.

Two words - Pineda Idol. Where else are you gonna’ hear “Part of Your World” battling it out with a Miley Cyrus tune? And then we had our awesome judges. Thank you Ms. Lori (our middle school program dance teacher) for embodying the emotionally fragile and *alleged* drug-addled histrionics of Paula Abdul. Thank you Holly Curran (former Pineda Conservatory performer and current NYU drama major) for being our sweet and supportive Randy Jackson - only hotter, thinner and whiter. And last but not least, our Simon Cowell, Don Birely (costumer, performer and friend). I knew I could count on Don to give some real criticism. I was only disappointed that he wasn’t able to get at least one kid to break down. I want tears next year! Some definite changes for next summer - a time limit, a semi-final round and bigger hair all around. Come on people, have you not seen Bon Jovi?

Two more words - Leonard Bernstein. What other demented genius would have created theatre dance music in alternating 3/4, 4/4, 5/4 and 3/2 meters? Let’s get real, though, On the Town was Bernstein’s first Broadway score. I think the bastard was playing the I’m-a-serious-composer card and may have been showing off a bit. I mean, really, Lenny needed to change the meter every other measure to propel this story (three horny sailors find three horny sluts) forward? I don’t think so.

Accompanist trauma. You can’t swing a dead cat in the city without smacking at least a dozen accompanists. But just 20 miles southwest of the Big Apple is a piano playing wasteland. How can there be no competent pianists in New Jersey? I can’t fault Mr. B (our original accompanist) for cancelling out on us. I would probably choose my honeymoon over camp as well. Tropical sand, surf and sex or the CDC theatre in July with no air conditioning? Hmmm. Our next choice, a French Julliard Grad recommended by one of our former conductors, Michael Spassov, f*cked us over big time. The night before she was supposed to rehearse with us - three days before our first performance - she cancelled with less than 24-hours notice via voicemail. Classy. Her excuse: she went to the Performing Arts Library (the day before the first rehearsal!?!?) and they didn’t have a copy of the score so she wasn’t comfortable sight-reading. This, of course, was after Frenchie declined Val’s offer to Fedex a copy of the score the previous week. Oh well, karma’s a bitch so I’m sure Frenchie’s up for some big, nasty payback. Perhaps it all worked out for the best anyway, since we ended up with the wonderful Tony Bellomy, who was able to trek out to NJ from the city, sight-read the score fabulously and play the performance with only one rehearsal.

Ice cream wars. Let me fill you in on some back-story. About a week before the first show opened, we were suffering through the heat and humidity painting set pieces in the theatre parking lot when Hamdi the ice cream man showed up in his little white truck. After buying a round of ice cream bars for the family, Juan advised Hamdi to come back during the shows if he wanted to make a guaranteed killing. No air conditioning, hot lights and a building full of sweating bodies - it’s like an ice cream man’s wet dream come true. Anyway, Hamdi took us up on the offer and by midweek was showing up like clockwork before and after the shows and at intermission.

In gratitude for the business, Hamdi graciously offered the conservatory a percentage of all sales. Our symbiotic little relationship was thriving until midweek when an orange ice cream truck showed up, complete with its crazy owner. This biyatch materialized out of nowhere (we had never seen her in the four weeks we had been at the theater) claiming this was “her street” and that Hamdi was illegally selling on her turf. The street bickering finally escalated until crazy orange truck lady called the police. Well, before you can say “Ben & Jerry,” Juan was out on the street trying to divert audience members away from the invading orange truck. On top of that, a police lady was taking down everyone’s names, Trish and Liz (one of the CDC board members who happened to be at the show) were verbally sparring with the crazy ice cream biyatch (let’s call her crictch for short) and we had a formed a human teenage barricade in an attempt to block crictch’s truck from our overheated, ice cream-buying audiences. Oh well, just another average day at Pineda Conservatory.

As it turned out, the theatre is on private property so we can sell whatever the hell we want on it. But even with the police backing us up, crictch just wouldn’t back down. After the police drove off, crictch brazenly pulled her truck up to the front of the theatre in an attempt to steal customers. Crictch should’ve quit while she was ahead. No sooner had we explained the situation to Val, she was out in the street pounding on crictch’s truck and screaming at her for ruining “a non-profit fundraiser for the children.” Life lesson number one: You should never mess with “the children.” Life lesson number two: You should never mess with Val when she’s really angry and protecting “the children.” Needless to say, crictch sped off into the night and we never heard from her again.

That’s the summer in a nutshell. I’ll have to be a more dedicated blogger next year, since there’s just too much other fun, crazy, unbelievable and just plain stupid stuff to try and remember and document now that camps over. I’m definitely looking forward to next year but happy to have a couple of weeks to breathe until our first opera starts rehearsing in the fall.

Summer, Part 1 - Washington DC

The summer has dwindled away to only a few short weeks. Is September really just around the corner? Did I just see that Back-to-School display set up at the Duane Reade? What happened? Well, I guess I’ll just start babbling where I left off, just before the Pineda July 4th Weekend, and move forward until the post traumatic stress from camp kicks in and I start having fox hole flashbacks.

This July 4th, instead of getting drunk and passing out in the back yard as per usual, we decided to take a mini-vacation to Washington DC. Oh, wait. Let me backtrack a bit. We actually started our holiday weekend “In the Heights.” As a birthday/Anniversary gift for Juan and Val, Trish and I got tickets to the show. Val, of course, cried in all the right places. And even though we were exhausted from the opening weeks of Pineda Summer Conservatory, (forthwith to be referred to as “camp”) the salsa and meringue-infused score kept our blood pumping and eyes open. Unfortunately, it didn’t carry through to our planned all night drive to DC. By 4 am the mini-van was swerving and fishtailing all over I-95. We wisely decided to take a mandatory sleep break at a cheap hotel in Maryland and continued on later that morning.

The hotel, The Omni Shoreham, was movie-set gorgeous with white-gloved bellmen swarming the van as we pulled in. It was a total cliché but we were loving it. I only wish I had had a camera handy to capture their expressions as we popped the trunk. Instead of Luis Vuitton or Coach, these kind gentlemen were greeted by piles of music, discarded fast food containers and garbage bags full of clothes. With no time to pack, Trish had literally thrown her clean laundry directly from the dryer into garbage bags and into the trunk - luggage a la Hefty. Oh well, at least they’ll have a good story for the locker room.

The Omni Shoreham

The heat outside was almost unbearable for most of the weekend, but we did manage to hit several of the Smithsonian museums, pose outside the White House, laze around the pool, order excessive room service and get severely sunburned. So what did we learn from our little excursion to our nation’s capitol? Well, I’m glad you asked.

1. Museum holiday schedules do not make sense. On the weekend we celebrate the adoption of our Declaration of Independence, you are unable to view this venerable document because the National Archives is closed for the holiday.

2. People from Minnesota still refer to Asian-Americans as “Orientals.” After making friends with a group of band parents waiting for their kids to march down the parade route, one parent, obviously trying very hard to impress us with her worldliness said, “Our school is very diverse. We have a lot of different Orientals in our group - Filipinos, Chinese, and Koreans.” I’ll give her an “A” for effort.

3. Do not attend all-you-can-eat buffets the night of a Holiday. We were so excited for the hotel’s barbeque buffet. Who doesn’t love all-you-can-eat Kobe beef sliders and hot dogs, chicken, ribs, and mac n’ cheese? But it was clear the kitchen and front of house were severely understaffed due to the holidays. So after holding our reservation for nearly 45 minutes and then literally running out of food, we skipped out and headed to a local hang out for Sangria and middle eastern food.

4. Always complain nicely and graciously tip your server. Thanks to our calm and polite complaint to the manager (see #3), not only did he comp our meal, but he gave us vouchers for free buffet breakfast. Yum!

Breakfast in bed

5. Wear comfortable shoes because maps are totally misleading. Sure, a quarter inch doesn’t seem like much on a teensy-weensy map, but my how those inches add up. Because of the crowds and security fences blocking off most of the access into and out of the Great Mall, we hiked miles (literally) to find an open subway station. I estimated we walked approximately 6.5 miles in 90-plus degree heat.

6. Always carry lots of dollar bills. Sure, a life of luxury sure is fun, until you realize you have to pay for it. I haven’t passed out this many dollar bills since Cats closed - and I don’t mean the Broadway show. Oh, and if you have to ask, then you don’t need to know. Wink, wink.

And now more pictures!

Trish and I in front of Obama's crib

Me surprised at the port-o-potty's cleanliness

Me and Abe hangin'

Having fun by the reflecting pool

Glaring sun at the Lincoln Memorial

Coming up next, our second summer at the CDC…

I'm ba-ack!

Did you miss me? Don't answer that. Anyway, I'm going to take a couple of days to write about the past few weeks. Between rehearsals, painting and one (extremely) short vacation, there just hasn't been time. I haven't even seen a show - other than one I've directed or choreographed - in the last six weeks. So stayed tuned, lovelies.

Michael and Farrah...

I admit Jacko’s odd behavior over the last couple of decades has caused a raised eyebrow or two from my direction. But I can also admit that my first LP, for those of you old enough to have owned vinyl (and don’t even talk to me if you don’t know what vinyl is), was “Off The Wall”. That was the Michael I knew and loved; Michael of the untamed afro, with pre-bleached dark skin and wide nose. I remember how awesome I thought it was that the album cover folded out to reveal him in his signature “on the toes” stance with his shiny black shoes and white socks. Ah, the 80’s. Now we have itsy-bitsy digital players that completely forsake cover art and the joys of having a tangible, concrete piece of art in your hands. I know it takes up less space, but part of the joy of LPs (and even CDs) was tearing through the plastic wrapping and paging through those liner notes and photographs. I know you can do that online now, but it’s just not the same. When did I become so old and nostalgic?

Anyway, I must also mention the lovely Ms. Farrah Fawcett. As a co-worker so aptly put it this morning, “Michael stole Farrah’s thunder.” How callous, but how true. Farrah hit the height of her popularity just before I was interested in pop culture. So she didn’t make quite the same impression on my youthful noggin’ as Michael. It also probably had something to do with the fact that I had absolutely no interest in the famous red swimsuit shot. Now, Tom Selleck in a red thong circa 1980, that’s another story and another discussion for a private thread. Regardless, the woman was a 70’s icon and no matter how many replacements and remakes, she will always be the original "Angel".