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.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

Shh, don't tell anyone. This is last year's
  tree but looks eerily like this year's tree.

Somehow, the family decided that on the one free day between the Conservatory’s biggest concert of the year (A Very Merry Pineda Holiday Spectacular) and the Christian world’s most important holiday, we should host a party.   

Don't get me wrong, Val’s dad certainly deserves the most wonderful 70^th birthday party humanly imaginable, but hosting it on that day is sort of the definition of “bad timing.”  No matter, with the catering genius of Mama Love - the mother of one of our favorite Conservatory alums, Zach Love - and a tray full of the best of the donated baked goods from last night’s after-concert reception, we were able to host dadski’s extended family with pride and panache (FYI we call Val’s Polish parents “momski” and “dadski” to differentiate them from our Filipino “mom” and “dad”).

The party went off without a hitch, though Trish and I had to make a beer run early on - those Poles can really put 'em down.  There was the usual gossip, disorderly behavior and inappropriateness that accompanies any family gathering, but after a rousing chorus of “Sto lat” and ice cream cake, all the aunts, uncles and cousins finally bid their adieus and we are able to enjoy the exquisite silence of an empty house.  I decide to spend the night in Jersey because I am just too tired to make the trek all the way back to my apartment in Queens.

With the extra couple of hours I save by foregoing a late night commute, I decide to head to bed early.  Besides, tomorrow is Christmas Eve and I’m planning to spend the day with a very special someone --- my work computer.  That’s right folks, after a whirlwind weekend of parties, concerts and rehearsals, I get to relax for a few hours at my desk high atop Times Square.  It may sound like torture to you, but I’ll get to sit in luxurious solitude while surfing the internet and watching Youtube in a deserted office.  Heaven.

Monday morning, while the rest of the civilized world is still dreaming of sugarplums, I’m on an NJ Transit bus into the city.  No matter, it will all be worth those few hours of alone time at my desk.  For later today, I know real life will again sink its dual claws of familial guilt and obligation into my jugular. 

As expected, the office is completely empty except for one or two fellow geniuses who have also decided to take a vacation from their vacation.  The hours fly by, but before I can get through another webisode of The Walking Dead it's time to clock out.  I descend the thirty six floors and exit into Times Square where the cold air slaps me back into reality. 

I rush back to my apartment in Queens to pick-up Juan’s Christmas gift.  I won’t go into the gory details, but the store I had ordered his gift from conveniently “forgot” to ship my order.  All I have time to do is change my clothes before heading straight back to Port Authority where I catch a bus back to Jersey.   

I arrive at Juan and Val’s house just in time to jump into their car and head to rehearsal.  Juan has hired us to fill out the chorus for that evening’s Christmas Eve mass at the Lutheran Church where he is the choir director. We rehearse, perform a prelude concert and make it through the service without any major mishaps.

Before the minister has a chance to chant her last “Amen,” we're back in the car and heading - where else - to another church.  We may worship the same God, but when you’re Catholic, Lutheran service doesn’t count.  With that in mind, as well as a healthy dose of parental guilt in our hearts, it's off to St. Helen's.

By now, the roads are covered in a deadly mix of slippery snow and slush.  No matter, Catholic guilt is way stronger than your basic human survival instinct, so risking life and limb, Juan slips and slides the car into a parking space.  We push open the church doors just in time to hear the choir singing the final chord of the prelude concert.  I'm guessing the median age of the St. Helen’s choir hovers around 110.  It sounds as if the whole group is harnessed into one of those old-fashioned weight loss machines that straps around your love handles and attempts to jiggle your fat away.  In the car home from the service, Juan, Val, Trish and I make an oath that we will smother one another with a pillow before allowing one of us to perform with a crazy-ass wobble. 

The mass is finally ended and we go in peace to love and serve the Lord (that's an inside joke for all you Catholics).  It's still snowing, but we make it home safe and sound.  Christmas Eve 2012 is now almost a blurred memory.  As the siblings and parents rush to secret corners of the house to finish wrapping gifts, I head upstairs and stumble onto the foam pad on the floor I lovingly refer to as "my bed."  I've traversed two states and crossed both the Hudson and East Rivers twice today.

“Wake ahp.  Eets time for brake-fahst!” I hear Antonia Banderas calling for me.  Am I dreaming?  Has my secret Christmas wish come true?  He continues yelling up at me until his voice slowly morphs into my mom’s Filipino-accented voice demanding we come downstairs for Christmas breakfast.  It is then that I remember that the priest at St. Helen’s, Father Jose (no joke), sounds eerily like Puss in Boots from Shrek.  Disappointed, I head downstairs for scrapple and eggs with the family.

Following breakfast, we gather in the living room and exchange gifts.  I make out pretty well - some nice sweaters, a couple of DVDs and a combination speaker/charging station for my iPhone.  The big surprise is for Juan and Val.  This year, me, Gerry and Trish decided to save up and help pay for some of the medical costs associated with Val’s pregnancy treatments.  As expected, along with our gift checks come Val's hysterical crying, but we are prepared and casual ignore her.

What we hadn't prepared for was the appearance of Magic Mike.  He made such an impression on me, that I gave him his own blog entry.

Anyway, after finally wiping the image of Matthew McConaughey's butt cheeks from my memory, I settle down for a long winter's nap.  When I wake, I head to the kitchen to help Val prepare Christmas dinner.  

Like this year's post-Thanksgiving "Thanksgiving" dinner, this year's Christmas dinner came pre-packaged and ready to re-heat.  No regrets here.  Delicious.

The Pinedas and Sierackis Christmas dinner 2012

Leaving no time for the tryptophan to take effect, I pack my bag and head for the bus stop to grab the late NJ Transit bus back to the city.  I need to sleep in my comfy bed tonight so I'm well rested.  I have another hot date with my work computer bright and early in the morning.

Merry Christmas!

Take That, Martha Stewart!

After coercing our Billy Bigelow, Chris Grimm, to drive two hours out of his way to come pick us up in Queens and drive back to New Jersey for Saturday night’s Carousel performance, we felt obligated to throw him an impromptu 24^th birthday party at our apartment.

Not to worry, dah-lings, we’re expert entertainers and even with a limited time frame and budget, we came up with a celebration that would make Martha Stewart proud.  Here’s Fausto's breakdown for giving a fabulous party with only two hours notice.

Pork belly, pulled pork and ribs.  Oink! Oink!

1.  Order a bunch of pork products from Butcher Bar.  White people seem to love barbecued pork products (and cole slaw).

Tasty AND descriptive

2.  Pick up a fancy chocolate chip cake.  Yes, that would be a cake without icing, but instead a large soft chocolate chip cookie on the top and bottom and layered with chocolate cake and cream.  White folks seem to love chocolate chip cookies almost as much as barbecue.   

Oh, and make sure to personalize the cake with some loving term of endearment like, “Happy Birthday Manwhore.”* 

*Special thanks to Anisa at Terrizzi Pastry Shop who didn't bat an eye at our unorthodox text request (whispered across the pastry display).

3.  Pick up some colorful balloons.  It doesn’t matter what they say, as long as they’re festive - our choices - “Happy Birthday,” “Mis Quince” and “It’s a Boy!”  And make sure the Latino gentlemen filling them with helium knows that they’re a joke and you actually do know what “Mis Quince” means.

Aaarrgh!

4.  Pick a theme.  This was a bit more difficult given our time constraint and limited budget.  But as soon as I spied that pirate hat and sword at the dollar store, I knew where this party theme was headed.  Ahoy, mateys!

Baked by Melissa to end the party.

Another happy recipient of the Pineda's unique brand of  hospitality.

Happy friggin' birthday to me...

I am now firmly ensconced in my fifth decade of life.  Forty two years of debauchery and licentiousness have not been kind to my body judging from the random aches and pains that seem to materialize out of thin air.

A two hour dance rehearsal that once left me exhilarated now finds me limping and sore.  But even though what's under the hood is rusty and leaking, there's still a shamwow shine to my exterior thanks to a good set of inherited genes.  If my parents are any indication, I shall remain eternally youthful into old age.

On my 30th Birthday I rented out the back room of a trendy midtown bar, sent a mass email to everyone I knew and partied all night.  This year, I schlepped my tired ass to the CDC theatre where I spent my very special day splattered in paint and sweat.  No, it was not some kinky birthday surprise.  Instead, I whiled the day away building and painting sets for Carousel and rehearsing.  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.  Luckily, Juan and Val were right there with me.

For the first day of the forty-second year of my existence I happily settled for a nice quiet dinner at the local Thai restaurant, a big glass of red wine and an evening splayed on the couch watching reality TV.

Partying is severely over-rated anyway.

Trish's Real Birthday Meal

Last Saturday’s brunch was only the beginning of a weeklong 30^th Birthday Celebration for my baby sister, Trish.  I guess “baby sister” sounds somewhat ridiculous when the "baby" is now three decades old.  No matter, it’s just an excuse to drink too much and eat out anyway.

 

Cupcakes!



For this first official Birthday meal, I made a reservation at Fatty Crab, a new Malaysian joint on the Upper West Side.  I wanted to keep it low key and casual and since I would likely be picking up the check, decided to make it an intimate evening with just Trish, me and Billy.

But first, I made a lunch hour stop at the Cupcake Café to pick-up a bunch of Trish’s favorite buttercream-frosted cupcakes in lieu of a traditional birthday cake. 

In a Birthday miracle, Billy arrived at the restaurant at the same time we did.  The host seated us immediately at a cozy corner booth.  The restaurant’s dark, moody lighting and blood red walls immediately brought to mind a funky backwoods brothel somewhere in the Appalachians.  Not that I’ve been to one.  Lately.

Armed with a Dark and Stormy (dark rum, house made ginger syrup, ginger beer, lime) we proceeded to down our weight in spicy Malaysian cuisine from the eclectic tasting menu.  The prices seemed a bit high for the portion size, but the food was tasty and we were drunk so it didn’t really matter.

Our fabulous waiter even supplied us with a complimentary bubbly alcoholic birthday beverage - again, we were drunk so I don’t remember what it was, or our waiter’s name, for that matter - and a candle-topped plate of sponge cakes.



On our way out of the restaurant, Trish noticed a Beard Papa’s across the street.  So though we could barely button our jeans, we were compelled to order cream puffs for the cab ride home.  Let’s just consider them appetizers to the birthday cupcakes waiting at home.

Enjoy the pics and don’t drool on your keyboards. 

Dark and Stormy - the drink, not me

Duck with Thai chilies

Spicy noodle with poached egg

Lump crab in chili sauce

Mussels in yuzu broth

Fried shrimp on pork belly

Birthday cake #1 & Billy's hand.

Notice the whorehouse-red walls?

Birthday cake #2!

I'm getting old...

Is it strange that I hang out at the Beer Garden but drink Diet Coke?  I guess I never acquired the taste for beer.  Regardless, I found myself at the Beer Garden Sunday night to celebrate my friend Chris’ forty-mumble-mumble Birthday. 

It seems like just yesterday we were bemoaning our lost twenties and now, all of a sudden we’re in our forties!  Reality hit me hard as I entered the outdoor patio of the Beer Garden searching for Chris.  I scanned the tables of young, frat-y looking douchebags and spotted Chris.  But who were all those old people he was sitting with?  Upon closer inspection, I realized they were mutual friends of ours, all of whom are within my age range - give or take a couple of years.

Shit!  My peers are all old.  Which makes me…oh, dear God, I can’t think about it.  Those frat-y douchebags were probably wondering what gramps and his group from the nursing home were doing out so late on a Sunday night.  Depressed, I treated myself to some gastro-therapy by ordering the barbecue meat plate from the grill.  That’s a huge plate piled high with pickles, sauerkraut, french fries, bratwurst, spare ribs, kielbasa, grilled portabellos and about half a loaf of bread.  Don’t worry, I shared.

Three old men at the Beer Garden

The Pinedas Take Manhattan!

Okay, so not quite as exciting as when the Muppets painted the town red back in the 80’s, but hey, we’re old.  And human. 

For a last "hurrah" before the start of camp, Juan and Val decided to meet Trish and I in the city for some fun and to celebrate Juan’s 40^th birthday.  Happy Birthday, gramps!  If you’ve been a regular blog reader you can probably guess the itinerary.  That’s right, the day was based on… wait for it… eating!  Surprised?  I doubt it.

Anyway, Juan told us to meet them at Petite Abeille in Chelsea at the un-Godly hour of 10 AM.  Don’t judge, it was a Saturday.  Juan heard about the restaurant’s incredible waffles on The Travel Channel, so we decided to judge for ourselves.  Well, the waffles were alright.  And by alright I mean they are like breakfast crack.  These golden brown slices of heaven have a crisp, sweet, caramelized crust that renders syrup unnecessary.  Yum. 

The dining room is quaint and small, but the service was a bit slow considering the restaurant was half empty when we arrived.  Being the first “morning after” of Pride Weekend I’m sure most of Chelsea was just crawling into bed after a fabulous night of debauchery.  Oh well, more waffles for us.

After finishing breakfast, we naturally headed up Fifth Avenue for… wait for it… more food!  Yes, we actually walked directly from one restaurant to another.  We are sick people. 

Technically, Eataly isn’t a restaurant.  It’s a complete Italian Market selling fresh produce, meat and fish and homemade pasta, bread and desserts.  They also have six restaurants, numerous take out stands of coffee and sweets and a rooftop beer garden. 

We wandered around admiring all the freshly made goodness just long enough to work up our appetites again.  We finally settled at La Piazza, a cavernous hall filled with marble-topped tables where you stand and nosh.  We ordered a Grande Piatto Misto Salumi e Formaggi, which is Italian for “big honking cutting board full of meat and cheese” or something like that (see pics).  We chased it all down with a delightful Prosecco - except for Val who is trying to get her own bun baking in the oven.  We felt bad.  For about 30 seconds. 

Having now consumed two back-to-back meals, we naturally decided on… wait for it… dessert!  Just when you thought we couldn’t get any more disgusting, huh?  Well, in Val and Trish’s defense, only Juan and I ordered dessert.  We both had gelato Italian style, in a brioche roll instead of a bowl.  Italians really do eat bread with everything.

We waddled out of Madison Square Park toward Sixth Avenue and hit up a quintessential New York institution, the summer street fair.  I know some people hate them, but there’s something comforting about seeing the same old vendors hocking mozzarepas, cheap sunglasses and even cheaper costume jewelry.  I don’t feel summer has officially started until I’ve sucked down my first watery $1 lemonade.

With the afternoon heating up, we hightailed it to Times Square for the matinee of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.  What better way to celebrate Juan’s birthday, Gay Pride and the passage of NY’s gay marriage bill then with disco drag queens. 

This was my second trip to Priscilla and it’s definitely tightened up since Trish and I caught it in previews earlier this year.  It’s no West Side Story, but it’s got such fun music and incredibly over-the-top costumes and performances that I forgive its faults. 

Tony Sheldon is still giving a wonderfully sweet and nuanced performance.  Will Swenson has a severe case of disappearing-Australian-accent-itis, but is still likeable and sincere as Tick.  I didn’t think it was possible, but Nick Adams appears to have buffed up even more since our last viewing a few short weeks ago.  I’m sure his performance is fine, but I honestly have no idea as my attention is always drawn to his remarkably chiseled abs.  On a side note, those fertility hormones Val’s taking must be super potent, because she was in tears by the final chorus of the closing number, “We Belong,” which says a lot because my eyes were dry and I cry at Hallmark commercials. 

After our disco break, we headed to Queens for… you guessed it, more food!  I’ve mentioned the Beer Garden

(the original, not all the upscale poser joints opening up around the city like sores a whore) to Juan and Val for years so I was very excited to finally introduce them to its laidback charms.  Of course, when we arrived the place was standing room only.  We wandered around the drunken groups and a surprising amount of toddlers and baby carriages trying to find an open table.  Should you really be getting wasted at what amounts to a huge frat party while caring for an infant?  Anyway, we ended up bumping into our cousin, Merce, who moved to Manhattan about a year ago from San Francisco.  She looked surprised to see us, though I don't know why considering we live just a couple blocks away, and immediately started to nervously explain that she was just about to text us to come meet her.  Yeah, right.  Busted!  Of course, we could care less.  Hey, it’s New York, people are busy. 

We finally squeezed into a long table between a huge group of twenty-something Asians and a couple of douchey looking white boys and their girlfriend.  Then Trish and I immediately bounded into Beer Garden mode.  I headed to the bar for a pitcher and Trish headed to the barbecue for pork products.  Trish returned with a tray overflowing with brats and fries.  The douchey guys looked longingly at our assortment of artery clogging items and in a friendly beer haze, we offered them our leftovers.  Of course, once you offer someone a brat you’re friends for life.  So in the end, we ended up bonding with our formerly douchey buds.  Turns out the girl is half-Filipino and engaged to one of the white dudes, so we ended up trading crazy family stories and warning him how his life is about to become a living hell.

Tipsy and with bellies distended, we walked back to my apartment.  Our food orgy complete, we decided to drive right back to NJ since we wanted to get an early start at the theatre the next morning to set up before the first day of camp. 

I've already started the countdown to the next food-centric Pineda road trip, our annual Washington DC July Fourth weekend extravaganza! 

That's funny, I don't feel a day over 40...

Thanks to incredible luck and a hell of a gene pool, I've never been one to shy away from revealing my true age.  When you're still mistaken for 30, it's sort of fun to see those surprised looks of envy and loathing. 

41 is such a boring birthday.  I mean, it doesn't really signify anything and it's such a big let down after "the big four-oh."  To compensate for its numerical insignificance, I decided to stretch the celebration through the weekend.  If there would be no pomp and circumstance, at least I could score a string of free meals. 

Since Thursday was a school night, we decided to postpone the real Birthday festivities for the weekend.  So on my actual birthday, April 14, I decided to be totally nasty and asked Trish to treat me to Papa John's.  Sure, a spicy Italian meats pizza with four different cheeses tastes good going down but it's not so friendly on the way out, if you know what I mean.  And being lactose intolerant, of course I couldn't end the meal without a big slice of - you guessed it - ice cream cake. 

Of course, no Birthday celebration would be complete without some kind of rehearsal, so I had to haul ass down to Jersey after work to spend my Friday night with a bunch of rowdy teenagers at Die Fledermaus rehearsal.  Fun. 

Continuing with the Italian theme, before heading back to Queens on Saturday afternoon Juan and Val took me out to The Olive Garden.  Don't judge.  I mean, who doesn't like endless salad and bread sticks? 

For Sunday brunch, Trish and I met Chris and Dan at The Astor Room, just a few blocks away from us on 36th Avenue.  It's a new restaurant underneath Kaufman-Astoria studios.  The atmosphere is really cool and laid back with a speakeasy vibe (a jazz trio added some authentic ambiance).  The food was better than average but the portions were a bit on the puny side.  I guess they made up for it with the free mimosa or bloody mary included with each meal. 

For dessert, we opted for blood and guts, catching a matinee of Scream 4.  The opening bit is hilarious and extremely clever, but after that it's your standard slasher flick.  Not that I'm complaining.  I love a good disembowlment.  The most exciting part of the movie? - the mini corn dogs.  Did I mention the portions at The Astor Room are on the small side?  Oh, and we also smuggled in my best Birthday gift yet, courtesy of Dan, a bag of Doughnut Plant doughnuts - glazed-covered orgasms in a bag. 

A View From the Bridge

I can’t believe I’m seeing my first show of 2010. Ugh. This means I’m only a few months closer to the big Four-Oh! Someone get me a walker! Well, at least I’m going to limp into old age seeing some bona fide movie stars.

Scarlett Johansson gives a respectable, if mundane, Broadway debut. She’s no Meryl Streep (yet), but she was solid. Liev Schreiber was excellent, as usual. I think the culprit here is casting because Johansson and Schreiber, at least how they are being played / directed, seem close to the same age. So we’re missing the uncomfortable “older-guy-hitting-on-jailbait” squeamishness that would add some much needed dramatic tension to the proceedings. As is, it reads like just another soap opera, albeit set in the 1950’s. And Rodolfo just reads like some punk kid. You almost hope Catherine gets it on with Eddie instead. Or maybe that’s just me projecting - because that would make one hot, celebrity sex tape. You know you want to see it.

Weekend at the Lake House

Trish and I spent a well-deserved weekend on Lake Harmony. In honor of his 40th Birthday, Chris rented a fabulous lake house in the Poconos and we spent our time eating, drinking and floating on the lake all weekend.

Me, Chris and Trish showing the love on the lake house balcony

Dewey making friends with the ducks

Birthday fun

My dear blogolytes, I have so much to tell you about. It’s been such a busy couple of days for me. Though not earth shatteringly exciting, I did have a very good birthday. Of course, it was nothing compared to Chris’ legendary rooftop surprise birthday party of several years back that was infamously marked by massive alcohol consumption, male strippers and penis ring toss. If you were there, I know you remember it with fond memories and just a whiff of regret. I won’t name names, but you know who you are Lori Leshner! Anyway, the days of Boogie Nights-type debauchery are over for this old warhorse. Instead, Trish and I had a relaxed dinner at a new midtown place called, Nizza. It’s a very affordable small-plate, tapas type joint where you can split about four or five dishes between a couple of people. Quite yummy. Definitely try the fried ravioli.

Next up was Seth’s Broadway 101 at New World Stages. This was a reprise of last year’s Actors’ Fund Benefit. The premise of the concert is that Seth is a “professor” of the Broadway musical and during the 90-minute “class,” he mixes stand-up, childhood stories, video clips and performances by a cast of Broadway singers, dancers, actors and musicians to demonstrate the numerous jobs that go into getting a show up and running (i.e. vocal arranger, swing, orchestrator). It is, of course, a show queen’s wet dream with more in-jokes and insider “winking” than a page of posts on All That Chat. The highlights: Andrea McArdle singing “Tomorrow”, Lillias White's riff-tastic "Don't Rain on my Parade", Jonathon Groff’s “Morning Glow”, clips of Cher singing “I Feel Pretty” (“…such a pretty meh”) and the whole head voice/chest voice tutorial. I’m sure this show will become a regular season offering, so I definitely recommend catching it the next time around. For all you star fuckers, seen at the 7:00 PM showing were Emily Skinner and Barrett Foa, whose aunt (the mother of one of our opera kids) is desperately trying to pair up with me. Not gonna’ happen Carla! I’m sure he’s a nice boy, but he’s totally Broad-WAY and I’m not. He’s also likely a decade younger than I and I do not date anyone who can’t remember Atari or old school TV, that’s before the “M” was added. Now, a hook-up? - that’s a different story. We’ll talk.

I took a day off from the Morg (that’s insider slang for Morgan Stanley) yesterday for my “fake” birthday since my real birthday was actually on Monday. Trish and I decided to spend the day at the Bronx Zoo. And we literally spent the whole day, seven hours, walking through all the exhibits. I know, sounds extreme. But since one of my degrees is a bachelors in biology, I loves me some scientific shit. Anyway, I highly recommend a visit, especially the gorillas in the Congo exhibit and the bug carousel (see fun pics below).

Me and my praying mantis

Trish and her bug

My new bff

After a power nap, Trish and I headed into the city to meet Dan and Chris at Whym, A new restaurant in midtown. The food was uniformly good and the atmosphere nice without being too fancy. If anything, it’s a bit on the chic-fag side, but very comfortable. Chris, of course, disagreed with my assessment until I pointed out the crystal bejeweled hanging lampshades and tight black-teed waiters. For dessert, we headed to Café Mozart where we had the nastiest (in a good way) selection of desserts - the Mozart dessert sampler and a fruit and pound cake chocolate fondue platter. As usual, any celebration involving me always revolves around gluttonous excess in the food department. So other than some splattered chocolate and an extreme case of heartburn, the evening didn’t stray into “Gays Gone Wild” territory.

Happy Birthday to me, ya'll!

Well, it's my thirty-mumble, mumble, mumble-eth birthday today. Since my big three-oh mumble mumble years ago, I’ve not placed any importance on my birthday. It’s really just one more day of the year I can mooch free meals off my friends guilt free. Note to fellow cheap skates: do not use the “darn-I-forgot-to-stop-by-the-ATM-can-you-cover-me-until-next-time” excuse more than once in a row with the same person. They eventually catch on. Tonight, Trish and I will celebrate with the amahzing Seth Rudetsky. No, we’re not great childhood friends. We’re not even passing enemies. Quite frankly, to Seth I’m just another nameless Miss Saigon chorus boy. Trish was able to score TDF tickets to Seth’s Broadway 101 concert tonight. I went last year and it was a blast. Basically, it’s his comedy show with Broadway actors, dancers, singers and orchestra acting as his “back-up” while he gives a “lesson” on how a Broadway show is constructed; a deconstruction of Broadway construction, if you will. My I’m clever. Anyway, more on the show later in the week - right now I must get back to my demanding survival job of answering phones and appearing to look tremendously busy while covertly updating my facebook page hourly.

Death by cupcake

It’s a dreary day here in New York City, cloudy and gray like my mood. I’ve just returned from my annual visit to the accountant to file my taxes, which means I’m almost another year older and two years closer to 40! When did I get so old? Sadly, my birthday has always been associated with tax day. I always hear people belly-aching if their birthday is too close to Christmas or Chanukah because they only get one present. Well boo-f*cking-hoo, be happy you’re getting one. People are either too stressed out to even think of partying on my birthday or they just plain forget. Yes, even my parents forgot my birthday one year and didn’t remember until a week later. Whatever, birthdays aren’t really even that high on my importance scale, it’s really just another day closer to death. Wow - OK, that was morbidly sarcastic even for me. Shake it off. At least I’m getting a decent return this year, though not as impressive as past years since I’m actually making a decent living wage for a change. And I did use this occasion as an excuse to buy a box of cupcakes from Buttercup Bakeshop so my co-workers and I could all experience the sugar crash together mid-afternoon. Although today Trish and I were supposed to start detoxing from our weekend of stress binging. I guess we’ll start tomorrow.

What's your birth opera?

I'm passing this along from a post on parterre.com, an opera blog that I frequently read. They've posted the Met's archive page where you can do a date search of all the Met's performances. I'm proud to say that Joan Sutherland and Marilyn Horne were performing two of their signature roles in Norma the evening of my birth! Click here to check your own. Here's the full listing for my birthdate:

Metropolitan Opera House
April 14, 1970, NORMA {73}

Norma...................Joan Sutherland
Pollione.................John Alexander
Adalgisa................Marilyn Horne
Oroveso................Bonaldo Giaiotti
Flavio....................Rod MacWherter
Clotilde..................Carlotta Ordassy
Conductor.............Richard Bonynge

Joan Sutherland as Norma, Covent Garden, 1952

Happy Jesus Year, Dan!

Do not eat at Carmine’s if you are on a diet or if you have recently had your teeth whitened. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve worshiped at this particular temple of glutton and garlic. But it hasn’t changed one bit. The dining room is still packed, the portions are still huge and the food is still a vampire's nightmare. Perhaps my judgment was slightly biased due to the slight fever brought upon by our tall, dark, hairy-forearmed hunk of a waiter. You may crumb my table anytime you’d like, Tim. Anyway, the gang was out celebrating Dan’s Jesus year (that’s 33rd Birthday for all you heathens). Wasn’t it just days ago we were in our 20’s? At least we still look it, at least those of us blessed with Asian genes. Yellow don’t mellow! PS - I highly recommend ordering the “Titanic” for dessert. Yum!

Anyway, I thought you’d appreciate seeing how just two bottles of wine can turn a bunch of early 30-something’s (cough, cough) into blathering idiots. So below are some shots from the happy event.

Suzy and Tim, our waiter, with "the Claw"

Peter, Trish and I enjoying dinner

Ray & Peter, Trish and me with our Hickory Farms Christmas samplers

Peter and Trish sucking

Birthday Boy Dan, Ray and Peter modeling

The whole gang

Happy Birthday, Dan! Damn, you’re getting old.