Rehearsal Hell and Broccoli Pizza

...and thus it begins.  My two month descent into show hell kicked off with this weekend's tech and opening of Into the Woods (pit keyboardist) at the Union County Academy for Performing Arts.  In two weeks, I will be deep into tech and opening weekend of The Music Man (appearing as "Marcellus") at CDC Theatre.  Once that closes, I have two weeks before tech and opening of Pineda Lyric's The Magic Flute (Val's bitch/pit keyboardist).  Throw in a weekend wedding in Minneapolis, my 9-to-5, assorted rehearsals and a daily soul-crushing double commute (Queens to NYC to Jersey and back to Queens) and you can all but confirm the reservations for my extended stay at the Crazy Town Hilton in June (though I'll only have a few weeks recovery time before the Summer Conservatory begins).

Of course, no Pineda production would be complete without a little opening night drama.  For Into the Woods, that would be our Witch losing her voice halfway through the first performance.  The lilting melody of "Children Will Listen" somehow loses it's poignancy when the actor is forced to speak the lyrics in a raspy whisper.  Of course, you can't blame the student.  Sh*t happens.

Thankfully, most of the lead roles were double cast (a nightmare for rehearsal purposes, but a welcome relief in just such an emergency).  So we gave Witch #2 a scant three-hour notice that she'd be making her debut a week earlier than scheduled.  Her shocked look was priceless.  Talk about some bulging cartoon eyes.

Given that teenagers possess a resiliency that adults seem to lose once they hit the legal drinking age, the evening show went off without any major glitches.  Brava, Witch #2!  Sure, there were the usual skipped lines and jumped measures, but heck, it's Sondheim, so certain allowances need to be made.  Or as one of the young performers brazenly explained to me after I scolded him for ignoring the notated rhythms in the score, "I'm really more of an actor so I go with how I feel."  To which I replied, "If you're really that good an actor, you would be able to make it work as written."  Looks like someone ought to start brushing up on their cater waiter skills.

Hopefully we'll get through closing weekend without any major snafus.  Fingers crossed.

How lucky am I that my birthday falls smack dab in the middle of all this chaos?  Not very, says I.  A large chunk of my special day was spent sitting through a painfully slow Music Man rehearsal.  Insomniac?  Stop by the CDC theatre during a Sunday afternoon rehearsal.  I dare you to stay awake.

Three hours later, rubbing my glazed-over eyes and wiping the drool from my open mouth, I somehow managed to crawl out of the theatre and back into the blessed sunlight.  With most of my day already consumed by the rehearsal, I decided to just stay in Jersey for an impromptu birthday dinner with Juan, Val, Trish and family friend, Susan Cook. 

Unlike the the Pinedas, Susan has her finger on the social pulse of NJ.  She's like a Real Housewife, only sane and without fake lashes or hair extensions - so actually nothing at all like a Real Housewife.  Per her suggestion, we headed to Anthony's Coal Fired pizza in Edison for a sloppy night of pizza and drinks.

These tasty birthday morsels came courtesy of Susan.  And no, I did not share.

This comely drag queen was my birthday present from Trish (obviously on a very tight budget).  Turned out it was just Susan in her finest Newark crack ho drag.  That's not her real hair, in case you were wondering.

Trish enjoys her pizza while Val, bored with us all, checks email.  

I give Susan a "thank you" smooch for the fantastic restaurant recommendation.  Though it doesn't sound very appealing, the roasted broccoli pizza was the surprise hit of the evening.  Shocked carnivore, Val, admitted she preferred it to the (also delish) sausage pie.  And the chicken wings (fire-roasted and smothered in caramelized onions)?  Better than sex (unless it's sex with Gerard Butler).  Or better yet, sex with Gerard Butler followed by wings.  Or even better, sex with Gerard Butler smothered in caramelized onion-covered wings.  Mmmm.  Bring on the wet naps!

More smooching, but this time with a pink whale at Yapple Yogurt where we stopped for dessert.  Incidentally, the 16-year-old straight boy working the register was the only person all day to comment or acknowledge my bright pink "Birthday Princess" sash (scroll down for better view).  Weird, huh?  Even weirder,  he had the nerve to try and one-up me by bragging that he wore the same sash on his birthday except that he also had...  wait for it...  a tiara.  I was about ready to cut a bitch.

The siblings did good in the present department.  Here's my new Kindle Paperwhite, courtesy of Trish, and fancy new Kindle case, courtesy of Juan and Val.

Since you can never have too many cupcakes, Trish, courtesy of black Billy, presented me with more delightful treats from Billy's bakery - that would be Billy's Bakery in Chelsea.  Black Billy does not have a bakery.  Not that I know of.

Poor, sick black Billy (again, not to be confused with the Billy's Bakery Billy), after delivering my birthday treats through a fever-induced fog.  He's resting up for the arduous 2-block walk back to his apartment. 

And thus endeth year 42 of my life on earth.  Here's hoping the 43rd is filled with more friends and cupcakes.

Carousel Hell

I’m finally getting back to the blog after several weeks burning in Carousel hell.  Oh, for an evening luxuriating in my musty apartment watching reality TV and munching on take-out Chinese instead of riding sardine-like on an NJ Transit bus to the wilds of suburban New Jersey. 

Happily, the second weekend of shows is behind me and the glorious closing night is just days away.  Huzzah!  I can already smell the bitter scent of embarrassment and regret hanging in the air in anticipation of the inevitable closing night, post cast party, drunken hook-ups.  Actors and alcohol - not pretty.

For a show that’s never had a rehearsal where the full cast has been available, it’s surprisingly good.  The audiences have been loving it and leave cheering and weeping (for all the right reasons).  But that’s mainly due to an all-around, incredibly talented group of leads and a few supremely dedicated featured ensemble members.

To say the rehearsal period for Carousel has been challenging is like saying neurosurgery is just like a really intense game of Operation.  We didn’t have a full cast run-through until just a few days before opening night and I don’t think I ever had a single Dream Ballet rehearsal with all the dancers.  It seemed on this cast’s list of priorities, Carousel ranked just below getting a full body wax and just above getting a colonoscopy.  So though the inhabitants of this turn-of-the-century New England town are smooth as an Abercrombie & Fitch cover model, they’re also remarkably under-rehearsed…and in desperate need of an enema.

There were also multiple family deaths within the cast (three the week before tech), three car accidents, high school and college spring breaks, vacations, cast members committing to multiple shows and the inevitable string of illnesses and (insert eye roll here) blatant lies. 

Even now, the theatre’s basement TB ward - aka the dressing rooms - is a near constant symphony of hacking, snorting and blown noses.  Between mono, sinus infections, strep throat, concussions (don’t ask) and allergies, it’s like a stage full of the walking dead.  I imagine the emergency room of a third world country having a similar aura of un-cleanliness and death. 

Don’t get me wrong, the whole cast isn’t this uncommitted, unmotivated or uncooperative - just most.  And for the record, I’ve been to every freaking one of our 30 odd rehearsals over the last three months.  I guess that makes me eligible for a “Most-wasted-time-reverse-commuting-to-rehearsal-for-a-cast-that-doesn’t-show-up” Tony nomination. 

But seriously, as much as I bitch and moan, I am proud of the finished product.  I guess I’m more bitter about the missed opportunity.  I hear the audience praising the quality of the show and performances, yet I can only imagine what could have transpired had the full cast committed to attending rehearsals. 

Sigh.

After every community theatre experience, I swear it will be my last.  Yet somehow, I always find myself back on that NJ Transit bus hoping this time will be different.  Oh well, I guess I’m just a masochist at heart.

And yes, I know I still owe a Leap of Faith review.  I actually disagree with most of the reviews.  It's not nearly as awful as the still-running Ghost or Mamma Mia!  I guess I'm growing more forgiving in my middle age.

What's up at "Leap of Faith"? And my regular bitching and moaning...

I actually caught LOF about a week and a half ago, but since I've been practically living at the CDC theatre for the last week or so because of Carousel, I've not had much time to write.  Yes, I know, everyone's busy and I'm just a big, fat whiner.  But hypothetically, if you're an actor and you can't commit to - oh, let's say at least 60% of the rehearsals for a show - why do you even bother to audition?

Or once you find out the extent of the commitment, why do you except the job offer anyway?  Am I being unreasonable?  Crazy?  Both??  Someone please explain this to me because like an idiot, I've actually attended every rehearsal.

Ugh, I'm going to stop right now before I start an angry, bitchy rant that offends community theatre actors everywhere.  Not that propriety has ever stopped me from squarely planting my foot down my throat in the past.  God knows, I'm surely at the top of any NJ theatre blacklist.

But as I get older, I find it more and more difficult to politely keep my complaints and frustrations to myself.  If there's such a thing as incontinence of thought, someone get me a value pack of super absorbent adult diapers stat because I've recently developed a unique strain of diarrhea of the mouth I like to call "did-I-say-that-out-loud?" syndrome. You know the saying, "If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all"?  If I abided by that particular bon mot I'd literally have nothing left to say.

I already see myself fifteen years down the road pushing a shopping cart down the street and yelling obscenities at people who unknowingly step into my path.  I finally understand where they're coming from.  And I accept the fact I will likely be a crazy, raving lunatic that people cross the street to avoid.

But back to the original topic at hand...

I'll post my review separately, but it seems the producers over at the St. James Theatre are having trouble filling the house for LOF.  It's regularly on TDF (where I got my tickets) and I received an email just last week from the production office offering free tickets to performances through the weekend.  It's a major, new Alan (Little Mermaid, Aladdin, Beauty & the Beast, et al) Menken Broadway musical and they're giving tickets away through a mass email?  Sounds pretty desperate to me.

I actually enjoyed the show, but apparently I'm in the minority.

I should also give a shout out to the always wonderful Kendra Kassebaum (she plays the lead character's sister) who I worked with on a national tour of Grease! years ago - in another lifetime - back when we didn't all have cell phones or laptops.  We whiled away the hours on the tour bus reading actual books - yes, made out of paper - and listening to CDs - you know, those round, silver thingies we now use as coasters.

I shall always fondly remember Kendra and Gaelen Gilliland entertaining the cast on long bus rides with their over-the-back-of-the-seat puppet shows.  Oh, how I long for those simpler days of yore.

Week from hell

This week's heinous work schedule has made me question whether the Pinedas are supremely ambitious artists or just plain stupid.  I'm actually leaning toward the latter, as would many who have worked with us in the past. Oh, the things you can learn from facebook.

Thankfully, NJ Transit now has a strict "no donkey" policy, making my long commute much more pleasurable.

Carousel rehearsals are in full swing with just a month until opening night.  We're also heavy into tech week of Little Women which opens at the performing arts high school this Thursday and we just finished callbacks and sent out notification letters for our summer production of Legally Blonde.  

 For any full-time theatre artist, working on three shows simultaneously would be considered an ambitious feat.  So what the hell am I doing committing to all these projects now that the theatre is just an elaborate "hobby" for me?

As a recently turned corporate zombie and slave to the 1%, I have sold my soul for the luxury of a regular paycheck and health insurance.  Can you blame me?  A decade's worth of dignity crushing auditions and the degradation of serving hors d'oeuvres to snooty NYC socialites between the occasional acting gig will do that to a person.  Ironically, now that I've "retired" from the business, I'm busier than ever with directing and choreographing gigs. 

Since last Friday, I've slept in my apartment twice.  Everyday this week I'll head to my 9-to-5 and then run to Port Authority for a Jersey-bound bus for a rehearsal, run-through or performance of some kind.  I'll then turn around for the lovely commute back to my wreck of an apartment in Queens - getting home after midnight - for a couple of hours of sleep and to throw my unopened mail onto an ever growing pile on the kitchen table.

Speaking of my kitchen table (left), did you know that fisherman chic is the latest trend in interior design?  Not.  Those are just some fishing nets I've tea-dyed on my stove and hung up to dry.  You guessed it, I'm also the scenic painter, set designer, and set dresser for Carousel. FYI two-liter soda bottles make dandy fishing buoys with just a little creative papier mache-ing and craft paint!

Did I also mention my parent's are visiting and staying in my apartment for a couple of days?

I know, I know - I still owe you all a Once review.  Well, you'll just have to keep waiting.

Bi-polar Show Disorder

Legally Blonde and Carousel - could there be two shows any more stylistically different?  Between ongoing Carousel rehearsals for CDC and Legally Blonde auditions for our summer program, I've been experiencing a serious case of choreographic whiplash.  In the span of just a few hours this weekend, I went from the booty-licious rump-shaking of hormonal co-eds, to the repressed sexuality of turn of the century New England lads and lasses.  And if you're not sure which description belongs to which show, then you probably ended up on my blog by some strange googling accident and should stop reading before you catch "the gay."

We've already sat through four audition days for Legally Blonde and the competition is getting crazy.  I haven't seen so much pink hoochiness-in-heels since my Senior Prom in '88.  I realize these young ladies are just trying to dress the part, but somehow they've gotten the idea that the character of Elle Woods is a slutty whore.  Yes, she's clearly not a virgin, but it's also made clear that she's monogamous as well as rich and trendy.  Many of the young ladies we've seen thus far seem to be auditioning for Pretty Woman - The Musical (Alan Menken or Stephen Flaherty, please jump on this idea).

Carousel is shaping up to be quite a wonderful show - if I ever finish choreographing it.  I'm actually on par with my usual mid-rehearsal slump.  I usually need the pressure of the clock to get my artistic juices jump started again.  Hopefully, we won't have a repeat of my infamous unfinished dance number from the last time I choreographed Carousel, where I completed the number at the half hour call prior to the opening night curtain.  Good times.

Danced in my scanties / Three bucks a night was the pay / But I'm here...

If you don't know that quote, your rainbow membership is hereby revoked by order of The Friends of Dorothy.

But yes, I'm still here but extremely busy, so I haven't been quite as prolific with posting recently.  So much has happened since the ball dropped on 2012 that I don't even know how to start filling you in on my latest adventures.  I guess I'll just start typing and hope to finish before I need some lunch or before some selfish banker type interrupts my "me" time with a trivial request to book travel for some multi-billion dollar IPO.  Anyhoo...

Juan, Val and I spent several agonizing days in January locked in the mold-friendly walls of the CDC theatre auditioning folks who apparently cannot count to 16 (all you non-theatre folks, don't worry, you're not meant to get that reference).  The question weighing most heavily in people's minds was why we bothered to audition our sister, Trish, instead of just handing her the role of Carrie.  Well, because unlike most community theatre in New Jersey - and probably the nation at large - we actually don't pre-cast our shows.  I know, a bold and original concept, but we're crazy that way.

Sis was wonderful, of course.  But as they say in the casting biz, there was someone else who auditioned that turned out to be a better fit.  And yes, she still talks to us.

Our biggest surprise was the pathetic turn out for the auditions.  Is there seriously a baritone alive who would not sell his soul to play Billy Bigelow?  This, my friends, is the community-theatre-versus-professional-theatre conundrum.  An audition for Carousel in NYC would cause a stampede of "Julie"s and "Billy"s to storm the AEA audition center.  In Cranford, NJ, not so much.  It seems musical theatre's legacy is in the hands of performers who don't wish to appear in a show written before 1990 or that has the adjective "legit" in any way, shape or form associated with it.  Are we destined for a future filled with musicals based on mediocre films?  Dear God, what's next, Ghost the Musical?  Oh, wait...

We're now three weeks into rehearsals and though most of the first act is blocked, we still don't have a full cast.  Yup, we like to play on the edge.  We're kooky like that.  Fingers crossed that our potential new Jigger works out.  Otherwise, we're sort of fucked. 

In other news, the audition requests for our summer high school production of Legally Blonde are pouring in.  I can't wait to watch fourteen and fifteen-year-old girls try to act like sexy sorority co-eds!  I smell a law suit.

Believe it or not, I have yet to watch an episode of "Smash".  I'm all for promoting musical theatre on national TV, but the idea that Katharine McPhee would wow any panel of jaded Broadway professionals (singing Christina Aguilera, natch) is dubious, to say the least.  Instead, I choose to waste the precious few moments of my free time in the ultra realistic milieu of a post-apocalyptic world filled with "The Walking Dead."  Yes, I'll choose a real zombie over Katharine McPhee anyday.

Stay tuned for reviews of How to Succeed (viewing #2 with Nick Jonas), Merrily We Roll Along at Encores! and On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.

I'm going to be in a writing frenzy over the next few days, so you'll have plenty of bed time reading material coming your way shortly.

Groundbreaking? What ev's.

With all the hoopla over the current non-traditional casting in Arena Stage’s (DC) current production of Oklahoma! (rumored for a possible Broadway transfer no less!!)  I just want to say - we did it first!  Eat that Arena Stage.  Yes, in our 2008 production at CDC Theatre - two years before Arena’s “groundbreaking” casting of a Hispanic Curly and African-American Laurey - we cast Michael Miguel (Filipino) as Will Parker.  We originally even offered the Curly understudy track to an Asian guy. 

So for our production team’s obviously brilliant foresight, I’m giving us a well-deserved electronic pat on the back.  Now back to spreading crazy rumors about next summer’s conservatory show.  Best Little Whorehouse in Texas?  Dreamgirls?  Bring in 'da Noise, Bring in 'da Funk?  Flower Drum Song?  Hah…you’ll just have to wait until the end of the year.

Our "groundbreaking" casting of Michael Miguel vs

Arena's "groundbreaking" casting.

Lost weekend...

It seems I must resign myself to a weekend-free life. Per usual, I spent this past weekend in the Cranford, NJ sweatshop known as CDC theatre. Remind me again why I toil in third world conditions for just pennies an hour? Ah, yes, for the love of the thea-tuh! And in this case, love stinks - both literally and figuratively. We’re talking rainforest-like heat and humidity and lethal levels of black mold and mildew [insert long, self-pitying sigh here].

Free time in general seems to be a rare commodity for me lately. Having just spent months in rehearsals and the last three weekends in performances of The Wedding Singer, I had hoped for at least a brief respite from all things Jersey [insert second long, self-pitying sigh]. Every night last week I commuted to NJ for rehearsals of our Young Artist’s production of Donizetti’s Elixir of Love. Unfortunately, there’s this little thing I do during the day called “a job” that has a pesky habit of getting in the way. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I do appreciate the steady paycheck and commensurate lifestyle it affords, but that damn NJ/NYC/Queens commute does me in. I may just have to bite the bullet one of these days and relocate to at least west of the East River. It will pain me to give up my New Yorker status, but…oh God, I just can’t think about it right now. It’s like considering a move to Siberia.

Anyway, the opera went as well as can be expected for a 90 minute reduction of a 3 hour opera translated into English performed by grade school kids and accompanied by an orchestra of three (violin, flute and me on piano) sight-reading the score. Given the unfortunate overlap with Wedding Singer, poor Val was stuck with the mammoth task of producing and rehearsing this one on her own. Despite the reduced rehearsal time, the kids still managed to pull their sh*t together in time to make us look good.

So after a week of tech hell, two performances (our final Saturday night performance was pre-empted by the Westfield HS prom!), how do I choose to spend the rest of my weekend? Luxuriating at an Upper East Side spa? Enjoying the services of a high-priced rentboy? No, silly. At the theatre, of course!

With the Summer Conservatory just around the corner, Val decided we should get a head start building the set for Meet Me in St. Louis, one of the summer shows we’re producing with the high school group. But not before a celebratory Thai feast (we de-virginized Chris Grimm, yeah!) and making a drunk supply run to Home Depot. So armed with paint brushes and Egg McMuffins, we found ourselves right back at the theatre at 9am on a very hot Sunday morning trying to build a Victorian Mansion and full-sized working trolley car on the miniscule CDC stage.

Luckily, we had forced our brown and white sons - Greg and Chris respectively - into slave labor and hired our trusty paintress, Christy, to add her artistic flair to St. Louis. After ten hours of continuous labor we had painted most of the side stages, constructed half a trolley car and built various random pieces of Victorian furniture. Thanks to some creative dumpster diving, Greg was also able to find us some nifty trellis pieces. I love that the Westfield trash is better quality than what I have in my own apartment.

Highway to Hell

How long does it take two Filipinos, a couple boxes of vintage 80’s costumes and a bag of dirty laundry to travel by car from Scotch Plains, NJ to Astoria, NY on a Sunday night?

a) 1 hour
b) 10 minutes
c) Over 6 hours
d) All of the above

If you guessed “c,” congratulations, you’re probably a jaded bitch who feeds off of the bilious snark and hyperbole of sad old queens like me. If you guessed “d,” well, you’re just plain stupid. Regardless, my personal Trail of Tears began with a dignity-stripping emergency potty break on the side of the interstate and ended with Trish and I thumbing for a ride with our belongings (boxes and all) on a deserted industrial stretch of Long Island City roadway.

You may remember the infamous "Chewbacca" incident of several years ago. Though not quite as dramatic, this “ride” - and I use the term loosely - lasted just as long as the Richmond trip, only this time we covered a mere 30 miles (as opposed to 340). So for all you aspiring mathematicians, this trip definitely supplied a better “bang-per-mile” ratio.

To provide some context to our evening, Trish and I had spent five hours earlier that day in the moldy CDC basement sorting sweat-stained costumes, picking up dirty socks and t-shirts and wiping down crusty make-up stations. Wedding Singer closed the night before and we were looking forward to a magical evening at home with some Chinese take-out and the DVR. Trish was anxious to finish packing for her six-week-long trip to the Philippines. Since she’d only have one full day at the apartment before heading to Newark, she wanted to have one last relaxing evening at home.

But alas, ‘twas not to be. With the GWB just within our sights, the car’s temperature gauge began a mocking monotone buzz. Of course, with cement walls to both sides of us and no shoulder, options for pulling over were severely limited and we decided to push onward despite the warning. Push on, that is, until the pretty, white plumes of smoke began seeping through the hood. With traffic barely moving and the car threatening to self combust, we decided to risk imminent collision and stop right there on the slow lane of I-95.

Call #1 to AAA - we are connected to something called the GWB Authority for a tow. Fine. Except that I’ve had about a gallon of liquids since we left Juan and Val’s and I will very soon wet myself. With no shoulder and no obvious discrete hiding place, I decide that waving my member out the door for discharge is too gauche even for this demure flower. Instead - as suggested by my resourceful sis - I cut the top off an empty Poland Spring bottle, hop into the back seat, wrap one of Trish’s fashionable scarves around myself for privacy and….aah…relief. Of course, a full, lidless bottle of urine is not something you want or need sitting around a steaming car, so despite the threat of a $500 littering charge, I dump the bottle and contents to the side of the road. Shhh - don’t tell anyone.

A tow truck pulls up and we are temporarily elated. The driver informs us he’s not with AAA. He just happened to drive by, notice our distress and that for cash, he’ll tow us off the highway for much cheaper than AAA. We decide he looks a bit too much like a child molester and wave him off.

Call #2 to AAA, one hour later - Like the first call, the operator transfers us to The Authority (I’ll use this abbreviation for “GWB Authority” going forward since to me, it sounds both menacing and dangerous - but in a sexy, military sort of way). The Authority explains that since they own this stretch of highway, we must use their towing service to get moved off the highway and from there, we can call AAA. Again, fine. But The Authority isn’t going to outsmart us this time. We take their direct number to avoid further wait times and transfers.

Call #3 to The Authority, one hour later - Still no sign of a tow and it’s now dark out. The traffic continues to lurch along slowly. In the last two hours, two good Samaritans have stopped to offer help. No offense to you Caucasian readers, but both helpful souls are minorities. Not that that means anything, but where’s the love from whitey? I’m just saying. Anyway, The Authority now explains to us that we’re actually not on their property. Instead, we need to call the NJ State Police who will set up a tow off the highway and then we can contact AAA. What the f*ck?!?

Call #4 to NJ State Police, 15 minutes later - The state police are extremely helpful and quickly take our location and information. They’ll have a tow truck to us within 30 minutes.

Voila! 15 minutes later a tow truck magically materialized out of the traffic. We’re saved. Except this driver wasn’t dispatched by the state police either. He’s another random passing truck. We’ve been on the side of the highway for over 2 1/2 hours and Trish says, “f**k the police, we’re getting off the road.” For a nominal fee (cash, of course), he is going to tow us to a gas station where we can finally contact AAA.

Call #5 to NJ State Police, 15 minutes later - Trish explains our current situation to the dispatcher. The police won’t take responsibility if we use an unauthorized tow. We don’t care. We are then whisked away to a gas station somewhere in Fort Lee, NJ. It’s closed, but at least now we don’t have to worry about getting rear-ended by a semi.

Call #6 to AAA, 5 minutes later - Trish excitedly speaks to a representative who instantly rains on our parade. Because we are at a gas station attached to a garage, we must prove to the tow truck driver that we do not have any outstanding unpaid charges due to the station. Of course, it being 10:30 pm on a Sunday night in Fort Lee, the garage is closed and we have no way of proving anything. We ask if we can move (push?) the car off the property, but are told that it’s already been documented so we might as well stay put and wait. F*ck you, AAA!!!

Trish now has the same problem I had two hours earlier and walks around the dark property looking for a squat spot. She returns a few minutes later hoping she won’t wake up in the morning with a nasty rash on her dainty bits. For the next 90 minutes or so, I nap and compulsively binge on the only food source in the car, Danish butter cookies and Sun chips. Mmmm, healthy.

It’s just after midnight when the bright beams of our salvation round the corner. Thankfully, this driver has never heard of the “prove-your-not-stealing-this-car” policy that AAA had explained to us just hours earlier. We refrain from kneeling down and kissing his well-worn work boots, jump in the front seat of the truck and direct him to our mechanic’s garage.

It’s now nearly 1 am and we are a block away from Salamis. As we approach, we notice that all the lights are off and the metal gate is stretched across the office door. Did I mention the garage is supposed to be open 24 hours? And that it’s located on a deserted, dirty, industrial stretch of Long Island City? Our friendly tow truck driver declines our tip. He’s probably grateful to get rid of two sweaty passengers and drive away from the likely location of a soon-to-be mugging and double murder.

Call #7 to Salamis, 90 minutes later - Standing just outside the locked office, we hear the ring of the office phone taunt us on the deserted street. Miraculously, someone answers. Tony has been sitting in the darkened office manning the garage phone. Apparently, just their towing service is 24 hours, the garage, however, is closed for the night. Yeah, whatever, just take our car keys and fix the damn thing.

Call #8 to Executive Car, 15 minutes later - Our new best friend, Tony (I made that name up. I don’t have a clue what his name is, but he looked like a Tony), calls us a car. Of course, Trish is leaving for the Philippines in less than 48 hours and has all her dirty laundry in the van as well as two huge boxes full of Wedding Singer costumes that need to be mailed back to the warehouse. We stand on the deserted street corner with all our bags and boxes, serenaded by Tony’s Brooklynese chatter, waiting for our car. Finally, Akmed (I made that name up, too - and yes - I’m racist) pulls up. We load all our belongings into the trunk and back seat of his Lincoln Town car.

“Are you moving?” he asks. “Shut the f*ck up and drive, bitch,” I want to say. Instead, I give a fake chuckle and say, “No, it’s complicated.” He doesn’t pursue it further. He sees by my glare that I’m mentally imbalanced and might possibly stab him through the back of his leather seat cushion with a machete.

We finally get home at around 1:30 am. I carry the boxes up the stairs and immediately head to bed knowing I’ll have to be at the office in seven hours.

(Almost) no rehearsal this week OR Fausto has too much time on his hands because he's writing on that damn blog every single f*ckin' day!

So all I do is bitch and moan about how busy I am. Finally I get a couple of days off and I’m bored. I’m not saying I’m thankful that I had to trudge out to NJ for the brush-up rehearsal last night - and thanks to the MTA for making me miss my bus - but I guess I’m just the kind of personality that needs constant amusement, like a cat or a 3 year old.

Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty to do. My bathroom is disgusting and don’t even ask me how long it’s been since I’ve changed the sheets on my bed. But rehearsals, work and commuting have been a great excuse to put off other, probably more important tasks like cleaning up that lethal black mold city growing in the shower and getting rid of that three week old plastic bag of white and green fuzz in the fridge. And don’t even get me started on the DVR list. I guess I just have to wrap up in my snuggie, order a pizza and have a Fringe, Survivors (BBC series, not the reality show), and Glee marathon. Honestly, I enjoy Glee for the musical numbers (when are they going to have a Sondheim episode? And before you say it, I know, I know, nobody outside musical theatre cares about Sondheim, but a girl can dream), but quite frankly, it’s pretty badly written. I mean, every single character is a scheming two-sided bitch. Even Mr. Shuester isn’t that sympathetic a character. Oh well, maybe it needs some time to find it’s rhythm. I mean, those early episodes of Sex and the City were pretty inconsistent. Remember Carrie’s asides to the camera? Scary. And wait, what was the point of this paragraph? Oh yeah, I’m a procrastinator and use my “busy” life as an excuse to live in filth. Who needs a therapist?

The cast seemed pretty upbeat at today’s brush-up rehearsal. I was afraid people would show up all attitude-y since a brush-up was never included in the original rehearsal schedule. But hell, if you want to maintain “the best dancing that’s been seen on the CDC stage in years” you have to crack the whip, LOL! I don’t mean to make light of a wonderful review in this week’s Westfield Leader (and Ms. Dougherty, if by some weird reason you’ve found this blog, please stop reading) but technically, praising the dancing is a compliment to the dancers not the choreographer. She never actually says that the choreography is any good, although I think that’s what she means. Or does she? In a veiled way is she saying that the choreography sucks and that the poor talented dancers rise above it? Is she trying to sabatoge my career? Does Ms. Dougherty not think I would see through her charade? Mama, am I pretty? Ok, maybe I do need therapy.

Is that a tomato in your pocket or are you just glad to see me...

Like Frankie says, “Relax.” Well, sort of. After months of rehearsals (granted, only a couple of times a week), The Wedding Singer finally opened Friday night. Truth be told, I’m relieved to finally get the show up and running. I haven’t taken the lead - choreography and co-directing - in a big, dance-heavy show like this since Millie years ago and my old, rickety bones and fat ass weren’t exactly an asset in this particular instance.

With all the press, the color pic in this Sunday’s New York Times NJ section and a visit from local boy Matt Sklar (who happens to be the show’s composer!), I think we’re on our way to another big seller for the CDC. I smell a Tony - LOL. And yes, I will take a moment to pat myself on the back, since the last two critical and box office hits at the theatre have also been Pineda productions - last year’s High School Musical and Oklahoma! a couple years back.

The crowds have been wild and vocal (in a good way) and ticket sales are chugging along briskly. It’s nice to see the cast finally relax into their roles and find their timing with a live audience. For better or worse, the f-bomb doesn’t seem to offend much anymore and the sex seems almost quaint nowadays. The reaction that caught me off guard is the huge ovation that greets the first act gay marriage proposal (on both nights). It’s funny how topical that moment is now even though the show was written years before Prop 8 or any of the recent gay marriage debate. And already, several audience members have confided to me that their favorite number in the show is “Single.” Really? I mean, the men certainly sell the sh*t out of it and it’s a great number, but a show favorite? - unexpected. Just goes to show that audiences connect with characters and not difficult dance moves.

On the cast gossip front, I hear (since it spanned well past this old man’s bedtime) that the Saturday night cast party took a turn into college dorm territory with an interesting game of “Truth or Dare,” emphasis on the “Truth.” Hmmm, I might have to take a power nap before next week’s party so I can stay up with the kids and listen in.

And while we're on the subject of not sleeping, I'll soon head into opera territory with Val and the opera company's Young Artist's production of Elixir of Love in a week or so, playing keyboards and helping out with some set painting. From there, we figure out how to build (and store!) a freakin' trolley backstage for the Conservatory's summer production of Meet Me in St. Louis. Vacations are for pussies!

And for those of you in the know, my Big Boy and German Johnson are doing just fine despite the cold weather, thank you very much.

Wedding night jitters...

I can’t believe The Wedding Singer is finally opening tomorrow night after only three months of rehearsal. In case you didn’t get it, that’s sarcasm, folks. Granted, we only rehearse a couple of times a week, but it seemed like a lifetime.

This week was particularly trying as the usual personality flair ups and hidden egos emerged from formerly docile individuals under the stress of the dreaded TECH WEEK. I, myself, am guilty of losing it a couple of times over the past few days, mainly for messy choreography. Unfortunately, my “extremely angry” is other people’s “mildly irritated.” Which I guess is probably slightly confusing for the cast, since I rarely raise my voice unless I’m screaming out counts. The day after my “tantrum,” I had to explain to a couple of cast members that I was, in fact, very angry at a certain individual, even though it seemed like business as usual. Which probably means I’m going to snap one day and murder an entire cast for some trivial mistake - “I said kick on ‘two’ not ‘three.’ Die biyatches!” And curtain.

My other flip out this week was over costume changes. We had a few people complaining about the unreasonable amount of time they had for changes. I don’t know where these people have worked before, but to me, a “quick” costume change is under 20 seconds. Anything over that is basically a spa day. I’m especially unsympathetic when you complain after only trying the change once or twice without giving us the opportunity to work it out. Hello - that’s what tech week is for. It’s especially laughable knowing we had a 15 second full costume change in our last show at CDC. Seth has a fun section about quick changes in his Broadway 101 show - it’s also only 15 seconds and even has a wig change!



I think Trish (our costumer) has finally worked out all the kinks and everyone will get onstage fully clothed. Well, if they’re supposed to be, anyway. Tonight we do our first performance for an invited audience of mainly senior citizens. Scary, I know, considering the show is squarely in PG-13 territory with some questionable sexual content. But, hey, senior citizens deserve a little excitement in their lives as well, right? I feel some walk outs coming.

Rehearsals and Auditions

It’s been a crazy month so far with rehearsals and meetings in full swing for The Wedding Singer and auditions for Meet Me in St. Louis stacked on top of it all. I’ve mostly only praise for my great Wedding Singer cast - no complaints from me as far as talent. Honestly, the cast is as talented - in some cases, more talented - than many “professional” companies I’ve worked with. My only real point of contention is rehearsal attendance. I know, it’s community theatre and people have lives and blah, blah, blah. Um, hello? I have a life, too. A very full one, thank you very much, and my tired ass is at every friggin’ rehearsal. I’m sure I have the biggest commute of anyone - two boroughs, two states and two rivers! My Tuesday evening commute to the theatre and back to Queens is longer than the actual rehearsal! Sorry, I don’t mean to yell. I guess I just have to accept rotating absences as par for the course. It’s how community theatre works and I just have to get used to it (insert long sigh here). But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Rant over.

Even though The Wedding Singer process is turning into one long game of “guess-who’s-coming-to-rehearsal?”, the show itself is really starting to shape up. I mean, I can only guess the opening number will look spectacular, as I’ve never actually seen it performed with the full cast at any given run (I know, I’m such a bitch). That said, it will be a great show. I mean, an 80’s period musical is inherently funny - parachute pants, the “Roger Rabbit,” mullets (see pic above) and jelly shoes? How can it not be hilarious?

As far as Meet Me in St. Louis auditions, it’s going to be a crap shoot. Unlike other years where there have been some obvious front-runners, this year’s group looks to be on equal footing. Granted, we’ve only auditioned half the group and callbacks are always full of (good and bad) surprises. Thankfully, MMISL is not a dance heavy show. And by the looks of our dance callbacks, that is a very good thing. For you mothers that read this blog, don’t get your panties all up in a twist. There are some excellent dancers amongst this year’s high schoolers. All I’m saying is that a full company dream ballet with this group would not be pretty.

Happy belated T-day! Gobble, gobble

Well, I've finally found some time to update. I can't believe how much sh*t's happened since my last non-review entry before Thanksgiving. It's all a nauseating blur. I'll just run down the bullet points.

I flew to Richmond the night before Thanksgiving. It was my first time home in over a year. We released mom from her oven shackles, unbuttoned our pants and went to a local buffet. Why did we never do this before? I mean, you can sleep in, eat all the turkey, ham and trimmings you want and you don't have to clean a single dish. Genius. The rest of the day was spent wallowing in gastric pain and watching really bad TV - a perfect holiday scenario.

Since we lazed around the house all day, we decided last minute to make a Black Friday run to the outlet mall in Williamsburg, VA, which opened its doors at midnight. As it turned out, we were one of thousands of families that thought this was somehow a good idea. Even before we got to the exit, it was stand still traffic miles away from the shops and it was friggin' 12 o' clock at night! When we finally got to the entrance of the mall, all the parking lots were full and barricaded closed. So we had no choice but to turn around and drive back to Richmond. Three hours later and empty handed, we arrived back home. Everyone decided to get up at 4am and head out to the stores. I decided to go to bed and not get up until my bladder forced me.

Since Juan, Val, Trish and Billy (Trish's best friend from Richmond who recently moved to Astoria) had driven to Richmond earlier in the week, I road-tripped back with them rather than fly. The ride was uneventful, unless you'd call a painful case of nearly explosive diarrhea an "event." Soon after getting home, I realized I had gotten some crazy food poisoning or caught a stomach virus. So I ended up missing Sunday's all day tech rehearsal for HSM. I'm not sure what's worse, ten hours of tech or ten hours on the toilet.

Anyway, the rest of the week was spent at my daily 9 to 5 and commuting back and forth to NJ for rehearsals. I would not recommend this schedule for anyone trying to recuperate from illness. One five-show weekend later, I'm finally feeling better. I dropped off 20 pounds of dirty laundry (literally), cleaned all the dishes in the sink and cleared the debris from my living room floor. I'm finally returning to the land of civilized behavior just in time to start rehearsals for our Holiday concert, prepare for Carmen rehearsals and finish up the run of HSM with a six-show weekend. Yippee!!!

Me feeling bloated and nauseous after way too much turkey and stuffing.

Rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals

At the moment, my life seems like one never-ending rehearsal of revolving shows, casts and production teams. I’ve just finished an excruciatingly painful week of rehearsals and run-throughs with what amounts to basically a 90-minute piece of fluff (High School Musical). The truly sad part of it all is that it isn’t in better shape, considering we started rehearsals in SEPTEMBER! Granted, there have been some breaks and it’s not like we rehearse everyday, but still, three months is an awfully long time for what amounts to a cheesy after school special. Hamlet it ain’t.

I might get busted on this one, but I think a lot of the blame goes to the rehearsal schedule. Of course, I should have spoken up. But hey, what can you do? I mean, 30 seconds of choreograph can potentially take half an hour to teach while a corresponding 30 seconds of dialogue may take five minutes. That’s a 6:1 ratio that wasn’t remotely reflected in the rehearsal breakdown. But then again, how many cast members have a nearly 2 hour commute each way to rehearsal? Anyone…anyone? No one? Well, me, for one. So I wasn’t exactly begging to have additional rehearsals added to the schedule. For perspective, Val schedules an hour or two of initial rehearsal time per ensemble number for our operas. Operas! And believe me, there ain’t a lot of full out dance breaks in Puccini.

A lot of the HSM “songs” - and I use the term loosely - straddle the line between requiring blocking and/or musical staging. Here’s where some major miscommunication took place. I really think we (the director and I) assumed the other was “blocking” certain numbers, so when we finally got to the run-throughs it was like, “Oh, I thought you were doing that?” Big time, “oops.” Anyway, it looks as though it will all work out.

This is the director’s first big show at the helm, so she seemed a bit stressed out when some dance numbers seemed a bit shaky. And by shaky, I mean fell apart completely. But, hell, It’s not uncommon for a Pineda Production to have its first full run-through on opening night. So compared to that, I guess we’re way ahead of the game. Wait until I decide to re-choreograph the entire opening number before the final run-through. Kidding - well, only half-kidding.

Crazy-ass Week

What a crazy-ass weekend. It started off last Thursday with High School Musical rehearsal and ended Monday with a hellish late night bus ride back from a Merry Widow sitzprobe. I take that back, the crazy-ass weekend didn’t really end officially until after Trish and I voted Tuesday night after work. No, wait, I take it back again, I guess it didn’t really end until after Obama’s speech later that night. Oh, wait, I forgot about yesterday’s first dress rehearsal for Merry Widow. And I have to head back out to NJ right after work today for the final dress. So actually, my crazy-ass weekend hasn’t ended at all and has sort of turned into a crazy-ass week. No, I take that back, too, it’s actually turned into a crazy-ass month. Oy!

Adding to the weekend merriment was my cousin, Al, and his new girlfriend Bridget. He was here to run the NYC marathon. So on top of commuting back and forth to NJ for rehearsals, we had to entertain and host out of town relatives and try not to look like raving lunatics in front of his new gf. I think for the most part we succeeded on the latter, but Sunday’s post-marathon dinner in Long Island definitely did not help our cause. More on that one later.

After work on Friday, Trish and I planned on going back into the city for an evening of Halloween freak watching with Al since Bridget didn’t arrive until Saturday afternoon. Alas, witches and vampires were not in the cards for us this year. Upon arrival from the airport, Al promptly crashed on the couch complaining of general sluggishness. We settled for Brazilian and Thai take-out (yeah, weird combo) and watching movies in the comfort of our living room. We were hoping Al hadn’t been infected by the bug that Trish had passed on to the rest of the Pineda clan earlier in the week - definitely not a good thing if you’re planning on running 26 miles the next day. Case in point, I felt like shit Thursday night after rehearsal so I took some cold medicine that totally knocked me out. I then ended up sleeping through my alarm clock and getting to work late. Not 10 minutes late, not half an hour late, not even an hour late, but THREE hours late. Luckily (or sadly), no one seemed to notice until I called in. Oh well, who needs self-esteem anyway?

Early Saturday afternoon I headed to NJ for a nasty five-hour Widow rehearsal. I won’t even go into the agony of it all except to say that we had to finish blocking the show that day, meaning all of Act III. I left Trish in the city to cousin-sit because in addition to Al and his gf, our cousin Rosanna and her bf, Jamie, flew in from Michigan, and another cousin, Margot, and her husband, Jim, drove in from Long Island. I love my family dearly, but the idea of spending the entire day traipsing around the city with them sounded like torture. Don’t get me wrong, they’re lovely people, but walking around midtown Manhattan on a weekend afternoon with six people in tow is like me trying to squeeze into a pair of speedos - it’s possible, but not pretty. Apparently, there was some minor restaurant trauma because the group decided to stray from Margot’s Nazi itinerary and not go to the village for dinner. A table for seven at a nice restaurant in midtown on a Saturday night without a reservation? - good luck. (I was going to throw in another speedo analogy here, but I’m sure you’re still recovering from the horrific image conjured by that last one.) Well, I guess luck was on their side because they ended up at some great Cuban place knocking back Sangrias, while I, on the other hand, settled for dried out steak-um strips at a diner on scenic route 22.

weekend festivities continue under "Crazy-ass Week Part Deux"

Perry Awards or Long Days Journey Into Night

Well, I’m fairly bursting to write about last night’s Perry Award presentation. As any of my regular readers know, I’m certainly not one to censor my - how shall I put it? - strong opinions. But since what I write may have a trickle down effect on one of our partners, the CDC theatre, I’ll simply leave the cattiness to my private blog (email me if you’d like to be added to the guest list).

For all you casual readers, let me just say that it was an excruciatingly long evening. I left after 10 pm and they had only just started the “second act” of the ceremony. Without commenting on any award winner or specific presentation, some of my observations:

The cost versus food ratio: Jeez, for $60 a pop, you could at least have an open bar or maybe free beer and cash bar for liquor. And crackers and cheese are not that expensive. Those cheese platters were virtually licked clean 15 minutes into the cocktail “hour.” The main entrée was just sad. 400 chickens died for naught. But you better believe that for $60 I forced that dry chunk of poultry down my throat. To be fair, the mashed potatoes and pasta were quite good. But how much does a sack of potatoes and a carton of dried pasta cost?

The host: Oy vey! I understand that he’s the president of NJACT, but really? His most tacky moment (in a string of tacky moments and bad jokes) was encouraging the audience to “boo” an award winner that wasn’t in attendance. I mean, I’m sure he was probably trashed, but that’s not a good enough excuse.

The cruise video: They showed a five-minute video-commercial for a Caribbean cruise where the passengers will be made up entirely of community theatre people. That’s the selling point?! I cannot think of anything less appealing than being trapped out at sea in a boat filled with thousands of theatre queens, fag hags, wannabees and their admirers - in other words a floating Sodom and Gomorrah accompanied by show tunes. Um, count me out.

The performances: Eight minutes to present scenes from your nominated show is just too long. Considering the nominated performances have all closed and we can’t see them anyway, why bother? How about letting nominees perform no more than two selections from their show not to exceed 3 minutes and then showing a couple of production photos. And since it’s just ridiculous to compare community theatre choreographers to Michael Bennett, NJACT can get off its high horse and give the outstanding choreography nominees at least a minute to showcase their work. And trust me, some of those nominees would have been better represented were they given less time. I’d have given my left nut to see the thought bubbles popping up around the room during some of the performances. Although the amount of raised-eyebrow looks across tables was nearly as amusing.

The Best Stage Manager category: I think my thoughts were best summed up by the winner herself, and I paraphrase, “I’m not sure what criteria you used to judge this category, but thanks.”

By the way, I didn't win for "Outstanding Choreography" but am still immensely proud of my cast, who managed to bring the restless, noisy crowd to complete silence during their 40 seconds of stage time. Congratulations! No award can equal the satisfaction of completely captivating an audience.

HSM or My Secret Inspiration

I really don’t get the mass hysteria and appeal of High School Musical. I mean, yeah, it’s “current” as far as musical style and story (not), but come on. I’d rather hear a well written traditional score than a poorly written contemporary one. It’s not even that “contemporary.” Spring Awakening’s score is way more current. And, hello, you can sing “You Can’t Stop the Beat” from Hairspray over the chorus of “Status Quo.” Original? Not really. And that book. Sheesh, I’ve never heard any teenagers in our summer program speak like that. Ever. For me, the only saving graces are Sharpay and Ryan. They are so over-the-top and ridiculous that you can’t help but enjoy them. The other characters, not so much.

Believe me, I’m not saying that musicals are supposed to be the height of realism, but some things just don’t happen in real life, not even musical theatre real life. People auditioning for a show as a couple? Come on. Someone being shunned for playing the cello? Maybe in back woods Mississippi where they still walk to school barefoot, but at a contemporary, urban high school? I think not. Maybe my high school was weirdly ahead of its time, but in 1988, we did The Wiz and practically the entire school was in it, including most of the football and basketball team. So perhaps I just don’t “get it.”

Either way, I just don’t think it’s a well written piece. Even Grease, where you’d literally have to slip me a date-rape pill, hog tie me to a chair and ball gag me to sit through, at least has a tuneful score and tries to scratch (though barely) below the trite “peer-pressure-is-bad” message with references to teen pregnancy and underage drinking. Nothing in HSM even comes close to “We Go Together” (which “We’re all in This Together” is a terrible rip-off of), “Beauty School Drop-out” or “Worse Things I Can Do” as far as musical quality. “Ballad of Sweeney Todd” they are not, but they are solid musical theatre songs.

I know what you're thinking, "The kids love it. So who cares?" or "You're just an old fart" or maybe "F*ck you, I wanna' have Zac Efron's baby." Well get in line bitches. But really, why all the ranting? Why do I give a rats ass about HSM? Actually, I don’t, really. It’s just that now I’ll literally be bombarded by it for the next four months (I’m choreographing it for CDC Theatre), and I want to get all the hatred out of me before rehearsals start so I can smile and put on the happy face for all the kiddies in the cast. Trust me, I will in no way use this opportunity to display my HSM-phobic nature. On the contrary, I’m going to try my damn best to make the musical staging so ridiculously good that you won’t notice the material’s shortcomings. So I guess, in a way, HSM is inspiring me to do my best work. Yeah, that’s it. OK, now I think I can move on.

Michael Bennett is laughing his ass off

How much can one accomplish in 45 seconds? Quite a lot actually. After I stopped bitching and moaning about the time restriction placed on the presentation of my “Outstanding Choreography” by the producers of the Perry Awards ceremony, I began whittling the 15-minute dream ballet down to a 30 to 40 second snippet that would best display my choreographic genius (sarcasm folks, get used to it). Granted, I didn’t stop bitching and moaning until just this weekend, when I met with my two lovely leads, Chris and Corinne. But after some judicious cutting and some creative re-choreographing, we’ve actually come up with a 45 second mini-dream ballet! Not that it’s perfect or that I couldn’t use another 10-15 seconds (or minute or two or three), but necessity is definitely the mother f*cker of invention.

Now just because I was able to figure out a sufficient (though not ideal) solution, I still think 40 seconds is ridiculous. Here’s how the producers explained the time limit to me - and I’m paraphrasing quite freely, of course. Since Michael Bennett was able to accomplish so much in the first 40 seconds of A Chorus Line, you should, too. And that makes sense how? It’s apples and oranges. First, Bennett was a genius and I am not worthy to wash his dance belt, let alone deign to think I could accomplish anything remotely akin to ACL. But I can’t speak for the other nominees. Perhaps one of them is a genius on par with Bennett hiding in the world of community theatre in defiance of the artistically barren, commercial wasteland that is Broadway. But I seriously doubt it. Also, there’s context. The first 40 seconds of ACL are not plot-driven. It’s an audition situation that is meant to showcase technique, not further plot. What are you supposed to get out of that first 40 seconds of ACL? That these are really good dancers at an audition. Of course, that's over-simplifying and God knows I'm not implying that the first 40 seconds of ACL aren't brilliant, but Bennett's genius was that he knew his context, not to mention his knack for putting together striking stage pictures and formations. It's not so difficult to put together a series of difficult tricks. But try to couple those tricks with concise, meaningful story-telling. That’s a different matter. I choose to present a complete, thoughtful section of choreography that tells a full story and develops character rather than haul out a horse-and-pony show of triple pirouettes and tour jetes.

And then there’s tempi - there are a lot of counts to fill in that first 40 seconds of ACL. Not so much if you’re using a slower, lyrical section of music. I know what you’re thinking. Nobody’s holding a gun to your head, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou Fausto, and forcing you to use the Dream Ballet. OK, fine, you got me there. But I was told that it would be “really great” if I could. I mean, how subtle a hint do I need? The producers obviously want me to do that section. Anyway, the other nominees are either tap or traditional “Broadway”-style jazz dance. All of which, in my opinion, are more easily showcased in a 40 second snippet. I mean, 40 seconds of 42nd Street? Puh-leaze. I can have 15 people doing wings and triple time steps and finish it off with front handsprings across the stage and the audience will be creaming in their pants.

And then the shows nominated for Best Production get seven minutes to present whatever they want. Seven minutes? That's three full songs. The Tonys don't even grant seven minutes.

The Perry people complain that their ceremony takes too long. Might I suggest 90 seconds for choreography and 5 minutes for musical scenes? I think that’s completely fair and still manages to cut down the time of presentations by several minutes. Oh well, I’m just bitching and enjoying they view up here from my high horse. The Perry producers don’t give a rat’s ass what I think, although I am part of the Pineda's, an up-and-coming family in NJ community theatre. That should count for something. Or more likely, nothing. But I guess I'm just ranting like a lunatic. But it's far cheaper to do it here than on a therapists couch. Deep breath - I feel much better now.

Les Mis rewind

OK, so I'm getting flack from people because I didn't really write anything about our summer conservatory's production of Les Mis so to make it more interesting and in honor of my Perry award nomination, below are my picks for the First Annual Pineda Summer Conservatory Awards, The Pinedas for short.

Latest start of performance: During Friday's matinee (which also happened to start 15 minutes late), the fire alarm went off ten measures into the prologue and everyone had to be evacuated. We waited outside the theatre for at least 10 minutes more until the fire department arrived. Did I mention it was like 150 degrees out?

Performance with the most tears: Saturday night's show. Lots of audible sniffling in the audience. A close second, the ring of sobbing kids around the dessert table at the Spotlight's cast party's "pass the love" session on Thursday night.

Longest death scene: Anna Dugan as Fantine, Sunday evening. Well, I guess it wasn't necessarily longer than usual, it just seemed that way because Brian Hart (Valjean) forgot to go onstage. He was outside the theatre shooting the sh*t with Pami Marks as she was spraying his hair gray and giving him wrinkles for the next scene.

Best performance of a wig: The short Fantine shag. That sucker would not stay on anyone's head (even for Briana on Cabaret Night). It looked great, though! Runner-up: The Fantine long blond wig. Those two beeyatches looked great in that sucker.

Best "Lovely Lady" cleavage: Anna Dugan - 'nuff said.

Best "Lovely Lady" antics: Anna Dugan (see above) and Jen Dilzell with her skirt-lifting chair straddle.

Most consistent wrong vocal entrance: Peter Carmo. Twice for "Lovely Ladies" and twice for "Look down..."

Most fanatic audience member: The Les Mis freak who had seen the Broadway production 10 times and requested tickets for a sold-out Friday night. His reply, "I'm thin." After a second denial from Val, he asked for standing room tickets. Standing room? He'd obviously never been to the CDC.

Worst ensemble vocal: Thursday night's machine gun second act ending of "tomorrow c-c-c-c-c-c-comes!"

Most f*cked up musical scene that was never correct during performance: "Attack on Rue Plumet"

Most likely not to watch the conductor for an entrance: Catalina - as Epinone before "don't you fret...", close second - anyone in the "Attack of Rue Plumet" scene, close third - Dillon on entrance after "Liar."

Most mispronounced character name by Valerie: Thenardier.

Cleanest "dirty" person on stage: Anna Dugan. You need more dirt on that face, girlfriend.

Best ensemble "deer-in-headlights" moment: Friday matinee's begger entrance of "Look down..."

Loudest ensemble entrance: see "headlights" moment above.

Best understudy: Bobby O'Rourke as the foreman. Totally skeevy groping those gals.

Wierdest mother/daughter combo: Stephanie Louis (Madam T) as Holly Curran's (Eponine) mom.

Most diverse character acting choices: William Shore. From priest to drunken lech. Way to go Will!

Most chewed scenery: Dan Berman, Friday evening performance.

Most likely to be roaming around theatre with no shirt on: Tie - Peter Carmo and Dan Berman.