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".

Claire Huxtable has left the building

For sh*ts and giggles, Trish and I decided to check out the new matriarch at August: Osage County, Phylicia Rashad. I’m a Rashad fan, not necessarily of her acting but of her ridiculous, but oh-so-entertaining, public persona. I mean, how can you not love that outrageous speaking voice with an “almost English accent” and her exaggerated patrician demeanor? It’s just delicious. And no, I don’t believe that’s how she naturally acts or speaks. You don’t see sis Debbie Allen strutting around like the Queen of England, do you? Well, maybe more like the queen of ‘da Bronx.

I’m happy to report that none of Rashad’s royal mannerisms have crept into her performance as drug-addicted Violet Weston. Actually, the play seems tighter and sharper then when we first caught it a couple of months ago. Rashad’s Violet is more manipulative and knowing than the previous Violet, Estelle Parsons. This creates a delicious (my new favorite word today!) power struggle between mother and daughters. To describe the second act dinner scene and the third act plate-throwing scene as “intense” is an understatement.

How dysfunctional is this family? They make the Pineda’s look like the Brady Bunch. And realistically, I think our dysfunction hovers somewhere between the Kardashians and John & Kate plus 8 - relatable, but heightened beyond your typical American family. At least, unlike the Westons, we’re not screwing our first cousins, sheltering pedophiles or condoning prescription drug abuse - at least not as far as I know. But wait until my memoirs come out! Mwah, hah, hah, hah.

The perfect Sunday...

…Cirque de Soleil, the Tonys AND Papa John’s pizza. I mean, does it get any better than that? I think not. Maybe if it had started with brunch at The Water Club, but even that might have been overkill. Instead, Trish and I spent Sunday morning and afternoon dozing and watching DVR leftovers from the week before. Truth be told, I hadn’t left the couch since nearly 24 hours earlier. The body-shaped dent in my couch will attest to my laziness. Since Magic Flute closed on Sunday, this has been my first full weekend in NYC in months. I felt like I needed to mark my territory again before some squatter decided to move in and claim my apartment.

It all started Saturday morning after I stripped the sheets off my bed and dropped them off at the Laundromat. I had every intention of spending the day cleaning the apartment. But a short “break” ended up becoming an extended all day siesta. Trish caught me in mid nap, returning home from several days in NJ. Happily, she humored my laziness. So after about a 15-hour reality show marathon and a second failed attempt at collecting my laundry, Saturday had suddenly melted into Sunday. It was finally Kooza time (that sounds dirty). Hooray!

Trish and I decided to drive to Randall’s Island and suck up the $25 parking fee rather than slogging it into the city only to have to backtrack and take the Water Taxi to Randall’s island from midtown. As for the show, it was entertaining enough and the sheer theatricality and pomp was exciting for us first-timers. But I think a lot of the allure is that it’s not just “going to the circus.” It’s an event. From driving up to the crazy-striped tent to buying your $20 hot dog or Cirque refrigerator magnet to waiting in an endless line for the bathroom, it’s all about the “Cirque experience”. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all about overpriced concessions. There were also a couple of standouts acts. The contortionists that opened the show were just plain freakish. If I hadn’t seen them live, I’d swear they had been photoshopped into those positions. And the two acrobats flipping and running through what seemed like a huge modified hamster wheel drew audible gasps and rock star applause from the audience. I’d definitely return for a different show, considering I’d read that this version was a bit more tame and family-friendly compared to other incarnations. Thank you Goldstar for those discount tickets!

The scheduler for Cirque must be a big ole’ Broadway show queen because the performance ended with just enough time to drive home for the beginning of the Tony telecast. Between host Neil Patrick (aka Doogie Howser) Harris’s cracks at Jeremy Piven’s sushi fetish to Bret Michaels getting clocked in the face with a moving set piece, the ceremony was pretty darn exciting this year. Oh, and what the hell was up with Alice “Theater is a FINE ART!!!” Ripley? I mean, she’s fierce, but she was definitely crah-zazy up on that podium. I thought she was going to jump out of my HDTV screen and slit my throat. She is definitely method. Anyway, I only really watch the telecast for the performances since everyone knows the awards don’t mean sh*t anymore. Not that I’d turn down a nomination, of course. But come on, Rock of Ages for best musical? It was definitely fun and I enjoyed it off-Broadway, but just to put things into perspective, the nominees for best musical in 1979 were Hair, 1776, Promises, Promises and Zorba. My, how our standards have sunk in the last thirty years - or maybe more accurately, how sad that Broadway’s become a commercialized producer of generic, harmless, but ultimately artless entertainment - so much for my soapbox this year.

The most exciting part of Tony night was probably the pizza and wings we ordered from Papa John’s and watching that freaky Hair cast member making those odd faces behind the producer as he accepted the best revival Tony. I want what he was smoking backstage at Radio City.

My newest obsession

I’m obsessed with Obsessed, a new TV reality show on A&E about people suffering from OCD (Ironic, huh?). I don’t want to seem unsympathetic or cruel, but just like a fiery crash on the highway, you just have to slow down and watch. And before the PC police get their panties in a bind, I don’t mean to compare these people’s very serious compulsions to a car accident. It’s just that the repetitive physical movement coupled with the emotional intensity motivating them is hypnotizing. Even I can admit I’m anal about certain things - dirty dishes in the sink, clean bathroom, turning lights off - but I certainly don’t have an anxiety attack if I see a dirty whisk or stray hair on the toilet seat.

The best part of the show is when the patient starts treatment. The phrase “face your fears” has becoming a cultural cliché. Yet this is the guiding principle behind exposure therapy, which in itself is a rather unfortunate name (I picture a nasty old guy in a long trench coat flashing people on the subway). One woman was obsessed with the idea of murdering people. She believed that if she got too close to a gun or a knife (or any weapon), she’d just pick it up and start slashing. I actually don’t see the problem. I used to get that “slasher feeling” at Broadway chorus calls all the time. Being forced to sit in a tiny room full of obnoxious chorus boys, narcissistic wannabes and screaming queens definitely could motivate anyone to mass murder. Anyway, this particular patient became so terrified of snapping and setting off on a bloody rampage that she became a social recluse - "Law and Order" take note, good idea for an episode. For her “first exposure,” the therapist laid out an array of huge knives. The patient was then forced to hold the blade against the therapist’s throat while listening to a tape recording of herself reading a passage about murdering people. The horror and fear on the patient’s face was riveting. And that therapist must have a huge pair of ‘nads to let that knife blade touch her neck. That’s what I call must-see TV!

Until next opera season...

Pass me a cocktail. It’s over and the kids managed to pull through once again. After some nail biting and stress binging on ice cream and sun chips, the final performance of Pineda Lyric’s Young Artist production of The Magic Flute is history. I’m not saying it was perfect, but what transpired on that stage was astonishingly good considering certain leads (who shall remain nameless so as not to tarnish a great weekend of performances) had not yet had all their lines memorized 48 hours prior to opening.

I know, you’re probably thinking, “If the kids did such a good job, why even bother pointing it out?” Well, dear readers, it is to make a point. Pineda Conservatory is about learning and about teaching students proper performance technique. If I were to judge myself by the students’ preparation, I would have to give myself a big fat “F”.

When leads don’t know their lines, you can’t rehearse them. Sure, you can tell them, “Stand there. Cross over there. Sit on this word.” But moving living furniture is not the same as directing. Reading from your script and fumbling through your lines is not rehearsing. What is exasperating to me is that the potential was there for not just a good production, but a spectacular production.

Yes, the audience sees a great final product. But since I know the cast’s freakishly high talent level and I realize the immense potential, what I see is “what could have been.” In a way, it feels like I haven’t done my job properly. Was there something I should have explained differently? How could I have motivated the students better? It’s tough to admit, but not having my own children, I sometimes feel like a surrogate parent to these thirty some odd kids. Luckily, I don’t have to feed them, clothe them or send them to college.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m immensely proud and happy that our Young Artists were able to present such a good show, but hope they go away thinking, “Next year, I’m gonna’ know my sh*t before the first performance, because this could be something amazing.”

Queen of the Night and 3 Ladies

Papageno & Papagena

Pamina

Tamino, Papageno & Priests