Thanksgiving 2013 - Thankful for 24-hour Au Bon Pain

It’s not a Pineda holiday without some kind of drama. This year, my dad decided to scare the bejesus out of us by heading to the ICU over the Thanksgiving holiday. He’s been dealing with a long term illness for the past few months, but seemed to be making good progress...

...until the day before Thanksgiving.

We are a family known for its procrastinating tendencies, but within a few hours of Trish’s panicked phone call, Juan, Val and I were packed into the van and speeding through freezing rain and sleet on our way to Richmond. It was a wild few days, but dad is now out of the hospital and recuperating.

The last minute venue change didn't stop us from keeping the holiday spirit alive. We still managed to have our Thanksgiving turkey dinner with all the trimmings. But instead of a cozy sit-down at the family dinner table, we took turns noshing in the hospital cafeteria. Institutionally prepared, mass-produced turkey and stuffing never tasted so good. And we didn't have to wash any dishes. Thank you, lunch ladies!

Only two guests allowed in a patient's room at a time in the ICU. So we got cozy in the waiting room with our computers and plentiful snacks. Nothing like festive over-nighter in a sterile hospital lounge to bolster your holiday spirit.

Thankfully, dad was well enough to be moved to a regular floor after a couple of days. We spent the rest of the week in a spacious private hospital suite large enough to accommodate the whole Pineda clan, including a surprise visit from a very pregnant cousin Marion. And did I mention the 24-hour Au Bon Pain in the lobby? That's right, we had all night access to chocolate croissants and English toffee cookies.

Per usual, our unique brand of Pineda charm (persistent neediness to some) and good looks quickly won over the staff. It also didn't hurt that we plied the nurses with all sorts of goodies gathered from home from our Thanksgiving celebration that never was. Amazing how free cake can cement a relationship - and get you extra ice cream.

Dad's final day at the hospital coincided with mom and dad's wedding anniversary (as well as Trish's birthday!). As a wonderful final gesture, the whole nursing staff stopped by for a cheerful bon voyage complete with anniversary cupcakes for the happy couple.

Our intrepid nursing staff, technicians and food service professionals all stopped by on dad's final day to say "good-bye" and ...

...to present the anniversary couple with celebratory cupcakes!

I wish all the doctors, nurses and staff at MCV a hearty "thank you" for contributing to a memorable Thanksgiving 2013. And here's hoping for some boring, non-eventful holidays to come.

Grand Canyon redux...

<< Grand Canyon - attempt #2 >>

Monday, September 2

Like a deleted scene from Groundhog Day, Trish and I rotely re-enacted yesterday's early morning trip to Maverick's air field for attempt #2 at a Grand Canyon excursion. Fortunately, today's aircraft decided to cooperate and we were able to take off as scheduled with Captain Todd (insert dreamy sigh here) at the control panel of a very, very tiny plane.

Here's the view from the back of our itsy-bitsy 15 passenger puddle jumper. Kind of exciting but also extremely terrifying. At least I got my own seat and didn't have to cram into the last row three-seater.

And everyone gets a window seat! Well, except for the poor schmuck stuck in the middle of the three-seater in the back.

I guess the NSA isn't worried about terrorists bombing our National Parks, since the open cockpit design of our plane doesn't allow for a separate cabin and cockpit. It's like cruising the skies in a big ol' station wagon. And just like dad on those long road trips, our swarthy pilots act as our tour guides, pointing out landmarks along the way and...

...inviting us to visit them in the cockpit. That's right, instead of watching out for flocks of wayward birds or storm clouds, our trusty pilots will take your camera, perch it on top of the control panel and take a selfie with you!

And here's Trish on her trip up to the cockpit. I cannot for the life of me remember the co-pilot's name is he wasn't nearly as hot as Captain Todd (on the right).

After a civilized 40-minute flight (we nixed the much cheaper bus option because it's a 5-hour drive each way), we land on an air field just a couple of miles from the canyon. Trish and I finally get to live out our Howard Hughes-esque fantasy of jet-setting around the country in our own private jet. Naturally, we never travel without our dark glasses and fedoras.

Once on the ground, our centerfold-worthy pilots take some time to pose for their adoring passengers/fans

Grateful for a safe landing, I give our Maverick jet a big "thank you" smooch on the noggin. Jets need love, too.

After a short bus ride, we arrived at Bright Angel Lodge for our first glimpse of the Grand Canyon. I am in awe of the view as you can see by my freakishly excited expression and slack jaw.

Since we arrived fairly early in the morning, we were able to avoid the tourist rush and leisurely lounge on the cliff wall in relative solitude. Except, that is, for the many marauding squirrels aggressively grabbing for our "gourmet" box lunches.

Here you can see me enjoying the advertised "gourmet" boxed lunch included with our Grand Canyon tour package. That would be a "gourmet" turkey sandwich, a "gourmet" bag of chips and "gourmet" bottled water (with accompanying "gourmet" mayonnaise and mustard packets). Bon appétit!

The adventure continues...

A Vegas virgin books a flight from hell

August 30, 2013 >>

It’s been a stressful couple of weeks. Some crazy family turmoil has wreaked havoc on my normally relaxed August.  But in a last minute change of plans, my on-again-off-again Labor Day weekend in Vegas was suddenly back on again. It's taken 43 years, but I'm finally popping my Vegas cherry.

I twiddled my thumbs through a half day at work. But at 2pm on the dot, I clocked out and dashed home. With my boarding pass loaded on my iPhone and lucky fedora in hand, I jumped a gypsy cab to JFK for my Friday night flight to Sin City. The travel gods seemed to be on my side as I sailed through traffic on the Van Wyck, breezed through airport security and boarded my flight without incident.

And then it all fell to shit.

We pulled away from the terminal on time but then sat on the tarmac for what seemed to be hours (it was actually only about 45 minutes). The pilot announced they were having difficulty with a light on their control panel. I broke out in what I assumed was a nervous sweat, but soon realized the vents were blowing hot air. The cabin temperature was rising as panic began to spread amongst a cabin full of irate New Yorkers. 

Now, New Yorkers are generally good-natured pragmatists. But get in the way of a weekend in Vegas and all bets are off. Especially when most have already knocked back a few at the airport bar and are sweating their balls off.   

It seemed likely a few of the more lubricated passengers might storm the cockpit when the captain finally came on the PA. He explained that the AC had been shut off in order to reset the mysterious, malfunctioning light. His explanation seemed to temporarily appease the group.

We sat in silence (and in our own sweat) for another fifteen minutes before receiving another announcement from the cockpit.

We’re heading back to the terminal. The technicians can’t repair the problem.

People started audibly cursing and groaning. But at least the AC was working again.

Another fifteen minutes passed before the next announcement.  

All the gates are full and we’ll have to wait on the tarmac until a gate opens up. 

I could feel the passengers' collective anger rising. I’m sure this is what the streets of LA felt like just before the Rodney King riots.

We sat for another ten interminable minutes before another announcement.  

Flights are backed up and all the gates are still full. Instead of sitting on the tarmac, we're taxi-ing to a landing pad where we’ll deboard onto the runway and buses will drive everyone back to the terminal.

  

Now people are pissed. The obnoxious young couple next to me (wife continuously answering and reading texts and husband with shoes off adjusting and picking at his crotch like he's got a bad case of crabs or the largest penis on earth stuffed into a mini thong) got on their cell phone and booked seats on another flight. But despite the announcement, our plane sat motionless on the runway for another fifteen minutes. And then we heard the disembodied voice of the captain again.

A gate has opened up at another terminal. So instead of busing you back to your original gate, we'll drive around to terminal 2 where you'll be given further instructions.

At least we weren't going to be emptied out onto the blazing tarmac to play chicken with passing airliners.

As we arrived at terminal 2, my annoying seatmates made a dash for the door, pushing aside mothers holding babies and an elderly woman in an attempt to make their next flight. But they're foiled in first class by the evil stewardess, who won't unlock the cabin door. Karma's a bitch.

Another announcement.

The technicians should be able to fix the problem pretty easily now that we're parked at the terminal. So this flight will likely depart later tonight.  'm just waiting to see if they'd like us to deboard or have you wait on the aircraft while they make the necessary repairs.

I'm pretty sure I've been teleported into an episode of Lost and am now languishing in purgatory. I probably should have taken those ten commandments more seriously. Oh well, I decided I'd just sit back, relax and bask in the glow of the rising tempers around me.

The ground crew has just asked that we deboard this flight as we make the necessary repairs. We ask that you please stay close to the gate for further instructions.  

There was suddenly a flurry of activity as overhead compartment doors swung open and carry-on luggage whizzed by. I sat patiently as panicked party-goers rushed out of the plane looking for alternate flight options. I was in no hurry since I knew the last flight to Vegas was long since sold out. I'd either wait and get on this flight or go home and head out again in the morning.

Another 30 minutes crawled by. Several passengers stake out stools at the nearby bar, drowning their disappointment in beer and Jäger shots.  Finally, we got another announcement.

Attention passengers on Delta flight 1629. We are changing aircraft and moving you to gate 61 where we will begin boarding your new flight at approximately 9:45. We apologize for any inconvenience.

Finally, after several hours of sitting, swearing and being shuffled around terminals, some definitive news. Our flight's angry mob of passengers proceeds en masse to our new gate on the other side of the terminal. My phone is at nearly 10% power but there's not an empty socket to be found. I turn off my phone so there will be enough power left to contact Trish when I arrive.

Three and a half hours after boarding my first flight, I'm finally on my way to Vegas.

Staycation 2013 NYC part deux

Friday, July 5 (click here for part une)

Unlike the rest of civilized society, my office decided to open for business the Friday after July 4.  I sat in my empty office and watched the clock tick by as my phone and inbox sat silent for five hours.  The powers that be at least had the sense to let us leave after lunch.

Tonight, the boys and girls split up for separate date nights.  I took Juan for a belated birthday dinner to michelin-starred Aldea for their nine-course Brazilian tasting menu.  Coincidentally, Trish and I noshed here earlier in the summer during our Memorial Day staycation.  If you're an adventurous eater and appreciate gorgeous plating, you can't go wrong for the $95 price tag.

Three hours later, Juan and I stumbled out of Aldea in an Iberian food coma.  Time to burn some calories by renting citibikes.  After some issues with the credit card kiosk - nothing a few good kicks and a slew of obscenities couldn't fix - we were peddling back downtown to the hotel.  What's that saying?  You never forget how to ride a bike...bullshit.  I was weaving back and forth on First Avenue like a drunk drag queen in platform stilettos.

The girls chose a date spot in Little Italy, walking distance from the hotel.  Val's sporting her new pixie cut.  While I was twiddling my thumbs in the office earlier in the day, Juan, Val and Trish were getting all Housewives-of-Orange-County at the salon with haircuts, massages and mani-pedis.  Bitches!

Trish is showing off her fancy dessert.  She and Val were generous enough to bring back a bag of Italian goodies for Juan and I to try.  So what if we had just finished a 9-course dinner, there's always room for a cannoli.

Saturday, July 6

Still woozy from last night's food orgy, Juan and I decided on an early morning bike ride across the Brooklyn Bridge.  Since we purchased 24-hour citibike memberships the night before, we still had several hours of rental time available to us when we got up this morning.

I'm finally getting my "bike legs" back after nearly a decade of living bikeless in the city.  On a side note, notice the unintentional cross branding.

In theory, a bike trek across the Brooklyn Bridge seems like a pleasant enough way to spend a morning.  In practice, it sucks balls.  With the mercury already nearing 90 degrees and the humidity crushing my out of shape lungs, we made it about two-thirds of the way to the first tower before I felt the pangs of an impending heart attack.  We decided to stop and take a breather while enjoying the downtown Manhattan skyline.

Here's my artsy-fartsy overhead shot.

I take one more minute to catch my breath before heading back to dry land.

Here's Juan.

After working up our appetites crossing (at least partially) the Brooklyn Bridge, Juan and I dropped off our bikes and headed back to the hotel to pick up the ladies.  Next stop, Petit Abeille for waffles and mimosas.  Directly across the street from the restaurant we spotted this freakish array of superheros and marine life hanging out in front of the Balloon Saloon.  In NYC there is literally a specialty store for everything.

After brunch, we bid Juan and Val a fond adieu.  Juan, unfortunately, has a church job so he and Val had to cut their weekend short.  Trish and I, however, decided to keep the hotel room an extra day and extend our Chinatown staycation.

After a power nap, Trish and I were hankering for some Vietnamese food.  Based on yelp reviews, we headed to Bo Ky, which was just around the corner from our hotel.  I'm not gonna' lie, the place seemed a little ghetto and the cleanliness level was, well, just a notch above outdoor truckstop picnic table, but damn, the food tasted good.  You know it's authentic when you can't spot a single white face in the joint.

I'm enjoying a bowl of yummy pho and an appetizer portion (yes, appetizer portion) of their fried spring rolls.

Trish opted for a heaping plate of marinated steak.  Amazing how a delicious chunk of cow can make you forget all about that sticky spot on the table top.  Shout out to our waitress, a crazy old Asian grandma, who helped allay our initial wariness and made us feel like we were having lunch in her dining room.

After dinner Trish and I headed a few blocks uptown to the Public Theatre where my gorgeous and talented friend, Jaygee, is appearing in David Byrne and Fatboy Slim's environmentally-staged rock musical, Here Lies Love, based on the tumultuous life of Filipino first lady, Imelda Marcos.

Me with the delightful Jaygee after her rockin' performance as Imelda Marcos.  She's the swing and understudy for Imelda so when I heard she would be going on this weekend, I bought my ticket pronto.  (Read my review)

Trish and I were exhausted from the day's flurry of activity and non-stop noshing, so we decided to take advantage of our last evening at the hotel by watching TV and lounging in our PJ's.

Sunday, July 7

Our staycation is nearly over, but not before one last stop for soup dumplings.  We checked our bags in the hotel lobby and headed to Shanghai Gourmet.

11am on a Sunday morning in Chinatown - nothing like having an empty restaurant all to yourself.  These babies arrived just in time to sate a raging dumpling craving.  Soup dumplings are exactly what they sound like, tasty little bundles of scalding hot broth and pork wrapped in a slightly sweet dough.  Heaven.

As a final farewell to the lower east side, Trish and I ventured slightly northward to the Essex Street Market where we leisurely strolled passed the many arstisonal vendors.  Still bloated from our earlier dumpling adventure, we left empty handed and merely made mental notes for our next visit.

One cannot venture to the lower east side and not make a pilgrimage to the Doughnut Plant.  So on our way back to the hotel from Essex Street, we made a little detour and visited their original location.  And after ordering a half dozen luscious, diabetes-inducing beauties for the walk home, we opted to wash it all down with a "healthy" drink option - fresh watermelon juice! 

Staycation 2013 NYC

With the Pineda family squirreling away every extra penny for Juan and Val's adoption fund, we decided to forgo our usual July Fourth trip to DC's swanky Omni Shoreham.  I'll surely miss luxuriating in the outdoor pool while an attentive staff plies me with frozen libations.  Oh well, if I want a little niece or nephew that I can dress in inappropriate message tees, I'm going to have to make a few sacrifices.

Instead, we decided on a last minute staycation in the city - a decision that left us with very few lodging options.  Sure, there were plenty of $1,000 a night rooms in five star hotels, but blowing a month's rent on one night seemed just a tad unreasonable.  And though I love Juan and Val, I wasn't about to spoon with either one of them in a tiny cot in some nasty fleabag hotel.

Lucky for us, Trish was able to work her internet magic and found a very reasonably-priced boutique hotel in Chinatown with unusually high yelp and tripadvisor ratings.  We decided to spin the hotel roulette wheel and take a chance on the Hotel Mulberry.

Wednesday, July 3

Technically, my apartment in Astoria is less than 10 miles from the hotel.  But I've always been an uptown kinda' guy, having never lived below 42nd Street.  So a long weekend in Chinatown seemed just as foreign to me as a trek to the exotic Orient.

Due to the impending holiday I only had to work a half day at the office.  So after lunch I headed back to my apartment to stuff an old backpack with shorts and t-shirts for the expected 90-plus degree weather.  Juan, Trish and Val drove up from Jersey right after camp and met me in Astoria where we boarded the N train for the 30-minute ride downtown.  After entertaining some elderly tourists from Pittsburgh (on their way to Eataly) with our sparkling wit and clever sex-in-the-city banter, we got off at Canal Street and found ourselves in the midst of a torrential downpour.

Nevertheless, we sucked it up and trudged through the murky brown water now running through the streets and between my open-toed sandals, all the while telling myself, "This is not human waste running up through the sewer, it's just dirt."  The stench, of course, seemed to betray the truth of my mantra.

Damp, sticky and sweating, we eventually found our way to the Hotel Mulberry.  I'm obviously enthralled by our hotel room's dramatic dusk view of downtown Manhattan with the Freedom Tower shining in the distance.  Below, a soccer field afforded us equally breathtaking views of sweaty, shirtless jocks kickin' it during daylight hours.

Inspired by a fellow subway rider, we photographed this colorful mosaic inside the subway stop closest to our hotel.  What a difference a "C" makes. 

For our first night on staycation I made a reservation at Bacaro, a cozy Italian joint on the eastern edge of Chinatown.  It's apparently one of Padma Lakshmi's favorite restaurants in NYC.  With its downstairs seating, exposed stone walls and maze of tunnels and private dining rooms, the restaurant gives off a fun, medieval-dungeon-meets-hipster vibe.  Our semi-private room lit with dripping candles felt straight out of the Crusades, sans the metal shackles - though there did appear to be blood stains on the walls.

After a few bottles of wine and some dozen delicious small plates (Bacaro specializes in tasting plates), we started to loosen up and really dig the dungeon-chic vibe.  We entertained visions of Hugh Jackman a la Jean Valjean belting out "Who Am I" while chained to our wooden slab table.

We decided to skip dessert at Bacaro so that we could fill my lactose intolerant bowels with exotic Asian flavors from the famous Chinatown Ice Cream Factory.  Hmmm, red bean?  Or maybe the almond cookie or taro?  My mouth watering, we approached the shop only to find it...closed!  Wah wah.  We instead hit the dessert shop next door, Mango Mango for some shakes and halo halo-like sundeas.

Thursday, July 4

Instead of sleeping in, the men folk decided to venture forth from the comfort of our climate-controlled room to scavenge up a patriotic breakfast of Asian delicacies. But with NYC experiencing heat and humidity rivaling the Amazon rain forests, Juan and I only made it about a block before turning back.  But not before stopping at Mei Li Wah for roast pork buns and congee and Simply Bakery for a month's worth of baked goods.  Happy Birthday, America!

All decked out in our red, white and blue (notice my use of horizontal striping to accentuate my muffin top), we headed down to South Street Seaport's SmorgasBar, the NYC min-outpost of Brooklyn's sprawling SmorgasBurg, for dinner.  Per usual, we ate until we could barely walk - lobster rolls from Red Hook Lobster Pound, oysters from Brooklyn Oyster Party, grilled cheese sandwiches from Milk Truck and pizza from Pizza Moto.  Oh, and beer.  Lots of beer.

Due to my inebriated state, we were forced to take a cab back to the hotel.  There was no way I was going to make the 20 minute walk back to the hotel.  I could barely stand (notice me leaning heavily on Val in the above picture).

We spent the rest of the evening hydrating and watching A Capital Fourth from our beds.  Dear God, what has happened to Barry Manilow's face?!  And who decided it was a good idea to let the über white Darren Criss sing "Shout" (with an all black gospel chorus backing him up, no less)?!  The show's saving grace?  The always suave Neil Diamond belting out, what else, "Coming to America."  

Staycation continues...

"Magic Flute" frustrations & melodic colonic at "The Little Mermaid"

The Bad Seed, 1956

Dante has obviously never produced a full length opera performed entirely by 12 to 18 year olds, otherwise he'd most certainly have included a tenth level of hell somewhere between the fifth (anger) and the seventh (violence) rings.  I found myself precariously poised between anger and violence following Saturday afternoon's tedious Magic Flute rehearsal at which several of the leading performers were still stumbling over lines and blocking after a mere four months of rehearsal (the show opens in one week).

Is it no wonder Val decided to take last season off from producing operas?  Sure, producing any kind of classical art form, let alone opera, in this economy and within a youth culture of instant gratification and entitlement is an iffy proposition.  But last season's break was as much a mental health issue as it was a financial one.  Sometimes you just need to cleanse the mental palate - or in this case, scrape it clean.

Okay, rant over.  Moving on...

Trish matches the poster!

With those damn Magic Flute melodies insinuating themselves into our brains like a bad case of head lice, we decided on an impromptu trip to the Paper Mill Playhouse for a melodic colonic via Alan Menken’s tuneful Little Mermaid score.  There is nothing more catchy (or annoying) in all the musical theatre canon than Ariel’s three-note, ascending theme.  I bet you're hearing it in your head right now and cursing me.  Bwah ha ha ha.

The Little Mermaid

Paper Mill Playhouse

Saturday, June 1, 7PM

Apparently, Saturday's gay night (aka actor night) at the Paper Mill.  In the audience we spotted Ra-Sean Holloway, Don Rey, Matt LaBanca, Matt Tweardy and Daniel Torres all slumming it in Jersey for tonight’s performance.  At least we were in good company.

The original Broadway production of The Little Mermaid, though it had its moments (specifically the glorious vocals of Sierra Boggess), was mostly a bloated, stylistically inconsistent mess.  But that’s what happens when you attempt to stretch the near perfect original Disney movie into two acts in order to justify charging over $100 a ticket. 

For Paper Mill’s production, Disney granted the artistic team permission to re-write and tweak the original script.  It could still use some judicious snipping (the added Ursula songs are abysmal and the eels do not need their own song), but the Paper Mill version is superior, with a clearer, more streamlined book.

The physical production has also been re-thought.  No more mer-folk in heelys.  Instead, our scaly friends are suspended from cables and “swim” through the air.  It’s a major improvement visually over the skates, though the novelty began to fade by the second act.  And all those body rolls to approximate swimming are a little much.  We get it.  You're underwater.  You're fish.  But please stop.  

One major misstep with the flying/swimming is during “Part of Your World.”  Poor Jessica Grové is being whipped around the stage the entire song and as a result, suffers vocally and dramatically.  In the Broadway version, Sierra made me cry simply sitting there onstage.  Grové’s version only succeeded in making me seasick (not her fault, of course).

The rest of the cast is uniformly excellent with Nick Adams showing off a surprisingly legit voice (who knew he had that hidden underneath his Priscilla drag).  I wish Ed Watts had more opportunity to show off his ringing baritone voice, but he fills out his wet suit nicely.  And poor Liz McCartney valiantly tries to put over the two worst songs in the show (though in consolation, she also gets the best song, "Poor, Unfortunate Souls").

Don't forget to come out this summer and check out our middle school Spotlight Theatre students present Disney's Little Mermaid Jr.  We promise lots of flying and stunning visual effects!  And by "flying" I mean "walking" and by "stunning visual effects" I mean "a backdrop."

Staycation continues as we go Into The Woods and then pop our Coney Island cherries

Read about the first half of our Memorial Day Weekend staycation.

Staycation: Day 3 (Sunday, 5/26)

Like yesterday, I spent the morning drifting in and out of consciousness until about noon time when I forced my bloated body out of bed.  I popped a handful of antacids and vowed not to eat my way through the day as I had yesterday.  Stumbling into the living room, an empty box of macarons from last night's gorge-fest sat empty, mocking me and my Buddha belly.

Tonight we had tickets to Fiasco Theater's acclaimed production of Into the Woods at the McCarter Theatre in Princeton.  To break up the drive, Trish and I decided to indulge in some retail therapy at Jackson Premium Outlets.  If I couldn't satisfy my unfulfilled emotional life with empty (but delicious) calories, I'd feed it instead with bargain Gap tees!

Sadly, the lure of the living room couch proved stronger than the need to sate my consumerist appetite.  So instead of jumping in the car to do some damage to my credit card, Trish and I basked in our laziness, wasting the rest of the afternoon lounging in our jammies and watching TV.  We procrastinated until the last minute and then scrambled to shower and change or risk arriving late to the theatre.  Thankfully, the drive to Princeton was uneventful and we arrived at the gorgeous Ivy League campus with plenty of time to spare.

You can read my detailed review here.  But Fiasco's production of Into the Woods was easily the most cleverly staged productions I've seen in years.  Every bit of stage action was well thought out, concise and meaningful - no extraneous bits or self-referential jibes.  It was, and I don't think I've ever said this about any show, a perfect production of this material.

Staycation: Day 4 (Monday, 5/27)

Still a Coney Island virgin after 20-years in NYC (I moved to the city in August 1993 to study opera at Manhattan School of Music), I decided it was finally time for a little outer borough exploration.  With our staycation coming to a close, we gave Trish's car the day off since Coney Island is conveniently located on the opposite end of our subway line.  Getting there would be cheap, super convenient and easy - or so we thought.

We're 2 stops from the end of the N line in Queens.  Coney Island is the last stop in Brooklyn.  That leaves a mere 42 stops in between!  Sounds like the perfect opportunity to take a nice, long nap in air conditioned comfort, right?  Wrong.  As we pulled into 42nd Street the conductor announced that due to "debris on the tracks," there would be no N train service to or from Brooklyn (think about that before you toss your gum wrapper on the tracks).  So much for convenient and easy.

Instead of a direct ride, we ended up transferring to the 2 train and then transferring back to the N train in Brooklyn after bypassing the aforementioned "debris."  After 2 hours, we had managed to travel the 19 miles to Coney Island.  That's about 9.5 mph (an elite marathon runner can average about 12.5-13 mph).  Go MTA!

The unusually large crowd (especially for mid-morning on a weekday) waiting to transfer back to the N train at Atlantic Avenue was not amused with the day's subway issues.  Apparently, our plan to celebrate Memorial Day at Coney Island wasn't so original after all.

Thankful to see sunlight after our 2-hour subway imprisonment, Trish and I were all smiles.  We strike a pose on the Boardwalk after navigating past the throngs of tourists and assorted shady characters heading toward the beach.  There  must be something about surf and sand that naturally attracts the white (and black and brown) trash contingent.

Our first stop along the boardwalk was Luna Park's Scream Zone.   Aptly named, since the thrill rides here are a stomach-churning notch above your average amusement park fare.  Though famished, we decided it best to wait until after being catapulted 150 feet into the air in a tiny steel cage before sating our hunger for fear of showering the crowd with the chunky contents of our stomachs.  For actual footage of Trish and I squealing and laughing inside the slingshot ride cage, check out the video on Trish's facebook page.

That extra jolt of adrenaline sure ramped up our appetites.  And since this is Coney Island, how could we not make the pilgrimage to iconic Nathan's for a double dose of heartburn in a bun.  Trish opted for the traditional cheese dog while I decided to test the strength of my stomach lining with a bacon cheeseburger.  Both sandwiches were surprisingly delish, with that authentic grill flavor which, incidentally, lingers on your palate well after you've packed up and left the boardwalk, if you know what I mean.  I'm not sure if either sandwich was actually worth the one hour wait in line, but when in Rome...

We people-watched and digested or meal along this sandy stretch of beach front.  Hard to believe we're in New York City. 

For our farewell ride we opted for something a bit less thrilling.  We thought this swing ride, with a nice view of the Cyclone in the background, would be just the ticket.  Oh, how looks can be deceiving.  With just a loose bar across our waists, it seemed at any moment we would be flung from our seats to a bloody death on the macadam below.  This pic doesn't show it (here they're just lowering riders back to the ground), but the ride lifts you 100 feet in the air and then spins you quite a bit faster than you'd imagine.  Not for the faint of heart, as Trish's panicked screams indicated.

Food, Fun & "Fancy Free" - Memorial Day Weekend Staycation

Staycation: Day 1 (Friday, 5/24)

What better way to inaugurate the official beginning of summer than with a Brazilian buffet and Audra McDonald (not together, of course - though the thought of it does get me all hot and bothered - not sure my heart could take the fanboy excitement combined with the cholesterol).  Trish has raved about Villa Brazil for months since her friend, Mara, introduced her to it's carnivorous pleasures.

The restaurant is in our Astoria nabe, but torrential rains (and my laziness) combined with unseasonably cool temperatures forced us to drive the 15 blocks rather than walk.  Mara enthusiastically agreed to join us even though she had just supped with Trish the day before.  Like us, she never passes up an opportunity to stuff her face with grilled meat.

We dropped our umbrellas in the foyer and faster than you can rip the tape off a Brazilian bikini wax, Mara had dragged me to the back of the restaurant where a buffet of South American delights awaited my watering mouth.  I have no idea what anything was (nothing is labeled), but it was all delicioso.  Especially the churrascaria-style meats (pictured above) that the grillman cuts and piles on your plate to order.  I can feel my arteries hardening at the sheer memory of those scrumptious, bloody cuts of sirloin, skirt and rib.

We followed up our animal flesh bacchanal with a trip to, where else, the Entenmann's Bakery Outlet.  It's only two blocks from the restaurant, so we trudged through the wind and rain for $1 pound cakes and english muffin packs.

Trish and I ended our evening in a post-feast haze, watching The Goddess, Audra McDonald, on Live from Lincoln Center.  We were privileged to be in the audience during the live taping, but I wanted to re-live that night from the comfort of my couch and with the added luxury of close-ups.

The gorgeous lobby of the Koch Theatre

Staycation: Day 2 (Saturday, 5/25)

With dreams of Audra wafting through my brain, I slept in until almost noon.  But once up, there was no time for more lounging.  I'd already wasted half of staycation day 2 in my jammies.  With just enough time for the three "sh"'s (shit, shower and shave), Trish and I were off to Lincoln Center for New York City Ballet's "Tribute to Broadway."

Today's matinee program included ballets based on or taken from classic Broadway shows.  First up - "Fancy Free," the Jerome Robbins ballet that inspired Leonard Bernstein to write On The Town.  Gotta' love a man in a tight white uniform, right?  And since Fleet Week was canceled this year, today's show was my only opportunity to openly ogle sailors in NYC this spring.

Second on the program was Christopher Wheeldon's "Carousel" (not to be confused with Agnes de Mille's "Dream Ballet" created for the original Broadway production).  The Wheeldon ballet is a loose interpretation of the musical's Billy/Julie relationship employing excerpts (including the thrilling "Carousel Waltz") from the iconic Rodgers & Hammerstein score.  This piece was new to me, and I appreciated the intricate pattern work and liberal use of - for lack of a better term - the "peel-off" effect.  I also made a mental note of how Wheeldon created a human carousel with his dancers and a few poles.  I'll definitely be stealing this moment...er, I mean recreating the moment "in homage"...the next time I'm called to choreograph the show.

Intermish photo shoot - aren't we lovely?  That's rhetorical.

Trish and I took advantage of the extended intermission to stretch and do some minor back re-alignment.  Our cheapo fourth ring seats, though front row, were way off to one side so we had to sit in an abnormally twisted position in order to see the stage without resorting to some serious Cirque du Soleil neck contorsion.

Act 2 was comprised entirely of Robbins' "West Side Story Suite."  It's sort of the Cliffs Notes version of West Side Story.  I'd never seen a performance of the suite, so I didn't realize the scenes (except "Something's Coming") were literally exerpted from the original staging - including the singing.

I know there are some kick-ass dancer/singers out there, but yikes.  The singing in "America" was barely at the level of a competent high school production.  To be fair, it is a ballet company, but I just couldn't get past Anita's thin, underpowered vocals.  Chita and Rita have forever spoiled me.  Thankfully, a professional singer (on mic stage right) sung the role of Tony during "Something's Coming."

Staring at emaciated dancers for two hours can really work up the appetite.  So after the final curtain call Trish and I headed to Aldea, a Michelin-starred, Iberian restaurant in Union Square.  Normally, this type of fancy-shmancy place is out of my price range.  But the advantage of a staycation is not having to shell out for flights or hotel rooms.  Instead, I was able to divert the extra cash to fund my favorite pastime - gorging until I throw up!

Aldea's small, sleekly furnished dining room has a clear view of the open kitchen in back. The modern design afforded us an unobstructed view of hunky celebrity chef, George Mendes. Talk about wetting - I mean whetting - your, um, appetite.  Yowza.

We decided to forgo restraint in favor of the gluttonous 9 (!) course chef's tasting menu.  You can check out all the gory details to the left (I have no idea what that brown smudge is, but I'd venture to guess it's probably my drool).  Jealous yet?  If not, let me list the "Petiscos" for you:

- Mojito sandwich with coconut water (like a little lemon-mint macaron)
- Potato chip w/ goat cheese and beet purée
- Raw oyster on half shell
- Asparagus soup w/ fresh peas (my favorite)
- Bacalao croquet
- Beet-soaked mini hard-boiled egg

...and the "Pre Dessert":
- Vanilla curd cream with mango granita and mint sorbet topped with vanilla wafer balls

...and yet a tenth, post-dessert bonus "Petit Four" course:
- Almond financier
- Lychee strawberry gelee pâtes de fruits
- Ginger clusters

Is it any wonder the meal took over two and a half hours to serve?

I was so mesmerized by the volume and variety of dishes and the gorgeous plating that I forgot to take pictures.  I finally regained my composure by the dessert course, at least enough to make Trish take this aerial shot (left) of the dessert plate.  Beautiful AND tasty - just like me.

In an effort to burn off a few calories, after dinner we decided to walk uptown to the next subway stop instead of jumping on at Union Square.  As we reached 23rd street we noticed some brightly colored tents and strung carnival lights.  With no other plans for the evening, we decided to investigate.  Nearing the site, the hypnotic smell of beer and fried food wafted passed us and we knew we were heading into dangerous territory - an outdoor food festival.

Just past Eataly, on a tiny triangle of asphalt just west of Madison Square Park, the festive tents of Madison Square Eats were buzzing with a mix of Flatiron yuppies and excited tourists.  I stood wide-eyed, mesmerized by the stands of artisanal street foods.  Though still obscenely full from our 9 course dinner, I was tempted to sneak down a side alley, purge and re-fill.  Instead, Trish and made a plan to return later in the week for dinner.

Not wanting to leave the festival empty handed, we stopped by Macaron Parlour's stand for a sample pack featuring some of their more unusual flavors (including salted caramel, smore and - wait for it - candied bacon with maple cream cheese frosting and - wait for it again - cheetos infused white chocolate ganache!).  We managed to make it all the way home to Astoria before ripping the box open and devouring all 12 of the the colorful, chewy bundles of cream-filled goodness.

Memorial Day Staycation continues...

Welcome to Minnesota!

Scenic Minnesota from our rental car window.

With the last performance of Into the Woods now just a painful memory and rehearsals for The Music Man crushing my already empty soul, the Pinedas took a weekend jaunt to that vacation wonderland known as Minnesota to celebrate the nuptials of cousin Marion to her Midwestern beau, John.  Nothing against our red state brethren, but stepping out into that flat, barren countryside wasn't exactly the picker-upper I was looking for given my already mentally (and physically) weakened state.  I'm sure it's a green and bountiful land of plenty in the summer months, but in late April the lifeless fields could double for the Plains of Mars.

With an almost 2-hour flight delay, I arrived at MSP cranky and nauseous from the "Moroccan" chicken dinner (a soggy chicken breast over a flavorless bed of couscous) served in first class.  That's right, bitches, since I anticipated a horrible work day and an even more horrible (horribler?) travel day, I shelled out the extra hundred bucks to sit with the big wigs up front. Sadly, my $100 dinner left me reaching for the barf bag and a roll of tums.  Real silverware cannot mask the taste of a nasty meal.

Juan, Val and Trish picked me up at the airport and we immediately headed to the nearest McDonald's in order to obliterate the memory of my in-flight meal.  Nothing like cheeseburgers and chicken nuggets at midnight when you're stuck at a budget hotel off the interstate.

The wedding was fine.  It was basically just a lot of crying and the usual dubious fashion choices.  Juan, Val, Trish and I sang those perennial hits, Ave Maria and Panis Angelicus (yawn).  But the highlight of the morning was the wedding venue, The Cathedral of Saint Paul.  It rivals anything you'll see in the European capitals of the world.  It was truly a pleasure to sing sans microphone under that gorgeous acoustic dome.

The bride looked radiant in part thanks to Trish, who only hours earlier was applying Marion's make-up while frantically attaching hairpieces to the bride's panicked head.

Incidentally, we had to email our performance resumés weeks in advance to the musical director for his approval to sing at the ceremony.  I know, pretty ballsy, huh?  I can understand wanting to maintain some quality control, but if I'm shelling out two grand to rent the place out for an hour, I should have the option of letting my tone deaf Aunt Bertha cross that line off her bucket list if I so desire.

The awe-inspiring dome inside the Cathedral of Saint Paul.

I'm sorry, but only a gay can carry off orange pants and a pink and purple-striped bow-tie.  I sport my spiffy duds with my aunt Clodelsa (Tita Girlie) at the reception held at the scenic Schaar's Bluff Gathering Center.

Close up of Trish and a new relative behind us.

The reception was an extended affair with the wedding party showing up nearly two hours late due to an incompetent photographer.  It's 2013, dude.  Any loser with a digital camera can quickly snap pictures and by sheer luck, end up with a portfolio of usable shots.  This lumbering dolt literally took 30 seconds between each shot and an eternity setting up between each pose.  The extent of his direction was, "Everyone turn in and squeeze close together."  He didn't even bother to get up from his chair, so all the group family shots are from an oh-so-unflattering upward angle.  And who shoots with their subjects facing into direct sunlight?  We're already slanty-eyed Asians.  We don't need the extra squinting from the glaring Minnesota sun.  OK, rant over.

Of course, the situation would probably have been hilarious had we all been drunk.  But there was no alcohol at the reception so we had to deal with the photographer's shenanigans stone cold sober.  Oh well, at least there was a beautiful view and lots of family to commiserate with.

Val's sad look when she discovered no alcohol would be served at the reception.

After waiting two hours, cousin Tiffany's daughter (and flower girl), Penny, could no longer contain her hunger and raided the buffet early.  She sneaks behind a table, hoping to hide her ill-gotten goods from the menacing caterers.

The blushing bride finally arrived flanked by Cali friends, Lea and Cathy.

Marion and John cutting the cake.

The thought of going the rest of the weekend without alcoholic lubrication left Val, Juan, Trish and I in a panic.  So the four of us volunteered to stop by the liquor store to stock up for the after party.  With a case of beer, a couple bottles of wine and five bottles of champagne in hand, we headed to the "haunted house" for more food and a champagne toast.

Before the party, Juan, Val Trish and I had to make our pilgrimage to one of the Midwest's most revered destinations, Culver's.  For those of you who have not experienced the joys of a butter burger and frozen custard, you are missing out on a truly spiritual culinary experience.

The "haunted house" above bears a striking resemblance to Norman Bates creepy abode in Psycho.  Marion and her family rented the house for the weekend instead of staying at a hotel.  Though the exterior was slightly off-putting (Tita Girlie refused to step foot in the house until we confirmed the lack of dessicated corpses), the inside was surprisingly warm and comfortable - a perfect location to drink and relax after a long day of smiling and feigning interest in idle chitchat.

Finally, after a few drinks, Val let's loose with Tiffany's other daughter, Lily.  There's apparently an old chair somewhere in the house that's now missing its upholstering.

The groom's sister, Jane, shows the rest of us how they throw down in Minnesota.

With the wedding day festivities drawing to a close, we hit the sack early to rest up for the post-wedding brunch the next morning.

For our last day in Minnesota, we got up early to enjoy our last complimentary pre-brunch "snack" at the hotel's breakfast buffet (processed chicken cutlets with sausage gravy - I kid you not).  Soon after, we packed up the car and headed back to the haunted house for a final congratulatory hug for the newlyweds.  Still queasy from my earlier "snack," I still managed to snarf down an extra large piece of the groom's cake.  I never turn down free baked goods.

When traveling to Minneapolis, it's heresy to leave without paying homage to America's number one past time - shopping!  So even though I only had a couple of hours to make my flight, I bid good-bye to our relatives and new family and hightailed it to Mall of America, the USA's largest indoor shopping mall.

520 stores, 50 restaurants, an indoor amusement park and water park and an aquarium.  Yes, an aquarium in the middle of land-locked Minnesota.  God bless America.

Juan, Val and Tita Maxine (right - who also joined us on our little shopping excursion) admire the indoor roller coaster in Nickelodeon Universe.  Sadly, the park only sells days passes so we just settled for watching the screaming teens whiz by us.  With only an hour of shopping time, I was still able to do a couple hundred bucks worth of damage to my debit card.  Au revoir, Minneapolis!

MORE PICTURES HERE