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.