Magnolia wilts but the south rises again on our living room table

I hate to speak ill of the Queen (Queen Latifah, that is), but last night’s African-American remake of Steel Magnolias was sort of a hot mess.  To quote my friend, Jenn Love, this remake translates “about as well as a white Soul Train.”

Like most woman and gay men (yes, a stereotype, but oh, so true) across the country, I tuned in to Lifetime last night for some sassy southern charm and a good cry.  It turns out my southern-themed dinner was way more satisfying and than this tepid, made-for-TV version.  But let’s start with the highlight of the evening, my dinner. 

After an intense afternoon at the theatre yesterday afternoon, Trish and I decided to lighten our spirits with some retail therapy in Union Square, stopping at Burlington Coat Factory for some completely un-necessary purchases before heading to Whole Foods. 

A southern spread that would make Paula Deen proud.

Using the movie as inspiration, I decided to try my hand at some slow-roasted pulled pork.  Since Trish’s friend, Billy (a tried and true southerner), was planning to join us, I opted for a Carolina-style, vinegar-based roast.  I created my own spicy dry rub and marinated our two-and-a-half pound slab of pork butt overnight.  The next morning, I got up early to throw that mother in the oven where I let it slow roast for eight hours.  By the time I pulled the slab from the oven, it had developed a thick, smoky crust and juicy pink center.  Yum. 

For sides, we went full out Paul Dean mode - fresh squeezed mint lemonade, biscuits with maple butter spread, green beans sautéed in butter and brown sugar and three-cheese mac n’ cheese with a salt and pepper potato chip crust.  Billy supplied a sweet “happy ending” to our food orgy with red velvet cupcakes from Billy’s Bakery.  (Sigh) If only the movie was as equally satisfying.    

Of course, you can’t serve up a southern supper without the proper table setting.  I mean, WWMD (What would Martha do)?  So Trish and I made sure to round out our new mason jar mugs (purchased on our Burlington trip the other day) with appropriately gaudy flowered tablecloth, fresh flowers, windowpane glass pitcher with water glasses and white dinnerware (all purchased that same afternoon from the amazing Bargain Stop).  Can I get an “Amen, girl” from the congregation please?

As for the movie, well, I'm giving these wonderful women a pass this time and just content myself with re-watching The Help and Last Holiday.

Unlike most of the civilized world, my weekends are not a time to rest and recuperate from the daily grind of the week.  Enjoy a Sunday afternoon stroll through the park?  A leisurely brunch at a cozy cafe?  A lazy Saturday on the couch catching up on missed TV?  Yeah, right.  How's this for leisurely - Friday, work eight hours in the office and then commute to NJ to play in the pit for Little Women; Saturday, spend the morning building sets and then play a matinee and evening performance of Little Women;  Sunday, rehash elementary school memories papier mache-ing dock posts and painting sets at the CDC Theatre and then lead a 3 hour Carousel rehearsal.

After a weekend like that, sitting in my comfy, ergonomic desk chair with nothing more strenuous to do than type on a keyboard and answer a phone seems like a day at the spa.

I can only fantasize about those lazy weeks in June when all I'll have to do is work one full-time job and not have to double commute mid-week for a rehearsal in Jersey where I'll be on time, yet everyone else will be late even though my commute is time twice as long and I'm relying on public transportation.

God, I'm bitchy these days, right?  Maybe I still haven't recovered from Oprah canceling The Rosie Show.  Though two lesbian day-time talk show hosts (Ellen/Rosie) does seem like overkill.  More likely, it's because the annoying Big Brother team hasn't yet been eliminated from The Amazing Race.  I just want to strangle that Rachel with one of her ridiculous sequined tank tops every time she starts whining about how tired or frustrated she is.  Oh, and can you believe how fierce Michelle Obama looked on The Biggest Loser?

Or maybe I just watch too much reality TV.

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.

Tonys

Oh, the Tonys.  Does anyone except New Yorkers and gay men (despite the opening number disclaimer) even watch?  Though the ratings are always dismal, word is that CBS president, Les Moonves, likes to hang on to them for the "prestige" factor.  The show regularly wins the low-ranking network a few Emmys each year.

Well, if the Tonys hoped to catch any straight viewers this year, their unfortunate scheduling opposite the NBA finals dashed those hopes.  Oh well, maybe next year.  And maybe someday you'll also find me relaxing on a Sunday afternoon with a cold beer and a football game.  Ha.  I couldn't even type that with a "straight" face.  (insert rim shot here).  Some of my telecast highlights and observations:

• Thank God Brooke Shields is gorgeous.  Though even with her fuck-ups, she's just so darn likeable.
• Frances McDormand in a jean jacket.  Seriously?  Could she also not find a hair brush? 
• I'm happy for Nikki M. James, but she should've thought through that bumbleebee story before getting up there.
• Ellen Barkin is very serious.
• Daniel Radcliffe is adorable and will sell tickets but I still think the number is over-choreographed. 
• I'm stumped by Sister Act.  I haven't seen it yet, but the excerpt shown didn't impress me.  Alot of screaming (i.e. high belting) and unintelligible lyrics to an uninteresting melody.  Maybe it needs to be seen in context.
• Nei Patrick Harris chastising an audience member, "Why are you touching me?" right before a commercial break.  High-larious!
• NPH and Jackman are just delightful together.  But weird (depressing?) how even the spoofs of classic Broadway showtunes are better than most of the original scores honored this season.
• I hate to sound like one of those snotty theatre queens, but Sutton is no LuPone (or Merman, for that matter).  I still love her and someone should write the girl a new show quick.
• What crazy 80's time warp did they pull Martha Walsh out of?  Glad Priscilla got to do a number, but it didn't come off as fun and fabulous as it did in the theatre.  Seemed a bit like just a better-than-average drag show.
• Did anyone not think Book of Mormon was going to sweep?

And of course, NPH's hilarious Tony rap-up courtesy of Lin-Manuel Miranda (In The Heights).

I need a life

Congratulate me.  I'm 30 days sober today.  That's one month show-free.  Though I'm still suffering withdrawal symptoms, I've started to substitute with my DVR.  Though not the same heady high I get from the scent of a freshly cut Playbill insert nor as thrilling as hearing a full chest-belted high E, TV has its own unique pleasures. 

Last Saturday, for instance, Trish and I spent nearly 8 hours watching back-to-back episodes of Chuck.  Like any good addiction, at the start it's mildy amusing and you tell yourself you can take it or leave it at anytime.  By the fourth episode, though, watch out.  I could barely pry my eyes from that HD widescreen long enough for a bathroom break or for anything as superfluous as food. 

Otherwise, life without The Broadway has been pretty uneventful - long days strung together by the daily bitchy threads on All That Chat prophesying the end of civilization due to the continued presence of Spider-man on the Great White Way.  I'm no Spidey fan, but I can't wait for the glut of spring musical openings so we can stop hearing about the musical web-slinger.

We also recently sat through auditions for Pineda Lyric's young artist production of The Bat.  There's nothing quite like teenagers singing coloratura.  Not that there weren't impressive moments, but shifting hormones and high C's coupled with nervous teenage energy - that's just an accident waiting to happen. 

Val was actually able to cast a full company from the day's auditions.  Though if you were lucky enough to possess male anatomy, you were granted a lead role by default.  It's good to be a boy in high school theatre. 

Blizzard of 2010 -- photos coming soon!

This morning was a commuting nightmare.  Thanks to the Blizzard of 2010, the Q train suspended service leaving me with only one subway line, the N train.  Of course, my stop - an outdoor platform - hadn't yet seen a shovel so this morning's throng of commuters were straddling the back metal wall for fear of slipping onto the tracks.  Misery breeds a weird sort of camaraderie between commuters and though trains were late and we were packed tighter than Adam Lambert's jeans, everyone seemed to just go with the flow.  I didn't really hear any complaining except for a singular outburst at the 59th street station when someone yelled, "Stop pushing."  Pretty tame for New Yorkers.

So here I am, at my desk and clocked-in five minutes late - not bad considering the 25 inches of snow on the ground.  But no matter, my floor is basically empty with only a few analysts and a handful of assistants at their desks.  I smell a long day of net surfing and online shopping. 

As for the rest of my holiday weekend, Saturday’s blizzard warning prompted mom and dad to adopt a wait-and-see stance before heading into the city.  I didn't want to get stranded in NJ for the rest of the week, so I headed out Sunday morning just as it was beginning to flurry - or as my malapropism-prone mother likes to say, flourish.  I guess everyone else had the same idea.  The NJ Transit bus was packed and already running 20 minutes late.  At least I didn't have to stand for the whole trip unlike some of the later boarders.  Exiting the NYC side of the Lincoln Tunnel it was clear the meteorologists got this one right - Mother Nature was gonna' take a massive dump on us. 

From Port Authority I opted for the subway rather than a cab in anticipation of some horrific weather-related traffic.  I'd already gotten a sneak peak on the bus ride in - four car accidents in less than 10 miles of highway between Union and Newark.  By the time I was finally off the subway and walking the last few blocks to my apartment there was at least an inch of snow on the ground.  Ignorant of the storm predictions, I had only packed smooth-soled dress shoes.  So you guessed it, I slipped and fell flat on my ass right in front of the Dunkin Donuts on 30th Avenue.  On reflection, this was probably a sign from God to stock up on munchkins and Boston crèmes for the long winter hibernation to come.  But as is often the case with divine revelation, I was too pre-occupied with anger, cursing and embarrassment to notice.  The moral of the story? - God wants me to eat more doughnuts. 

By six, it appeared I would be trapped in the apartment (alone - mom and dad wisely decided not to travel into the city) for at least the next day, so I threw on my boots and trekked to the Rite Aid for important supplies - toilet paper and Lindt chocolates.  Don’t judge.  They had the special Christmas flavors (of chocolate, not toilet paper - that would be just plain weird) at 50% off!  Obviously, God had given me a second chance to stock up on useless calories and at half price.  Can I get an "Amen"?

I also made a detour to Radio Shack to buy a memory card for my new video camera.  As soon as I figure out how to use it, I will post my blizzard photos.

I woke up Monday morning to a winter wonderland.  It was like a crack house threw up all over the street, only colder and without the syringes.  Ignoring the weatherman’s pleas to stay indoors, I strapped on my boots to see whether any other other idiots decided to venture out.  It seems Astoria is full of idiots because the streets were brimming with activity.  Sidewalks were being shoveled, cars were being un-buried (pardon the passive voice), dogs were shitting and kids were playing.  Plowing Queens (that sounds dirty) is obviously not a priority for the city since the side streets (i.e. my street) appeared impassable.  A few abandoned cars - I imagine the drivers got stuck in the snow and just gave up - created lovely arctic snowdrifts smack dab in the middle of the street.

I was surprised to find both the Key Food and Rite Aid open though under-manned.  I took this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to play King of the Grocery Store and shop the abandoned aisles.  This must be how Paris Hilton feels when they close the Cocaine Emporium on Rodeo Drive to the general public so she can shop un-hassled by the paparazzi.   Shopping completed, I headed home with my bags filled with ingredients for a big pot of homemade chili.

I spent the rest of the day lounging in my underwear, scoffing bowls of chili and watching an all day marathon of “Living in the Time of Jesus” on the National Geographic Channel.  The three-part documentary was actually pretty interesting and oddly secular given the title and subject matter.  Don’t worry, I’m not heading off to Seminary anytime soon.  Every other channel was showing blizzard coverage or re-runs of Oprah.  

Sadly, the snow day was wasted because I had already taken the day off from work.

Broadway in DC - a hot mess

The current PBS special taped at the White House is a valiant attempt to legitimize Broadway as an art form.  But I don’t think we won any converts on this one.  The show could easily have been subtitled “When bad song choices happen to good people.”  From the cheese-tastic faux jazz riffing of Brian D’Arcy James in Irving Berlin’s “Blue Skies” to the painful off-tune screaming of Idina Menzel in the now cliché “What I Did for Love” - bad choices abound (and I’m a fan of both).  The sole shining moments were (unsurprisingly) provided by the Goddess, Audra MacDonald.  Yes, I do worship at the shrine of Audra, but let’s face it, she performed in a plane far and above everyone else.

Stritchie could have hit it out of the park if she could remember lyrics.  Did someone blackmail her into singing “I’m Still Here”?  The woman is theater royalty, but she is ancient and known for “inconsistent” memory as of late, so why straddle her with verse after verse of tricky Sondheim lyrics?  In her defense, no one but La Stritch could blow lyric after lyric and still have the audience eating out of her hand.

And that 12 year old girl?  Hello - Barack’s black, so we have to get a little black girl to sing at his event?  We have plenty of girls at the Conservatory who can sing and act circles around her.  It’s national TV, folks, someone coach those robot arms out of her.  This is not the 8^th grade talent show.

In the theater Chad Kimball sounded magnificent, at the White House he sounded tired.  Karen Olivo needed to dial it down four notches for the TV camera.  The Hairspray number was fun, but didn’t excite like it did in the theatre. 

I know, I sound like a big ole jaded theatre queen - which I guess I am - but this is a nationally televised event.  To me, it was a missed opportunity to market the shit out of Broadway and make people think, “Hey, this Broadway thing looks interesting.  Maybe I should give it a try.”  Instead, we get an under-rehearsed, mish mash of unrealized opportunity.  Where were Patti, Bernie, Cheno & Hayes, Carolee, Murney, Stokes?   I’m sure the producers wanted to showcase new talent, but at least give them material and arrangements that excite.  How about D’Arcy James singing a real swinging tune like “Lady is a Tramp,” Olivo singing something from In The Heights or Menzel singing something subtle (does she do subtle?).

And we can’t even blame some idiot TV producer since it was produced by Broadway mega-producer Margo Lion and directed by Goerge C. Wolfe.   Oh well, the back-up combo kicked ass.

This week the chat rooms are buzzing with South Pacific talk. Who knew a PBS airing would create so much net discussion. I caught Paulo and Kelli early in the run, so it was a pleasure seeing them again with the aid of the camera close-up. Beside the obvious larger girth around Paulo’s middle (they couldn’t get him a new white dinner jacket that closed comfortably for National TV?!), both were as wonderful as I had remembered. My random thoughts on the broadcast:

• Ables Sayre certainly acts the role of Bloody Mary marvelously, but I still miss the more robust, creamy sound of a legit singer.
• The Seabees dancing still strikes me - for lack of a better word - as sort of gay. And some of them are pushing the butch act a bit too hard.
• Happy to see they didn’t edit out the naked ass scene.
• Andrew Samonsky’s Lt. Cable was painful to watch. His strange audible breathing, odd line readings and forced John Whayne-ish physicality was just plain weird. And all the hard “r” sounds in his singing negated his obviously pretty singing voice. I missed Morrison, even though his singing wasn’t so hot either.

My name is Fausto and I'm a...

Is there a 12-step program for reality show addiction? Because I just can’t stop. Thank you networks for the particularly cheese-tastic array of choices available for summer viewing. These are my drugs of choice:
Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List
Mall Cops: Mall of America
The Fabulous Beekman Boys
Losing it With Jillian
So You Think You Can Dance?

I literally had to delete shows from my DVR list because it can only record two shows at one time (sorry Intervention and Hoarders, you will be missed but not forgotten). And there are still shows that I want to see but am physically unable to squeeze into my 18 waking hours a day (Cupcake Wars anyone?). Here’s why I can’t live without them (OK, maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but I am a thespian and a homo - the perfect storm of theatricality):

Kathy Griffin - A gay man with a vagina, Kathy lacks any trace of subtlety and tact, but she is fuckin’ hilarious. I like that she calls celebrities (and herself) out on their bullsh*t and would be honored to have her as my hag.

Mall Cops - This show is brilliant. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d think it was a parody a la "Waiting for Guffman." I mean, a show about the dangers of being a mall security guard? Last night’s episode had the guards stopping an ice cube fight, chastising a fast food manager for blocking a fire exit and helping a special needs customer find his slushie. You can’t write that shit.

The Fabulous Beekman Boys - A gay NYC couple, one an OCD former doctor and VP with Martha Stewart and the other a former drag queen turned advertising exec, buy a farm upstate and attempt to run it using information gleaned from Google and advice from Farmer John, a gay animal lover whose love for his llamas literally brings him to tears in the first episode. ‘ Nuff said?

Losing it - I love watching people cry.

SYTYCD - The only talent show on TV that actually rewards people for having legitimate training. Imagine that?

And speaking of TV, I caught the first two acts of Live from Lincoln Center’s HD broadcast of Simon Boccanegra last night starring Placido Domingo. The man is 69 and still sounds incredible (although that wig - yikes!). I’m 40 and feel used up. It’s just not fair.

2009 bites the dust

After being bombarded with year-end stories and articles from every media outlet and publication on the planet, I thought I’d add to the white noise with my own truly insignificant (well, not to me) Year End Wrap-Up! So if you haven’t been keeping up with my blog, it’s OK. I won’t think any less of you, loser.

Well, from the sidebar you can see that I spend, and in some cases waste, much of my hard(ly)-earned paycheck on shows. I was thinking of listing my top ten theatrical experiences, but sadly upon review, couldn’t find five truly outstanding performances to list. So in no particular order, my best for the year are:

Ragtime, Broadway revival - Will we ever hear a true legit score on Broadway again that isn’t a revival? It’s pretty f*cking depressing that having too much vocal training is now a detriment to casting. The only way this revival could be any better would be to get Audra to reprise her performance as Sarah.

August: Osage County, Broadway - Any show where I get to see Mrs. Claire Huxtable stumble around in a drug-induced haze rates high on my richter scale. Add some incest, suicide, racism and infidelity in the mix and I call that entertainment - or a typical week with the Pineda family - minus the incest, of course. Even we have standards.

Guys and Dolls, Scotch Plains HS - Yes, I am referring to a high school production and not the mediocre Broadway revival from earlier this year. Why? Because it took a high school production to reassure me that million dollar sets cannot hide bad material, direction or casting. I was even jealous watching it, thinking it was much better - and it pains me to say it - than many Pineda productions. High school directors take note, a chorus aimlessly standing about upstage does not constitute “direction.”

And the worst production of 2009? Drum roll please - the Broadway revival of Bye, Bye Birdie. What an embarrassment. I permanently damaged the flesh around Trish's knee from constantly clutching it in shock and horror. Sure, John Stamos and Gina Gershon are hot, but dancers? Not so much. Sadly, the highlight of the evening was checking out the beautiful state of the art urinals in the theater's newly renovated bathroom. Yes, the show was that bad.

Looking back, I don’t understand how I made it through the year without collapsing. I directed/choreographed the opera company’s Magic Flute and Dido and Aeneas, choreographed Beauty and the Beast for South Plainfield HS and co-directed and did some musical staging for the conservatory’s On The Town. And as always, the Pineda family performed benefit concerts throughout the year to help pay for our summer house in Cancun - NOT! All of this, of course, while trying to stay awake at my regular nine to five at Morgan Stanley.

Pineda Lyric Opera finally received its non-profit 501(c)(3) letter earlier this year, so we now have a Board of Directors and are all official and sh*t. This has been a long time in coming and we can finally start begging for donations. That means you’d better start sending us those fat checks. We know where you live.

This year also marks the last year I can say I’m in my 30’s. Yikes! Is it really possible we are now starting to send kids off to college? And that even after working with us for years, these same kids STILL want to pursue careers in the arts? It’s scary to think that in the next decade there will be a slew of actors coming to NYC who are graduates of the Pineda Conservatory. Broadway, you have been warned.

As for resolutions - I guess I’d like to finally take a vacation that’s more than just a long weekend, preferably somewhere warm with palm trees and cabana boys in thongs. I’d also like to hit the gym again and get rid of the spare tire I’ve acquired over the last year. Maybe luxuriously lounging in my caftan while chowing down on pizza and ice cream during The Biggest Loser wasn’t the most ideal fitness regime. Other than that, I guess 2010 will be full of directing, performing, working (a real job) and more b*tching.

My newest obsession

I’m obsessed with Obsessed, a new TV reality show on A&E about people suffering from OCD (Ironic, huh?). I don’t want to seem unsympathetic or cruel, but just like a fiery crash on the highway, you just have to slow down and watch. And before the PC police get their panties in a bind, I don’t mean to compare these people’s very serious compulsions to a car accident. It’s just that the repetitive physical movement coupled with the emotional intensity motivating them is hypnotizing. Even I can admit I’m anal about certain things - dirty dishes in the sink, clean bathroom, turning lights off - but I certainly don’t have an anxiety attack if I see a dirty whisk or stray hair on the toilet seat.

The best part of the show is when the patient starts treatment. The phrase “face your fears” has becoming a cultural cliché. Yet this is the guiding principle behind exposure therapy, which in itself is a rather unfortunate name (I picture a nasty old guy in a long trench coat flashing people on the subway). One woman was obsessed with the idea of murdering people. She believed that if she got too close to a gun or a knife (or any weapon), she’d just pick it up and start slashing. I actually don’t see the problem. I used to get that “slasher feeling” at Broadway chorus calls all the time. Being forced to sit in a tiny room full of obnoxious chorus boys, narcissistic wannabes and screaming queens definitely could motivate anyone to mass murder. Anyway, this particular patient became so terrified of snapping and setting off on a bloody rampage that she became a social recluse - "Law and Order" take note, good idea for an episode. For her “first exposure,” the therapist laid out an array of huge knives. The patient was then forced to hold the blade against the therapist’s throat while listening to a tape recording of herself reading a passage about murdering people. The horror and fear on the patient’s face was riveting. And that therapist must have a huge pair of ‘nads to let that knife blade touch her neck. That’s what I call must-see TV!

Obsessed!

I’m so obsessed with The Biggest Loser. I don’t know if it’s because I was a former fatty or if I just love the drama of it all (or perhaps both?). I mean, each week at least one contestant has a mental breakdown. How can you not love that? What’s really sick is that I always watch while I’m sitting on my fat ass and stuffing my face. As the contestants are throwing up on the treadmill or having heart palpitations from over-exertion, I’m chowing down on - gasp - carbs! Yum. Unfortunately, this week’s finale was sort of lame. I’m a sucker for cheesiness. I love when the contestants karate chop through the life-sized posters of their former fat selves to show of their new, svelte figures. That’s drama, people! But this year, only the finalists got the poster treatment. Lame-oh! I mean, there’s nothing exciting or dramatic about having the contestants just walk out on stage waving. Where’s the theatricality, the bombast, the drama!?!? Obviously a straight person directed the finale. Oh well, I guess I should just be happy for them.

And while we’re on the subject, let me just say that reality shows are one of my all-time favorite, secret (well, maybe not so secret) vices. I’m obsessed with them. There, I’ve said it. Yes, I’ve lived in shame and denial for too long, so I’m officially outing myself. Let me be clear, I don’t go slumming around with those trashy dating shows like Rock of Love or The Bachelor. I go for the more rugged type myself. My latest obsession is The Alaska Experiment on Discovery. The show follows a group of people varying in age and background, dropped off in the wilds of Alaska with limited equipment and no food. They’re given a map and a compass and are asked to trek out of the tundra and back to civilization. Along they way the group needs to learn how to start fire, hunt and scavenge for food, build shelter and generally survive in the wilderness. What makes this show different from most others is that there is no “winner” and no prize for finishing. These freaks (and I use the term with love and emulation) actually volunteered to be stranded in the wilderness for…wait for it, wait for it…the experience! They just want to see if they can do it. What the hell? I’m so jealous. I mean, it’s not like their homeless or jobless and have nothing better to do. Within the group there’s a lawyer, a bus driver, a cop, a gay horse trainer (the trainer’s gay, not the horse), a housing director, a personal trainer a wilderness outfitter and a landlord. Are these people independently wealthy? Do their bosses not care? I wish I could just take a month off and volunteer to be stranded in the Alaskan wilderness.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not belittling these people’s achievements. Alaska ain’t exactly Club Med (well, unless you see it by cruise ship like I did). In most episodes, the group goes days with little more than a mouse drumstick for nourishment. Literally. I’m not kidding. It’s certainly eye-opening to watch seemingly level-headed professionals digress into verbal sparring over sharing a couple ounces of mouse meat or comment on the delicious merits of porcupine paw stew.

Anyway, the group is now down to five from the original nine. Last week, the big, burly Jersey cop went home because the group couldn’t catch enough food (i.e. calories) to keep his muscular frame functioning. You see, each person carries a GPS device. At any time, a team member may push a button that instantly sends a rescue helicopter to their location. I can’t wait to see who drops next! I’m already excited about the premier of what is sure to become another globe-trotting favorite, Expedition Africa on the History Channel. Well, at least until the next season of The Amazing Race starts up.

DVR and the Biggest Loser

DVR is both a blessing and a curse. Yes, I’m grateful to get rid of my dusty old shoe box filled with scratchy unlabeled VHS tapes, but now I’m faced with a new dilemma - too many choices. I mean, the option to record two shows at the same time? That’s just crazy talk. And seriously, unless you’re a pathetic loser, there isn’t enough time in the day to watch all those shows. Trish and I have resorted to “marathon nights” where we stay up until 2AM watching four or five episodes of one show (which, I guess, makes us pathetic losers?). Of course, that puts us further behind since we have to record the shows we’re missing while we’re trying to catch up. Life was so much easier when there were only thirteen channels and no cable. Do teenagers today even know what rabbit ears are?

Now I never watch anything on the night it actually airs. So on the rare occasion that I’m watching something live, it takes me two or three frustrating attempts trying to fast forward through the commercials before I realize, “Oh, I’m actually watching the show live.” Why is my life so difficult? (Please note tone of sarcasm) Anyway, a couple of days ago I was trying to catch up on some random shows that have been on the DVR queue forever. I don’t know if it was that particular combination of shows or if it was just that time of the month for me, but I could not stop crying. Yes, I audibly wept through The Biggest Loser, Grey’s Anatomy and Michael J. Fox’s TV special about optimism. Now that I think about it, I pretty much asked for it. I mean, first, an injured, overweight dad forces himself to complete a marathon even though he looks like he’s going to die because he wants to prove something to his overweight teenage son. Then a commitment-phobe holds an impromptu wedding for his dying girlfriend. And lastly, everyone’s favorite Back to the Future star discusses how he still manages to stay optimistic and positive though slowly losing his motor functions to a debilitating disease. Yikes! There’s nothing like a light evening of entertainment at home, right? And as Trish often says, I do have quite a large vagina. Come to think of it, who needs a therapist? I got to work through my weight issues (I’m in mourning for the loss of my 32” waist), commitment/dating issues (single for almost five years now) and mortality issues (preparing for the big four-oh next year) all in one four-hour mega-session on the couch. Granted, it was my living room couch and not the therapist’s couch. The only thing that would have made the evening more perfect? A pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and a Papa John’s pizza. A girl can dream.