Smorgasburg virgins

For Trish's Last Supper (or in this case, Last Brunch) before getting Snatched, we decided to pop our Smorgasburg cherries and meet the Westfield, NJ contingent in über hip Williamsburg for a bacchanalian day of excess. Here's how the day progressed in pictures!

After a fairly painless subway ride, including a transfer to the dreaded L train, Trish and I emerged in NYC's hippest borough, Brooklyn. We strolled toward the waterfront, throwing death stares at the cute brownstones and chic apartment buildings reserved for goatee sporting, skinny-jean wearing, gluten-free, pretty people.

We arrived about 20 minutes before 11am - just enough time to cruise the vendors (many still setting up) and plan the day's caloric intake. The Guerrero-Cook crews were still stuck in cars somewhere in NY traffic, so we grabbed a bacon pretzel from the bitchy gal manning the Bronx Baking Co.'s tent and started our first round of munching. Since the pretzel was so delicious, we decided not to let that bitch's attitude dampen our enthusiasm or appetite.

Grilled maple bacon stick anyone? We made it about halfway around the ring of food tents before giving in to a gooey, sweet slab of pork belly from Landhaus. 

You can never have too much pork belly, right? (Someone needs to cross-stitch that on a pillow) Next stop, Bite Size Kitchen for crispy pork belly and braised duck leg buns. From behind, we overheard two pretentious, twenty-something gals straight out of Girls, snootily turn their noses up at these buns because, "Oh, we make those at home." From the look of their manicured hands and expensive-though-made-to-look-vintage clothing, there is no way those girls have made homemade anything, ever.

Having completed our initial exploratory loop, it was time to cleanse our palates with dessert. We ended up sharing a fluffy, yeast-raised, dulce de leche and almond doughnut from Dough. These little diabetes bombs give Doughnut Plant a run for their money. Heresy, I know.

An hour later and the Jersey crew still hadn't arrived.  So we grabbed a fried chicken and bacon biscuit (somewhat disappointing following all our decadent pork belly treats) and relaxed at a picnic table overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Up until now, we had been taunting our car-bound friends by texting them these pictures as we cruelly described each scrumptious bite.

I'm usually not one to shy away from excessive bitchiness, but even I started to feel guilty as the time passed and our companions continued to sit in food-free torment on the highway. So after this picture, we decided on a food porn moratorium until after their arrival.

Just passed our table, Trish spied a long line forming by one tent. Without even checking out the offerings, we got in line. Whatever is under that blue tent better be worth the wait or this bitch may just cut you.

With the line barely moving, Trish went on reconnaissance to make sure we weren't wasting our time. Ramen burgers! Score. But it was now close to noon and there was a noticeable increase in foot traffic. We decided to split up. Trish made a beeline for Might Quinn's where another long line was forming. She hooked us up with some pork BBQ and brisket sandwiches.

After about 20 minutes, I finally made it to the front of the line and purchased my $9 (!!) burger. Sadly, the product didn't live up to the hype. I mean, it's a burger wedged between two slabs of greasy ramen noodles. Didn't taste bad per se, but really nothing special. We ended up taking a few bites and tossing the rest. No use wasting precious stomach space.

The Philippines is representin' in Brooklyn. Though I'm sure they are delicious, we didn't try their lumpia because we were suspicious of the pretty plating and garnishing. We're used to seeing those little critters piled up haphazardly in a foil tray, ghetto style.

The Guerreros, Cooks and Nadeaus finally arrived and we spent the rest of the afternoon taking turns guarding our picnic table and hording food.

The End

Fun Home

Fun Home
Public Theatre
Sunday, Nov 3, 3PM

I can't believe it's been nearly a month since I last enjoyed a live theatre performance.  Sure, I get plenty of show biz pizzaz during my workouts at Mark Fisher Fitness, but even buff trainers in red bikini briefs and top hats can't replace this theatre queen's need to hear a Broadway diva belt out a show tune live.

What, pray tell, could possibly counteract the elevated testosterone levels coursing through my body from three weeks of deadlifting and split squatting?  Why, an old fashioned, downtown lesbian musical, of course!

As my close friends know, I love any entertainment mode that can move me to tears - preferably a really good ugly cry.  I consider these moments therapy, since my limited budget doesn't allow me the conventional office and couch setting needed to heal my undoubtedly damaged psyche.  But that's a topic for another post.

Earlier in the week I had bumped into friend and Playbill reporter, Michael Gioia, and actor, George Salazar, on the N train (on my way to a work out, no less, and on their way to a matinee of Spider-Man - don't judge, they were seeing a friend who was going into the show that day).  They assured me that Fun Home would fulfill all my ugly crying needs.

Perhaps my expectations were set too high (aside from my friend's recommendation, the show has garnered across-the-board rave reveiws).  Or perhaps I was just too physically tired and emotionally drained from weeks of heavy exercise and food depravation.  Whatever the reason, I found myself disappointingly dry-eyed by the end of the performance.

Not that I wasn't moved.  The show is beautifully written and acted with a sincerity and uncloying earnestness rarely seen on uptown stages.  And the score is probably Tesori's best since Violet (which, incidentally is being revived on Broadway next year with Sutton Foster. Yay!).  It feels and sounds contemporary, but without the familiar pseudo-pop/rock/folk sound that Jason Robert Brown does so well and that seemingly every theatre composer under the age of 40 tries to duplicate (most, unsuccessfully).

I did come close to having a Kleenex moment during my favorite songs of the show.  After having her first sexual experience with a women, the main character, Alison (played by three different actresses at different ages), sings unabashedly about how she could happily spend the rest of her life in bed with this woman who took her heart (and virginity).  I was smiling so hard my cheeks ached and I had to hold back tears of joy over this awkward teenager's moment of self discovery.  Or maybe I was too closely identifying with the denial and confusion I experienced in my own awkward youth.  Again, a topic for another day, or more appropriately, a therapist's couch.

The three characters playing Alison are all sensational.  Though I definitely now have a show boner for Alexandra Socha's geeky, sexually-confused college-aged Alison.  I just wanted to run up on stage and give her a big hug and tell her everything was going to be OK.

And Hallelujah!  Judy Kuhn finally gets to show off her soprano voice again.  The theatre dork in me still thinks lovingly of my first Broadway show, Les Miserables, and jizzing over Ms. Kuhn's floated high C.  You never forget your first time.  As put-upon wife, Kuhn's character could have easily come off as an annoying bitch.  But Kuhn lends a humanity and vulnerability to the character's seemingly cold facade.

Michael Cerveris is, as usual, giving a flawless performance of yet another oddball outsider.  He seems to be Broadway's go-to guy to play creepers who look like they might molest your child.

And I have to give a great big "thank you" to an old college friend, Margie Kotler Hinsdale (whose super talented and adorable son happens to be in the cast).  She was able to hook me up with a discount code for a great seat at the last minute.

Here Lies Love - Imelda's MTV moment

Public Theatre

Saturday, July 6 @ 5pm

First off, I have to congratulate my homegirl, Jaygee, for tearing it up as Imelda Marcos at today’s performance of Here Lies Love.  I met Jaygee back in 2001 at the now defunct Seaside Music Theater in Daytona Beach, FL, where she shot and killed me nightly in their production of Miss Saigon.  Ah, the memories.

Smacking the shit out of Jaygee in Miss Saigon.

Following the recent NYC trend of immersive/environmental stagings (Sleep No More, Great Comet of 1812, Murder Ballad et al), the Public transforms one of their theatres into a dance club where moveable stages and platforms surround the standing audience.  The actors move among, around and above the audience/party-goers, as they dramatize the milestones in the Filipino first lady’s life.  And of course, with a score by David Byrne and Fatboy Slim, it’s all set to a thumping dance beat.

It’s all pretty trippy.  You’re led up stairs to the performance venue as the hall fills with hazy smoke.  You emerge into a cavernous, neon lit room where elector-dance music is blaring and ushers in orange jumpsuits dance and guide you to fill in the space.

With the wild lighting, driving bass and techno drum beats, hypnotic music, hip hop choreography, quick cutting scenes and video projections, it feels like a Willy Wonky-type acid trip through Imelda Marcos’ scrapbook.  It’s a sensory overload that is thrilling for the first hour or so, but does get a tad tiresome as you feel your calf muscles start tightening up from standing.  But it's worth that extra effort to reach the emotionally satisfying last 10 minutes of this intermissionless show.

We've obviously made-up.  After the show at the Public.

I usually hate any type of audience interaction/participation (see my review of Hair) since I really feel like I’m paying you to entertain me and not the other way around.  But I didn’t really mind it here since the participation seems so intrinsic to the staging of the show.  

One of my personal show highlights didn’t even happen on stage, but in the audience.  At one point in the evening, the show’s DJ leads the audience in a great Filipino cultural tradition – the line dance.   An older gentlemen refused to participate and stood right up front with his arms firmly crossed, scowling at the rest of the audience who happily danced along.  Gramps was not having it.

There were also a couple of folks who succumbed to the heat.  Hey, Public Theatre, if you’re gonna’ sardine can an audience into a big ole box and force them to dance around, at least crank up the AC!

But let me get back to the crazy, eclectic audienct.  Aside from grumpy old guy, there were gay club kids, several middle-aged bear types, lots of hipsters and many drunk, white, twenty-something posers who probably read on gawker that this was the “hot new thing” but had no actual interest in the show (as demonstrated by their constant need to check their smartphones).  Oh, and Asians.  Lots of Asians.

I heard some complaints that the show is light on content and heavy on flash, but I think that's the point.  The subject matter dictates the form.  And in this case, art imitates life.

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.

A British Threesome and Our "Make-It-Work!" Easter

The Pineda family - sans Gerry - in our Easter finery.

Waking from a fitful night of disturbing dreams (namely me in a kinky octogenarian threesome sandwiched between Dames Judi Dench and Maggie Smith – which, upon further contemplation sounds genuinely intriguing as I’m sure those two broads can probably party hard), I groggily awoke to get ready for Easter services. Note to self - never mix tater tots with a late night British art house film.

Like most years, Juan hires Trish and I as ringers to fill out his church choir and for me to tackle some of the more challenging piano and organ accompaniments.  In a bonus Easter miracle, this year we got to celebrate with the church’s new black minister who actually requested . . . wait for it . . . gospel songs!  Yes, the all-white (at least on this Sunday) and mainly senior citizen Methodist choir got to bust it out old school.  Can I get an “Amen!”?

After church, we raced back to Juan and Val’s house to get ready for Val’s Easter Luncheon Eleganza Extravaganza.  What was first planned as a small family gathering had expanded into a day-long southern-themed feast with friends Chris, Dan and black Billy attending and a cornucopia of events and games scheduled throughout the afternoon.  Take that, White House Easter Egg Hunt.

Per usual, we overdid it on the food.  By the time we finished the hors d’oeuvre course (shrimp cocktail, lumpia, various chips and dips, nuts, crackers and Filipino barbecue skewers) we were all stuffed to the gills and sloshed on sangria.  I nice, warm buzz was the perfect compliment to the day's scheduled Easter activities.

Ready, set... hunt!  Chris and Dan's contribution to today's event was an old-fashioned Easter egg hunt.  Who's that lush with the death grip on his cocktail glass?  Oops, that would be me.  It's no wonder I gathered up the least amount of eggs, considering I didn't have a free hand.

After a grueling 10 minutes searching for those pesky eggs (damn that Billy and his eagle eyes), we decided it was time for more food.  The next course - mini-corn casseroles (a la Chris Johnson), red potatoes, squash casserole (a la black Billy), pan de sal, creamed spinach and...drum roll, please...a turducken!

For those who just can't be satiated unless some form of pork product is on the menu (count me in on that group), mom and dad hauled up a spiral ham from Virginia and I cooked up a tray of my nasty (in a good way) bacon mac and cheese.  Don't worry, I only used 2 cups of heavy cream and 1 stick of butter for this batch - I was trying to keep it light given the rest of the menu.  I hope Paula Deen approves.

With our tummies full and my esophagus in full reflux mode, it seemed like a good time to move on to the day's next challenge...

This is not "Put On Your Sunday Clothes" from next season's Pineda Conservatory production of Mame starring Valerie Pineda.  It's the first annual Project Pineda Easter Bonnet-making competition.  The rules:  You have 30 minutes to construct some type of Easter headpiece  incorporating the required materials in your design (this year's materials: paper plates, feathers, tissue paper, pink ribbon and plastic eggs).  We were also allowed the following construction aids: scissors, hot glue gun, pipe cleaners and scotch tape.  As you can see, we were all able to "Make it Work!"  (Editorial note:  I think Val purposely closes her eyes in all group shots.  There can be no other explanation.)

After each contestant explained their inspiration and worked it on our living room runway, we decided the competition was just too fierce.  The official ruling - a seven-way tie!  Above, I give some serious pout-face while displaying the asymmetrical lines of my bonnet/art piece entitled "Easter explodes out of the side of my head."

Billy shows off his more subtle yet stylish, brimmed headpiece.  Trish goes out of the box with her haute couture fascinator.

After working up our appetites on the runway, we decided it was time for chocolate.  This fancy shmancy basket comes courtesy of the Johnson-Maceyak household to the Pineda clan.  Thank you!

The Easter Bunny (aka mom) was very generous this year, delivering Easter joy and empty calories to all of today's guests.

In a final parting shot, the under 60 set show off our newly adopted baby stuffed animals.  Make sure to send me your secret material ideas for next year's Project Pineda Easter Bonnet Competition.  Happy Easter!

To explore more of the Pineda's Easter weekend activities, click here.

Beyonce’s Warm-up Act OR Super Bowl XLVII: A Gay Man’s Perspective

Our fancy Scoops ice cream cake.

I am not a football fan.  Though I am a fan of chicken wings and tight pants, so deciding to attend Juan and Val’s Super Bowl party was a no brainer.  After scraping the snow and ice from Trish’s car, we drove to Juan and Val's Jersey abode for some game day gluttony. 

In true Pineda style, upon arrival we headed straight to the kitchen.  Sure, the TV was on in the living room, but the real action was happening in the kitchen.  Val was at the stove frying up pierogies, Juan was at the fry daddy tending to the wings and Juan’s white son, Chris Grimm, was implementing some “quality control” at the hors d’oeuvre tray.  I’d spent the morning preparing a 2-pound tray of bacon mac and cheese, so I immediately usurped the oven to re-heat my lactosean nightmare - that’s right, 4 cups of heavy cream and 2 kinds of cheese, bitches! 

Eventually we settled into the living room for the start of the show - er, um - game.  First off, what's up with the Ravens’ costumes?  Um, I mean uniforms.  Who picked that shade of purple?  Just terrible.  They could have at least gone with a nice aubergine or grape for better contrast with the Astroturf.  Perhaps, in a good will gesture the 49ers can forward the Ravens the name of their stylist.  I mean, the 49ers are from San Francisco, right?  Of course their outfits are fierce.

Speaking of outfits - who talked you into wearing that S&M turtleneck, Ms. Hudson?  Yes, you have a bangin’ new bod thanks to Weight Watchers, but that top is a little too “50 Shades of Grey” for my taste.  I hope you used a lot of baby powder because that’s gonna’ chafe.  Not that I would know.  Oh well, you still sounded amazing.  And nice touch with the back-up chorus of step-touching elementary school children.  Although the white and khaki outfits need to go.  It was like watching a convention of midget car salesmen.

Ms. Keys fared much better than Ms. Hudson in the wardrobe department, but her muzak version of the National Anthem was a real snoozer.  Here’s a helpful tip - if you need to take a breath every two words, either you’re tempo is too slow or you’re in desperate need of better vocal technique (or both?).  And it is absolutely never appropriate to riff for thirty seconds AFTER you’ve sung the last word of the National Anthem.  Self-indulgent much?

I’m not exactly sure what occurred between the coin toss and Beyoncé half-time extravaganza, but there seemed to be a lot of running, pushing and shoving.  Oh, and a lot of slow motion.  For athletes, there sure was a lot of awkward jiggling in those tight outfits.  Note to self, slow motion and spandex - not a good look.  My main concern during the first act - er, um…inning - no, wait - um…oh, I give up - was that my seven-layer dip was missing it's crucial sixth layer.  Since avocados are out of season I had to - gasp - skip the guacamole.  Oddly, no one seemed to notice.   

And then there was (insert angelic “Ah” here) Beyoncé.  To paraphrase Brian Hart’s facebook status (a former Pineda Conservatory student), “That’s what heaven’s like.”  Preach. And can we talk about her “sex face”?   Don't even get me started on her luscious weave.

Post half-time was sort of a blur to me, I think someone forgot to pay the electric bill or something.  To be honest, I couldn’t concentrate on the TV because Val was piling more food and dessert on the table. I mean, ice cream cake crunchies or Super Bowl?  There's really no contest. 

Since I usually root for the team with the cutest quarterback, this year left me with a particularly difficult quandary - Italian-American hunk or young tattoo-ed hottie?  In the end, it didn't really matter.  I got my caloric intake for the year and one team won a really big, tacky ring.  

I won't even comment on the all the lame commercials this year except to say I threw up in my mouth a little watching that hot model make out with the frizzy-haired nerd. Isn't it totally possible to be both hot and smart?  Of course it is.  I'm looking in the mirror right now at a prime example.  Call me, GoDaddy. 

Trish and I are already planning on making millions by renting out our bedrooms next year when New York hosts the next Super Bowl.

Congratulations, Ravens!  

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

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

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

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

A southern spread that would make Paula Deen proud.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

Summertime and shopping

What happened to spring?  Seriously.  We went from record snowfall to 90 degree heat and humidity in a matter of weeks.  Stop with the aerosol cans already, people! 

Anyway, I’m usually very temperamental when it comes to shopping.  I get bored and tired really quickly.  But when I’m in the mood, watch out.  We’re talking marathon session and the debt of a small communist country.  So after a double dose of drama the other day, I decided on an afternoon of relaxation and retail therapy. 

My current obsessions are fedoras, namely the short-brimmed version or trilby, and espadrilles.  I know it’s a bit Eurotrash-y of me, but I can’t help it.  Don’t judge, but I even bought a couple pairs of linen drawstring pants.

Trish and I met Billy and Dan at the Urban Outfitters on the Upper East Side, just for a change of shopping scenery.  I filled my espadrille quota with a pair in brick red and a pair in Pineda Conservatory teal (see above).  I know you’ll all be jealous and want a pair, so better run out to your local Outfitters before they run out.  Those Pineda Conservatory kids are quick and are sure to buy out the whole stock.

We then wandered around The Container Store, which is my second favorite retail shop - my first being any type of office supply store (I know I have such weird fetishes!) where Dan, Billy and I stalked this young, muscle dude who was obviously cruising the store in tight jeans and a flimsy little tank top - trash!  I guess he wants a really organized boyfriend.

We ended the day with a late showing of “The Green Lantern” in Times Square after traipsing for miles - literally - around the city in search of Tasti D-Lite.  Didn’t it seem like there was a frozen yogurt joint on every block just a couple of years ago?  Oh well, like condoms, you can never find one when you really need one.  

As for the movie, thank God for the gratuitous shots of Ryan Reynolds in his underwear.  Otherwise, the script is pure curdled cheese.  And Tim Robbins and Angela Bassett must be hard up for cash to take such small, badly written roles.  Oh well, I guess stars have to eat, too.

A Very Merry Pineda Holiday Spectacular!

The staff of Pineda Conservatory in our opening number finery. 

Merry Christmas!

My Peeps (or Who the Hell is Fausto Talking About?!)

I've decided to add this handy list and link to it whenever I refer to my blog "regulars":

Trish - younger sister, actor / voice teacher

Juan - younger brother, Val's husband, actor / voice teacher, former Broadway performer

Gerry - older brother, lives in Texas and owns guns - 'nuff said?

Val - Juan's wife, went to Manhattan School of Music with me, founder of Pineda Conservatory

Chris - good friend, Dan's significant other, actor / dancer / choreographer, teacher at Pineda summer camp, roommate for several years

Dan - good friend, Chris' significant other, actor now studying to be a nurse, teacher at Pineda summer camp, roommate for several years

Jaygee - good friend, Filipina, played Kim opposite my Thuy at Seaside Music Theatre, diva

Show overload

Thanks to some terrible planning on my part, I’ve been spending my nights living at the theatre. Not that I’m complaining - well, maybe a little since I’m dragging my ass to work every morning - but I saw Memphis, Brighton Beach Memoirs and Imelda on consecutive evenings Sunday through Tuesday of this week. I bought the BBM tickets weeks ago so had forgotten about them when I purchased the Memphis tickets. And as a closet blond (ask the cast of my first summer stock experience at the Theatre Barn in - gasp! - 1995 about that), I was planning to see Imelda next week until I realized that it closes this Sunday. Oops (“’Cause I’m a blond, yeah, yeah, yeah” - Earth Girls Are Easy, 1988 - anyone? Anyone?). So that left me with this week’s theatre triple play.

Despite a thin, cliché-ridden book, I found myself unexpectedly moved by this sentimental 50’s flashback. My hunch is that perhaps under less capable performers (full disclosure - Montego Glover is a casual acquaintance of mine) this show would be DOA. It’s amazing how excellent casting coupled with slick direction, production design and choreography can elevate less than stellar material. Not that the show doesn’t have its inspired moments. The first act is actually extremely tight and the storytelling streamlined. The emotional climax even evinced a smattering of audience sniffles at intermission. Act two is a different story. Often plodding and padded with extraneous (though entertaining) show-within-a-show musical numbers, the story meanders into Dreamgirls retread. I don’t necessarily think the story needs a “happy” ending, but the closing confrontation scene and concert feel anti-climactic.

Montego sounds amazing and belts inhumanly high. How she gets through eight shows a week is beyond me. Chad Kimball commits to the seedy side of Huey Calhoun, a flawed hick, creating what may best be described as a loveable asshole. Memphis isn’t quite up to the level of Dreamgirls or Hairspray, but the cast and production (almost) make up for its flaws.

The score is mainly solid, with the typical hook heavy power ballads in which pop songwriter David Bryan (of Bon Jovi) excels. The character driven songs are markedly weaker than the “radio” songs (“My Sister” being particularly cringe-worthy), but overall head-and-shoulders above the massively overrated Billy Elliott score.

Brighton Beach Memoirs is the polar opposite of Memphis. It’s a play about a working class Jewish family trying to get by in the wake of the Great Depression. Having never seen this particular Simon play onstage, I was sort of expecting a rapid-fire joke fest. Instead, I was treated to an emotionally nuanced coming of age drama. It’s worth the ticket price just to eavesdrop on sisters Kate (Laurie Metcalf) and Blanche (Jessica Hecht) when their claustrophobic living conditions finally induce an explosive act two confrontation. Who doesn’t love a resentment-filled domestic squabble?

The ensemble cast is uniformly excellent, with Metcalf a standout as put upon matriarch. Her mama epitomizes familial guilt. Maybe that’s I why I found the play so appealing. No matter your ethnicity, everyone can relate to family dysfunction and guilt.

Ever further from Memphis is Imelda: A New Musical. This tuner about the shoe-hoarding Eva Peron of the Philippines has good intentions but is wildly uneven. The director can’t seem to decide on the tone of the piece. Is it high camp? Historical drama? Moody rock opera? Within the span of 20 minutes we get a bit of each. Much of the problem lies with the storytelling. In an attempt to include every minute detail of the first lady’s life, they dilute the story to a series of “first she did this, then she did this, and then she did this” vignettes. In fact, the book and score (with its sometimes purposeless repeating of choruses to little dramatic effect) could benefit from an intelligent edit.

As for the score, it’s adequate but lacks character driven songs. Only two make a real impact, the very funny second act, “Imeldific,” and the biting, “Martial Law with A Smile.” The sarcasm and social commentary eschewed in these two numbers (but lacking in most of the score) prevents the show from rising above a mere history book lesson. The show is mired in facts rather than taking a strong viewpoint.

The book is much more successful at dramatizing the action. But there’s no seamless transition between scene and song and thus any dramatic momentum is immediately deflated once the music begins. It’s almost as if the book writer handed the script over to the composer with “[insert song here]” directions.

Jaygee Macapugay (again, full disclosure - she’s a very good friend of mine) successfully portrays Imelda’s arc from ambitious youth to manipulative woman. She’s also equally comfortable navigating between the comedic and dramatic elements of the book and score. I only wish she could sink her teeth into meatier material. Filling out the quartet of lead characters - where’s the quartet for the lead characters, by the way? - Liz Casasola (Corazon), Brian Jose (Ninoy) and Mel Sagrado Maghuyop (Marcos) all have their moments and fully commit to the uneven material they’re provided. There is a unique, universal story (probably several) lurking in this muddy treatment.

After the show, I kept fantasizing what Sondheim, Guettel, Tesori or even Jason Robert Brown might have been able to siphon from the same material. I guess I can dream.

Legally Blond

It ain’t Sondheim, but it’s entertaining and never boring. And since I only paid $35 for orchestra seats (thank you TDF!), how can I complain? Well, I guess I’m still going to complain, but I’m a bitch that way. First off, Laura Bell Bundy, is actually quite good. She’s a genuine triple threat with freakishly long legs that seem to go all the way up to her perky tits. And I have no idea how the hell she walks, let alone high-kicks and dances, in what seem to be 8-inch heels! She might as well have been en pointe. Granted, her voice did show a bit of “second-show-of-the-day” edge, but was clear and in tune (well, except for the hideously flat last note in the first act closer - yikes).

I mainly went to see Gaelen, a colleague I worked with back in the day when I was on tour with Grease! She was the Marty u/s and I was the Teen Angel/Johnny Casino u/s. She was on for Paulette, the white trash salon worker who befriends Elle. Though the part is badly written with horrible one-liners, she was able to rise above the trite dialogue and belted some crazy high notes that Orfeh (the regular Paulette) struggled to hit when I saw the show in previews. Trish commented that she hated the role and the songs when Orfeh performed it, but didn’t find it nearly as annoying with Gaelen. She also did some ridiculous (in a good way) riffing in “Bend and Snap.” I emailed her yesterday to congratulate her and she replied that she’s leaving the show in a few weeks to start rehearsals for the pre-Broadway try-out of 9 to 5 in LA. Yup, THAT 9 to 5, with a new score by Dolly Parton! I’m happy and extremely jealous. Girlfriend does not stop working - Wicked to Legally Blond to 9 to 5. Who’s she fucking? Only kidding, Gaelen, you’re awesome.

The rest of the show is like a regular musical on crack. The cast has freakishly high energy levels that try to compensate for some bad book writing and some pedestrian, but frantic, choreography. Unfortunately, some of the show just doesn’t make sense/doesn’t work no matter how hard the cast tries. She flies to Harvard to give a live “performance” with a marching band in lieu of a personal essay? Yeah, right. Then there’s the entire scene in act two where Elle decides not to leave Harvard. It makes absolutely no sense. It goes from the beauty shop to bare stage then to a parade with Elle and her parents on a golf cart!? Where are they? Did they fly back to Cali and then drive the golf cart back to Harvard? Oh well, like I said, it ain’t Sondheim.

My only real complaint was that the sound sucked. I couldn’t make out 70% of the lyrics in the opening song. It sounded like they were singing into tin cans. And some of those sorority girls must have flunked out many, many times. Some of them looked as if they could have given birth to Elle. I won't even mention the wigs.

Besides Bundy, Christian Borle was the standout - great voice, natural acting and wonderful stage presence. I never felt he was pushing for the laugh or overcompensating for weak writing (which Bundy was guilty of doing on occasion - reign it in, girlfriend). Otherwise, not a bad way to spend a Wednesday night. Now if I had spent $100 a ticket, maybe I’d be less forgiving. But I didn’t, so I won’t.