Church and sushi...

In the tradition of nearly every Pineda holiday, most of our time was spent eating or in Church.  Trish and I had two gigs lined up, one at a Catholic Church in the Bronx for Good Friday (Is it really possible the splinter attached to the top of their portable cross is actually from the cross Jesus was crucified on?  How'd they verify that?) and the other at Juan’s Methodist Church in New Jersey for Easter morning (sadly, no cool Methodist relics).  Both were relatively painless, but extended affairs.  I shouldn’t really complain, since we were probably the only individuals at either service being compensated for their attendance. 

Val, Trish and I also took some time out over the weekend to relive precious childhood memories by decorating Easter eggs.  With an array of egg-sized stickers, mini sponge stamps, glitter, sequins and beads, we managed to create the gayest eleven eggs ever (Val dropped one of the dozen before the hard-boiling process - sad) and still had supplies leftover to donate to RuPaul's Drag Race. 

Mom, undaunted by the lack of humans under the age of 10 in the household, still “invited” the Easter Bunny to hop by Juan and Val's on Easter morning.  And judging by the size of the basket he left me, it seems the Easter Bunny is making a veiled comment about my growing midsection.  Curse you, Easter Bunny.  Just wait until I get down to my summer thong weight and then I'll shove those sugar free peanut butter cups right back up your furry...

As far as real food, nothing brings a smile to a Pineda’s lips faster than the words “all-you-can-eat buffet” - except maybe “FREE all-you-can-eat buffet.”  Thanks for picking up the check, Dad! 

Like last Easter, we had brunch buffet reservations at the Stone House in Watchung, NJ.  Sadly, the offerings seemed scaled back from last year.  Breakfast items fared best so I loaded up on the pork products - who doesn't love unlimited bacon and sausage?  Otherwise, the rest of the menu was a collection of random items - sushi, omelet station, carving station, pasta, assorted cheese plates and antipasto.  There’s something not quite right about a plate brimming with bacon, french toast and tuna maki.  Desserts were fine, but consisted mainly of your average catered wedding hall staples.  Oh well, if you can’t have quality, might as well have quantity.  And lots of alcohol - cut to Val, wasted on champagne sangria.  Happy Easter!

Squeak getting into the Easter spirit

Mom and dad

Me mesmorized by unlimited bacon and Trish just happy to be alive!

Le Comte Ory and burgers

Metropolitan Opera

Thursday, April 19

8pm perfermance

This is probably a dream cast for opera lovers.  Seriously, without another historical resurrection, Juan Diego Florez, Diana Damrau and Joyce DiDonato are as good as it gets.  As an added bonus, all three can actually (insert audible gasp here) act.   Unfortunately, the opera itself is sort of a mess. 

Bartlett Sher’s created and directed a stylish production and Catherine Zuber’s costumes show off some dazzling cleavage, but the story hobbles along in fits and starts due to an incredibly convoluted plot (even by opera standards).  When the lead trio of hams - in a good way - get to show off their coloratura and their comedic chops, the show whizzes along.  Otherwise, it’s slow going.  Though I never dozed off, I did find myself on more than one occasion drifting to thoughts of post-performance meal options.  But soon enough, I’d get slapped back to attention by an effortless high C or some other vocal feat.

The first act trio and ensemble that introduces us to Damrau’s character is the performance highlight, with all three singing actors at their best.  I truly suspect when this enters the rep with singers of less comparable acting skills, the opera will be a deadly, but pretty, bore.

My only “WTF” moment was the bed scene at the end of act two where Damrau and DiDonato (as a man) pull the old Cyrano trick, except with full body contact.  I understand the difficulty in staging this scene and yes, we’re expected to suspend our disbelief, but Ory is one horny bastard if he’s so turned on that he can’t figure out he’s in bed with two people, one of whom also has penis.  I mean, imagine if a counter tenor played the pants role?  That would be some truly non-traditional staging for the conservative Met.  Though my guess is that Florez would not be so open to a bout of tonsil hockey or dry humping from a dude, even for the sake of comedy.

The other highlight of the evening was the Cadillac burger at P.J. Clarke’s following the performance.  I only had a bite from Trish’s burger, but is was delish. 

I can’t wait to catch part two of the Met’s Die Walküre next month.  I’m still kicking myself for forgetting about my ticket to the sold out first part, Das Rheingold, last month.  Stoopid, stoopid, stoopid (picture me slapping myself on the forehead with the open palm of my hand).

That's funny, I don't feel a day over 40...

Thanks to incredible luck and a hell of a gene pool, I've never been one to shy away from revealing my true age.  When you're still mistaken for 30, it's sort of fun to see those surprised looks of envy and loathing. 

41 is such a boring birthday.  I mean, it doesn't really signify anything and it's such a big let down after "the big four-oh."  To compensate for its numerical insignificance, I decided to stretch the celebration through the weekend.  If there would be no pomp and circumstance, at least I could score a string of free meals. 

Since Thursday was a school night, we decided to postpone the real Birthday festivities for the weekend.  So on my actual birthday, April 14, I decided to be totally nasty and asked Trish to treat me to Papa John's.  Sure, a spicy Italian meats pizza with four different cheeses tastes good going down but it's not so friendly on the way out, if you know what I mean.  And being lactose intolerant, of course I couldn't end the meal without a big slice of - you guessed it - ice cream cake. 

Of course, no Birthday celebration would be complete without some kind of rehearsal, so I had to haul ass down to Jersey after work to spend my Friday night with a bunch of rowdy teenagers at Die Fledermaus rehearsal.  Fun. 

Continuing with the Italian theme, before heading back to Queens on Saturday afternoon Juan and Val took me out to The Olive Garden.  Don't judge.  I mean, who doesn't like endless salad and bread sticks? 

For Sunday brunch, Trish and I met Chris and Dan at The Astor Room, just a few blocks away from us on 36th Avenue.  It's a new restaurant underneath Kaufman-Astoria studios.  The atmosphere is really cool and laid back with a speakeasy vibe (a jazz trio added some authentic ambiance).  The food was better than average but the portions were a bit on the puny side.  I guess they made up for it with the free mimosa or bloody mary included with each meal. 

For dessert, we opted for blood and guts, catching a matinee of Scream 4.  The opening bit is hilarious and extremely clever, but after that it's your standard slasher flick.  Not that I'm complaining.  I love a good disembowlment.  The most exciting part of the movie? - the mini corn dogs.  Did I mention the portions at The Astor Room are on the small side?  Oh, and we also smuggled in my best Birthday gift yet, courtesy of Dan, a bag of Doughnut Plant doughnuts - glazed-covered orgasms in a bag. 

In honor of APA's "The Music Man" closing this weekend...

I have to post this crazy youtube video again.  Enjoy!

Harold Hill has left the building

Sunday’s closing matinee of The Music Man was sold out and the cast’s excitement and adrenaline manifested in some crazy ad-libs and over-the-top performances.  I don’t blame them.  It was the school’s first musical.  I remember bringing one of my ex-bf’s to his first Broadway musical, Aida, and he was blown away.  I mean, Aida!?  Imagine if I had brought him to Ragtime or Hairspray.  He’d of passed out.

I had also forgotten how good Meredith Willson’s book is, with all the songs emerging organically from the dialogue and every scene catapulting the story forward.  The recent crop of new musicals, save maybe Book of Mormon, really do have shitty books compared to the classics.  It’s a pretty sad state of affairs when today’s audience standard of quality is Mamma Mia.

Considering many of our young actors had not sung onstage before, the shows went remarkably well with several lovely performances.  I do have to give an extra fist pump to Brenden Paternostro, our Harold Hill.  He was one of the few cast members who, throughout the rehearsal process, was always prepared and off book.

I also have to give a shout out to our dancers, who picked up any staging and choreography we threw at them with little to no rehearsal.  Oh, to have these dancers in the Pineda Conservatory shows (sigh).  A girl can dream.

If I was being picky, it wasn’t until Saturday evening’s show that the cast really relaxed and found their “groove.”  They finally got out of their own heads and started to work off the energy of the live audience.  But I guess that’s to be expected when you don’t have your lines memorized until opening night.  Oh, yes.  I went there. 

I won’t name any names, but imagine how much better the show could have been had certain cast members actually bothered to learn their lines before the first performance and we were able to actually direct them.  Sadly, some were still stumbling with lines up through the final performance - as if they think we didn’t notice.  Oh well, that’s a rant for another time and over a few cocktails. 

I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer.  There were some wonderful performances and many proud friends and family members.  Hopefully the success of this inaugural production will inspire these young actors to up their game next year. 

Double checking your work

The Music Man opened last night at APA, the performing arts high school in Union County, NJ.  This is the first fully-staged musical the school has produced.  Ever.  Can you believe that?  A performing arts school that's never done a musical?  Anyway, for some background, when APA decided they needed to produce a musical, they hired Juan and Val as guest artists.  Of course, hiring one Pineda means you've basically hired the staff of Pineda Conservatory, so Señor Chris and I were jobbed in for choreography duties and Trish was lassoed to do hair, make-up, costumes, photography and any other random crap that might get overlooked. 

Happily, the students acquitted themselves nicely.  For a first effort, it was actually quite impressive and the sold out crowd seemed to enjoy themselves.  There were no major flubs or disasters and the show timed in at a reasonable 2.5 hours even with the intermission.  I mean, the cast shaved about a minute from "Rock Island" alone given the craz-azy tempo they set.  Seriously, it was like they all did lines of coke before boarding that train.  But they pulled it off and we didn't even have to stab anyone in the heart with adrenaline. 

Given the show's extremely limited rehearsal time, I just barely finished choreographing "Marion the Librarian" the week before tech.  In fact, I had to leave it up to the cast to finish up the number since I literally ran out of rehearsal time.  Since I was also recruited to play keyboard in the pit, I hadn't really watched the show (I was trying sight read the damn score during the last two run-throughs) until last night.  And thus the title and moral of today's blog:  Always double check your work. 

Looking up to admire my brilliant choreography during last night's performance, I realized that perhaps I hadn't explained my concept for the library scene quite as clearly as I had thought.  Suffice to say, there will be an early dance call before the matinee on Saturday.  Sorry kids, art isn't easy. 

Of course, we haven't even closed Music Man yet and we're already rehearsing our next project, Die Fledermaus, with Pineda Lyric.  I've adapted the script for our kids and hopefully I've made the convoluted plot and dialogue a bit more palatable.  I mean, it's still cheesy, but at least I was able excise some of the more dubious jokes. 

It's fascinating to see how political correctness has aged both Music Man and Fledermaus.  Both shows literally use disabilities for laughs - Music Man has a lisping child and Fledermaus has a stuttering lawyer.  At yesterday's performance, you could feel the audience squirm uncomfortably when Amaryllis first makes fun of Winthrop's lisp.  I could see the communal thought bubble rise above the audience's head, "Do not laugh at the lisping boy." 

I guess it's all in the set-up.  I mean, the audiences at Book of Mormon are convulsing with laughter at the line, "F*ck you, God, in the ass, mouth and c*nt."  In comparison, lisps and stutters don't seem so bad.

I'm now off to see my accountant.  Hopefully I'll get a nice juicy return this year.  Then three more Music Mans this weekend and I can collapse on the couch with a pizza, a pint of Ben & Jerry's and my DVR remote.

Weekend, Fame and Harry Potter

Since The Music Man goes into tech tonight at APA, I decided to spend a rare rehearsal free weekend relaxing in the city. Yes, for the first time in months I was actually able to spend the entire weekend in NYC and not have to make a run out to the wilds of suburban Jersey.

Friday night, Trish and I had trashy Mexican food at Chevy’s. I know its nasty, but sometimes I just crave that gnarly processed crap. Afterwards, we hopped across the street for Insidious, which scared the crap out of us, but disappointed in that Patrick Wilson remained fully clothed throughout. Not even a shirtless scene. What a waste.

We spent most of Saturday in our PJ’s watching a Fame marathon on Ovation (cast left). For those young ‘ens who think Glee is all that and a bag of chips, Fame was kicking it musical style while Lea Michele was still in diapers - and without auto-tune, thank you very much. You heard every delicious vocal imperfection. Nobody sounded like an emotionless, computer-generated voice. Plus you had the campy line readings of Debbie Allen. “Fame costs, and right here is where you start paying - in sweat!” Amen, sister. Oh, and there was also this young cast member named Janet Jackson. You might have heard of her.

Saturday night we were off to Punch, a restaurant and wine bar in the trendy flatiron district, where we met up with my longtime friend, Karen, who was visiting from LA. Karen works for Warner Brothers and was in the city for the opening of the Harry Potter exhibition at the Times Square Discovery Center (which Trish and I hope to catch very soon).

We gorged on pasta and over-priced drinks, whiling away the evening playing the “what-famous-people’s-numbers-do-you-have-in-your-blackberry?” game. Pathetically, I could only muster up a few Broadway chorus boys. Karen, of course, trumped us all with her rolodex of TV and movie personalities.

Dejected by my lack of famous friends, Trish and I hailed Karen a cab (she had to run back to her hotel to meet more Potter dignitaries) and then high tailed it to Mario Batali’s cavernous new Italian market, Eataly, for some gelato and people watching. Still slightly buzzed from dinner, my overly hospitable demeanor and wobbly gait prompted the check-out girl to ask if I was “funk-tified.” I promptly slurred “yeth” as she nodded with a smile of approval.

The high-pitched squeals you hear emanating from West 45th Street is the sound of tween girls losing their shit over young Harry Potter in his Broadway musical debut (pic below). I guess I can’t complain. He’s getting butts in the seats and introducing young people to classic musical theatre, not crap like Mamma Mia.

And for the bitchy folks over at All That Chat lamenting the lack of theatre etiquette amongst the younger set, not a single photograph or cell phone went off during the performance. Maybe there’s hope yet. Perhaps these young people’s model behavior will rub off on their idiotic parents.

As for the show (How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying), it’s slick and fun and the constant movement (please, Mr. Ashord, you need not choreograph every single beat of the show) almost hides the overall generic blandness of it all. Not to say that it was boring, just that with the exception of John Larroquette (Biggley), Tammy Blanchard (Hedy) and the gorgeous costumes (thank you, Catherine Zuber) there was nothing uniquely original about the production or cast.

Radcliffe is definitely likeable and cute, but I think he needs to loosen up a little and let his freak flag fly. He sings well enough and his acting and dancing are impressive (you go, girl, with your double pirouette), but I didn’t quite believe he possessed the overwhelming charm needed to hoodwink an entire company, even a company full of imbeciles. Nevertheless, he’s working his tail off and has some wonderful moments. And when he makes those smiling takes to the audience - well, you see why those tweeners are swooning. Overall, he’s a solid Finch. If not for his big screen fame, though, I’m not sure audiences would be so effusively complimentary about his performance.

Radcliffe’s Rosemary (Rose Hemingway) was pleasant and competent, with the requisite skill of any young ingénue pumped out of any one of the current musical theatre factories (CCM, Boston Conservatory, Northwestern, et al). And that’s the problem. She’s talented but non-descript, lacking any kind of unique charm that the young Megan Mullally (below) possessed when she essayed the role pre-Will & Grace.

Though Matthew Broderick has slowly become a caricature of his quirky Ferris Bueller character, when he tackled the role of Finch opposite Mullally, he was still that doe-eyed trickster we remembered singing "Danke Schön" on a parade float. I can’t, of course, compare Radcliffe to the original Finch, Robert Morse, as I hadn’t yet been born, but it seems to me Morse also possessed a somewhat off-kilter charm and sense of humor that Radcliffe seems to lack. Perhaps Radcliffe just needs a few more weeks in the role to loosen up.

As I side note, Trish and I were kicked to the curb, literally, as we waited outside the theatre before the show. Since I don’t like squeezing my fat ass into those tiny theatre seats too early, Trish and I usually wait outside. On this occasion, a black SUV with frosted windows pulled up right next to us and the driver asked us to step aside. A few minutes later, a white van pulled up and a swarm of paparazzi, clown-car-like, spewed forth from the double doors, swarming the SUV. This, of course, got the crowd worked up into a near frenzy. Would I soon be catching a glimpse of some glamorous star? A Madonna or Brangelina?

The street-side door finally swung open, better to avoid the hoi polloi on the sidewalk, and out stepped…wait for it…Tori Spelling (insert long sigh of disappointment here). Yes, the queen of the D-list - Kathy’s moved up to at least “C” after multiple Emmy wins - decided to join me and a throng of teenage girls for the matinee.

I did happen to catch a glimpse of Damian Lewis and his wife, Helen McCrory (obviously here for the Harry Potter event) walking through the lobby. And according to the Potter blogs, David Thewlis was also in the audience, but he must be avoiding me.

<< He'll always be Ferris to me.











How To Succeed...

Al Hirschfeld Theatre

Sunday, April 3, 3pm performance