Philadelphia Fever

In my desperate attempt to fill the void I call my life during the barren theatre month of February, Trish and I decided to take a President's weekend road trip. What more apt a get away then historic Philadelphia, PA, home of the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall and Cheesesteaks! Impressed by Philly's friendly folks and good food during our trip last fall, we booked a room at the Hyatt Penn's Landing.

I guess the winter doldrums sparked a case of wanderlust for mom and dad as well and they decided last minute to crash our party (that's me and mom taking an evening stroll on Penn's Landing).  Of course I don't mind hanging with the 'rents, but Trish and I are on a serious budget.  I'm saving my pennies to blow on Margarita's and Italian hookers on the family's Barcelona cruise this summer (to celebrate my father's 70th birthday!).  So instead of booking an additional room, we decided to double up in the beds and sneak the parents and all their bags into our room.  When did double beds get so small?  Or rather, when did my midsection get so wide?  Don't answer that.

Continuing in this line of weird, rhetorical questions, how many bags do you need for a two night stay in Philadelphia?  At least four or five if you ask my mom.  Yes, I know you should always be prepared (those years as a boy scout were good for something, I guess), but I can only imagine the size of the steamer trunk those sailors will be lugging onto the Carnival Magic come August if a "quick weekend away" entails a bellhop and rolling cart.  We're talking Titanic-Atlantic-crossing big.

Pineda trips usually revolve around food and this was no exception. Trish and I headed to Jim's Steakson South Street before checking into the hotel and meeting the 'rents. We knew there was no chance in hell that mom in all her double-knee-replacement glory would ever agree to wait in line for an hour for a sandwich. On our last trip, Trish and I did the Pat's versus Geno's experience with Geno's just barely edging out Pat's for cheesesteak supremacy. Of course, this was before we found out that Geno was a big ole racist. Oh well, he makes one tasty, bigoted sandwich. I'm happy to report, however, that Jim's delish cheeseteak will make future trips south of South Street unnecessary. Jim's juicy, flavorful steak and crusty, soft roll is now my Philly fave - at least until the next trip.

The rest of the weekend was spent either looking for food, ordering food, waiting for food or eating. Saturday night was a soul food prix fixe at the hotel restaurant in honor of black history month, Sunday lunch was pork sandwiches at DiNic's and cupcakes from Flying Monkey and dinner Sunday night was a seafood feast at Chart House. By the end of the weekend I needed some serious pepto. Oh well, no pain no gain. And by gain, I mean about five pounds right around my already bulging muffin top.

The food orgy was only interrupted by the slightly creepy Filipino mass we attended Sunday morning at St. Augustine's. Who knew Philadelphia was a Little Manila of sorts? Imagine my surprise when the white priest greeted the congregation with "magandang umaga." Talk about a serious head trip. The sea of brown skin was interrupted every few pews by a somber, white face, undoubtedly linked by marriage. No one warned these poor gullible saps that their hot, exotic trophy wife also came with a boatload of relatives, a pantry full of spam and a front row seat to every Catholic mass - holidays included - for the rest of their life! Suckers.

We bid adieu to mom and dad early Monday morning then promptly headed back to bed until the noon check-out time. What better way to celebrate our nation's great leaders then by napping? At 11:39am with the maid knocking at the door, we stuffed our bags and headed north on I-95 with the beefy scent of brotherly love trailing behind us. We made a quick pit stop at the Jersey Shore Outlet Mall where I stocked up on some new work attire. Nothing like a little retail therapy to soften the ending blow of a long weekend vacation and the realization that you'll be back to the daily grind in less than 24 hours.

<--- Fausto Jr. and Fausto III enjoying ice cream at the Reading Terminal Market.

I need a life

Congratulate me.  I'm 30 days sober today.  That's one month show-free.  Though I'm still suffering withdrawal symptoms, I've started to substitute with my DVR.  Though not the same heady high I get from the scent of a freshly cut Playbill insert nor as thrilling as hearing a full chest-belted high E, TV has its own unique pleasures. 

Last Saturday, for instance, Trish and I spent nearly 8 hours watching back-to-back episodes of Chuck.  Like any good addiction, at the start it's mildy amusing and you tell yourself you can take it or leave it at anytime.  By the fourth episode, though, watch out.  I could barely pry my eyes from that HD widescreen long enough for a bathroom break or for anything as superfluous as food. 

Otherwise, life without The Broadway has been pretty uneventful - long days strung together by the daily bitchy threads on All That Chat prophesying the end of civilization due to the continued presence of Spider-man on the Great White Way.  I'm no Spidey fan, but I can't wait for the glut of spring musical openings so we can stop hearing about the musical web-slinger.

We also recently sat through auditions for Pineda Lyric's young artist production of The Bat.  There's nothing quite like teenagers singing coloratura.  Not that there weren't impressive moments, but shifting hormones and high C's coupled with nervous teenage energy - that's just an accident waiting to happen. 

Val was actually able to cast a full company from the day's auditions.  Though if you were lucky enough to possess male anatomy, you were granted a lead role by default.  It's good to be a boy in high school theatre. 

Poor Christina

To say I have zero interest in football would be an understatement.  I watch the Superbowl for two reasons - the performances (pre- and half-time show) and pigs-in-a-blanket.  I mean, the only reason I rooted for Green Bay was because Ellen said so. 

I don’t know what it is about Lea Michele, but something about her makes me want to punch her in the face.  Maybe I’m just projecting her obnoxious Rachel Berry character from Glee and letting that taint my opinion, but I can’t help it.  I actually caught her in Spring Awakening before it moved to Broadway.  Her performance was sincere and unaffected - exactly the opposite of how she comes off now.  I also remember her voice being so clean and pure, but her faux pop rendition of “America the Beautiful” before the game was appalling.  I get it - she wants to be commercial.  But all that fake whining and breathless affectation merely amplifies her inadequacies as a pop singer.  Be proud of your Broadway belt, girl!

Poor Christina.  I actually had no opinion of her until a few years back when I caught a live concert performance of hers on TV.  I give her props ‘cause she sounded amazing and has stage presence to spare.  But to f*ck up the lyrics on National TV is pretty embarrassing.  Even when Rosanne Barr butchered the anthem at a baseball game a few years back, she sang the correct lyrics.  I know, Christina was nervous, blah, blah, blah…but the girl regularly tours arenas and admits she’s been singing the National Anthem for games since she was a kid.  In the Wall Street Journal, Christina said, "I got so caught up in the moment of the song that I lost my place."  Um, more like “I got so caught up in my riffing that I no longer had any idea what I was saying and the text stopped making sense to me.”  Seriously, can we have a moratorium on riffing the National Anthem?  The only riffed version of the anthem that’s worked for me is by the original diva, Whitney Houston (pre-crack, of course).  Oh, Whitney, we miss you (see her rendition below).

As for half-time, The Black-Eyed Peas have some catchy tunes and sound great on recordings, but live - not so much.  I can't throw all the blame on the performance, auto-tuned to death as Will.i.am was.  The sound guy was f*cking up cues left and right.  Poor Usher was left virtually un-amplified.  Oh well, there's always next year.  How about having Babs Striesand and La LuPone do a Broadway set?  That definitely would be the gayest half time show ever!  On a side note, the Doritos commercial with the guy sucking the salt off the other guys finger!?!?  That may actually be gayer than a Babs / LuPone pairing. 

Help me!

Profuse sweating, hand tremors, anxiety, sleeplessness, intense food cravings - wait, that’s nothing new - but the rest, classic withdrawal symptoms. My name is Fausto and I’m a showtune-holic. It’s been 18 days since I last “viewed” (that would be Sunset Boulevard at the Signature in DC which I haven’t even written about yet!).

With so many shows closing in January and the new crop of shows starting previews in March (just in time for Tony nominations), I’ve been in a show-going slump. Yes, I already have my tickets for The Book of Mormon and I’m waiting for my bank account to plump up a bit before using those discount codes for How To Succeed, Anything Goes, War Horse, Catch Me If You Can & Sister Act - but what’s a girl to do during the February doldrums? Why, go to the movies, of course!

I know it’s totally not the same thing, but Trish and I decided to do a movie-themed Saturday beginning with a visit to the newly renovated Museum of the Moving Image right in our very own ‘hood, Astoria. The ultra modern lobby is a minimalist’s wet dream, all white and clean lines. It’s damn impressive, but they’re gonna’ use a lot of swiffer pads keeping that floor scuff free.

The exhibits are basically the same (I last visited about five years ago) but “spiffed up” with additions that include recent movies like Black Swan. If you’re not the reading type, there are plenty of cool interactive exhibits - like voicing over classic movie scenes (we tag-teamed on a scene from My Fair Lady and the we’re-not-in-Kansas-anymore scene from Wizard of Oz) and creating your own stop motion animated movies. They also have a huge collection of costumes, set designs and models, prosthetics, make-up and wigs and memorabilia on display. It’s definitely worth the ten bucks to get in. But get there early, the under twelve crowd starts to take over around noon time. I feel only slightly guilty for knocking a bratty nine-year old out of the way in order to add burping noises to a Simpson’s episode. Don’t judge me, I’m in withdrawal.

The rest of the day was literally spent in the Kaufmann Astoria movie theatre. We did a double feature, Sanctum (the James Cameron produced 3-D flick that takes place in a cave) and The Rite (the Anthony Hopkins exorcist movie). Technically, we only paid for Sanctum since we … um… “accidentally” wandered into The Rite looking for the bathroom. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Sanctum didn’t suck as much as I thought it would and what it lacked in story-telling finesse it made up for in bloody action sequences.

Anthony Hopkins is the ultimate creeper. I mean, he is just a scary dude. There’s nothing new or groundbreaking happening here, but it’s totally enjoyable with several good scares and a couple of hands-over-your-eyes moments. Though admittedly my opinion might be slightly skewed given I didn’t pay anything.