Orchid Overload and Horny Old People

I've heard people complain that they can no longer sleep past 9 or 10 in the morning because their bodies have been trained from years of habit.  Happily, I have no such issue.  If I have nowhere to be, I can easily hibernate through lunch hour and beyond – which is exactly what I did following a late night at the circus.

But pizza trumps sleep, so after a lazy morning waiting for Trish and mom to return from a morning of beauty, I finally burrowed my way out from under my flannel sheets to join Trish and the ‘rents for lunch.

Though a day in my jammies sounds heavenly, I grudgingly got dressed for our afternoon trip to the Bronx for The Orchid Show at New York Botanical Gardens.

Thank you, Goldstar, for the discounted tickets. 

Mom and dad strike a pose in front of the Haupt Conservatory.

This is my "Memoirs of a Geisha" moment.  I'm pretty, mama!

Not to be outdone, Trish flashes her pearly whites.

Orchids, obviously.

Mom and Trish sporting their new 'dos and freshly threaded brows.

Mom and dad have a romantic moment in front of the orchid pond.

Cool looking orchid.

More orchids!

Even more orchids!

With our allergies on full "red alert" mode, Trish and I can no longer breathe the pollen-poisoned air of the conservatory and head outside to the sculpture garden where we plant a good-bye kiss on this faceless silver giantess' cheeks.

After our orchid expedition, we headed to Jersey for a lazy evening of relaxation before Sunday's Resurrection festivities (doesn't quite have the same ring as "Easter," does it?).  Taking a cue from our trailer park brethren, we decided to forego a fancy pre-Easter dinner and opted instead for a white trash meal of frozen tater tots and chicken nuggets.  You can always count on the Pinedas to inject any holiday with class and panache.

With the rest of the family heading to bed to rest up for early church services in the morning, Trish, mom and I decided to stay up for a late night viewing of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.  It's basically Beverly Hills 90210 with old horny English people.  I don't know about you, but living out your twilight years in a dirty hotel with questionable plumbing in a third world country where enjoying a nice juicy, rare steak is sacrilege doesn't sound all that wonderful to me.  

Easter fun continues...

"Good" Friday, Cirque's Totem and eternal damnation

Though technically the Catholic Church considers me an abomination, that doesn’t stop them from hiring my gay ass to sing for their Holy Week masses.  Hypocritical much?  Whatever, I’m crying all the way to the bank. 

It’s not that I’m angry or even hold a grudge.  I just find it odd that I’m considered fit to lead Catholic prayer, yet unfit to enter Catholic heaven.  Or perhaps years of Catholic indoctrination have left me with a subconscious fear of eternal damnation and hellfire due to my profane lifestyle.  Or not.  No matter, a paycheck is a paycheck so bring it, Jesus.  Mama needs to pay the rent. 

Good Friday’s gig was at Immaculate Conception Church in the boogie-down Bronx.  Trish and I cantor there periodically throughout the year and have known the music director for ages, so the gig was a no-brainer.  But today we had the extra pressure of mom and dad critiquing our performances from the congregation.  

Lest you get the wrong idea, mom and dad hadn’t traveled from their Virginia home to bask in their children’s luminous vocals.  Nope.  Mom wanted to come up a few days early to ensure she had enough time to visit the salon in our Astoria neighborhood for a cheap mani-pedi, haircut and eyebrow threading.  Our performance was just a coincidental detour on her road to budget beauty.

Oh well, at least we got a couple of free meals out of the deal. 

Since Good Friday is the most solemn night of Holy Week, after church we decided to spend a quiet evening under the Grand Chapiteau in Citi Field with 2,600 of our closest heathen friends at Cirque du Soleil’s show, Totem.  By the way, that’s pronounced to-TEM according to the pre-show announcement.  Pretentious much?

Ever since losing two-and-a-half hours of my life at that Zarkana mess a few years ago at Radio City, Trish and I have been waiting for the tent shows to return to New York.  At Radio City, we were seated so far from the stage and performers that it felt as we were watching a youtube clip on my laptop.  Though it might have been better to watch off my laptop.  We'd at least avoid the continuous stream of annoying latecomers traipsing across my sightlines.

Totem

Grand Chapiteau @ Citi Field

Fri, March 29, 8pm

Totem still doesn’t match the unabashed whimsy and seriously mind-blowing physical feats on display in our favorite Cirque show, Ovo.  But the intimacy of the three-quarter thrust somehow makes up for the less “showy” acrobatic acts.  At least in the tent, you feel a connection to the performers dangling above your heads.  Not to mention a much better view of all those glistening abs and biceps.

Like most Cirque shows, the dramatic through line is tenuous at best - allusions to evolutionary theory confusingly interspersed with cartoon versions of native Americans (Apparently they love to rollerskate as well as drum.  Who knew?) and a scrawny, creepy Italian dude (don't ask).  But really, who goes to a Cirque show for the story, right?

The best performance of the evening, though, came from Sal and his straight-out-of-the-Sopranos goomba family seated in front of us (perhaps some relation to the creepy dude in the show?).  Clearly Sal was off his meds as he literally grabbed guests away from the usher, leading them to the wrong seats; all the while inappropriately slinging his arm around the waist of any attractive lady in the group and speaking with his face much too closely to theirs for a first meeting.  We (the goombas and everyone sitting around them) all laughed and shook our heads in amusement as if we were watching a cute little puppy retrieve a chewed up tennis ball over and over again.

I can’t wait until I’m also old enough to act inappropriately without repercussion and be labeled “a cute old man” rather than “sex offender.”

More Easter weekend fun...

Mexico City or bust...

A poncho and sombrero is not a good look for me.

Everyone's been asking how I chose Mexico City for my President's Weekend mini-vacation.  To be honest, it was random.  I was trying to think of places that would feel foreign and exotic, were less than a 5-hour plane ride from NYC and had a really good dollar exchange rate.  Et voilá - Mexico City!  And given our unusually brutal winter, it didn't hurt that our trip would coincide with the beginning of Mexico's summer season.

From people's surprised reactions, you'd think I'd planned a trip to Columbia to tour the cocaine fields.  I'm not denying that certain precautions would need to be taken (I'd have to leave my diamond-studded clutch at home) but Mexico City is a major metropolitan area.  Could it be much worse than the sketchiest parts of the South Bronx or Harlem?  Besides, I've been to Manila, Rio and São Paolo.  I know sketch when I see it.

To take full advantage of my three-day weekend, I took Friday off from work as a travel day.  Trish booked us some cheap early morning flights (somehow we managed to talk our friend, Chris Grimm, into driving us to Newark at 5:30 in the morning) and we reserved a hotel near the historic central district (Hotel Emporio Reforma).

Taking heed of online warnings, we also decided to book a private driver for the airport transfers to and from our hotel.  Why take the chance of spoiling a perfectly good vacation with an unscheduled kidnapping, right?

The arrivals gate in Mexico City was chaos.  Just loads of people waving and screaming in Spanish and holding up name signs.  Thankfully, we found our driver right away.  After a polite handshake and perfunctory “hola,” he literally grabbed our luggage from out of our hands and sprinted into the crowded terminal.  Dear God, were our skeptic friends right?  Would we be stranded with no clothes and no cash, forced into the underground sex trade by a wealthy drug lord, arrested and thrown into a jungle prison and our sad situation re-enacted by C-list actors on an episode of Locked Up Abroad: Stupid Tourist Edition?  Or was I perhaps over-reacting? 

As it turned out, our driver was just a brisk walker.  Trish and I awkwardly raced after him but managed to slow him down long enough to stop at a 7-11 to buy some water and make change for tips.

Traveler’s note:  If you visit Mexico City, have plenty of change in your pockets because the service workers here are like your bratty nieces and nephews, always looking for a handout whether they deserve it or not.  Except here, instead of moping and slinking away when you refuse, they kidnap and hold you for ransom.

We eventually got to the van, which was parked at a nearby hotel seemingly miles away from the terminal.  Too tired and sweaty to complain, we jumped in and soon found ourselves weaving in and out of the crazy Mexico City traffic.

At first glance, the palm trees, slightly run-down buildings and all the brown faces reminded me of a slightly dilapidated Miami circa 1980.  Then we hit a slightly more ghetto area and I was reminded of Mexico City’s third world status.  Thankfully, our hotel was located in an upscale neighborhood on a major thoroughfare.

After checking in and unpacking, we headed to the lobby to grab a map.  Refreshed by our new surroundings, we decided not to relax, but instead head straight out to explore the city.

As hardcore New Yorkers, Trish and I decided to hoof it to the historic central square, the Zócalo, about a 20 minute walk from our hotel.  The government happened to be holding a military exhibition and recruiting event so the usual empty square was filled with tanks, trucks and armed militia.  Not exactly the most soothing sight for a first time visitor. 

Not wanting to risk recruitment, we high-tailed it across the street and ducked into the beautiful Metropolitan Cathedral to soak in the Holy Spirit and grab a couple of rosaries as gifts for the 'rents.  

Fancy, huh?  We couldn't get any closer to the altar because the church had been rented out for a wedding that evening.

Mesmerized by the glitz, Trish and I rested our tired tootsies in front of one of the many dazzling shrines located throughout the cathedral.  I haven't seen this much bling since The Jersey Shore went off the air. 

 

One of the fancy carved doors to the cathedral.

Trish strikes a pose in front of the Palacio Nacional, just across the square from the cathedral.

Emboldened by the disappointing lack of grit and crime, on our walk back to the hotel from the Zócalo Trish and I decided to venture off the main boulevard and explore some of the busier side streets.  Heck, it's a Friday night and we're brown, so we blended in quite easily with the partying masses. 

Our first off-the-beaten-path find was Casa Churra.  We stepped right up to the take-out window where lovely Maria (names have been changed to protect the innocent) served us up chocolate and dulce de leche churros.  The restaurant had a full dining room as well, but we had already gorged on tortillas at Vips, a popular Mexican food chain akin to our Denny's.

Trish makes an oh-no-you-don't face in front of Casa Churra's menu board when she sees me eying her churros.

With the completion of churro-palooza, Trish and I rolled down the street and stumbled wide-eyed into a magical land of bread and pastry otherwise known as Pastelería Ideal.  Talk about your carbo loading. 

 

Still brushing the churro crumbs off my distended belly, I grabbed a tray and some metal tongues and started piling on the empty calories.  Ideal works like the Asian bakeries in NYC's Chinatown.  You grab what you want and then take everything up to the counter where they wrap up your goodies and charge you per item.  Of course, nothing was labeled so we sort of randomly chose any item slathered in butter, cream or sugar.

With our 10 pounds of baked goods snuggly wrapped up, we headed toward the direction of our hotel.  Mexico City is laid out like the West Village, no real grid system.  So it was a bit tricky finding our way back.  Along the way we passed through Chinatown (cute, but super small) as well as some seedier side streets where spits of unidentifiable meat were roasting, just waiting to be carved up and fed to the hungry masses.  In my head I could hear the ominous opening strains of Sweeney Todd.  No mystery meat tacos for me this trip, thank you very much. 

Exhausted, we hit the sack early so we'd be rested up for our first full day in Mexico City.

Mexico City - Day 2...time for some art

Saturday, February 16
(Click here for Day 1 of our Mexican adventure)

Having made it through our first night in Mexico City without developing a case of the third world squirts, Trish and I got our tired asses up early Saturday morning to try and beat the tourist crowds.  Since we had a specific itinerary planned out, we decided to forego the Gray Line bus and just jump in a cab.

Scarred for life by the movie Man on Fire, my head danced with images of sweet little Dakota Fanning getting kidnapped and held at gunpoint by Mexican drug lords.  There's no way I was going to end up some billionaire coke dealer's bitch.  So instead of hailing a street cab, we decided to pay a little extra for one of the hotel's licensed tourist taxis.

Thankfully, a cab ride in Mexico City is nowhere near as expensive as a nasty NYC yellow cab.  And after some fairly tame negotiations in broken Spanish, Trish and I were able to secure our driver for 200 pesos an hour (that's roughly $16 US - eat that NYC cabbies!).  Our first stop...

...the Coyoacán district to visit artist and muralist Diego Rivera's studio/house which has been converted into a museum.  We arrived just as it opened and literally had the entire place to ourselves.  Here, like most museums in Mexico City, you can pay an extra fee to take pictures inside - flash-free, of course.  I think it was around 50 pesos (about $4 US).

Rivera and Kahlo were like the Kristen Stewart and Rob Pattinson of their day, except with talent.  Given their tumultuous relationship, Rivera built a separate apartment (connected only by a bridge across the roof) for Kahlo during one of their many periods of separation.  Mexicans sure do like their primary colors, don't they?

These super creepy dolls were displayed in Rivera's bedroom overlooking his bed.  Dude obviously had a super freaky dark side or one sick sense of humor.

Some of the many shelves of pigments Rivera used and mixed for his artwork.

Walking into his main studio, we were greeted by this army of ghoulish, larger-than-life papier mache figures.  Not exactly welcoming.  For reference, the tallest figure (red devil) is probably around seven feet tall.

 

It would appear Mexicans have a certain affinity for death and morbidly disturbing imagery.  Take this wall o' skeletons also hanging in Rivera's studio.

 

More creepy dolls.  I sense a theme here.

Rivera's palette and brushes.

 

Trish and I strike a pose outside the entrance to Rivera's house.  We just wanted a shot next to the nifty cactus fence.  

After waking our napping driver who waited in the car while we explored (ah, the joys of a third world country - cheap labor!), we headed to our next destination...

Mexico City - Day 2 continued...more art & what else, tacos!

(Click here for Day 1 of our Mexican adventure)

After spending the morning appreciating art and satisfying our voyeuristic tendencies at casa Rivera, Trish and I decided to take a tourist break and engage in some retail therapy.  Since all the travel guides raved about El Bazaar Sábado and since we happened to be in Mexico City on the one day during the week the market's open, we decided it must be destiny.  We had our driver, Jeeves (not his real name, as I can't remember it), drive us to the cobble-stoned San Ángel neighborhood to pay a visit to this Saturday-only market that features traditional and upscale Mexican arts and crafts in a sprawling centralized shopping area.  Think NYC street fair except with fine art rather than five-dollar pashminas and sunglasses.

We didn't take many pictures because the artists were really sensitive about having their paintings and artwork photographed.  I wasn't about to take the chance of getting into some ugly confrontation that would end with me being hauled off by the police to become someone's prison bitch for the sake of a blog post.  I'm not that committed.

With our travel budget tighter than spanx on a Kardashian, we headed straight to the most ghetto looking part of the market - a collection of rickety tables under an old tarp. I know you're not supposed to judge by appearances, but if there was a bargain to be had, it would certainly be here and not in the fancy shmanzy Spanish colonial villa next door.

Sadly, after a fairly uninspiring afternoon perusing the various booths (is there really any occasion where a brightly striped, Mexican poncho is appropriate?), we decided to just window shop and enjoy a taco in the central courtyard.

With the artist's back turned to us, I took the opportunity to snap a covert shot of the art-strewn walkways at El Bazaar Sábado.

After slipping this little chiquita a couple pesos, she let us take her picture.  She's about to throw a freshly pressed tortilla onto the grill for our dining pleasure.

Seriously, a couple pesos can get you anything in Mexico.  We paid our taco girl to take a picture of us from her vantage point.  Below us are the bowls of yummy fixin's just waiting to set our intestines on fire.  And speaking of food, who's that cute Mexican tamale hovering over my right shoulder?

Delicious.  I'm literally inhaling that beef taco.  Notice the spicy, oily goodness dripping onto my plate.

Though most of the fine art (sculpture, paintings and furniture) was gorgeous and comparatively affordable, it was still way out of our budget.  We didn't leave empty handed, though.  Trish did some impressive haggling with a jewelry vendor and made off with a couple of funky over-sized rings.  And me?  Just stuff a taco in me and I'm good.

On to Frida Kahlo's house!

Frida's house...

Sticking to our budget, we left the bazaar empty-handed.  We found our driver fast asleep in the car, literally parked halfway onto the street, blocking traffic.  I guess the parking stripes in Mexico are optional.

With a few sound taps on the window, we roused Pedro from his siesta and headed to Frida Kahlo's house and museum, appropriately named La Casa Azul.

We asked Pedro to get a shot of Trish and I in front of Kahlo's house but somehow he managed to completely frame us out of the shot.  Not even a cut off head or anything.  Weird.

Kahlo's childhood home (and were she also returned to live before her death) has been converted into a museum dedicated to her life and work.  Some of the rooms have been converted into galleries, but many rooms have been left intact including her studio.

Girlfriend definitely had a dark side.  Above is a sculpture Kahlo created of herself, complete with unibrow, back brace and bloody distorted legs (she suffered from childhood polio, so her right leg never fully developed).  This life-sized daily reminder of Kahlo's every physical flaw hangs in her bedroom.  What a delightful sight to wake up to every morning.  No wonder she suffered from depression.

Who's that handsome devil?  Oh, it's just me hanging out in the house's central courtyard.  The world would be a much happier place if more houses were painted bright blue.

It turned out that during our visit Vogue was sponsoring a special exhibition - Las Apariencias Engañan: los Vestidos de Frida Kahlo (Smoke and Mirrors: The Dresses of Frida Kahlo).

No, these aren't medieval torture devices.  These are a sampling of the various braces and corsets Kahlo needed to help support her back after a trolley accident left her with a broken spinal column.

Childhood polio left Kahlo with an underdeveloped right leg so she had her shoes built up so that her legs would match.  Miss Thing had a serious streak of bad luck when it came to her health.  I guess suffering really does create great art.

Some of Kahlo's signature frocks on display.

Straight out of an S&M catalog, this outfit was designed by Jean Paul Gaultier and inspired by Kahlo.

These fancy frocks, also inspired by Kahlo, are Givenchy originals.

All that art and shopping sure works up the appetite.  I usually keep a wide berth of Western fast food chains while in a foreign country, but the signage outside Burger King for the King Dog both disgusted and fascinated me so I had no choice but to stop in for a sample.

All hail the flatulence-inducing power of the King Dog!  Ketchup, mustard, fried onions and cheese on a sesame seed bun.  

After a brief siesta in our hotel room bathroom it was time to head to bed.  Tomorrow is our last full day in Mexico and we've booked a private guide to take us to the ancient pyramids first thing in the morning.

Psychedelic Superman - Encores

Encores:  It's a Bird...It's a Plane...It's Superman
City Center
Sat, March 23, 8pm

How do you cripple the most powerful superhero of all time?  Hit him where it counts – his ego.  This clever supposition drives the plot of Charles Strouse and Lee Adams’ funky, 60s musical.  From the groovy rhythms and meandering book, it seems clear there was some psychotropic motivation involved here.  I mean, it was the 60s. 

Regardless, the show retains a goofy charm and endearing honesty that makes up for its shortcomings.  Sadly, the words “charm” and “honesty” are adjectives rarely used to describe shows post-2000.  Not that …Superman… is by any stretch a great musical in the vein of the Golden Age classics.  It’s a light-hearted trifle whose purpose is to entertain and amuse – which I don’t mean as derogatory. 

Hunky Ed Watts fills out the red and blue tights nicely.  He’s a sensitive Man of Steel with a full, legit baritone.  Jenny Powers, as love interest Lois Lane, sounds gorgeous and deftly handles the not-quite-belt-yet-not-quite-soprano vocal demands of her material. 

The supporting cast of Broadway vets are at their campy best with villains David Pittu and Will Swenson as standouts, selling their numbers with vaudevillian panache.

And that full orchestra…sigh.  So sad that modern Broadway audiences are robbed of the excitement that a live orchestra (not 8 players and 2 synths) can provide. 

The Roy Lichtenstein-inspired comic book-style set design is a perfect fit for the material and I loved the swinging choreography in “It’s Super Nice.”

Cinderella on Broadway (finally) and my other musical obsession (sorry Audra)

Cinderella
Broadway Theatre
Thursday, March 7, 7pm

I have just two words for you – Victoria Clark.  She could add class to a mud wrestling tournament at the Alabama State Fair.  But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

With all the talk about a glossy new book and a modernized, empowered Cinderella, Trish and I took our seats in the nosebleed section (thanks, TDF) expecting a hot mess.  Instead, we were happily surprised to find the charming core of R+H’s show still intact. 

For the show’s first Broadway mounting (it was originally written and produced as a TV special), the R+H estate decided to gussy up the original by tossing out the existing book and raiding their own catalogue to fill out the score. 

Okay, some of the added left-leaning rhetoric is a bit heavy-handed.  A new character, political rabble-rouser Jean-Michel, seems to have wandered onstage from a touring production of Les Mis.  Regardless, I was still charmed by the production. 

You’d think hiring the campy Douglas Carter Beane (Little Dog Laughed, Xanadu and the screenplay of To Wong Foo…) to write the new book would all but guarantee that at least one of the stepsisters be played by a drag queen snapping, “You best clean out that fire place, gurl.”  Thankfully, he’s turned downt the camp factor several notches in favor of a healthy smattering of hilarious, if anachronistic, one-liners.

Granted, Beane’s sometimes self-referential, snarky writing style isn’t exactly a perfect fit for the earnest simplicity of Hammerstein’s lyrics.  But I’m sure the only thing the producers had in mind was how to keep a new generation of audience member reared on South Park and The Simpsons, to sit still for two hours.  A prime example of this degradation of audience etiquette came during the first act finale when the woman sitting directly behind us answered her cell phone. 

“I’m at a show.  No, I’m actually in the theatre watching a Broadway show right now.   Sorry, I can’t talk because it’s distracting to the people around me.”

I shit you not.  Moving on…

The familiar plot remains essentially the same though the King and Queen have been axed in favor of an evil counselor for the prince, one stepsister is now sympathetic to Cinderella's plight and there is now a romantic sub-plot between the "good" stepsister and Jean-Michel.

As for the physical production, it's all about the costumes.  The onstage transformations are off the hook.  Torn rags somehow instantaneously morph into voluminous gowns.  The moment Prince Topher sets eyes on Ella in her first white gown (yes, Beane’s gone for a hipper shortening of both the lead characters’ names), I was practically verklempt - though not really a surprise considering I cry at the opening of a Walmart.

When the Fairy God Mother presents Ella with a pair of glittering Italian glass slippers, some crazy queen in the balcony actually gasped out loud, causing a wave of tittering across the theatre.  And no, that queen was not me.

Just hand William Ivey Long the Tony now for his costume designs.

Laura Osnes’ Cinderella is sincere, charming and refreshingly irony-free and she sings the score beautifully.  Santino Fontana (Prince Topher) may not have traditional leading man looks (though from our rear balcony seats he looked just fine), but he has a boyish, goofy charm and sense of humor that won me over.  And that voice.  Dreamy.

I already mentioned Victoria Clark, but I need to gush again because her voice is just perfection.

My ultimate fantasy?  Victoria Clark, Audra McDonald and Carolee Carmello singing “I Will Never Leave You” from Side Show as a trio.  I dare you to come up with a combination that tops that on the gay-meter.

Mexican Travel Day From Hell

Enough with all this Broadway crap, let’s talk about me and my glamorous jet-setting lifestyle (I wish).

Since I use almost all of my hard-earned vacation weeks sweating it out in the summer with a bunch of show tune-loving teenagers, I take every opportunity to make the most of the few three-day weekends that pop up throughout the year.  This past President’s Day holiday, I convinced Trish to accompany me on a whirlwind jaunt down to Mexico City for a weekend of third world fun.

As soon as I’ve sifted through all the photos, I’ll post and write about our adventures.  But today, I want to dedicate a full entry to our 15-hour travel day from hell.

Monday, February 18, President’s Day – Our final day in Mexico City

9:45am – The limo service picks us up promptly in our hotel lobby for the drive to Benito Jaurez Airport.  It must be no sweat to earn a Mexican driver’s license since it appears speed limits, turn signals and painted lane markers are optional in Mexico.  Regardless, we arrive unscathed and in plenty of time to check our single bag filled with Mexican treats and (more importantly) alcohol.

10:30am – Time to break out the Tums.  Having avoided Montezuma’s revenge all weekend, we tempted fate by imbibing in a full taco and enchilada breakfast from one of the many airport fast food kiosks.  ¡Muy delicioso!

Traveler’s note:  Any pile of dubious carne can be easily salvaged by adding a healthy dose of lime, pico de gallo and guacamole.

11:30am – Our first trip through security.  Disappointingly, no cavity search.

12:00pm – In a last ditch effort to use up all our extra pesos, I purchase enough over-priced (from the airport souvenir shop) dulce de leche and tequila milk candies to feed an entire sweat shop full of child laborers.

1:20pm – Boarding time.  Even though Trish purchased our tickets together, she somehow managed to get seated up in Economy Plus (without paying the extra charge) while I was relegated to the squalor of “regular” Economy.  I tried checking-in early, but the best seat that popped up was directly in front of the rear toilet.  Thinking of the other passengers who, like me, probably imbibed in a last minute Mexican food binge prior to boarding, I cough up the extra $40 to sit in Economy Plus rather than float in a cloud of Mexi-flatulence the entire flight.

1:50pm – Take off.  Comfortably ensconced in our wide Economy Plus seats, Trish swipes her credit card in the video seatback in front of us so we might while away our four-and-a-half hour flight watching trashy movies.  First up, Taken 2.  Is it me, or is Liam Neeson quite possibly the hottest 62-year-old man on earth?

3:00pm – Liam’s movie wife is bleeding out onto a dirt floor while his dingbat movie daughter (high school-aged, my ass - unless she's flunked at least three grades) scampers across the Istanbul skyline attempting to act scared and anxious, but looks constipated.  Before Liam can begin another round of Albanian ass kicking, the screen goes black and the pilot gets on the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you may have noticed we’ve changed course.  A warning light went off on one of our engines.  We’ve turned that engine off and we’re flying back to Mexico City as a precaution.  There’s no reason for alarm, we’ve been trained for this type of situation and the plane is designed to fly with one engine.  The landing shouldn’t be a problem either.”

Our plane will likely fall out of the sky at any moment and all I'm thinking is, "What about my movie?  Will we land land before I get to see Liam kill every Albanian sex trafficker in Istanbul with just his bare hands and a piercing gaze from his Irish blues?"

4:00pm – After a rough landing (“shouldn’t-be-a-problem” my ass) and lukewarm applause from several panicky passengers, we’re back on the tarmac in Mexico City.  We sit in the plane waiting for the crew to “investigate” the problem.  My worst nightmare has come true – they’ve turned off our video feed before the end of our movie.

After about 20 minutes breathing in the warm, stale air that only a plane full of anxious, angry humans can produce, we’re informed that our plane is not immediately repairable.  We’ll have to de-board, wait for our baggage in the claims area, go through customs, line up at the United ticket counter and get re-booked on another flight.

4:30pm – It’s like BestBuy on Black Friday as passengers stampede towards baggage claim and then to the ticket counters.  It’s late and there are few alternate flight options left.  We wait almost half an hour in line until we finally speak to an agent.  Luckily, United has re-assigned a new aircraft to our route and we’re re-booked in the exact same seats.  According to the agent, the plane will start boarding at 5:00pm.  It’s 4:58pm.  There are at least 50 more passengers behind us waiting to get re-ticketed.  Sucks to be them.

5:00pm – We race to security and are greeted by a hostile group of fellow passengers.  Apparently, because the gate agents aren’t aware of our new flight, they can’t let us through.

30 minutes pass and we’re still standing at the x-ray machines waiting for clearance.  Several irate passengers get all “Norma Rae” on the security personnel and it looks like there might be a mini-uprising.

Trish notices several armed guards now surrounding the group.  Great, we made it the whole weekend without being kidnapped, robbed or developing explosive diarrhea and now we’ll die in a bloody barrage of gunfire at the airport.  I hope they get BD Wong to play me in the Lifetime movie.

5:30pm – Security finally gives us clearance and with a weary cheer from the group, we make our second trip through the metal detectors.

6:30pm – Time to board…again.  Seems the ticket agent was a wee bit off regarding the new departure time.  The good news:  United has bumped a flight to Houston and given us their plane.  The bad news:  their plane is super ghetto – no Economy Plus and no seatback movies.  Oh well, I guess that’s fifty bucks I’ll never see again.

7:30pm – It takes an additional half hour of shuffling and re-seating before we’re able to take off because the seating configuration is slightly different on the new aircraft.  We’re now due to land in Newark around midnight.  Yay!

8:00pm – The flight crew tries to console us by lowering the overhead screens and treating us to a free viewing of Alex Cross.  Thanks, United.   How about a free snack or a big ol’ cocktail considering we haven’t eaten in the last nine hours because we’ve been too busy alternately running around the airport and waiting in lines.  And Alex Cross?  Really?  That’s the best you can do?  Madea just doesn’t cut it as an action hero.

12:00am, Tuesday, February 19 – Our plane of weary travelers finally touches down in Newark.  We get in yet another line for our second trip through customs in less than 24 hours.  The agent thankfully rushes us through the line and after some minor confusion with a lost customs slip, we grab our luggage and exit customs where we are bid a gruff farewell from an annoyed Asian security guard with a Bronx accent.  God bless America.

1:00am – We’re tired and cranky and still dressed for the balmy South American clime.  Waiting on the chilly NJ Transit platform is not an option.  We suck it up and splurge for a cab.  After two trips through customs, a near death experience in the air and the sad realization that I'll probably never find out what happens at the end of Taken 2, I deserve a little pampering.

1:30am - $115 poorer, we drag our asses and luggage up three flights to our comfy Queens apartment.  I realize I have to be in the office in a couple of hours so I literally walk straight to my room and plop into bed.  Tomorrow will not be pretty.

The End

Addendum (4/17): Start from the beginning of our Mexican adventure here.

Hands On A Hardbody - White Trash Get Their Day on the Great White Way

Hands On A Hardbody
Brooks Atkinson Theatre 
Sat, March 2, 2pm

With jukebox musicals and lame movie adaptations littering the Broadway, I really wanted to like Hands On A Hardbody, an American musical with an original score and intriguing concept.  Sadly, I found it rife with white trash stereotypes and a lukewarm pay-off. 

The musical is based on the similarly titled, award-winning documentary chronicling an endurance competition in which contestants stand with one hand on the prize, a shiny red truck.  The last man standing – literally – wins.  Doesn’t exactly shout “Make me a Musical!” does it?

I don’t necessarily have an issue with the source material.  I mean, Sondheim routinely manages to coerce masterworks out of seemingly impenetrable topics.  But I don’t think the creators of Hardbody found the hook necessary to make this material sing.  And let’s face it, two-and-a-half hours of watching people standing around a truck is a lot to ask of any audience.

The internet chat boards have compared Hardbody to A Chorus Line, another high concept show low on plot.  The difference, though, is there is inherent action at a dance audition. In Hardbody, the writers, director and choreographer have to create forward momentum from a static activity. 

I admit the truck-ography is impressive, but after about 20 minutes the novelty had definitely worn off.  We might as well have been at the Javits for the Auto Show.

Not that there aren’t moments of inspiration amongst the white trash clichés.  Keala Settle raises the roof with a Stomp-inspired Gospel number.  But even this is a triumph of staging rather than story-telling, since we’ve already learned everything we need to know about her character from previous book scenes. Not to mention that technically, every contestant should have been disqualified since their hands all leave the truck during the drumming. 

I realize the other characters are based on real life contestants, but their stories are mind-numbingly familiar: the meet-cute young couple who yearn to begin thrilling new lives in LA, the trashy bimbo trying to go straight, the ex-military guy who wants to win and make his son proud, the injured, out-of-work older guy with the pestering wife...and on and on and on.  Sure, you want to stay true to the story, but this isn’t a documentary, it’s a Broadway musical. 

The score is a mixed bag of country-inspired tunes.  But like the show, the lyrics are riddled with clichés and rhymes you can spot a mile away. 

There might be a show lurking somewhere amidst all these good ol' boys and girls, but I think it’s a case of re-writing and re-conceptualizing the entire show which, I’m sure, ain’t gonna’ happen.

Just off the top of my head, a few of my issues with the show's current musical structure:

• The opening sets us up to believe this is going to be Benny’s (Hunter Foster) story, then flips it to J D (Keith Carradine) after getting rid of Benny halfway through the second act.
• Writing that trades on stereotypes to fill in characterization (the soldier, the white trash old lady, et al).
• Wasting time giving side character’s full songs when a verse or part of a shared song (to give a feeling of community) would do.
• Repetitive choreography.  Though I realize there are only so many different ways to dance around a truck without taking your hand off of it.
• And a personal staging pet peeve, the slow motion march to connote a flashback to war.  Just a bit too obvious given the trite sentiments of the song it’s set to.  As soon as the chorus got into silhouetted position, I was rolling my eyes.