Midnight and we're wasted!

Here's a lovely video Trish took at midnight when the entire wait staff at Colicchio's (see previous entry for the mouth-watering dinner details) paraded into the dining room banging on pots and pans.  Quite an exciting beginning for 2012.  Notice Trish's expert camera work.  If you keep watching, she does eventually get us both in the frame, right-side-up.  Enjoy!



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

July Fourth in DC or Our Road Trip to Ruin - Part One

Happy Independence Day, America!  Isn’t it ironic how our forefathers so vehemently fought for our independence from Britain, all the while being served dinner by their slaves?  It’s comforting to know hypocrisy has always been a important fixture of our government.  Oh well, It’s still a great excuse to take a road trip.  So here it is - drum roll, please - the Third Annual DC Fourth of July Pineda Road Trip to Ruin or TADCFJPPTR for you texters (our 2009 and 2010 trips). 

I was excited to head to NJ Friday afternoon to meet up with the rest of the Pineda clan.  Morgan Stanley had graciously granted me a half day at work.  When I called for a pick-up at the bus stop in Cranford I knew something was amiss from Val’s short and detached phone manner.  I was not surprised to find out the van had a flat tire. 

Juan had actually noticed a slow leak that morning and brought the van in to the local Goodyear store where their obviously incompetent technicians found nothing wrong.  On top of that, Juan had now been waiting four hours for their tow truck to bring the van back to the shop.  It never came.  We ended up calling AAA who arrived within the half hour.  Yeah AAA.  Boo Goodyear.  Oh well, no real Pineda sojourn is complete without some unplanned disaster.  At least we got it out of the way up front.   

The first stop on our little road trip was Target where we shopped our cares away as the mechanics at Goodyear replaced the tire.  We finally hit the road four hours later armed with our gourmet Target dinner - turkey jerky, an industrial-sized Frito-Lay variety pack, Swedish fish and Pepperidge Farm Tahoe cookies.  Don’t judge, we were stress eating. 

Thankfully, we missed a lot of the holiday traffic due to our late departure.  Even so, we made our regular pit stop, the Maryland House rest area, for crab & cheese soft pretzels at Phillips.  It sounds gross, but they’re actually quite delicious.  By midnight we were luxuriating in our regular DC hotel, the Omni Shoreham. 

With our first night in DC a bust, we headed to bed without even ordering room service.  I know, it’s so unlike us but we were ass tired.  Don’t you worry, we made up for it the next day at lunch by ordering a 50-ounce T-bone steak.  You read correctly, a 50-ounce steak!  And that was just one of five courses - yes, five.

Acqua al 2 is a little Italian restaurant we stumbled into by accident.  We were wandering around Eastern Market, a fun but over-priced flea market/tourist trap near capital hill, looking for some good food and a place to get out of the oppressive DC heat.  We literally picked the place at random from the many restaurants on the block.  Turns out it’s been touted as one of DC’s best new restaurants - pay back for yesterday’s flat tire.

Our Italian feast consisted of a salad sampling menu, an antipasto platter, a pasta sampling menu, the aforementioned steak (at left) and a dessert sampling menu.  I’d go into detail but there were just so many different dishes, all of them lip-smacking good.  Just check out the menu here.  The highlight, of course, was that perfectly cooked hunk of cow flesh, seared and juicy, wet-aged and so yummy you didn’t need extra sauce or seasoning.  Our sassy waitress, Khamise (rhymes with chemise), kept the bread basket full and the platters coming.  Coincidentally, she mentioned the chef is Filipino - holla! 

Oh, I totally forgot to mention our ultra-cool drink, a lemon vodka-based concoction spiced with hot peppers.  You could actually see the pepper seeds floating on top.  Spice + alcohol = love.  I learned that in AP calculus.

Bloated and tipsy, we headed back out into the sticky heat and straight to a gelato stand.  Yes, we literally rolled our fat asses away from a five-course meal and down the block for a second dessert.  We’re sick, sick people. 

After our Italian food orgy we hopped back on the metro for the ride back to the hotel.  I know the DC metro is immaculately clean and doesn’t smell like urine and homeless people like the NYC subway, but their pass system is not visitor friendly.  Every stop is a different price and you have to swipe that flimsy paper card to enter AND exit.  And what genius decided to carpet the train cars?  Seriously, that’s just nasty.

Back at the hotel we decided a couple hours at the pool would work up our appetites again for dinner as well as provide us an opportunity for more drinking.  Val (at left with her sassy new hat from Eastern Market) was a teetotaler all last month because of her fertility medication, but she’s taking a break in July.  So naturally, her aim this trip was to stay happily buzzed for the weekend.  I’m not sure this is exactly what Dr. Phil means by setting a goal and committing to it, but perhaps he should be more specific. 

Oh, did I mention we also ordered a few “snacks” along with our drinks to get us through until dinner?  Just a pulled pork sandwich, a Kobe beef hot dog, sweet potato fries and fried calamari - you know, some light fare. 

After a power nap to help digest the day’s incredible caloric intake, we headed out for a late dinner at Medaterra, a Middle Eastern restaurant around the corner from our hotel.  To keep Val on course with her imbiber’s resolution, we immediately ordered a pitcher of sangria.  We then followed with an array of appetizers for a tapas-style dinner - corn and spinach risotto, grilled shrimp, taboula, lamb sausage, pork chops, garlic string beans, bruschetta and mussels.  Again, just some light fare before bed.  We ended up skipping dessert.  Who wants those extra calories?

It took great effort not to vomit up the contents of my stomach on the walk back to the hotel, but I managed the two blocks incident free.  Weary from the day's alcohol and food binge, I fell into a deep, coma-like slumber as soon as my greasy head touched down on my pillow.  This is what hibernating bears must feel like.  Then the nightmare began.  There were flashing lights and sirens and a strange voice was speaking to me. 

Wait, this wasn't a dream, it was the fire alarm!

Believe it or not, at 2 AM the fire alarm in the hotel began a banshee-like wailing.  In surreal contrast, a female voice from a speaker in the wall then calmly told us to proceed to the nearest stairwell to evacuate.  Two minutes later, Val rushed into our room, roused us out of our beds and pushed us toward the stairs.  Apparently she was already wide awake, stricken by a mild case of DC's local version of Montezuma's revenge, or as I like to call it, Lewinsky's other dirty little secret.  I leaned over the edge of the railing and looked down at the bottomless pit of the stairwell.  Why the hell did we request a high floor?

Seeing all the pajama clad guests funnelling into the stairwell, I was actually impressed by how put together most people looked.  Yes, most wore mismatched t-shirts and shorts or bathrobes, but how come I was the only one with pillow lines across their face and bushy disheveled hair?  It was as if the hotel was taken over by perfectly coiffed movie-extra hotel guests.

Around floor two we came to a standstill.  If there really was a fire, we would soon be a delicious mound of human barbecue.  We soon spotted the source of our log jam, an elderly lady in a wheel chair who was now forced to limp slowly down the last couple of flights.  Why did her two young, healthy caregivers not fling her bony ass over their shoulders and haul her schmata-clad frame down those stairs?  What 'evs, I was just too darn tired to panic.  If I burn, at least I had one helluva last meal.

We finally made it outside.  There was absolutely no sign of urgency from the guests or the basically non-existent hotel staff.  Hundreds of guests were calmly milling around, just a few feet from a potentially towering inferno.  Then came the sirens.  Two fire trucks pulled up.  Again, absolutely no sense of urgency from anyone.  Put everyone in tuxes and gowns and it could've been intermission at the Met.

Finally, a bellman announced that all was safe and that we could return to our rooms.  We decided to wait it out given the capacity of the two elevators is about five people if two of them happen to be Olsen twins.  Fifteen minutes later we headed into the lobby where at least a dozen people were still waiting at each elevator.  Grudgingly, we decided to take the stairs back up to the eighth floor.  Note to self, avoid stairs if you've eaten thrice your body weight within the last 24 hours. 

Finally, sweaty and nauseous we climbed into our disheveled beds.  Thus ended day two of our Road Trip to Ruin.   

I’ll post Part Deux of our trip shortly.  Check back soon.

Me and my big wiener

Juan's poolside mudslide

Weekend, Fame and Harry Potter

Since The Music Man goes into tech tonight at APA, I decided to spend a rare rehearsal free weekend relaxing in the city. Yes, for the first time in months I was actually able to spend the entire weekend in NYC and not have to make a run out to the wilds of suburban Jersey.

Friday night, Trish and I had trashy Mexican food at Chevy’s. I know its nasty, but sometimes I just crave that gnarly processed crap. Afterwards, we hopped across the street for Insidious, which scared the crap out of us, but disappointed in that Patrick Wilson remained fully clothed throughout. Not even a shirtless scene. What a waste.

We spent most of Saturday in our PJ’s watching a Fame marathon on Ovation (cast left). For those young ‘ens who think Glee is all that and a bag of chips, Fame was kicking it musical style while Lea Michele was still in diapers - and without auto-tune, thank you very much. You heard every delicious vocal imperfection. Nobody sounded like an emotionless, computer-generated voice. Plus you had the campy line readings of Debbie Allen. “Fame costs, and right here is where you start paying - in sweat!” Amen, sister. Oh, and there was also this young cast member named Janet Jackson. You might have heard of her.

Saturday night we were off to Punch, a restaurant and wine bar in the trendy flatiron district, where we met up with my longtime friend, Karen, who was visiting from LA. Karen works for Warner Brothers and was in the city for the opening of the Harry Potter exhibition at the Times Square Discovery Center (which Trish and I hope to catch very soon).

We gorged on pasta and over-priced drinks, whiling away the evening playing the “what-famous-people’s-numbers-do-you-have-in-your-blackberry?” game. Pathetically, I could only muster up a few Broadway chorus boys. Karen, of course, trumped us all with her rolodex of TV and movie personalities.

Dejected by my lack of famous friends, Trish and I hailed Karen a cab (she had to run back to her hotel to meet more Potter dignitaries) and then high tailed it to Mario Batali’s cavernous new Italian market, Eataly, for some gelato and people watching. Still slightly buzzed from dinner, my overly hospitable demeanor and wobbly gait prompted the check-out girl to ask if I was “funk-tified.” I promptly slurred “yeth” as she nodded with a smile of approval.

The high-pitched squeals you hear emanating from West 45th Street is the sound of tween girls losing their shit over young Harry Potter in his Broadway musical debut (pic below). I guess I can’t complain. He’s getting butts in the seats and introducing young people to classic musical theatre, not crap like Mamma Mia.

And for the bitchy folks over at All That Chat lamenting the lack of theatre etiquette amongst the younger set, not a single photograph or cell phone went off during the performance. Maybe there’s hope yet. Perhaps these young people’s model behavior will rub off on their idiotic parents.

As for the show (How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying), it’s slick and fun and the constant movement (please, Mr. Ashord, you need not choreograph every single beat of the show) almost hides the overall generic blandness of it all. Not to say that it was boring, just that with the exception of John Larroquette (Biggley), Tammy Blanchard (Hedy) and the gorgeous costumes (thank you, Catherine Zuber) there was nothing uniquely original about the production or cast.

Radcliffe is definitely likeable and cute, but I think he needs to loosen up a little and let his freak flag fly. He sings well enough and his acting and dancing are impressive (you go, girl, with your double pirouette), but I didn’t quite believe he possessed the overwhelming charm needed to hoodwink an entire company, even a company full of imbeciles. Nevertheless, he’s working his tail off and has some wonderful moments. And when he makes those smiling takes to the audience - well, you see why those tweeners are swooning. Overall, he’s a solid Finch. If not for his big screen fame, though, I’m not sure audiences would be so effusively complimentary about his performance.

Radcliffe’s Rosemary (Rose Hemingway) was pleasant and competent, with the requisite skill of any young ingénue pumped out of any one of the current musical theatre factories (CCM, Boston Conservatory, Northwestern, et al). And that’s the problem. She’s talented but non-descript, lacking any kind of unique charm that the young Megan Mullally (below) possessed when she essayed the role pre-Will & Grace.

Though Matthew Broderick has slowly become a caricature of his quirky Ferris Bueller character, when he tackled the role of Finch opposite Mullally, he was still that doe-eyed trickster we remembered singing "Danke Schön" on a parade float. I can’t, of course, compare Radcliffe to the original Finch, Robert Morse, as I hadn’t yet been born, but it seems to me Morse also possessed a somewhat off-kilter charm and sense of humor that Radcliffe seems to lack. Perhaps Radcliffe just needs a few more weeks in the role to loosen up.

As I side note, Trish and I were kicked to the curb, literally, as we waited outside the theatre before the show. Since I don’t like squeezing my fat ass into those tiny theatre seats too early, Trish and I usually wait outside. On this occasion, a black SUV with frosted windows pulled up right next to us and the driver asked us to step aside. A few minutes later, a white van pulled up and a swarm of paparazzi, clown-car-like, spewed forth from the double doors, swarming the SUV. This, of course, got the crowd worked up into a near frenzy. Would I soon be catching a glimpse of some glamorous star? A Madonna or Brangelina?

The street-side door finally swung open, better to avoid the hoi polloi on the sidewalk, and out stepped…wait for it…Tori Spelling (insert long sigh of disappointment here). Yes, the queen of the D-list - Kathy’s moved up to at least “C” after multiple Emmy wins - decided to join me and a throng of teenage girls for the matinee.

I did happen to catch a glimpse of Damian Lewis and his wife, Helen McCrory (obviously here for the Harry Potter event) walking through the lobby. And according to the Potter blogs, David Thewlis was also in the audience, but he must be avoiding me.

<< He'll always be Ferris to me.











How To Succeed...

Al Hirschfeld Theatre

Sunday, April 3, 3pm performance

Thankful for butter!

In an attempt to guarantee Val keeps all her fingers intact this year, I invited the Jersey Pinedas to Thanksgiving in Queens where I spent hours - no, days - slaving in my tiny, unventilated kitchen preparing a lavish feast to rival the debaucherous ways of the ancient Romans and Greeks.  Not.  I booked a reservation at Bar Americain and made Bobby Flay my Thanksgiving bitch.  Yes, this may be a Pineda first, Thanksgiving dinner in a - gasp! - restaurant.  Well, all I can say is why haven’t we done this sooner?  I mean, it honestly costs about the same.  Except unlike your home, a wait staff is at your beck and call, you don’t have to wash dishes, and the food eventually stops coming so you don’t unconsciously eat until you fall into a food coma.

My Bobby Flay Thanksgiving started with a delightful citrus rum drink with a brown sugar rim.  I shouldn’t continue without warning you many innocent sticks of butter gave their lives up for my holiday enjoyment.  First course was a butter-licious bowl of shrimp and grits with bacon followed by a Flintstone-sized slab of prime rib topped with, you guessed it, more melted butter.  Oh, the humanity!  Dessert was a yummy profiterole swimming in a delectable smoky-sweet caramel brittle sauce.  Of course, we all made sure to order different items and passed the plates around.  So I also got a bit of Juan’s apple glazed pork chops and Val’s heavenly lamb. 

Since no holiday can go by without someone family member incurring an injury, Juan was gracious enough to take one for the team.  He arrived at my apartment with a swollen foot and had to hobble around the city all day.  Since the weather sucked (cold and rainy), we just made a quick, after-dinner stop at the Bryant Park holiday bazaar to do some window shopping and watch the ice skaters careen uncontrollably around the rain-slicked temporary rink.  There’s nothing like a good dose of schadenfreude to brighten up a dreary holiday evening.

We ended the evening in our PJ’s watching a heartwarming film to get us into the holiday spirit, Predators.  Yes, the loving tale of an alien race that takes pleasure in hunting and killing humans for sport.  It really gives you the warm fuzzies.  Strangely, something about murder and death made Val think of Joey’s cats and how she had forgotten to feed them.  The thought of starving felines so overwhelmed Val that they decided to cut their stay short.  Tired and stomachs full of red meat, they took off late last night and headed straight to Joey's to give the cats their Thanksgiving meal.   

Today I am at my empty office waiting for the day to end.  Luckily, we’re off at two so I’ll have the rest of the day to nap and eat.  I’m continuing my Thanksgiving gluttony this afternoon with a tray of homemade sausage stuffing and apple crisp that I had prepared for Juan, Val and I to nosh on throughout the night.  Oh well, more for me I guess.  Oh, and I almost forgot about that pitcher of sangria I’ve had fermenting in the fridge for the last three days.  I guess I’ll be full and drunk by about four this afternoon (and laying with my head in the toilet by around eight).  Don’t try calling.  I won’t answer.

Happy Holidays!

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.

Food, glorious food!

I know. It’s nearly May and I’ve not written a single entry for the month of April. What can I say? This old b*tch has been busy shopping for a Hoveround (I’m obsessed with the commercial - from the Esther Williams-esque chairography to company president, Tom Kruze (!). And that theme song - “Go, go, go in your Hoveround” - perfection)!

Yes, I know it’s hard to believe given my incredibly youthful good looks, but your dashing blog hostess turned the big Four-Oh this month. The celebration was uncharacteristically un-theatrical except for the fact that Trish and I celebrated with two of my closest friends, Chris and Jaygee, who happen to be actors (see adorable pics below). It was actually a perfect evening for me since I no longer have the patience or energy to hike it down to Chelsea to ogle the buff eye candy at Splash - just me and a couple of friends hanging out at Studio Square, the “new” beer garden, in LIC. PS, although Studio Square is sleek and modern, the old Beer Garden in Astoria is still my sentimental favorite - boasting more character, better food and none of the young douche-ie types that seem to congregate at the LIC establishment. Not that I’m a size queen, but the Beer Garden’s also got bigger, thicker, juicier brats. In your face, Studio Square.

Speaking of food, how can I not mention the Pineda family’s most recent all-you-can-eat Easter food orgy at the Stone House. Mom and dad were up from Richmond and though technically not immediate family, black Billy and a non-Pineda relative, Merce (a newly arrived San Franciscan joining us just a week after moving to NYC!), joined the festivities. Anyone who can match a Pineda plate-for-plate and cocktail-for-cocktail, I consider family. With a few champagne sangria’s in us, the lips loosened up and we started commenting on a Filipino family sitting at the table next to us. As if on cue, the patriarch at that table got up, approached my dad and asked him if he was from Concepcion (my dad’s hometown in the Philippines). That wouldn’t strike most as unusual, except for the fact that my dad hasn’t been to the Philippines in decades and we were at a random lunch buffet in the middle of Jersey - small world indeed. As for the food, well, what it lacked in culinary excellence it made up for in volume. I mean, how can you complain staring down at a plate of breakfast sausage, spicy tuna sushi, lamb and paella?

To keep on topic, can I just mention my latest NJ food obsession - a cheese steak sandwich with potatoes. It’s thoroughly disgusting, dripping with grease and cheese (or some tasty bright yellow facsimile) and topped with… wait for it… french fries! Why have I not known about this heavenly creation until just recently? The first time Trish and I tried ordering this strange, but glorious creation, we asked for the cheese steak “with the french fries on it.” Our request was met with silence, then confusion and then finally “We don’t have fries... Oh, you mean the cheese steak with potatoes.” Um, duh. I mean, I can understand someone correcting us so that we could order more accurately in the future, but potatoes versus fries? Is there really that big a leap in logic? New Jersey mystery #1 - A restaurant that doesn’t serve french fries as a side dish, yet puts french fries on their sandwiches. Eerie…

JG & me (notice fancy pin from Chris)

Trish hiding, Chris wasted as usual

Blowing out the candles

Ovo

That psychedelic blue and yellow swirl’s confusing the crack whores on Randall’s Island again. You know what that means (photo courtesy of NY Times). Cirque du Soleil is back in town. This year it’s all about insects. Is it me, or do their recent show titles all sound a little naughty? First Kooza and now Ovo (cue Beavis and Butthead laugh). Anyway, after battling a terrible cold and having to miss my first Wedding Singer rehearsal - and for the record, that’s one miss in three months, bitches! - I was well enough to make the trek to Randall’s with Trish.

Thanks to Goldstar, we had some crazy-ass seats six rows back and just off to the side of the stage. Overall, this year’s show was much more enjoyable and more cohesive than last year’s Kooza (giggle, giggle). The stronger, yet oft told storyline - ladybug meets boy bug, boy bug loses ladybug, ladybug and boy bug reunite and make sweet entomological love on a big green table (don’t ask) - is just universal enough to string along all the freakish acrobatics without employing one bit of dialogue.

Trish’s personal fave was the giant afro-ladybug played by Michelle Matlock. She gave just enough head bobbing, lip pursing, index finger waving attitude to put any ghetto princess to shame. After some google time, I discovered she’s an American actress who sent her pic and resume to Cirque and was granted a general audition. Three years later, they called her up and asked her to create the role of the ladybug. Crazy, no? Anyway, she also created and performed her own show here in NYC called the Mammy Project, which explores the “Mammy” stereotype in American culture - sounds disturbing and hilarious.

The costumes and stage setting for the show were intense. I need to get me one of those grasshopper costumes! As for the acts, the kiwi-juggling ants and rope swinging spider (?) couple were my personal faves. Honorable mention goes to the woman a few rows in front of us who was wasted (they sell beer and wine at the concession stand) and screaming, blowing kisses and acting like a slutty fourteen year old at a Jonas Brothers concert during the curtain call. She truly gave one of the best performances of the evening.

Oh, and to all you iPhone, crackberry and droid users - if you don't want people up in your business, learn to text more discretely. I don't need to know you're having a heavy flow day. And I'm talking to you, young "lady" in section 103, gleefully texting everyone in your address book about cleaning up after your "friend's" monthly visit.

Memorial Day = meat

Well, I’m back to the grind today after a successful weekend of holiday partying. And by successful, I mean ingesting the equivalent of my body weight in grilled pig and cow products. My one disappointment? - being unable to show a lonely fleet week sailor my special brand of NYC hospitality. Oh well, there’s always next year. Actually, I think the fleet’s still in town until tomorrow morning so that leaves me a couple of hours. I do enjoy a challenge.

Anyway, thanks to Peter & Ray and Damienne & Steve for inviting me to their respective rooftop barbecues and to my homeboy, God, for supplying such lovely weather. I can’t even believe I actually know people who have rooftop apartments, let alone who like me enough to invite me to their parties and let me meet their friends. Hello newly found self-esteem!

P&R’s party Saturday night was such a delight because there was nary an actor or performer in sight (ooh, that rhymes). It was such a relief not to have to answer the dreaded and annoying, “Are you doing anything right now?” I was actually able to hold full conversations without once mentioning an audition or callback or having to explain why Bernie Telsey hates me or why Audra is so fierce. And the food! Leave it to the gays to convert the lowly barbecue into a culinary extravaganza. Although I’m still not quite convinced about the watermelon and mint sprinkled with English salt.

The usual suspects were spotted at D&S’s rooftop on Monday. A party there is always welcome because you know the regulars will show up and you can just be your stupid self. I’ve known these characters since I moved into the city over a decade ago hanging out at the now defunct Le Beaujolais Restaurant - which is, coincidentally, the location of one of my worst alcoholic binges. I will always be indebted to Chris Johnson for cleaning up the puddles of puke on the restaurant floor where I laid clutching a silver champagne bucket, while Damienne (who owned the restaurant at the time) and the gang sat at the bar laughing at my misfortune. Ah, the memories. Anyway, the party actually did get more interesting, since the cast of The Lion King showed up because Steve happens to work at the Minskoff. How many people can say they got to taste Mochi’s lumpia? Alas, we weren’t able to get her to give us the skinny on the final episode of Step It Up and Dance. So I guess we’ll just have to watch the episode like everyone else this week. FYI - 30 years old? Really? If you say so, sweetie.

Chris and Betsy have promised to send me pics from the weekend’s festivities to post here, so you’ll see ‘em when I get ‘em.

Hmmm, what else? Oh, Trish and I caught the new Indiana Jones. It was thoroughly entertaining, if not extraordinary, and Shia was actually not as annoying as I thought he would be. Great special effects and interesting storyline, but Harrison sure is getting old. Aren’t we all? You’ll always be Han Solo to me.

LOC’s Young Artist production of Pirates of Penzance goes into tech week tomorrow. Should be extremely, extremely scary considering we’ve had maybe half a dozen rehearsals and we haven’t really run anything more than once. Pray for us.