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.

Sondheim’s Passion and Thongs Gone Wrong (though not at the same time)

Oh, the magic of Powerpoint.  Click to enlarge.

With temperatures peaking just above freezing here in the Big Apple, it’s inevitable we spot our first glimpse of douchebaggery in the form of fratboys donning over-sized basketball shorts to prove their dude-worthiness.  This ridiculous display of testosterone ranks just below fist bumping on the douchebag scale (see diagram at left).  On a side note, it's amazing what you can accomplish on your lunch hour at work and have access to Powerpoint.

Anyway, this beautiful spring day also marked the completion of my 2012 tax returns.  Thankfully, Uncles Sam will be direct depositing a nice fat Birthday check into my bank account shortly.

Speaking of douchebags, no self-respecting bro would be caught dead without a tasty ho at his side.  To that end, I present Exhibits A, B and C of the species hobagueus skankilia, as each emerges from her long winter hibernation to entrap the male of her species (Author's Note:  No hos were harmed during filming).

Exhibit A:  We stumbled upon this wily thong-stress prowling the happy hour crowds around the bar at Linen Hall in the East Village, where Trish and I had dinner following Passion (scroll down for review).  In order to mask our covert photo shoot, I leaned in for a candid shot with a mouthful of what is likely our subject's favorite after-drink snack, spicy nuts (pun intended).  Our subject - an NYU law student, if my ears didn't deceive - was last seen lasciviously beer-goggling two young males of the species, petting their sweaters and slurring softly, "Your nithe."  Things aren't looking very bright for the future of the American judicial system.

Exhibit A-1:  A closer look at our subject's "assets."  Can she honestly not feel the draft?

Exhibit B:  Though fully covered, this desperate lass from the ill-informed "House of Black-Is-Slimming," stopped at nothing to squeeze into the six inches of unoccupied space between our table and the bar.  In her sad attempt to cockblock our thong-stress (just visible at left), she freely flaunted her ample wares right in our faces - literally.  Luckily, I was able to move my plate away from the edge of the table before she imprinted on my steak sandwich.

Exhibit C:  This rare sighting of the elusive afro'd-ass-cracker was captured by my work colleague, Tina, on her way home on the exotic Q train.  Notice our subject's exaggerated hunched position, used to obtain maximum crack exposure and reflection on the seat back.  Friends, don't let friends ride the subway bare-assed.

I suspect that as the weather continues to improve, this type of gag-inducing, inappropriate behavior will only increase in frequency.  And speaking of socios-exual politics...

Passion
Classic Stage Company
Saturday, April 6, 3pm

I was giddy as an 11-year-old girl at a One Direction concert as I waited outside the CSC to see another one of my straight-crush (sorry Audra and Carolee), musical theatre idols, Judy Kuhn, perform the lead role in Passion.  I hadn't seen her live on-stage since my senior year in high school (gulp - 25 years ago!), in my first Broadway musical, Les Miserables.

Trish, cursed with bad subway karma, nearly missed the show.  But thanks to the traffic Gods and plain dumb luck, she ditched the subway, jumped into a cab and with two minutes to spare pulled up in front of the theatre.  We managed to take our seats just in time for the dimming house lights.

I'm happy to report that Ms. Kuhn did not disappoint this aging theatre queen.  She gives a subtle and almost - almost - sympathetic portrayal of the obsessive Fosca.  I mean, really, as written, even a brilliant performance by Mother Theresa would not likely produce a completely sympathetic Fosca.

Ms. Kuhn sounds gorgeous and teases the audience with the strategic use of her now signature Florence Vassy belt.  Otherwise, her singing is beautifully controlled and buttery smooth.  And you can never have too much butter according to Ms. Paula Deen.

The intimate configuration of CSC is optimal for this nearly sung-through chamber piece.  Having seen the original Broadway mounting of the show, it seems the actors necessarily needed to amplify their performances to fill the larger house.  The result was exaggerated performances that bordered on garish caricature.  In a small house, the actor's can be more "real" and thus the idea of the handsome and hunky Giorgio (Ryan Silverman) falling for the plain and sickly (rather than hideous and witch-y a la Donna Murphy) Fosca, doesn't seem so far-fetched.

I'm not sure if it's the staging or the actor (probably a combination of both), but in CSC's production, Passion is definitely Giorgio's journey of self-discovery.  On Broadway, Donny Murphy's unrelenting Fosca anchored the production.  It was all about her manipulation, consciously or not.  With the emphasis distributed more evenly between the three main characters, the story becomes less about Fosca's hot bag of crazy and more about the nature and meaning of love.

Though I'm still not quite convinced of the show's premise, this scaled down, intimate production presents a much more successful case for a show that had originally divided critics (as well as Sondheim fans).  What was downright laughable on a Broadway stage, now plays like the over-zealous behavior of a lonely woman.

Shout out to Orville Mendoza who is representin' the Pinoys as Sargeant Lombardi.  I had a the pleasure of sharing the stage with him in NAATCO's Off-Broadway production of Antigone several seasons back.  Between shows we had an impromptu reunion at Momofuku Milk Bar down the street from the theatre, where we noshed on cereal milk frozen yogurt and candy bar pie.  We also got to hear some show gossip, but I can't divulge that in writing.  You'll have to ask me about that in person. 

I also kept waiting to bump into Ms. Kuhn on the street so I could embarrass Trish by insisting on a private concert.  Well, actually, I would probably just hold Ms. Kuhn down until she agreed to belt out the lines "how high does the sycamore grow" and "I don't seeeeeeeee, a reason too be lonely."  If you aren't familiar with either of those phrases you should be immediately banned from Broadway and punished for your ignorance by having all the music on your iPod replaced with Sarah Brightman's version of "Think of Me" on an endless loop.

And Judy, if you're reading this, please reconsider that restraining order.

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.

"Good" Friday, Cirque's Totem and eternal damnation

Though technically the Catholic Church considers me an abomination, that doesn’t stop them from hiring my gay ass to sing for their Holy Week masses.  Hypocritical much?  Whatever, I’m crying all the way to the bank. 

It’s not that I’m angry or even hold a grudge.  I just find it odd that I’m considered fit to lead Catholic prayer, yet unfit to enter Catholic heaven.  Or perhaps years of Catholic indoctrination have left me with a subconscious fear of eternal damnation and hellfire due to my profane lifestyle.  Or not.  No matter, a paycheck is a paycheck so bring it, Jesus.  Mama needs to pay the rent. 

Good Friday’s gig was at Immaculate Conception Church in the boogie-down Bronx.  Trish and I cantor there periodically throughout the year and have known the music director for ages, so the gig was a no-brainer.  But today we had the extra pressure of mom and dad critiquing our performances from the congregation.  

Lest you get the wrong idea, mom and dad hadn’t traveled from their Virginia home to bask in their children’s luminous vocals.  Nope.  Mom wanted to come up a few days early to ensure she had enough time to visit the salon in our Astoria neighborhood for a cheap mani-pedi, haircut and eyebrow threading.  Our performance was just a coincidental detour on her road to budget beauty.

Oh well, at least we got a couple of free meals out of the deal. 

Since Good Friday is the most solemn night of Holy Week, after church we decided to spend a quiet evening under the Grand Chapiteau in Citi Field with 2,600 of our closest heathen friends at Cirque du Soleil’s show, Totem.  By the way, that’s pronounced to-TEM according to the pre-show announcement.  Pretentious much?

Ever since losing two-and-a-half hours of my life at that Zarkana mess a few years ago at Radio City, Trish and I have been waiting for the tent shows to return to New York.  At Radio City, we were seated so far from the stage and performers that it felt as we were watching a youtube clip on my laptop.  Though it might have been better to watch off my laptop.  We'd at least avoid the continuous stream of annoying latecomers traipsing across my sightlines.

Totem

Grand Chapiteau @ Citi Field

Fri, March 29, 8pm

Totem still doesn’t match the unabashed whimsy and seriously mind-blowing physical feats on display in our favorite Cirque show, Ovo.  But the intimacy of the three-quarter thrust somehow makes up for the less “showy” acrobatic acts.  At least in the tent, you feel a connection to the performers dangling above your heads.  Not to mention a much better view of all those glistening abs and biceps.

Like most Cirque shows, the dramatic through line is tenuous at best - allusions to evolutionary theory confusingly interspersed with cartoon versions of native Americans (Apparently they love to rollerskate as well as drum.  Who knew?) and a scrawny, creepy Italian dude (don't ask).  But really, who goes to a Cirque show for the story, right?

The best performance of the evening, though, came from Sal and his straight-out-of-the-Sopranos goomba family seated in front of us (perhaps some relation to the creepy dude in the show?).  Clearly Sal was off his meds as he literally grabbed guests away from the usher, leading them to the wrong seats; all the while inappropriately slinging his arm around the waist of any attractive lady in the group and speaking with his face much too closely to theirs for a first meeting.  We (the goombas and everyone sitting around them) all laughed and shook our heads in amusement as if we were watching a cute little puppy retrieve a chewed up tennis ball over and over again.

I can’t wait until I’m also old enough to act inappropriately without repercussion and be labeled “a cute old man” rather than “sex offender.”

More Easter weekend fun...

Groping Grandpa (Sequal to Nasty Nana)

It seems I’m a love magnet to the geriatric set.  Once again, I found myself the center of some unseemly and unwanted attention at the opera house the other night.  I was set for a lovely evening with Anna Netrebko and dreamy barihunk, Mariusz Kwiecień, in the Met’s new production of Donizetti’s L’Elisir d’Amore, when the silver-haired “gentlemen” sitting next to me started making the moves. 

At first, I thought the tingling on my thigh was just my excitement over Mariusz's first entrance.  But soon I realized it was the back of my neighbors hand trying to inconspicuously brush up against my leg.  At first, I thought maybe he was just spreading out to get more comfortable.  But every time I moved my leg away, his hand somehow managed to find it’s way past the arm rest and against my thigh.  Ew, right?    

At least in the case of Nasty Nana, grandma shamelessly made her move in broad daylight and in full view of everyone in the store.  We could all later laugh and marvel at granny’s audacity and utter lack of social decorum and at the same time give her props for going out and grabbing (literally) what she wanted.  But groping someone in a darkened theatre - unless it’s “that” kind of a theatre, of course - is just a step too far…even for me. 

And before you ask, no, I did not give grandpa any weird signals.  In fact, he got to his seat just as the houselights dimmed for the overture so we didn’t even make eye contact.  I think he finally got the hint, though, after I shifted my entire body to the left side of my seat, leaving a gap between our shared armrest and my leg large enough for an anorexic model to fall through. 

Thankfully, I was able to avoid an awkward post-grope moment.  Just as the orchestra cut-off the final chord of the finale and before the ovation started, grandpa skedaddled from his seat and out the door faster than you can say “sexual harassment suit.”  I’m sure he was embarrassed enough for the both of us. 

So what did I think of the opera?  Well, that’s hard to say.  I was somewhat preoccupied trying to ignore the advances of my horny neighbor and mentally escaping to my "happy place."  I will say that Matthew Polenzani’s rendition of the second act aria “Una furtive lagrima” was captivating - at least captivating enough to pull gramp’s focus away from my leg and to the stage for at least a few minutes. 

The physical production was lovely if adequate.  A badly designed false proscenium blocked most of the action upstage and cut-off much of the set from anyone not sitting in the orchestra.  I guess that’s the Met’s way of saying “fuck you” to us cheapskates up in the nosebleeds. 

I’ve always been indifferent in regards to Netrebko, but in this production she was able to lighten up her usually dark soprano and surprised me with some well-floated top notes and mostly clean runs (though she splatted a couple of high notes towards the end of the second act).  She also genuinely seemed to be enjoying herself and was surprisingly funny.

As I mentioned before, Polenzani was the surprise of the night.  He’s always solid, but last night he nearly stopped the show (and my molester’s advances) with his “Una furtiva…”

Mariusz looked great, but his voice seemed a tad small for the house.

The chorus, as usual, sounded wonderful but was hampered by unimaginative staging. 

I’m sure the production will tape well, though, and I’m sure it will look and sound wonderful in the HD broadcasts.  

L'Elisir D'Amore

Met Opera House - Lincoln Center

Monday, Oct 1 @ 7:30pm 

Nasty Nana

While innocently enjoying our baked goods at Donna Bell’s Bake Shop prior to the evening performance of the new Broadway revival of Godspell, Juan and I got groped by grandma.  Nothing like being sexually violated by a senior citizen to get you in the mood for show tunes.

I’d been in Jersey all weekend because my parents were up from Virginia visiting Juan and Val.  Due to the freak Nor’easter snowstorm (seriously - an earthquake, hurricane and freak blizzard in the span of three months!?),we spent most of the weekend trapped in the house watching movies and eating.  So by Sunday, we were stir crazy and needed to get out of the house.

We coasted into the city with virtually no traffic and easily found a parking space - thank you, Sunday night shows - and had a tasty Thai dinner.  Craving something sweet before show time, we headed to Donna Bell’s.

Donna Bell’s is cozy and kitschy, and with the Xanadu soundtrack playing in the background, we were soon grooving and enjoying some sweet treats.  The store doesn’t really have seating, just two padded alcoves on either side of the entrance door that hold at most, two people.  Val decided that she and Trish needed sisterly bonding time, so Juan and I sat across from them at the other alcove.

An older, well-dressed woman approached Juan and I, asking if we were enjoying our pastries.  Seems innocent enough, right?  We exchanged casual pleasantries and told her how great everything tasted.  Moving in closer, she asked with a mischievous smile, “Are you brothers or lovers?”  Okay, a little weird for a stranger, but hell, this is New York, not Kalamazoo.  Trying to be funny I replied, “We’re brothers…” and then lowering my voice to a sultry whisper finished, “…and lovers.”  Then I laughed, telling her I was just joking, explaining that my brother’s married and that I’m gay. 

Well, that little bit of personal info gave her just the opening she needed to get all up in our “bid-nez.”  She moved in closer - nearly straddling my knee - telling us how cute we were and how she wanted to kiss us, especially Juan.  Now, you’d think when an old lady asks, “Can I give you a kiss?” she means a peck on the cheek.  Oh no, granny was not playing around.  After Juan consented to a kiss, she went in for a mouth to mouth.  I kid you not.

Of course, Val and Trish were in hysterics at this point and the bakery staff was uncomfortably whispering to each other behind the counter.  Surely they were discussing how to get granny’s order together as quickly as possible so they could politely rush their sexually frustrated customer out the door.  So we just played along, thinking she’d soon be on her way with a box of lemon bars to satiate her growing “appetite.”

Soon enough, granny was fully pressed against my leg, her hand gripping me mid-thigh and slowly working toward my family jewels.  Awkward.  She then decided a kiss from Juan was not enough and that I’d be the main course following Juan’s appetizer.  Before I knew what was happening, granny lunged and planted one on my lips.  No tongue, thank God.

Granny was very expensively appointed and did not smell of alcohol, so it wasn’t like some stinky bag lady was getting all up in my grill.  Besides, we were in the middle of a public space with witnesses all around.  And she was old.  It’s not like I couldn’t take her down if she decided to go all Blanche Devereaux on me.  She was obviously just an eccentric, lonely - albeit horny - old lady.  So we played along, waiting for the bakery staff to hurry up and complete her order. 

After another uncomfortable five minutes or so of inappropriate flirting, granny asked us to guess her age.  We politely declined.  I was not about to open that bag of worms.  Unfazed, she continued her weird bakeshop pick-up, telling us she owned restaurants in Connecticut and that they didn’t have “boys like us” up there.  Oh Lord, granny’s got yellow fever, too.

Trish could not contain herself any longer and boldly whipped out her iPhone to memorialize the evening for posterity’s sake.  Granny didn’t blink.  “Oh, look, she’s going to take a picture of us,” granny happily exclaimed. 

Finally, after about five more minutes of freaky flirting, granny seemed to give up, said good-bye and walked out of the shop.  Turns out she hadn’t even ordered anything.  She literally walked into the shop with the sole purpose of trying to get herself into a Filipino sandwich.  Nasty!   

You’re probably thinking, “Fausto, why didn’t you politely tell granny to beat it?”  Well, the situation was so unexpected and unbelievable that I was almost shocked into immobility.  It was like watching a surreal episode of Punk’d.  I was simultaneously revolted and yet strangely curious to see just how far grandma would push the envelope.  Sure, if we were at a gay bar and some old troll was hitting on me, I’d have politely cut it off before any kind of lip contact occurred.  But this was a cute little old lady.

I guess I should take it as a compliment.  Or start therapy now to deal with the inevitable psychological scarring.

Oh, the show was fine, too.  When I've recovered, I'll be posting my review.

These are worth way more than a thousand words...

I'm still basking in the memories of last month's Pineda family cruise (don't worry, more updates and pictures are coming soon - I'm just a little slow.  Scroll down to earlier posts to see updates).  Those pesky on-ship photographers annoyed the hell out of us, but we finally broke down and decided to pose for them.  Little did they know we had our own special brand of glamour shot in mind. 

Here we are in all our airbrushed glory!  Yes, we also did a "real" pose, but it was nowhere near as interesting as this "dramatic" action shot.  The photographer didn't think we were serious and we literally had to force him to take the shot.  I think the results speak for themself, no? 

I mean, seriously, a red velvet chaise with matching red curtains?  Is this a cruise ship or a French whorehouse?

We actually couldn't believe how nice this picture of mom and dad turned out.  Now you can all see where we get our photogenic tendencies from. 

Ah, the (in)famous Northern Lights Dining Room.  So many memories of mediocre, but enjoyable meals with head waiter, Sirima (sweet but slow), and waiter, Stanimir (a sarcastic but lovable smartass). Here we are on formal night.  I guess that's why they added the extra fancy floral border to the picture.  Classy (barf).

I guess New York has turned me into a judgemental...

jaded, nasty queen - sigh.  Though I'm no stranger to the raised eyebrow and "oh, gurl" attitude of the urban gay set, I've always thought of myself as generally a nice person.  Well, I guess we all have our moments and mine happened last night at Kathy Griffin Wants A Tony. 

As I climbed over dozens of knees to get to my prime front mezzanine center seat, I notice the gentlemen next to me flashing a big, goofy smile. Out of the corner of my eye I see him continually glancing over at me, checking me out, and I immediately go into avoidance mode - picking through my bag, pretending to read texts on my phone, folding and re-folding my coat - but to no avail. "Hi there. How are you?" Ugh. Why do I always end up next to some creepy old queen trying to pick me up? "Fine, thank you" I politely answer and then pretend to be engrossed in my Playbill. "So where are you from?" Can he not read my very blatant signals? "Astoria," I meekly smile. But I've clearly just opened the door and he extends his hand, "Well, nice to meet you, I'm Paul." OK, enough already. I just came out tonight to hear some Kathy trash talk. I do not want to go on a first date with the lonely guy next to me.  I politely take his hand and answer, "I'm Fausto." Now leave me alone.  "God bless," he says. What!?!?

That's the weirdest pick-up line I've ever heard. I shyly ask, "Where are you from?" "Abilene, Texas. It's my first time in New York City and I'm with my wife and daughter." He gestures to the tween next to him and then to a solid, but pleasant looking woman with big, southern blond hair in the next seat.  She smiles and waves.

Oops. Have I become so self-absorbed and arrogant to think the only reason someone might start a conversation with me is because they are so dazzled by my good looks that they can't help but hit on me? I guess so. This excited tourist was just trying to make friendly southern small talk and I assumed he was some lonely looser at the Kathy Griffin show.

My Gaydar needs a definitely tune up. Anyway, after we got our little misunderstanding cleared up we spent the next ten minutes gossiping like long last girlfriends.  He warned that I shouldn't bother seeing Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo - even with Robin Williams - because it was just awful and full of profanity. I asked him if he knew that every other word Kathy says is "fuck"? We're definitely besty's for life now.

As for Kathy, she was a hot mess - in a good way. She was wound tight like a crack whore on an all-night bender, skipping from pop culture topic to pop culture topic, often interrupting her own story to follow some unrelated tangent and then asking the audience to remind her to get back to the original story. The audience obliged, of course, randomly yelling out names and topics to get the comedienne back on track. The free-for-all atmosphere continued for two intermissionless hours.

For Kathy fans, or Kath-eters as we have now been dubbed, it was a night of outrageous fun. For Kathy haters, well, I'll just quote the great one herself and tell you to go "suck it."

Kathy's hilarious bio.

Kathy Griffin wants a Tony
Monday, March 14, 8pm performance
Belasco Theatre

Blizzard of 2010 -- photos coming soon!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Very Merry Pineda Holiday Spectacular!

The staff of Pineda Conservatory in our opening number finery. 

Merry Christmas!

It’s the most wonderful(?) time of the year

The holiday season snuck up on me like a bad case of acid reflux.  That’s right folks, haul out the holly and all that good shit, because the holidays are here.  I spent this past Saturday morning singing Christmas carols.  No, not for fun - please, I’m way too jaded for that.  I had my first rehearsal for caroling season. 

For the last decade or so I’ve been donning Victorian tails and top hat and spreading holiday cheer in malls and bank lobbies across the tri-state area.  Glamorous, no?  It all started way back in the late 90s when I got hired to be a promotional singer for A Christmas Carol at Madison Square Garden.  The cast had like, 20 shows a day so Actors’ Equity didn’t allow them to do any of the regular promotional stuff that a normal Production Contract requires of a Broadway cast.  Instead, the producers hired a quartet of singers (including little old moi) that did all the promotional appearances for the show, pretending to be actual cast members.  Well, officially, we didn’t pretend to be anything, we were just told not to refute the fact if anyone assumed we were.  Thus, all the confused voicemails on my service from friends and colleagues after my Today Show performance chastising me for not telling them I had booked such a great gig.  As a historical footnote for all my teen and twenty-something readers, back in the stone ages we didn’t have cell phones, we had voicemail services that we checked 50 times a day from - gasp - pay phones!  Anyway, all I remember is that we had to be at the studio holy hell early, John Denver performed, I met Prince (he wasn’t yet “the-artist-formerly-known-as”) in the green room and we froze our asses off outside the studio waiting for Al Roker to introduce us -- oh, and we sang "Carol of the Bells"!  Yes, random, I know.

We actually booked some pretty sweet gigs through Christmas Carol - lots of big parties and openings - including Marilyn Albright’s Christmas party at her New York apartment (her last Christmas in NYC before being named Secretary of State).  But eventually Christmas Carol tanked and I started caroling for my friend, Donald’s, company.  Though the gigs haven’t been as high profile as Christmas Carol, it’s definitely been an experience dealing with crazy shoppers, PC police screaming “equal time for Hanukkah” and some extremely uncomfortable private parties where we were viewed as live ornaments.  Some caroling highlights from the last decade:

• Singing at a model home in New Jersey with a quartet consisting of a Ravenel (Show Boat Nat’l Tour), a Madame Thenardier (Les Mis Nat’l Tour & Bway) and a Madame de la Grande Bouche (Beauty and the Beast, Bway) and laughing about what a stepping stone Broadway is for your career.
• Walking across the backstage of Radio City Music Hall during a performance of the Christmas Spectacular and getting to watch that huge hydraulic stage lift up while the Rockettes were tapping away on top of it (we were performing in the lower lobby for a pre-show reception). 
• Dealing with drunken partiers/hecklers in the Natural History Museum at Bloomberg’s big Holiday party where he rents out a wing of the museum.
• Taking requests from tired Brooks Brothers employees at their empty Fifth Avenue store late on Christmas Eve.
• Sitting at the bar and getting free holiday drinks at the Firebird Café on restaurant row after a long New Year’s Eve gig in their dining room.
• Riding the Sorrento Cheese float as a “Sorrento Cheese Caroler” in the Little Italy Christmas Parade and not knowing we’d have to be singing without a microphone to a screaming crowd from on top of a flatbed truck. 
• Asking for a Diet Coke and then getting chastised at a private party given by an executive of Pepsi (I swear I didn’t know).
• The numerous times mid-song when someone will walk right up to us and ask a question (usually something stupid, like “Are you guys carolers?”) thinking we’ll just stop mid-note to answer them. 
• The annual Christmas party at a Connecticut family’s home where we end the evening lighting real candles on their tree and singing "Silent Night" - all three verses and the German - and taking breaks in the kitchen with their Polish cook who is constantly bad-mouthing the “wasteful habits” of  “rich people.”  Sadly, the parents got divorced a couple of years ago and the wife couldn’t afford to keep hiring us.
• Strolling with the free booze cart around a big NYC advertising company’s Christmas party trying not to feel humiliated as young hipsters laughed while we serenaded them with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

Here's a holiday toast to more ridiculous Caroling adventures in 2010!

Me, Trish and Caroling buddies in our festive debut at some mall in upstate New York - so glamorous!

Team Lucky and the organist from hell

In the midst of Pineda camp, we took a brief excursion to the land of corn and football for my cousin Alan’s wedding. Once again, our family continues to strengthen the gene pool by throwing in some hardy Irish Catholic stock via his lovely bride, Bridget.

After work on Friday I took a shuttle flight out to Chicago. I met Juan and Val at O’Hare and we drove to the lovely Skokie Doubletree, just outside of Chicago, where the whole wedding party was staying. As the family’s only known “friend of Dorothy,” it was my responsibility to make sure the wedding party knew that New York was in da’ house. So I decided to go in full-out Cuban pimp drag with a tan pin-striped linen jacket, khaki pants and … wait for it … a straw fedora. I was the fashion toast of Skokie that weekend, I’ll wager. Doubly impressive is the fact that the only item I actually brought with me from NYC was the jacket, white shirt and shoes. I purchased the rest of the ensemble just hours before the ceremony at the Marshall's next door to the hotel. How's that for living on the edge?

The wedding day started off a bit rough for us. Per usual the Aunties drafted Juan, Val, Trish and I into singing for the ceremony. The organist was, to put it nicely, difficult. I guess we should have been prepared for some attitude, given that Al kept telling her we were “professional singers from New York.” I’m sure she came to the table ready to show us snooty East Coasters how they roll in Chicagoland. But let’s get real, it’s a wedding in Skokie not our premier at Chicago Lyric. You’re really going to choose this particular situation to have a my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours smack down?

First off, Val sent the organist dozens of music choices that we knew the couple would like and that we have performed at other weddings. But instead of honoring the family’s choices - because the wedding is obviously all about the organist - she decided we’d perform two songs of her choosing. Fine, yours is bigger than mine. This wouldn’t have been a problem had the songs been, well, good. But instead we got saddled with New Age-y, faux folk/pop ballads of the blandest sort - Christian elevator music.

We arrived at the church right before the ceremony with unreadable faxed copies from the hotel since the organist wouldn’t fax the music to us in NY because of some bulls*it about long distance faxing. After telling her we just wanted to plow through the song to learn the notes - remember we’re sight reading - she stops us two pages in to give us notes about dynamics. Really? The ceremony is set to begin in 20 minutes, we don’t know the song and you’re worried that we’re not catching that decrescendo in the fifth measure? Get a grip, lady. The funny part is she kept telling us we were singing too loudly. Um, we were marking (for you vocal laymen, that means we weren't really singing out, just sort of singing under our breath so as not to tire out our voices). I’m sure her ears were bleeding during the ceremony when we actually did sing with our "real" voices. On a side note, a few guests at the church commented about how the singing could have been louder and that it was difficult to hear us at some points. I'm just saying. Anyway, her wedding … I mean, Al and Bridget’s wedding ... went fine even with little rehearsal and bland music choices. Thankfully, Al is the last cousin to get married in that church so we never have to work with this woman again (knock on wood).

Twenty minutes into the reception, all thoughts of the organist from hell had dissipated thanks to the soothing embrace of beloved family member, Vodka Collins. I'm embarassed to say it, but we were “that” table. You know, the rowdy drunk group everyone whispers about and leers at. Don’t judge, we had a rough day. Regardless, we had a blast with our Canadian cousins, Serena and Jonathan, who can really put 'em back.  And also our Indiana cousins, Hannah and Clara, who didn't drink at all (don't worry mamma Leslie), although they may have been privy to some mighty saucy language from the rest of the table. They're off to college soon, so I'd like to think we were just breaking them in.

My fedora was the hit of the evening, with everyone (okay, mainly the under ten set) fighting for a chance to try it on. Watch for my upcoming Fedora Series, to be published once I get the photos off Trish’s camera. And while we're on the subject of fashion, Gerry and I were disappointingly the only wedding guests to do a mid-reception outfit change. How can you attend an event and not have at least two costume changes?

Oh, and I almost forgot about the surly wedding photographer.  I don't care how good your photos are, unless you're Ansel Adams it is not appropriate to tell your clients to shut up. While trying to get a group shot of the dozens of cousins, Little Miss Surly actually said (and without irony or joking smile), "If you don't shut up, this is going to take a lot longer." Oh no she didn't. Granted, we were all very drunk and rowdy.  But it's a wedding reception, not a class photo shoot for Miss Buffy's Finishing School. After the initial shock and probably priceless shot of us all staring gaping-mouthed and wide-eyed into the camera, her comment only made us laugh louder and act even more inappropriately. That put Miss Surly-pants over the edge and she actually threatened to separate Margot and me. Seriously. It was like a real life Saturday Night Live sketch, only funny. (Note to photographer: if you want to take an organized group shot, don't wait until the end of the night after everyone's gotten plastered.) 

The highlight of the weekend? - discovering the culinary Mecca known as Portillo’s Hot Dogs. The life changing experience can best be described in three words - dipped beef sandwich. ‘Nough said?

Congratulations to Team Lucky (below). Bring me something nice from Hawaii.

(Photo courtesy of Leslie Cruz Ruegsegger)