I'm still here! Catching up on 2013...

Nobody Loves You
Second Stage Theatre
Saturday, Aug 10 @ 2PM

A fun sit-com of a musical where a snotty grad student goes on a reality dating show to prove that reality shows are a scam.  And of course, ends up falling in love.  It's totally predictable, but the characters and actors are so likable that you excuse the trite set-up and inevitable conclusion.

The score is tuneful, generic pop musical theatre, but the talented cast elevates it beyond what it probably deserves.  It's crammed full of media and technology references that scream "aren't we clever" and for the most part, they are.  Although many of the gray-haired matinee ladies were looking around in confusion as the younger set laughed over hashtags and texting acronyms.

I wish Leslie Kritzer had more to do, but she does the most she can with a big ole stereotype of a character (incidentally, all the characters as written are big ole stereotypes).  Heath Calvert is perfect as a hunky, dim narcissist of a television host.  And Rory O'Malley displays his comic versatility in a range of characters from douche bag frat boy to flamboyant gossip queen.

It's harmless fun with a top notch cast.

The Nance
Lyceum Theatre
Saturday, Aug 10 @ 8PM

It's been months now, but what I remember most was my surprise at Nathan Lane's heartbreaking performance in a dramatic role.  Ever since The Producers, it seemed Lane was stuck in a never-ending loop of wacky, flamboyant comic character roles.  He'd become a caricature of himself.

In The Nance Lane plays Chauncey, a 1930s burlesque comedian trying to come to terms with his sexuality at a time when homosexuality was still considered a mental illness.  Things get complicated when a handsome young stranger forces Chauncey to question his hedonistic lifestyle (to whore, or not to whore?).

The play's structure consists of period musical and comedy skits intercut between traditional dialogue scenes, with the skits commenting on the action of the play.  Cady Huffman, Andrea Burns and Jenni Barber are the lovable activist strippers trying to stand-up to the evil censoring Republicans looking to shut down the burlesque houses.  The only thing missing is a trumpet, some butterfly wings and a light-up bra.

Refreshingly, this isn't the campy romp we usually come to expect from Douglas Carter Beane, who appropriately leaves most of the bitchy one-liners within the skits.

Jonny Orsini is affecting as the young object of Chauncey's lust.  The straightforwardness and simplicity of his acting - as well as some full frontal action - quickly earn the audience's sympathies.

The Glass Menagerie
Booth Theatre
Sunday, Sep 8, 2PM

I'm now officially an aging theatre queen.  It's depressing enough that producers are reviving shows I've seen in their original productions.  But now I'm on to multiple revivals of the same show!  Sigh.  Pretty soon I'll be lamenting the bygone era of LPs and mix tapes and reminiscing about the good ole' days when MTV used to play - gasp - music videos.

Anyway, the most striking aspect of the most recent revival of Tennessee Williams' The Glass Menagerie is the stunning set and lighting design.  The designers have interpreted the "memory play" aspect of the script into a literal visual image.  The set and players seem to float within the dark expanse of the theatre's proscenium.

As always, Cherry Jones gives a thoughtful, intelligent performance as Amanda, the fading southern matriarch.  She infuses her Amanda with a grounded, earth-mother vibe that I'm not totally convinced is the most appropriate route for the character.  It's a growling, fierce performance that seems at odds with Amanda's genteel debutante past.  It's definitely original and unexpected, but I prefer my Amanda's a bit more, well, southern.  Maybe it's because my first Amanda was the delicate, oh-so-southern, Jessica Lange.

Zachary "Spock" Quinto is lending a not-so-subtle gay subtext to Tom, and there is some pretty overt homo-eroticism going on between Tom and the gentleman caller in the second act.  No such undertones in the Lange production, where Christian Slater (yes, that Christian Slater) played Tom as just a schlubby loser.

The director, John Tiffany, adds some interesting impressionistic flourishes to the staging.  Some work wonderfully - characters literally teetering on the "edge" of the set (i.e. their memories) - while others seem gimmicky - repeated movements reminiscent of acting class exercises.

And in case your wondering, I'm in the camp that likes the woman-eating couch.  Don't ask.

It may not be the perfect production for Menagerie purists, but this is a genuinely original take on the well-known melodrama.

Romeo and Juliet
Richard Rodgers
Sunday, Sep 29 @ 3pm

Beside the several phone interruptions and clandestine photo-taking by the teenager and her mom sitting next to me, I found myself not hating this recent Broadway revival of the Bard's classic love story.  It's not ground-breaking or revelatory, but the well-known story still packs an emotional punch and Bloom and Rashad are charming and likable.

Sure, the loud, clanging incidental music and sleek modern design obviously caters to the attention-span challenged tweeners and star-fuckers feigning class by attending "Shakespea-uh on the Broadway," but it's entertaining nonetheless.

Thanks to a second row orchestra seat (go TDF!), I got an eyeful of the strapping Orlando Bloom and lovely Condola Rashad.  But the unfortunate placement of the balcony at the lip of the stage left me with a stiff neck and aching lower back by the end of the evening.

Even up close, the 30-something Bloom still passes for a twink - must be some kind of Middle Earth elf magic - and he gives a charmingly earnest, unaffected performances.  I'm a Rashad fan, but surprisingly I found her the weaker of the pair, trying just a tad too hard to feign the glow of youthful naivete.  But Bloom and Rashad have a palpable chemistry and from the balcony scene onward, they literally can't keep their hands off each other.

Director David Leveaux has a weird obsession with two-wheeled vehicles.  Romeo enters on a motorcycle (for no apparent reason other than for the "cool" factor) and the nurse spends most of her time walking a bicycle around the stage.  Oddly, she never rides it.

There are some inconsistencies in the acting styles within the company and the production doesn't really seem to take place in any specific time or period, but it didn't bother me much since the language is so darn beautiful.

Not a total waste of an afternoon, but sitting in the Rodgers I was reminded of a former tenant, a show that I enjoyed much more, In The Heights.

The Three Witches' - er - I mean, Ethan Hawke's Macbeth

Macbeth
Lincoln Center
Wednesday, Nov 6, 8PM

With Trish hanging in RVA for the next couple of months, I had to find myself a new show buddy. Since most of my friends are certified musical theatre queens (me included), I resorted to a straight date with newly employed hetero friend, Chris Grimm. Sadly, our first "date" didn't amount to much, mainly due to a languid and uneven production. The evening seemed endless and after three hours, I was hoping to be the next victim of Ethan's dagger.

The sleek and stylish physical production, in cool shades of black and gray with the occasional splash of symbolic red, seemed a bit too chic for its own good, though it made for some visually stunning stage pictures. The couture costumes, especially for Lady Macbeth, seemed lifted straight out of a Vogue spread - gorgeous, but perhaps not entirely appropriate. Lighting and projections were suitably eerie and often spectacularly cinematic.

Unfortunately, the all-too-often bare (though gorgeously lit) stage led to some fairly stilted blocking with actors peppered around the huge Beaumont stage talking at each other with not much else to do. The lack of action created lots of tennis-match style ensemble work.

The only performers able to successfully navigate the director's sabotage were the three witches. Played by men in rotting-robed drag, John Glover, Byron Jennings, and Malcolm Gets make the strongest stage impression. Slipping in and out of character to play minor roles throughout the evening, the audience is led to believe that the events on stage are just part of some mystical destiny (occult symbolism is literally imbedded into the stage floor).

As for Ethan, when I could hear or understand him, was - well - adequate. His hoarse, unsupported voice and mushy diction thwarted his attempt at lending any strength or gravitas to his characterization. And with a strong and gorgeous Lady (Ann-Marie Duff) at his side, Hawke's Macbeth just comes off as a wimpy, spoiled man-child. Hawke did improve in bearing and strength (still raspy and hoarse, though) by the last hour of the play, but it was too little too late.

The rest of the supporting cast is strong, but all seemed to be in different productions of the same play. Acting styles were wildly inconsistent across the board.

This production would make a gorgeous glossy coffee table book.

Thanksgiving 2013 - Thankful for 24-hour Au Bon Pain

It’s not a Pineda holiday without some kind of drama. This year, my dad decided to scare the bejesus out of us by heading to the ICU over the Thanksgiving holiday. He’s been dealing with a long term illness for the past few months, but seemed to be making good progress...

...until the day before Thanksgiving.

We are a family known for its procrastinating tendencies, but within a few hours of Trish’s panicked phone call, Juan, Val and I were packed into the van and speeding through freezing rain and sleet on our way to Richmond. It was a wild few days, but dad is now out of the hospital and recuperating.

The last minute venue change didn't stop us from keeping the holiday spirit alive. We still managed to have our Thanksgiving turkey dinner with all the trimmings. But instead of a cozy sit-down at the family dinner table, we took turns noshing in the hospital cafeteria. Institutionally prepared, mass-produced turkey and stuffing never tasted so good. And we didn't have to wash any dishes. Thank you, lunch ladies!

Only two guests allowed in a patient's room at a time in the ICU. So we got cozy in the waiting room with our computers and plentiful snacks. Nothing like festive over-nighter in a sterile hospital lounge to bolster your holiday spirit.

Thankfully, dad was well enough to be moved to a regular floor after a couple of days. We spent the rest of the week in a spacious private hospital suite large enough to accommodate the whole Pineda clan, including a surprise visit from a very pregnant cousin Marion. And did I mention the 24-hour Au Bon Pain in the lobby? That's right, we had all night access to chocolate croissants and English toffee cookies.

Per usual, our unique brand of Pineda charm (persistent neediness to some) and good looks quickly won over the staff. It also didn't hurt that we plied the nurses with all sorts of goodies gathered from home from our Thanksgiving celebration that never was. Amazing how free cake can cement a relationship - and get you extra ice cream.

Dad's final day at the hospital coincided with mom and dad's wedding anniversary (as well as Trish's birthday!). As a wonderful final gesture, the whole nursing staff stopped by for a cheerful bon voyage complete with anniversary cupcakes for the happy couple.

Our intrepid nursing staff, technicians and food service professionals all stopped by on dad's final day to say "good-bye" and ...

...to present the anniversary couple with celebratory cupcakes!

I wish all the doctors, nurses and staff at MCV a hearty "thank you" for contributing to a memorable Thanksgiving 2013. And here's hoping for some boring, non-eventful holidays to come.

Two Boys, One Disturbing Opera

Two Boys
Metropolitan Opera
Saturday, Nov 9, 8PM

So I finally made it over to Lincoln Center for my first opera of the 2013-14 season, the American premier of Nico Muhly’s, Two Boys, loosely based on events surrounding a 2001 murder in Manchester, England.

First off, I gotta’ give the Met credit for trying to lure the young’ens into the opera house.  It was positively Twilight Zone-ish seeing those hallowed, red-carpeted staircases (usually overrun by gray-haired socialites and frumpy opera queens - moi included!) swarming with nattily dressed 20 and 30-somethings. 

Obviously, the subject matter (a murder perpetrated through internet fraud with homo-erotic and pedophilic overtones) is the stuff our TMZ-obsessed youth go wild over.  But as the opera unfolded, it occurred to me that this type of techno-identity crime is just a natural progression from the masked sexual hijinks of a Figaro or Così.

More amusing to me was hearing opera singers belt out strings of profanity and modern sexual slang (examples: “he just blew me” “I told you, seven and a half inches”) with such glorious tone from the immense Met stage – not to mention simulated masturbation.  I’ll admit to suppressing an occasional giggle due to the SNL skit-like anachronism of it all.

Though I enjoyed the performance as a whole and, for the most part, riveted by the bizarre intricacies of the story, I found much of the solo writing melodically unsatisfying.  The orchestrations are appropriately atmospheric and moody but too often sound like the soundtrack to an Alfred Hitchcock movie a la Philip Glass. This lack of variety in orchestral texture and musical tempi created a sometimes gorgeous hypnotic quality; but just as often lulled me into drowsiness.  But then again I’m a sucker for a big ole Puccini aria.

The full ensemble numbers, however, are just f*&cking gorgeous.  It’s in these interludes that Muhly’s gift for musical texture and harmony truly shines.  Instead of the obvious use of electronic sounds (cue "Axel F" from Beverly Hills Cop.  Anyone, anyone?  Bueller, Bueller?) to signify online chatter, Muhly uses overlapping choruses and purely acoustic instrumentation to create an almost undulating wall of sound that perfectly symbolizes the amorphous fluidity of cyberland.

Alice Coote has a warm blanket of a mezzo voice that you just want to wrap yourself up in.  She’s a great, natural actress onstage as well.

Paul Appleby had the daunting task of portraying a 15-year-old teen murderer and pretty impressively pulls off the physicality and mannerisms.  And though he’s only 30, his voice fills the Met’s barn of a theatre.  It will be interesting to see how the voice develops over the next decade or so.

A boy soprano performed the role of the 12-year-old victim which definitely upped the ick factor in some of the bedroom scenes.  But not to worry, nothing was actually simulated onstage, just a lot of innuendo and awkward intimacy.

It was nice to see the Met step into this century with the tasteful use of projections to enhance the bare, minimalist set and staging.  

The choreography was interesting, if a bit bizarre.  I mean, I get it.  Ballet wouldn't exactly be appropriate, but the jerky movement felt a tad Spring Awakening-y to me.

Addendum 11/25:  I totally failed to mention that the young boy soprano, Andrew Pulver, is a Pineda Lyric Opera Young Artist and was a featured soloist in our recent production of The Magic Flute.  Congratulations, Andrew!  And pat on the back to Pineda Conservatory.

Fun Home

Fun Home
Public Theatre
Sunday, Nov 3, 3PM

I can't believe it's been nearly a month since I last enjoyed a live theatre performance.  Sure, I get plenty of show biz pizzaz during my workouts at Mark Fisher Fitness, but even buff trainers in red bikini briefs and top hats can't replace this theatre queen's need to hear a Broadway diva belt out a show tune live.

What, pray tell, could possibly counteract the elevated testosterone levels coursing through my body from three weeks of deadlifting and split squatting?  Why, an old fashioned, downtown lesbian musical, of course!

As my close friends know, I love any entertainment mode that can move me to tears - preferably a really good ugly cry.  I consider these moments therapy, since my limited budget doesn't allow me the conventional office and couch setting needed to heal my undoubtedly damaged psyche.  But that's a topic for another post.

Earlier in the week I had bumped into friend and Playbill reporter, Michael Gioia, and actor, George Salazar, on the N train (on my way to a work out, no less, and on their way to a matinee of Spider-Man - don't judge, they were seeing a friend who was going into the show that day).  They assured me that Fun Home would fulfill all my ugly crying needs.

Perhaps my expectations were set too high (aside from my friend's recommendation, the show has garnered across-the-board rave reveiws).  Or perhaps I was just too physically tired and emotionally drained from weeks of heavy exercise and food depravation.  Whatever the reason, I found myself disappointingly dry-eyed by the end of the performance.

Not that I wasn't moved.  The show is beautifully written and acted with a sincerity and uncloying earnestness rarely seen on uptown stages.  And the score is probably Tesori's best since Violet (which, incidentally is being revived on Broadway next year with Sutton Foster. Yay!).  It feels and sounds contemporary, but without the familiar pseudo-pop/rock/folk sound that Jason Robert Brown does so well and that seemingly every theatre composer under the age of 40 tries to duplicate (most, unsuccessfully).

I did come close to having a Kleenex moment during my favorite songs of the show.  After having her first sexual experience with a women, the main character, Alison (played by three different actresses at different ages), sings unabashedly about how she could happily spend the rest of her life in bed with this woman who took her heart (and virginity).  I was smiling so hard my cheeks ached and I had to hold back tears of joy over this awkward teenager's moment of self discovery.  Or maybe I was too closely identifying with the denial and confusion I experienced in my own awkward youth.  Again, a topic for another day, or more appropriately, a therapist's couch.

The three characters playing Alison are all sensational.  Though I definitely now have a show boner for Alexandra Socha's geeky, sexually-confused college-aged Alison.  I just wanted to run up on stage and give her a big hug and tell her everything was going to be OK.

And Hallelujah!  Judy Kuhn finally gets to show off her soprano voice again.  The theatre dork in me still thinks lovingly of my first Broadway show, Les Miserables, and jizzing over Ms. Kuhn's floated high C.  You never forget your first time.  As put-upon wife, Kuhn's character could have easily come off as an annoying bitch.  But Kuhn lends a humanity and vulnerability to the character's seemingly cold facade.

Michael Cerveris is, as usual, giving a flawless performance of yet another oddball outsider.  He seems to be Broadway's go-to guy to play creepers who look like they might molest your child.

And I have to give a great big "thank you" to an old college friend, Margie Kotler Hinsdale (whose super talented and adorable son happens to be in the cast).  She was able to hook me up with a discount code for a great seat at the last minute.

First World Food Problems - To Take-Out or Not To Take-Out

NYC-ers don't cook in their kitchens.

As a typical New Yorker, I'm used to ordering out for every meal.  My stove is basically a fancy metal closet for my non-seasonal clothing.  But no more.  Since I've been Snatched-ing it's seen more action  than Pamela Anderson's vagina.

If I'm not cooking up a batch of brown rice for the week, then I'm likely roasting some veggies or hard boiling eggs.  Unfortunately, all this culinary activity has left my poor sweaters homeless, forced to squat on the narrow strip of floor surrounding my bed.

The kitchen sink, once sparkling from disuse, is now a continually shifting skyline of crusty pots, pans and Ziploc containers balancing precariously over discarded avocado rinds and carrot peels.  Sure, it sucks to be in a constant state of dish-washing, but the positive effect on my bank account (and waist line) make it almost - almost - worth the pruned fingers.

Still, it's been a serious challenge following my Snatched nutrition plan and hitting my calorie and protein goals.  Who'd have guessed it would be so difficult to cram down 2200 healthy calories?

I'm a spoiled New Yorker when it comes to dining options.  Why bother cooking when there's every type of ethnic food just a phone call and delivery boy away?  But now that I'm counting every calorie and gram, take-out has suddenly become the devil.

It doesn't help that my previously tame OCD tendencies have blossomed into full out crazy now that I've hit my mid-40s.  The thought of ordering Chinese food while on my Snatched plan literally sends me into a panic.  I picture myself huddled over that white take-out container with a pair of tweezers, separating and meticulously weighing out each ingredient on my shiny new digital food scale, wondering if I should pat down the steamed chicken to get rid of the extra water weight, and then tossing everything back together to make sure I have an accurate calorie count.  I know, sick, huh?

Anyway, It's now the end of week 3 (of 6).  Thanks to my high daily calorie goals I'm rarely hungry, unlike some of my fellow Ninjas (that's how clients are referred to at MFF) who seem to be starving all the time.  But I'm also bloated and gassy as hell thanks to all those damn veggies.  I've learned to quietly and stealthily release while sitting in the subway and then immediately turn to the person next to me with my just-sucked-on-a-lemon face as if to say, "Did you do that?" thereby deflecting blame away from me.  I'm not proud of it.

The workouts have also gotten progressively more difficult each week.  Exhaustion is my new normal.  I'm resigned to the fact that my muscles will perpetually remain in ache mode.  At least the trainers have the decency to wear tight, skimpy clothing.  So even while I'm heaving for breath and just about to vomit up the protein shake I just guzzled an hour earlier, I'm also ogling their tight asses and muscular thighs and drooling like a cougar at a frat party.

On the bright side, my clothes are beginning to loosen up and I no longer have to do the "suck in" to button up my work pants.  And although my weight loss has plateaued over the last few weeks, I still see major shifts in my body shape.  The man boobs are starting to deflate and my flat ass is starting to get some J-Lo curve.  So I'm sticking to the plan and getting through the next 3 weeks by visualizing the plate of stuffing and gravy I'll be sucking down come Thanksgiving Day as my reward for finishing my Snatched journey.

Sweating with the Stars but Puking by Myself

If you read my earlier post, you know that I'm elbow deep in the midst of a full body makeover via Mark Fisher Fitness.  I know some of you could care less about my fitness life, so to keep slightly on topic, my Snatched in Six Weeks group includes none other than Lin-Manuel Miranda, Tonya Pinkins & an old colleague of mine from back in my NYGASP days, Heather Hill (who just happens to be in the current Broadway company of Phantom).

Yup, I'm glute bridging with Tony winners, bitches.

It's difficult to describe MFF and the Snatched program because it's just so...well, not like any gym I've ever worked out in before.  And trust me, after criss-crossing the country for years on one-nighter bus-and-truck tours, I've hit just about every grungy gym and cruisy YMCA between here and Yakima.  Yeah, that's a real city and sadly I've performed there TWICE!

But to quote an article from the Huffington Post, the MFF workout is "...a combination of theater camp and marine basic training..."  And if you've never been to theatre camp, well, let's just say there's lots of gay dudes, top hats and nudity involved.  Oh, and show tunes.  So yeah, it's not for everyone.  Example: at a recent Ninja Essentials class I attended (they refer to all us members as "ninjas") the trainer - probably the only straight guy in the room - asked us who was going to watch the football game over the weekend.  Crickets.  Then the guy next to me shyly spoke up, "I think you're talking to the wrong group."

I've just finished up week two of my six-week Snatched program.  And yes, my pants are a little looser and my neck is a little less stumpy, but the past two weeks haven't passed without a few challenges, mainly in regards to diet.  Actually, "diet" is probably the wrong word for the nutrition program I'm following since "diet" usually conjures up the image of a big, empty plate of sad carrot sticks huddling together for warmth.  

With five intense workouts a week, the MFF team asked me to consume a whopping 2600 calories a day.  I know for most people (and me before I started Snatched) quantifying calories is like watching those annoying guys who break dance on the subway for money - you ignore them and just hope they go away.  But let me put a greasy face on that number for you: 2600 calories = 5 Big Macs.  And a banana.  Sadly, Big Macs aren't recommended on the Snatched program.

After about a week and half of literally gorging myself to near-puking levels, I finally spoke up and asked the nutritionist if we could perhaps dial that calorie count down just a notch.  So I'm still grazing all day like ol' Bessie out in the field, but I now have a more realistic goal of 2200 calories a day.  

A typical day of eating looks like this:

Breakfast - banana w/ peanut butter, 2 whole hard-boiled eggs, cup of Greek yogurt w/ fruit and sunflower seeds
Lunch - large bowl of turkey chili, roasted brussel sprouts and brown rice
Dinner - grilled chicken and asparagus w/tomato salsa
Snacks - protein shake w/ almond milk, a couple slices of beef jerky, some mixed nuts, a protein bar and an apple

I'm obviously not starving.  And after two weeks, I'm 10 pounds lighter.  Only four more weeks to go!

Merrily at the Movies

What marketing genius planned the digital, one-night-only theatrical showing of Stephen Sondheim and George Furth's flawed but beloved musical Merrily We Roll Along to coincide with the first game of the World Series?  And yes, this sports-phobic gay man actually knew that yesterday was the first game of the World Series.  But only because - full disclosure - I had to try and find someone a hotel room in Boston last night.

So anyone not interested in the game - that would be most wives, girlfriends and nerdy gay dudes (moi) - had the perfect entertainment alternative.  That fact alone probably accounts for the sold out showings in every NYC theatre.  Flaming theatre queen (and nerd) that I am, I purchased my tickets weeks ago and invited my friend Dan, another Merrily junkie, to join me.  This was the first Fathom Events showing I've attended, so I was excited to see if the movie theatre format would stand up to a live performance.

Merrily has always been one of those shows that critics have shit on but that Sondheim disciples like myself will defend to the death because of that fantastic score.  Admittedly, it was great to see yet another version of the oft revised book, but ultimately this production left me cold and (I can't believe I'm admitting this - sorry, Mr. Sondheim) a bit sleepy.  Not that there weren't some truly thrilling moments ("Old Friends," "Opening Doors," "Our Time," "Not a Day Goes By"), but for the most part, the rest of the show played like a Mexican telanovela, granted a very sophisticated one.

For me, the acting sometimes felt forced and just a tad over-the-top (i.e. Jenna Russell's Mary in the opening scene, though I quite enjoyed her second act).  Perhaps a result of theatrical performances being magnified and projected in close-up, twenty-feet high on a movie screen?

Mark Umbers' Franklin Shepard was charming and likable and created an unusually sympathetic take on what is often considered the villain of the piece.  He has a pleasant enough singing voice, but his hunched physicality and high-pitched speaking voice in the second act (to signify a more insecure, youthful Franklin) seemed a bit too obvious and completely unnecessary.  He can shrug his shoulders all he wants, but Umbers is just way to attractive to make anyone believe that he was at any time an insecure nerd.

Damian Humbley's performance as nebbish Charlie was a bit one note, though I very much enjoyed his less manic take on "Franklin Shepard Inc."  Humbley's Charlie didn't really seem to take much of a journey, though perhaps that's more a fault of the writing (and/or direction) than the acting.

The ensemble was competent enough, though their main function in this production was to spin the on-stage piano around and strike furniture from the stage.  And the costumes, especially for the 60s era, were just plain hideous.  Did the designer purposely try to make everyone look washed out and clunky in a color palate of black on beige on brown?  And poor Jenna Russell.  I could have cried every time she stepped on stage in yet another brown muumuu.

And why did everyone seem to become more youthful (the play moves backward in time) over the course of the play except for Charlie?  Did he really only own one pair of glasses over 20 years?

This production was hailed by critics and was a huge hit in London, but quite frankly, I don't get the hype.  The less than enthusiastic audience in my theatre seemed to tolerate the evening rather than truly enjoy themselves.  And I doubt the movie theatre format had anything to do with the chilly response.  Plenty of people were hooting, hollering and clapping during the Les Mis movie.  Though I did see a showing in Jersey, so scratch that.

Or maybe it was just the annoying queen seated behind us who could not stop commenting and loudly sighing to ensure that everyone was painfully aware of how miserable he was and how much he hated Merrily.  Why would you pay for a ticket to a movie of a musical you hate?  

To be fair, I should probably place some of the blame on the movie director.  All those quick cuts and close-ups actually lessened the impact of several scenes.  One glaring example of bad editing was during Beth and Frank's wedding scene.  The movie director never panned back to show that Mary was singing about/to Frank.  I know it's sort of obvious in context, but I think the constant cuts back-and-forth between Mary and Beth actually diluted the impact of the scene and song.  We never got the visual of happy Beth and miserable Mary both singing to Frank at the same time.

And what was up with the 30-minute "making of" video shown directly before the performance?  I do not need random audience members in a theatre lobby telling me how awesome the production is.  You're preaching to the choir, gurl.  I mean, seriously, no one is buying a ticket to Merrily because Captain Phillips is sold out.  And why would you show extended excerpts from a performance we're just about to watch?  Talk about spoilers.

Split squats and burpees and planks, oh my…

Dear Lord, my ass is aching.  And not for the reasons you’re probably thinking. 

I know I’ve been MIA for several weeks (I guess it’s now been months, yikes!) but I’ve had some pretty intense family shit hit the fan recently that I’d rather not get into.  But I hope to catch ya’ll up soon on some of my end-of-summer fun and finish up some reviews on a ton of shows.  Keep checking back.  

Now back to my ass.

About a month ago I decided to quit my bitching and moaning, get off the couch and do something about my middle-aged, saggy tuchus (It also seems I’m slowly turning into a grumpy, old Jewish man.  Who knew?).

With lipo pricing well above my meager means, I decided to do it the old fashioned way.  That’s right, folks, diet and exercise (insert audible gasp here).  For years I’ve faithfully paid my NYC fat tax - i.e. NY Sports Club membership - but somehow have not been able to drag my self-pitying ass the three blocks to my local branch.

After surfing the web for some motivation, I stumbled upon the website for Mark Fisher Fitness.  Like a drag queen to Ricky’s (very NYC-centric reference there, sorry my non-city friends), I was drawn immediately to the glittery menu tab and pictures of muscled hotties in bikini briefs.  Could this be the inspiration I’d been searching for?  I read further – founded by former Broadway dancer, group classes taught by foul-mouthed, half-naked instructors…unicorns, feather boas and tutus!  I’d stumbled upon fitness Brigadoon, only without Scottish accents.

Though quite a hefty financial commitment, I decided the more I spent, the less likely I’d be willing to skip workouts for a hot date with a bacon double cheeseburger.  So a day after stumbling upon the website, I decided to pay a visit to MFF’s Enchanted Ninja Clubhouse of Glory and Dreams.  Seriously, that's what they call their "gym."  You can’t make that shit up.

As it turned out, the day of my visit coincided with the first day of registration for MFF’s highly popular Snatched in Six Weeks program – kind of like a super intense, gay fitness boot camp with lots of talk about unicorns and "nailing it."  I took this as God saying, “You are a lazy whore.  Get your shit together and sign up now!”  And when God calls you a whore, you’d best listen up.

I plunked down my $800, cried a little on the inside, and committed myself to six weeks of "fitness glory" (another popular Mark Fisher-sim).  Good thing, too, because it turned out the program completely sold out in a matter of hours.  But how was I to satiate my newly awakened fitness hunger?  It was early September and Snatched wouldn’t start until mid-October. 

I’ve always been an “all-or-nothing” type, so on impulse (I may have been hypnotized by all the smiley faces and disco lights in the Clubhouse) I drained the rest of my bank account and treated myself to a month-long, trial membership.  Might as well have a little make out session with Mark Fisher before I decide to go legs up (metaphorically, of course).

After an initial consultation where trainer Geoff continuously told me - and rightly so - that I was awesome, amazing and sexy, I decided this was definitely the gym for me.  I then met with trainer Stephanie for a kettle bell (basically a cannon ball with a handle) primer and to learn the core exercises I’d be using in class.  We instantly bonded when she equated proper goblet squat form with trying to impale your butthole on a suctioned dildo on the back wall of the gym.  Finally, a trainer who speaks my language.

If you haven't realized it yet, cursing and sex talk is a main component of the Mark Fisher experience.  Fundamentalist Christians and Republicans, this may not be the program for you, though you'd be welcomed with open and loving arms.

I’ve now been taking class religiously (pun intended) twice a week for three weeks.  To be honest, it’s not even the exercise that keeps me coming back (or the loosening pants or increased energy).  It’s the simple fact that people there tell me I’m sexy and hot even with my belly hanging out from under my T-shirt, my face grimacing and pouring sweat, while I’m lying on my back glute pressing and grunting.  That's true love.

Though I realize in an office setting, such encouragement would seem a tad bit inappropriate (sexual harassment suit, anyone?), I, for one, would welcome the opportunity for my boss to say, “Hey, you sexy bitch, go ballz deep and type up this memo!  Your are fucking nailing it today!”  Seriously.

Big Fish on Broadway - Sink or Swim?

Big Fish

Neil Simon Theatre

Saturday, Sept 7 @ 8pm

Another movie-to-musical adaptation?  I guess we should just get used to it since the trend won’t be abating anytime soon.  Not that I necessarily mind.  But the recent crop of adaptations seems to be a lame attempt by studios to make some quick cash from their old catalogs.  Just shoe-horn a mediocre score into an existing plot, keep the familiar title (albeit with the requisite “ - The Musical” suffix), market it to the brand-happy masses and voilà – instant Broadway hit.

At least Broadway’s newest film-to-stage project - or more accurately novel-to-film-to-stage project - Big Fish, aspires to more than just rehashing the movie and plugging in couple of show tunes.  With it's fantasy sequences and heart-on-sleeve emotions, the movie lends itself perfectly to characters suddenly breaking into song.  The creative team (with original screenplay writer, John August, penning the book) has retained the major plot points, but understandably streamlined the movie’s meandering story. 

Take note that tonight was only the fourth preview performance, so who knows what changes might happen between now and opening night.

Andrew Lippa’s score is surprisingly traditional.  It's got just a tinge of country and blues interspersed with several lush, heart-string-pulling ballads, vaguely reminiscent of another ballad-heavy Lippa score (one of my favorites), jon & jen.  You'd never guess this was from the same composer of The Addams Family, a show I actually enjoyed despite its workmanlike score.

The nostalgic wistfulness of "Time Stops" and earnest sweetness of "Daffodils" will leave romantics sniffling and cynics gagging (I'm in the former camp).

The always reliable Norbert Leo Butz (Edward Bloom) can prepare himself for yet another Tony nomination.  Though his quirky everyman shtick feels familiar, he has a unique gift for getting an audience to root for potentially unlikeable characters.  His performance here is appropriately showy but also unusually grounded, which helps smooth out some of the clunky transitions (mainly the fault of the direction, but more on that later) back-and-forth between the older and younger versions of his character.  

And why isn’t Kate Baldwin (Sandra Bloom) a big star?  That silky, clear soprano makes you yearn for the good old days when leading ladies didn't have to belt (i.e. screech) constant high F's or out-riff each other to impress.  Her 11-o-clock number, "I Don't Need a Roof," very nearly stopped the show - not to mention turning both Trish and I into blubbering piles of jelly.  And she looks gorgeous in every one of William Ivey Long's period perfect gowns.

Pssst, Lincoln Center, Kelli O’Hara has plenty on her plate.  Why not throw The King and I revival over to Ms. Baldwin? 

Trish's Broadway boyfriend, Bobby Steggert (Will Bloom), makes the most of an underwritten role.  His character is a cipher, seeming only to exist in order to give Butz's character a reason to tell another one of his stories.  Uncharacteristically, Steggert seemed to be having some vocal issues at tonight's performance, especially in his upper register - though he's not helped being straddled with one of the score’s few misses, the lyrically clunky “Stranger.”  

Julian Crouch’s scenic design is imaginative and appropriately fantastical.  He scores with a string of visually stunning moments.  Projections are a huge part of the design aesthetic and provide a cinematic feel and scale to the production.  Though beautiful, they sometimes feel like a cop out, used as a substitute for good old fashioned stage craft.  WWJTD - What would Julie Taymor do?

Susan Stroman’s direction/choreography is hit-or-miss. Sometimes it’s thrilling (the swamp trees) and sometimes it’s muddled and unfocused (the USO number).  It also appears she’s never ventured up into the mezzanine (where more than half the audience is seated) as much of the staging seems best viewed from the orchestra.  At times, too, the stage seemed rather sparsely populated.  It's surely a cost issue, but the look of the show would benefit from two or three more ensemble members.

Considering the events onstage have some personal resonance for Trish and I, we may have perhaps been more easily overcome by the charms of the musical than others.  Though I did notice a fair amount of tissue-passing going on around us.

Despite my reservations, I’m optimistic about Big Fish.  It’s a well-crafted, big, family musical that doesn’t pander to lowest common denominator with a lovely, original score and great performances.  It needs some tightening up and a snip here or there, but I’ll be back after opening to check it out again.

Straight men, be warned.  This is definitely the musical equivalent of a chick flick.

Don't forget to bring tissues.

The adventure continues...

<< Monday, September 2 ...later. >>

Satiated from my "gourmet" lunch, we piled back into the van and headed to one of the more famous south rim vantage points, Mather Point.

A panoramic view of the Grand Canyon and my baby bump.

The view from my window seat as we watch the canyon fade into the distance. Farewell, Captain Todd. I'll never forget you.

Sightseeing sure works up the appetite, so once back in Sin City, Trish and I head across the convenient attached walkway from our hotel to the Fashion Show Mall and El Segundo Sol for some Mexican food.

There's nothing better than a big ol' bowl of guacamole and plenty of white and red sangria to get the party started. Wasted at four in the afternoon! That's Vegas, baby.

More food and drinks, Vegas style (that means the calories don't count - what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, right?). Check out the alcoholic glaze over my eyes.

Thoroughly exhausted from our eight-hour mini excursion to the Grand Canyon and our Mexican siesta, Trish and I thought we'd cat nap before heading out for some final slot action. Our bodies, however, had other plans. Though we had every intention of getting up, we actually slept through to the next morning.

Grand Canyon redux...

<< Grand Canyon - attempt #2 >>

Monday, September 2

Like a deleted scene from Groundhog Day, Trish and I rotely re-enacted yesterday's early morning trip to Maverick's air field for attempt #2 at a Grand Canyon excursion. Fortunately, today's aircraft decided to cooperate and we were able to take off as scheduled with Captain Todd (insert dreamy sigh here) at the control panel of a very, very tiny plane.

Here's the view from the back of our itsy-bitsy 15 passenger puddle jumper. Kind of exciting but also extremely terrifying. At least I got my own seat and didn't have to cram into the last row three-seater.

And everyone gets a window seat! Well, except for the poor schmuck stuck in the middle of the three-seater in the back.

I guess the NSA isn't worried about terrorists bombing our National Parks, since the open cockpit design of our plane doesn't allow for a separate cabin and cockpit. It's like cruising the skies in a big ol' station wagon. And just like dad on those long road trips, our swarthy pilots act as our tour guides, pointing out landmarks along the way and...

...inviting us to visit them in the cockpit. That's right, instead of watching out for flocks of wayward birds or storm clouds, our trusty pilots will take your camera, perch it on top of the control panel and take a selfie with you!

And here's Trish on her trip up to the cockpit. I cannot for the life of me remember the co-pilot's name is he wasn't nearly as hot as Captain Todd (on the right).

After a civilized 40-minute flight (we nixed the much cheaper bus option because it's a 5-hour drive each way), we land on an air field just a couple of miles from the canyon. Trish and I finally get to live out our Howard Hughes-esque fantasy of jet-setting around the country in our own private jet. Naturally, we never travel without our dark glasses and fedoras.

Once on the ground, our centerfold-worthy pilots take some time to pose for their adoring passengers/fans

Grateful for a safe landing, I give our Maverick jet a big "thank you" smooch on the noggin. Jets need love, too.

After a short bus ride, we arrived at Bright Angel Lodge for our first glimpse of the Grand Canyon. I am in awe of the view as you can see by my freakishly excited expression and slack jaw.

Since we arrived fairly early in the morning, we were able to avoid the tourist rush and leisurely lounge on the cliff wall in relative solitude. Except, that is, for the many marauding squirrels aggressively grabbing for our "gourmet" box lunches.

Here you can see me enjoying the advertised "gourmet" boxed lunch included with our Grand Canyon tour package. That would be a "gourmet" turkey sandwich, a "gourmet" bag of chips and "gourmet" bottled water (with accompanying "gourmet" mayonnaise and mustard packets). Bon appétit!

The adventure continues...

Grand Canyon or bust...

<< Sunday, September 1 >>

With my list of spots-to-visit-before-I-die growing endlessly longer and my time on earth dwindling away faster than Miley Cyrus' integrity, I decided to book Trish and I on a very expensive one-day trip to the Grand Canyon via small charter jet. Let's be real, I'll probably never have the time, opportunity or finances to plan a separate trip anytime soon.

With iPhone cameras in hand, we heeded our 6am wake-up call and groggily headed downstairs for the shuttle transfer out to a private desert air field for the 40-minute flight to one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World (I'll have now seen two - the harbor in Rio being the first).

We checked in and waited patiently for our group to be called for boarding. After about an hour, the waiting room stood painfully empty save me, Trish and an anxious handful of tourists. I was called back up to the check-in counter.

I'm sorry, due to technical difficulty with the aircraft, we've had to cancel your tour for the day.

Huh? My once-in-a-lifetime trip is canceled?

We can reschedule you for tomorrow morning.

Phew, disaster diverted. Sadly, a few foreign tourists didn't have the luxury of an additional day for a reschedule. And though my linguistic skills are limited to English and a spattering of Tagalog curse words, I could tell there were some mighty angry foreign profanities being hurled around that waiting room.

Disappointed and sleepy, we joined a bunch of pissed of tourists on a shuttle bus back to Vegas.

Determined to salvage the rest of our day, Trish and I made a beeline for the TI coffee shop for a gluttonous All-American breakfast of pancakes, ham steak and home fries. If I wasn't going to see the Grand Canyon today, I'd at least have a Grand Breakfast.

And that was just the beginning of our Sunday food orgy...

In a decidedly unhealthy attempt to eat our feelings of disappointment, we lucked out and snagged a last-minute reservation to the ultra-chic, very snooty, high end Sunday brunch at the Mandarin Oriental's Mozen Bistro. Yes, the above is in fact the buffet's all you can eat oyster, shrimp and crab claw bar. The buffet also boasts a noodle and ramen bar, made-to-order sushi bar, dessert bar, carving station and dozens of other random high end choices. Oh, and you also get to choose a supplemental menu entree with your meal. Best of all, unlike most of the other high volume buffets, the price point and limited seating ensures you're not fighting the huddled masses for that last claw.

We decided to walk off some of the day's calories by hoofing it on the strip. Unfortunately, summer in Vegas isn't exactly amenable to daytime hiking. We instead hit one of the many discount ticket booths and on recommendation from our friend, Chris, got tickets to Jubilee! at Bally's.

If you're looking for a dazzling evening of fine singing and stunning choreography, be sure not to miss Jubilee! said no one ever.

If you're looking for a cheesy display of silicone-enhanced boobs accompanied by the gayest, most mediocre chorus boys in Vegas, and boobs - did I mention boobs? Get your tickets to Jubilee! immediately.

Even though I shall never re-gain those precious 90 minutes of my life wasted at Jubilee!, the night wasn't a complete bust. Trish and I lazily wended our way back to the hotel in the comfortable desert evening enjoying the sights of Vegas at night.

I'll admit, I'm probably being a tad harsh on Jubilee!, but it has a review average of 4 stars on Tripadvisor.com. I mean, come on. It's at best a 2-star affair, and that's for the costumes and novelty of all those topless dancers. Trust me, after about 10 minutes you realize you're in for a long, tedious evening of cliched skits that were probably only vaguely sexy in the 1970s when they were likely created and staged. The only reason to sit through this mess is to see the rather spectacular contortionist couple. Bitter, party of one, check please!

We finally make it to the Grand Canyon...

Vegas in 3 Days...

<< Saturday, August 31 >>

After my hellacious flight experience, I finally arrived at TI (that's the new, hip name of the former Treasure Island casino) around 1:30am. I was exhausted from all the boarding and deboarding, but seeing the glowing lights of the Vegas strip from the airport van window, I quickly caught my second wind. By 2:00am Trish and I were slurping Vegas-sized bowl's of pho in TI's Vietnamese restaurant, which, oddly, is located in the casino's ultra-American coffee shop.

Sadly, my second wind didn't last very long. So after a quick walk around the casino, we decided to hit the sack so we could get an early start the next day. I'm a Vegas virgin and I was dead set on cramming in all the must-do's on my list before my 72-hours in Sin City elapsed.

Despite our best efforts, Trish and I didn't roll out of the hotel until after noon. First stop, the lovely Venetian, just across the street from TI. I made Trish stand to the left so I could capture the frisky couple in the background who had just completed a robust round of tonsil diving.

 The real Piazza San Marco never looked so good - or clean. I don't think the famous canals ever resembled this shade of green. Ever.

I'm so attractive. And a flesh tone t-shirt on flesh to boot. What fashion sense. Anyway, we started the day off right with a glass of wine and trio of desserts at Zeffirino overlooking the Venetian's indoor canal. Wafting through the air like stale farts were the bleating tones of some of the worst opera-singing gondoliers ever. Loved the authentic Italian servers and accents, though. Pasta was fine, but as New Yorkers, we're spoiled when it comes to good Italian food.  

After lunch we made our way down the strip via the fancy new monorail system and ended up at the MGM Grand. Here I show off my impressive roar after Trish and I are caught outside in a sudden downpour sans umbrellas .

Next stop, the Titanic exhibit at the Luxor. Very impressive with some crazy ass artifacts. And happily, both Trish and I survived (upon entrance, you receive a boarding pass with a guest name which you then check against the manifest at the end of the exhibit). Relieved to find both our names on the survivors' list, Trish celebrates by getting friendly with the dogs outside.

I, of course, head straight to this hunky Egyptian God. Honestly, I did not plan on having it look like as though I was about to give the statue a blow job. It was just a wonderful coincidence.

Trish strikes a pose in front of the mighty Sphinx as we wait for the monorail to arrive. Though it's still early, we head back to the hotel for power nap before tonight's performance of KÀ at the MGM Grand.

The dinner of champions, a foot-long hot dog from Little Richie's in our casino lobby. Not much tastier than an NYC dirty water dog, but it was quick, cheap and big enough for two (that's what she said).

After a power nap and an excruciating few moments on the toilet (thank you Little Richie), we got dressed up and headed to the MGM Grand for KÀ. What a truly amazing visual and technical feat - like nothing I've ever scene (and I've seen many of Cirque's tent shows). The stage was the size of a large airplane hanger with hydraulic lifts and multiple stages that seemed to rotate and float in midair as acrobats scurried across like extremely limber cockroaches.

Tomorrow, Grand Canyon or bust...

A Vegas virgin books a flight from hell

August 30, 2013 >>

It’s been a stressful couple of weeks. Some crazy family turmoil has wreaked havoc on my normally relaxed August.  But in a last minute change of plans, my on-again-off-again Labor Day weekend in Vegas was suddenly back on again. It's taken 43 years, but I'm finally popping my Vegas cherry.

I twiddled my thumbs through a half day at work. But at 2pm on the dot, I clocked out and dashed home. With my boarding pass loaded on my iPhone and lucky fedora in hand, I jumped a gypsy cab to JFK for my Friday night flight to Sin City. The travel gods seemed to be on my side as I sailed through traffic on the Van Wyck, breezed through airport security and boarded my flight without incident.

And then it all fell to shit.

We pulled away from the terminal on time but then sat on the tarmac for what seemed to be hours (it was actually only about 45 minutes). The pilot announced they were having difficulty with a light on their control panel. I broke out in what I assumed was a nervous sweat, but soon realized the vents were blowing hot air. The cabin temperature was rising as panic began to spread amongst a cabin full of irate New Yorkers. 

Now, New Yorkers are generally good-natured pragmatists. But get in the way of a weekend in Vegas and all bets are off. Especially when most have already knocked back a few at the airport bar and are sweating their balls off.   

It seemed likely a few of the more lubricated passengers might storm the cockpit when the captain finally came on the PA. He explained that the AC had been shut off in order to reset the mysterious, malfunctioning light. His explanation seemed to temporarily appease the group.

We sat in silence (and in our own sweat) for another fifteen minutes before receiving another announcement from the cockpit.

We’re heading back to the terminal. The technicians can’t repair the problem.

People started audibly cursing and groaning. But at least the AC was working again.

Another fifteen minutes passed before the next announcement.  

All the gates are full and we’ll have to wait on the tarmac until a gate opens up. 

I could feel the passengers' collective anger rising. I’m sure this is what the streets of LA felt like just before the Rodney King riots.

We sat for another ten interminable minutes before another announcement.  

Flights are backed up and all the gates are still full. Instead of sitting on the tarmac, we're taxi-ing to a landing pad where we’ll deboard onto the runway and buses will drive everyone back to the terminal.

  

Now people are pissed. The obnoxious young couple next to me (wife continuously answering and reading texts and husband with shoes off adjusting and picking at his crotch like he's got a bad case of crabs or the largest penis on earth stuffed into a mini thong) got on their cell phone and booked seats on another flight. But despite the announcement, our plane sat motionless on the runway for another fifteen minutes. And then we heard the disembodied voice of the captain again.

A gate has opened up at another terminal. So instead of busing you back to your original gate, we'll drive around to terminal 2 where you'll be given further instructions.

At least we weren't going to be emptied out onto the blazing tarmac to play chicken with passing airliners.

As we arrived at terminal 2, my annoying seatmates made a dash for the door, pushing aside mothers holding babies and an elderly woman in an attempt to make their next flight. But they're foiled in first class by the evil stewardess, who won't unlock the cabin door. Karma's a bitch.

Another announcement.

The technicians should be able to fix the problem pretty easily now that we're parked at the terminal. So this flight will likely depart later tonight.  'm just waiting to see if they'd like us to deboard or have you wait on the aircraft while they make the necessary repairs.

I'm pretty sure I've been teleported into an episode of Lost and am now languishing in purgatory. I probably should have taken those ten commandments more seriously. Oh well, I decided I'd just sit back, relax and bask in the glow of the rising tempers around me.

The ground crew has just asked that we deboard this flight as we make the necessary repairs. We ask that you please stay close to the gate for further instructions.  

There was suddenly a flurry of activity as overhead compartment doors swung open and carry-on luggage whizzed by. I sat patiently as panicked party-goers rushed out of the plane looking for alternate flight options. I was in no hurry since I knew the last flight to Vegas was long since sold out. I'd either wait and get on this flight or go home and head out again in the morning.

Another 30 minutes crawled by. Several passengers stake out stools at the nearby bar, drowning their disappointment in beer and Jäger shots.  Finally, we got another announcement.

Attention passengers on Delta flight 1629. We are changing aircraft and moving you to gate 61 where we will begin boarding your new flight at approximately 9:45. We apologize for any inconvenience.

Finally, after several hours of sitting, swearing and being shuffled around terminals, some definitive news. Our flight's angry mob of passengers proceeds en masse to our new gate on the other side of the terminal. My phone is at nearly 10% power but there's not an empty socket to be found. I turn off my phone so there will be enough power left to contact Trish when I arrive.

Three and a half hours after boarding my first flight, I'm finally on my way to Vegas.