My review of Lady Day or "I didn't think I could possibly love Audra more"

Lady Day at Emerson's Bar and Grill

Circle in the Square

Thursday, March 27, 8PM

Warning: This is a completely biased review from an unapologetic Audra-obsessed fanboy.  Do not expect impartial criticism.

Audra and Billie

I don’t care if the nominating committee can’t decide whether Lady Day is a “musical” or a “play with music.” Just hand Audra her sixth Tony. If I had my way, I would institute a “Best Performance by Audra McDonald” category and she could win a Tony every year. We can then debate the flawlessness of each performance in whatever show she’s currently appearing.

As a confirmed Audraphile, I admit even I had my doubts. Audra’s voice is perfection, but I just couldn’t imagine Audra’s soaring legit soprano attempt to take on Billie Holiday’s iconic songs and performance style.

What Ms. McD accomplishes transcends mere mimicry. She's dampened some of the glorious bloom and lushness of her soprano voice in order to inhabit - not just imitate - Holiday’s iconic sound, style and manner.

It’s unfortunate the book scenes don’t match the quality of Audra’s performance. They are uneven and sometimes unnecessarily meandering. But Audra manages to enthrall with even mediocre writing. There is an immediacy and desperation in her performance that only heightens the tragedy of Holiday’s short, demon-filled life.

The intimate Circle in the Square is the perfect venue to see Audra up close and personal. And even as a boozed-up, heroin addict, Audra’s still radiant. Though I suspect if she ever played a homeless, scarred leper I’d still find her radiant.

Did I mention I’m obsessed with Audra?

Props to the excellent onstage jazz trio whose talents are equally responsible for the style and sound of the show.

Split squats and burpees and planks, oh my…

Dear Lord, my ass is aching.  And not for the reasons you’re probably thinking. 

I know I’ve been MIA for several weeks (I guess it’s now been months, yikes!) but I’ve had some pretty intense family shit hit the fan recently that I’d rather not get into.  But I hope to catch ya’ll up soon on some of my end-of-summer fun and finish up some reviews on a ton of shows.  Keep checking back.  

Now back to my ass.

About a month ago I decided to quit my bitching and moaning, get off the couch and do something about my middle-aged, saggy tuchus (It also seems I’m slowly turning into a grumpy, old Jewish man.  Who knew?).

With lipo pricing well above my meager means, I decided to do it the old fashioned way.  That’s right, folks, diet and exercise (insert audible gasp here).  For years I’ve faithfully paid my NYC fat tax - i.e. NY Sports Club membership - but somehow have not been able to drag my self-pitying ass the three blocks to my local branch.

After surfing the web for some motivation, I stumbled upon the website for Mark Fisher Fitness.  Like a drag queen to Ricky’s (very NYC-centric reference there, sorry my non-city friends), I was drawn immediately to the glittery menu tab and pictures of muscled hotties in bikini briefs.  Could this be the inspiration I’d been searching for?  I read further – founded by former Broadway dancer, group classes taught by foul-mouthed, half-naked instructors…unicorns, feather boas and tutus!  I’d stumbled upon fitness Brigadoon, only without Scottish accents.

Though quite a hefty financial commitment, I decided the more I spent, the less likely I’d be willing to skip workouts for a hot date with a bacon double cheeseburger.  So a day after stumbling upon the website, I decided to pay a visit to MFF’s Enchanted Ninja Clubhouse of Glory and Dreams.  Seriously, that's what they call their "gym."  You can’t make that shit up.

As it turned out, the day of my visit coincided with the first day of registration for MFF’s highly popular Snatched in Six Weeks program – kind of like a super intense, gay fitness boot camp with lots of talk about unicorns and "nailing it."  I took this as God saying, “You are a lazy whore.  Get your shit together and sign up now!”  And when God calls you a whore, you’d best listen up.

I plunked down my $800, cried a little on the inside, and committed myself to six weeks of "fitness glory" (another popular Mark Fisher-sim).  Good thing, too, because it turned out the program completely sold out in a matter of hours.  But how was I to satiate my newly awakened fitness hunger?  It was early September and Snatched wouldn’t start until mid-October. 

I’ve always been an “all-or-nothing” type, so on impulse (I may have been hypnotized by all the smiley faces and disco lights in the Clubhouse) I drained the rest of my bank account and treated myself to a month-long, trial membership.  Might as well have a little make out session with Mark Fisher before I decide to go legs up (metaphorically, of course).

After an initial consultation where trainer Geoff continuously told me - and rightly so - that I was awesome, amazing and sexy, I decided this was definitely the gym for me.  I then met with trainer Stephanie for a kettle bell (basically a cannon ball with a handle) primer and to learn the core exercises I’d be using in class.  We instantly bonded when she equated proper goblet squat form with trying to impale your butthole on a suctioned dildo on the back wall of the gym.  Finally, a trainer who speaks my language.

If you haven't realized it yet, cursing and sex talk is a main component of the Mark Fisher experience.  Fundamentalist Christians and Republicans, this may not be the program for you, though you'd be welcomed with open and loving arms.

I’ve now been taking class religiously (pun intended) twice a week for three weeks.  To be honest, it’s not even the exercise that keeps me coming back (or the loosening pants or increased energy).  It’s the simple fact that people there tell me I’m sexy and hot even with my belly hanging out from under my T-shirt, my face grimacing and pouring sweat, while I’m lying on my back glute pressing and grunting.  That's true love.

Though I realize in an office setting, such encouragement would seem a tad bit inappropriate (sexual harassment suit, anyone?), I, for one, would welcome the opportunity for my boss to say, “Hey, you sexy bitch, go ballz deep and type up this memo!  Your are fucking nailing it today!”  Seriously.

Staycation 2013 NYC part deux

Friday, July 5 (click here for part une)

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, July 6

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

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

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

Here's my artsy-fartsy overhead shot.

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

Here's Juan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, July 7

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

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

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

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

For the Love of Audra! Audra McDonald at Avery Fisher

This guy

Who’s got two thumbs and squealed like a 12-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert upon hearing the announcer utter the five most thrilling words in the English language:  “Please welcome Ms. Audra McDonald”? 

This guy.

Yup, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I have an unholy obsession with all things Audra.  When it was announced she was giving a concert at Avery Fisher, I went online immediately - well, after weeping uncontrollably with joy - to purchase tickets.  I haven’t missed a single one of her New York appearances (Broadway or concert) since she first won my heart as spunky Carrie Pipperidge in Lincoln Center's 1994 Carousel revival.

I know, I'm just a cult affiliation and scraggly beard short of "stalker" status.

Trish nearly gave me a coronary, though, when she called my office ten minutes to five (the concert started at 7 PM) explaining she was still in Jersey and was going to hop in her car right then and drive straight to Lincoln Center.  I wished her luck, hung up the phone, ripped open a bag of cheddar and sour cream Ruffles and started binge eating. 

Not that Trish’s situation had any bearing on my attendance.  Hell no.  But I was experiencing sympathy stress just imagining what it would be like stuck in the Lincoln Tunnel knowing Audra was emoting to my empty seat. 

These thoughts only fueled my paranoia.  There was no way I was going to be late.  I left my midtown office immediately so I'd have a reasonable two hours to make the 15 block trek uptown to Lincoln Center.  You can never be too cautious when it comes to Audra.

When I exited the subway at Lincoln Center I texted Trish for an update.  She was still stuck at the Lincoln Tunnel.  I did what any sensible super-fan would do and headed straight to the box office, left Trish's ticket and headed to my seat.  Nothing is more important than family, except Audra.  Trish would have to fend for herself. 

Because the concert was being taped live for PBS broadcast, the usher gestapo was out in full force exclaiming, “No late entry.  You cannot leave the theatre once the performance has started.  There is no intermission.”  These weren’t your typical grumpy, elderly ushers.  Oh no, for a live Audra taping you get burly, secret service types in tuxes with white, curly phone-cord earpieces.

Since the concert was also a benefit for Lincoln Center, the audience skewed into two very distinct demographics.  Seated up front with their stretched-faced wives were the wealthy elite, all tuxedos and bored expressions.  Sure, they had an idea who Audra was - "that black woman from the TV show" - but they weren't true fans.  Meanwhile, the more youthful, skinny-legged-pant-wearing, theatre nerd contingent was scattered about, delegated to the rear orchestra and balconies. 

At 7 PM on the dot, the house lights went down and the concert began.  Huh?  Lincoln Center?  Gala event?  Wealthy New Yorkers?  On time?

Trish’s unused seat mocked me with its empty stare, but once Audra uttered her first sung phrase, “I happen to like New York…” everything else became irrelevant.  By the end of Audra’s second number (her now signature version of Jason Robert Brown's “Stars and the Moon”) I resigned myself to the fact that Trish was going to miss the concert, leaving me with a super convenient place to lay out my coat and bag.

Then as if on cue, the back doors swung open during our applause and a horde of latecomers came streaming through.  According to Trish, there were so many rich, privileged old people screaming and complaining about not being permitted late entry, the house managers had no choice but to let them in.

Regarding Audra’s performance, well, what can I say?  She was, as usual, magnificent and looked gorgeous in a teal gown.  Here's the NY Times' rave.  My only disappointment was that she didn't perform much new material.  Tonight's program was largely a repeat of her 2011 Carnegie Hall concert which also happens to be the material included in her upcoming new release "Go Back Home."  Even so, Trish and I were in tears as soon as Audra started in on the 9/11-themed "I'll Be Here."  And I have a feeling in about six months casting directors all over the country will want to shoot themselves after Audra's rendition of Goldrich & Heisler's "Baltimore" makes the song an audition staple.

Unfortunately, the sound in the theatre was pitiful.  You'd think the nation's premier performing arts venue would have some idea about setting sound levels for a solo singer and orchestra, but apparently not.  There was loud microphone feedback during a couple of very dramatic musical moments.  And for most of the concert, it sounded like Audra was singing into the mouth of a very large cave - all muffled and echo-y.

Oh well, Audra is still Audra.  Hopefully, they'll be able to do some magic in the editing room before the "Live from Lincoln Center" telecast.  I'm setting my DVR right now.

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.

Meat, glorious meat!

Showing off my grilling prowess.

Trish and I are currently obsessed with Gyu-Kaku restaurant in midtown.  It's a Japanese BBQ joint where you order a bunch of meats and cook them yourself on the mini-grill located in the middle of the table. 

We stumbled upon the carnivore-centric restaurant as we wandered midtown after Empire Thursday night looking for a late night snack.  Sure, they have a couple of vegetables on the menu, but why waste precious calories on non-protein items?  Bring on the flesh!

They also have a nifty Happy Hour special weekdays 4pm-6pm and then again from 9:30pm to closing where almost everything is half price.  What better reason to indulge in some heavy meat-ploitation?  I recommend ordering a side of garlic rice, prepared and served at your table in a stone bowl.   No vampire will come within a hundred feet of you after you've downed a couple spoonfuls.  Though I'd skip the rice if it's a first date and you're hoping to get lucky.

Then you can head around the block to 45th Street for a cookie fix at Schmackery, my other current obsession.  Their thick, doughy, frosted cookies are delish.  I recommend the carrot cake and red velvet.  I'd link, but it seems they don't have a website.  Seriously, what year is it?  1992?  Get some web presence already!

Trish playing with her meat.

A double dose of Porgy and Audra...um, I mean Bess, and quick thoughts on Leap of Faith

My unholy obsession with Audra McDonald continues.  Not only have I already seen the current revival of Porgy and Bess twice, but twice within three days!!  Yes, I'm practically a stalker.  I'm not even kidding.  Just ask Trish about my strange and elaborate plan for Audra's performance at my funeral.  There won't be a dry eye in St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Given this obsession, you should take anything I say in this review with a grain of salt, because I would never, ever say anything negative about the lovely Audra.  And thanks to TDF, I was able to get a double dose of that luminous voice last week.

The Gershwins' Porgy and Bess
Richard Rodgers Theatre
Tuesday, May 15 @ 7pm
Thursday, May 17 @ 8pm

Given Sondheim's scathing letter to The New York Times flaming Audra and director Diane Paulus for thinking they could "improve" Gershwin's masterpiece, I had mixed feelings going into the theatre.  Besides Audra, Sondheim is the other musical theatre icon I blindly worship.  Would this little tiff cause me to make the ultimate Sophie's choice?  Thankfully, no. 

The controversy surrounding the revival has since died down.  Paulus and team dropped the most radical of the talked about changes (an added happy ending), opting instead for the less radical addition of dialogue in place of the recitative.

Originally, I was going to first-act the show Tuesday night, thinking I'd sit through the whole thing on Thursday with Trish and Chris Grimm (our Billy Bigelow in Carousel who I was taking as a graduation gift - congrats!).  But I was in tears (in a good way) after "Bess, You Is My Woman" and I couldn't bring myself to leave at intermission.

Hearing those legit voices singing that romantic Gershwin score only made me long for the days before the American Idol-ization of Broadway, when gorgeous, trained voices could impress without riffing and screeching their way through a score.

And for those who thinks classic musicals are old fashioned and quaint, well, they obviously don't have a clue.  How many shows in the past twenty years include two gruesome on-stage murders, an extended rape sequence, a main character who's a slut and a drug addict and a not-so-happy ending? 

For Broadway standards, the singing is impeccable.  It's not opera caliber, but you'll likely never hear that quality of singing on a Broadway stage ever again.  The ensemble sound is gorgeous and the harmonies are breathtaking. Thank you again, George Gershwin.

The acting is also first rate.  Which only makes me wonder why other shows can't be cast with better singers.  Usually, the argument is that the director chooses an actor who sings over a singing actor, presuming that someone with an incredibly beautiful voice probably can't act with equal proficiency.  But that didn't seem to be an issue in this case.  So what's the deal, casting directors?!

Audra, of course, is glorious and should already make room on her bookshelf for a fifth Tony.  Norm Lewis, besides being the nicest guy on Broadway (he met me once years ago and will still stop and greet me by name whenever I run into him on the street) sounds better than ever and his character's transformation from vulnerable cripple to courageous hero is impressive.

Like me, Chris and Trish were in tears throughout, as was most of the audience.  With the exception of the recent revival of The Normal Heart and the first 10 minutes of The Lion King, I have not seen anything on Broadway more moving or thrilling. 

My only complaint would be with the sound design.  Though the orchestra is large by Broadway standards, it sounds thin and tinny through the house speakers and doesn't match the lush vocals coming from the stage.  And though I'm usual fine with a minimalist esthetic when it comes to set design, I don't think this production benefits from a stripped down approach, especially in the picnic scene.  A big white, sheet and a a sad, little bush?  That's the best you could come up with?  Oh well, I guess that's two complaints.  Who cares, Audra's in it!

Leap of Faith
St. James Theatre
Thursday, April 12, 8pm performance

I must be getting less critical in my old age, because I actually liked Leap of Faith.  Yes, it opened and closed in a hot second and the reviews were unanimous pans, but I enjoyed myself.

It's not a classic by any standards, but the story was engaging, the music was fun and it had a wonderful cast.  Trust me, I've seen Dance of the Vampires, High Fidelity, Nick & Nora and Lestat - I know bad. 

I think LOF may have suffered from premature show-jaculation.  That's not a technical term, by the way, I just made it up.  Instead of taking time to really work out the kinks and fine tune the book and score after its initial out of town tryout, they decided to rush into production months early because the St. James opened up (thanks to the forgettable On A Clear Day... revival's early closing).

Though Menken's score isn't on par with his early Disney days, he knows how to write a catchy tune and how to make a power ballad land.  He understands how a show tune needs to develop and how it works dramatically within the structure of a musical.  These are skills missing from much of the current pop music crossover artists who, though I applaud their ambition, don't really care to learn the history or fundamentals of theatre composing.  By definition, innovation requires understanding of what has come before.  I'm all for change, but why repeat the mistakes of your predecessors out of ignorance?

Anyway, off my high horse. 

As has been written in many of the reviews, the story generously borrows from The Music Man and 110 in the Shade.  This didn't really bother me, because the setting and period change were enough of a twist to keep me interested. 

Raul Esparza is in his regular intense-but-tyring-not-to-seem-intense mode.  He's probably not ideal for the role (I'd have gone Brian d'Arcy James or even Eric McCormack for some star power.  Can Bradley Cooper sing?  Hmmmm?) but he's always consistently great.  As Esparza's love interest, Jessica Phillips is a great match vocally and has a sincerity and warmth that was totally missing from her performance in Priscilla (maybe her awful Australian accent was the culprit).  As Esparza's stage sister, Kendra Kassebaum adds a likability factor to a somewhat under-written character. 

If the show can overcome the stigma of its quick Broadway demise, I can see it being a staple at the regional houses.

The Cult of San Benedetto

After sucking down a pint of house special fried rice and a mountain of pork dumplings, the second task Trish and I fixated on after landing back in the states after our European vacation was finding a local source of San Benedetto iced tea.  It sounds crazy, but the whole family, especially Val, became obsessed with it after discovering this magical, refreshing beverage in Rome.

It may seem slightly ludicrous to get so worked up over iced tea, but then you've probably never tried San Benedetto.  Yes, it's that good.

We actually stumbled onto a local "dealer" just a block from our apartment.  Can it be that for the last decade this beverage equivalent of crack has been hiding out just down the street unbeknownst to me?

Trish and I were trying to find some fresh pasta and fixings for the jar of pistachio pesto we brought back from Sicily.  I've always walked past Dave and Tony Salumeria, but never ventured inside because it seemed like a place only a real Italian should be shopping - a tiny, dark store stacked floor-to-ceiling with imported boxes and bottles written in foreign languages, with old men smoking outside and hunched old ladies shuffling out with their rolling carts and orthopedic shoes - way too hardcore for me.  But if any store would carry our crack-tea, this would be it.  We crossed ourselves like good Catholics and walked in.

Dave and Tony's is magical.  The place is the Italian foodie's equivalent of Disney World.  We explored the narrow aisles stacked high with dried pastas, sauces, condiments and candies.  Above a counter full of freshly made pastas and breads hang rows of cured meats and cheeses and behind that, a case full of fresh mozzarella and even more meat.

And then we saw them.  Lined up on the dusty cracked floor, next to gallon tins of olive oil, swathed in glorious, gray fluorescent light, were bottles and bottles of liquid gold!  Can you hear the angelic "Ahh"?  We immediately purchase four bottles, three regular and one peach flavored.

As if that weren't enough, we were served by a swarthy Italian hunk from behind the check-out counter, complete with dark, slicked-back hair and chiseled arms protruding from behind his white butcher's apron.  Dreamy.  And yes, he spoke fluent Italian - at least to the old ladies in front of us in line.

I now make a weekly pilgrimage to Dave and Tony for my fix, my bottle of San Benedetto.  But somehow, the bottle never lasts more than one meal.  But imbibing more often would dilute the anticipation, nay, the magic, of that first delicious sip after having been deprived of it for days. 

Yes, I sound like a crazy person, but just try it and you'll see how easily you're indoctrinated into the cult of San Benedetto.

Drink the kool-aid...er...um...I mean tea.

Torture, Chocolate and DB Bonds - the Perfect Road Trip

One drawback to working a full time job where your vacation days are spent working a second job (the summer conservatory) is that you never get a real vacation. Sure, I get an occasional long weekend now and then, but I haven’t had a full week off in over three years. So I donned my rose colored glasses and pretended it was a warm August day and dragged Trish to DC for some R&R. Happy MLK day to me!

With snow from the last couple of storms still lingering in dirty piles along the street, Trish and I packed up the car and headed south. On route, we decided to stop for a day of retail therapy at Arundel Mills outlet mall. We actually spent almost five hours there power shopping. I made out with some great buys (another Ben Sherman fedora - I'm obsessed!), but the mall was definitely on the shady side of ghetto fabulous. I’m sure the mall’s design and décor were the height of chic in 1991, but now – not so much.

One reason we chose DC is that our favorite hotel is there, the Omni Shoreham. It’s walking distance from the trendy Adams Morgan neighborhood and a block from the Metro. Trish had racked up a free night’s stay (the Shoreham’s become our annual July 4th destination for the past couple of years), so we only had to spring for one night – love those freebies. Since Trish is enrolled in the select member program, we were welcomed with a tray of macaroons, chocolate and a bottle of wine in our room, all gratis (see yummy pics to the left). Beat that, Holiday Inn Express!

After reading some yelp reviews, I picked Cashion’s Eat Place for a nice sit down dinner on our first night. The food was good, but nothing we couldn’t easily find in NYC. It was more interesting for people watching. First off, the restaurant and the neighborhood is so darn white (and I don't mean the building facades). The only ethnics were busy bussing tables. There we were, two very brown individuals sandwiched between two gentile southern gals on our right and two young gay boys on our left, apparently on a first date. The girls weren’t very interesting, but the gays were fascinating. One was a pretentious young lawyer with long greased-back blond hair a la Matthew McConaughey circa 2008. His cute, twinky date probably just started growing arm pit hair. The poor thing just kept smiling and nodding while Whitey McConoughy just babbled on about his job and Washington politics – exactly the kind of conversation that will guarantee a second date. And by second date, I mean a text saying, “Thanks for dinner. I’ll call you sometime.” I was actually surprised by the high gay quotient in the restaurant. Who knew DC was such a homo hotbed? The table of daddy bears lasciviously licking their paws as I walked past them on the way back from the bathroom was a tad disconcerting while at the same time strangely flattering.  Don't judge me, people. At my age you've got to take it where you can.

For day two of our DC escapade, Trish and I decided to forego one of the Smithsonian museums for the lesser known National Museum of Crime and Punishment. If serial killers and medieval torture turn you on, chuck your Viagra and hightail it to this place. Intense is an understatement. For some reason I thought it was going to be a cheesy, Coney Island-esque exhibit in the vein of a Ripley's Believe It or Not museum.  But this place takes its murder and torture very seriously.  From Ted Bundy's VW bug - creepy considering it was the scene of so many murders - to the actual studio where "America's Most Wanted" is taped, this place is a sadomasochist's wet dream. It's definitely worth a visit if you plan to be in DC.  But be warned, wear comfortable shoes and bring your reading glasses.  The museum's plan doesn't include much seating and each exhibit is accompanied by exhaustive history and background information.  We were there for three hours and by hour two I started skimming, my brain suffering from text overload.

We needed a break after all that crime and punishment, so we headed back to the hotel for a nap before heading out to Arlington, VA, where we had tickets to Sunset Boulevard at the Signature.  I know Sunset Boulevard sucks, but we went to enjoy one of Trish's many Broadway boyfriend's, DB Bonds.  I'll post a review separately.  Let's just say the production itself was top notch, but the show would have been better served were DB allowed to perform shirtless for more of it.  Oh, and that Florence Lacey sure can sing.  She can even belt a pure "e" vowel, unlike Glenn Close ("...with one look I'll be mihhhhhhhh!").  Hey, I love Glenn, but a high chest belt is definitely not listed under "special skills" on her resume.  Does she even have a resume?  I mean, really.  Can you imagine asking Glenn for a resume at an audition? 

We were going to head out to another museum Monday morning for the holiday, but we were just too beat from all the weekend's festivities.  Instead we decided to sleep in and order our regular hot chocolate wake-up call.  Yes, another wonderful perc at the Omni - every morning you can have a pitcher of homemade chocolaty goodness delivered to your door complete with homemade marshmallows and whipped cream on the side - the breakfast of champions!  With a couple of hours to spare before our late check-out, we got cleaned up and headed to the hotel's gardens to take some new headshots.  Considering I've used the same 8x10 for about a decade, I'd say an update is long overdue. I'll post our fave shots soon, after Trish has photoshopped out my raccoon eyes and smoothed out my crows feet. 

In the end, I always judge a good trip by the food, so this weekend rates pretty high on the food-o-meter: Cashion's for some high end seafood, the enormous breakfast buffet at our hotel (we're talking omelet station, waffles, breakfast meats and a huge continental spread), a huge bowl of Pho and Vietnamese BBQ at Pho DC in Chinatown and some tasty Mexican at Guapo's after the show at the Signature.  And of course, a trip south is never complete without a stop at the Maryland House rest stop on I-95 for crab cakes at Phillips!  I know, crabs at a rest area - sounds like a health department warning - but it's now become a Pineda road trip tradition. 

And now back to reality (and slush).

Carolee

Many of you know about my un-holy obsession with Audra MacDonald.  But many of you may not be aware of my other, more subtle fanaticism for Broadway singer/actress Carolee Carmello.  Unlike Audra, Carolee doesn’t appear on a weekly National TV show (yet) so her adoration by the masses may not quite be so ubiquitous. 

Last Thursday as Trish and I wandered through the Bryant Park Holiday Shops (exiting the Kate Spade booth to be exact) we stumbled upon the tree lighting ceremony.  The usual cute (but awful) school groups performed as well as casts from a couple of Broadway shows.  No biggie, right?  Well, after the cast of Rock of Ages screamed through a couple of 80’s covers, the MC started the following introduction: 

MC:

Next up is a Broadway actress who’s starred in Mammia Mia, Lestat…

Me (squealing like a tweener at a Justin Bieber concert):  

CAROLEE CARMELLO! 

Yes, I know, that very well may have been the gayest moment of my life.

Regardless, Trish and I were giddy with delight as the many tourists around us surely wondered, “Who the hell is Carolee Carmello and why are these two crazy Asians flipping their shit?”  They obviously have never experienced the magic that is Carolee. 

I, of course, was hoping for her crazy high belt version of “Do You Hear What I Hear.”  (See below and listen through the end for the juicy belting.)


 
Instead, he announced “Oh, Holy Night.”  Even better.  Trish whipped out her cell phone and started filming the historic event.  You’ll have to check back soon when Trish’s figured out how to download the video so I can post.  We give a blow-by-blow complete with cut-away shots of our facial expressions.  Priceless.

Needless to say, Ms. Carmello was fabulous even though her last belted “di-VINE” was a little wonky.  But hey, it was cold outside. 

If you ever get a chance to see her in action, do not miss it.

Food, glorious food!

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

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

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

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

JG & me (notice fancy pin from Chris)

Trish hiding, Chris wasted as usual

Blowing out the candles

Ragtime................again!

My name is Fausto and I’m a Rag-aholic.

I’m almost embarrassed to admit that on a lark, I went and saw Ragtime again last night. Yes, it’s been less than a week since my last viewing. I don’t know what came over me. I guess after reading all those (mainly) glowing reviews, I just had to get on the “Rag” again (I’ll be here all week, folks - cue rim shot).

In all honesty, I was curious to see if positive reviews would affect the performance, having seen a recent preview for comparison. Well, one thing is for certain, the reviews didn’t seem to generate much box office heat. When I stopped by TKTS at 6 PM for a 7 PM performance, I pretty much assumed the pickings would be slim. Me: “What do you have available for tonight’s performance of Ragtime?” TKTS dude: “Eighth row center orchestra.” Really? Obviously, God wanted me to see last night’s performance, so I bought the ticket. I assumed the seat was probably just a random single house seat released at the last minute. But as the house lights went down, half my row was empty and there were empty pairs sprinkled all over the orchestra section. Yikes. Listen up, people, go and see Ragtime instead of crap like Mamma Mia!

I don’t know if I was suffering from heightened expectation or just over familiarity, having just seen and loved a performance just days prior, but I was slightly underwhelmed the second time around. I actually think I might have been sitting slightly too close to the stage. Many of the stage pictures that seemed spectacular and magical from the front of the mezzanine seemed less focused and clear from the front of the orchestra. Maybe it’s a Seurat thing. You need to step back to appreciate the big picture.

Anyhoo, the opening number looked much better from the orchestra section, though still - in my opinion - not quite up to par with the original staging. From our bird’s eye view in the mezzanine, the opening blocking resembled a well-rehearsed game of follow-the-leader. From the front, the crossing lines and contrary movement created the excitement and tension I found missing on our earlier visit.

The performances were pretty much consistent with what I reported last week. The development of Tateh and Mother’s relationship continues to be the most interesting new dimension to this Ragtime. Unfortunately, Stephanie Umoh’s stiff and bland performance was even more evident from the front of the house. And that “collapse” after “…buried you in the ground” is still painfully stilted and forced. Girlfriend is gorgeous and can belt crazy high, but her acting - yikes.

What was most interesting about last night’s performance was the audience’s reactions. Last week there was literally whooping and clapping before the end of just about every song. Not so last night. In fact, the audience seemed downright tame in comparison. My guess would be that more “real people” (i.e. non-theater folks) made up the bulk of last night’s audience. Since last week was a preview, I’d venture that many “insiders” and theatre geeks (like me!) were there to get the skinny on this new production. And theatre people, well, they can be a bit much. Anyway, I hereby promise not to buy a ticket to Ragtime until at least 2010.

Show overload

Trish and I nearly OD-ed on musicals this weekend. With the unlikely triumvirate of Mamma Mia!, Toxic Avenger and Tin Pan Alley Rag (with an added viewing of last seasons La Cenerentola from The Met on Great Performances via DVR) our ears were confused and bleeding. Can one be musically bi-polar? Methinks “yes”!

I am almost embarrassed to admit that I actually enjoyed the movie version of Mamma Mia! Yeah, it ain’t gonna’ win any Oscars, but it was just so unapologetically stupid and cheesy that I couldn’t help but laugh along. I mean, Meryl must have known how ridiculous the script was, but she still committed to the role as if she were playing Lady Macbeth. Brava! Unfortunately, without the fun of Remington Steele belting out ABBA or Ms. Streep balancing in platform shoes and sequined-body suit, the stage show bores. The sole exception is the freakishly talented Carolee Carmello. Okay, I am bit obsessed with her, but she kicks ass. Her “Winner Takes it All” literally woke the sleeping audience just in time for the final scene of the show. Oy, and the chorus girls f*cking up the dance - and I use the term loosely as our high school kids could easily duplicate the Broadway choreography - during “Man After Midnight”? No joke, one girl messed up a step and then shrugged her shoulders at the audience. Really? Why not just flip us the bird and scream “Suckahs!” Oh well. At least I’ll be able to quench may obsession with Carolee’s crazy vibrato this spring when she is released from her Mamma-shackles to co-star in the upcoming The Addams Family musical on Broadway.

On paper it sounds iffy - a rock musical by Bon Jovi’s keyboardist based on an 80’s cult horror movie. Sometimes even the craziest idea just works. Hell, I’m sure Sondheim got an earful when he first pitched a musical version of Sweeney Todd. The Toxic Avenger ain’t Sweeney Todd, but it’s 100 intermission-less minutes of harmless camp fun with a five person cast ingeniously playing dozens of different characters. The score ranges from average to great, but always fun and often with clever lyrics. How can you not laugh during a show that includes songs titled “My Big French Boyfriend,” “Hot Toxic Love” and “Evil is Hot”? Granted, American Idol runner up Diana Degarmo is no actress, but girlfriend can certainly belt and riff with the best of ‘em. And for the three straight men who read my blog - mammary alert! You’ll get quite an eyeful of Ms. Degarmo’s ample bosoms straining to escape her very skimpy bra during one quite naughty blouse ripping scene. For the rest of us, there’s Nancy Opal’s show-stopping eleven o’ clock number, “Bitch/Slut/Liar/Whore.” And yes, it’s as good as the title implies. On a side note, I wish more shows had 4:00 PM matinees. You can enjoy a nice long brunch, throw in an extra mimosa or margarita and still sneak in a power nap before the show. Producers take note!

I honestly thought I’d be “musicaled-out” by Saturday night’s performance of Tin Pan Alley Rag. But hearing songs like “What’ll I Do” and “Blue Skies” after a weekend of ABBA and Bon Jovi only emphasized the lack of melodic, tuneful scores currently on musical stages. Not that I don’t appreciate a good pop/rock score, but there’s truly more complexity and emotional yearning in just that first upward chromatic phrase of “What’ll I Do” than in most current full musical scores. (Sigh) Oh well, fingers crossed that Sondheim still has another show left in his 79 year old bones. As for the show, it’s basically a musical theater version of an E! True Hollywood Story circa 1910’s. It was informative and entertaining but not necessarily very theatrically groundbreaking - this happened, then this happened and then I died. Now let’s shoehorn a song that fits the scene. Luckily, both Berlin and Joplin had interesting enough lives and a catalog of incredible music to carry this wisp of a concept along. Enjoyed it, but probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much had we paid full price. Thanks TDF!

Probably the best performance of the weekend was from our TV. Well, not literally, of course. Where the hell has Elina Garanča been hiding? I guess she hasn’t really been hiding, given she performs regularly in the world’s top opera houses and has had her performance in the title role of La Cenerentola transmitted internationally on TV. So more accurately, where the hell have I been hiding? Anyway, I now have another obsession. I'm usually not a sucker for mezzos (the notable exception being the goddess, Marilyn Horne), but Garanča's got the goods. Besides being friggin' gorgeous (straighties see below) she's got a machine-gun accurate bel canto and has an easy, natural acting style. The CD’s are already on their way from Amazon. Speaking of CD’s, I know I’m way behind the times, but I still can’t get myself to do the whole MP3 thing. Call me old fashioned, but I like leafing through a booklet. Somehow digital images and pixels aren’t the same as a having those glossy pages in your hand. (Extra big sigh)

My newest obsession

I’m obsessed with Obsessed, a new TV reality show on A&E about people suffering from OCD (Ironic, huh?). I don’t want to seem unsympathetic or cruel, but just like a fiery crash on the highway, you just have to slow down and watch. And before the PC police get their panties in a bind, I don’t mean to compare these people’s very serious compulsions to a car accident. It’s just that the repetitive physical movement coupled with the emotional intensity motivating them is hypnotizing. Even I can admit I’m anal about certain things - dirty dishes in the sink, clean bathroom, turning lights off - but I certainly don’t have an anxiety attack if I see a dirty whisk or stray hair on the toilet seat.

The best part of the show is when the patient starts treatment. The phrase “face your fears” has becoming a cultural cliché. Yet this is the guiding principle behind exposure therapy, which in itself is a rather unfortunate name (I picture a nasty old guy in a long trench coat flashing people on the subway). One woman was obsessed with the idea of murdering people. She believed that if she got too close to a gun or a knife (or any weapon), she’d just pick it up and start slashing. I actually don’t see the problem. I used to get that “slasher feeling” at Broadway chorus calls all the time. Being forced to sit in a tiny room full of obnoxious chorus boys, narcissistic wannabes and screaming queens definitely could motivate anyone to mass murder. Anyway, this particular patient became so terrified of snapping and setting off on a bloody rampage that she became a social recluse - "Law and Order" take note, good idea for an episode. For her “first exposure,” the therapist laid out an array of huge knives. The patient was then forced to hold the blade against the therapist’s throat while listening to a tape recording of herself reading a passage about murdering people. The horror and fear on the patient’s face was riveting. And that therapist must have a huge pair of ‘nads to let that knife blade touch her neck. That’s what I call must-see TV!

Obsessed!

I’m so obsessed with The Biggest Loser. I don’t know if it’s because I was a former fatty or if I just love the drama of it all (or perhaps both?). I mean, each week at least one contestant has a mental breakdown. How can you not love that? What’s really sick is that I always watch while I’m sitting on my fat ass and stuffing my face. As the contestants are throwing up on the treadmill or having heart palpitations from over-exertion, I’m chowing down on - gasp - carbs! Yum. Unfortunately, this week’s finale was sort of lame. I’m a sucker for cheesiness. I love when the contestants karate chop through the life-sized posters of their former fat selves to show of their new, svelte figures. That’s drama, people! But this year, only the finalists got the poster treatment. Lame-oh! I mean, there’s nothing exciting or dramatic about having the contestants just walk out on stage waving. Where’s the theatricality, the bombast, the drama!?!? Obviously a straight person directed the finale. Oh well, I guess I should just be happy for them.

And while we’re on the subject, let me just say that reality shows are one of my all-time favorite, secret (well, maybe not so secret) vices. I’m obsessed with them. There, I’ve said it. Yes, I’ve lived in shame and denial for too long, so I’m officially outing myself. Let me be clear, I don’t go slumming around with those trashy dating shows like Rock of Love or The Bachelor. I go for the more rugged type myself. My latest obsession is The Alaska Experiment on Discovery. The show follows a group of people varying in age and background, dropped off in the wilds of Alaska with limited equipment and no food. They’re given a map and a compass and are asked to trek out of the tundra and back to civilization. Along they way the group needs to learn how to start fire, hunt and scavenge for food, build shelter and generally survive in the wilderness. What makes this show different from most others is that there is no “winner” and no prize for finishing. These freaks (and I use the term with love and emulation) actually volunteered to be stranded in the wilderness for…wait for it, wait for it…the experience! They just want to see if they can do it. What the hell? I’m so jealous. I mean, it’s not like their homeless or jobless and have nothing better to do. Within the group there’s a lawyer, a bus driver, a cop, a gay horse trainer (the trainer’s gay, not the horse), a housing director, a personal trainer a wilderness outfitter and a landlord. Are these people independently wealthy? Do their bosses not care? I wish I could just take a month off and volunteer to be stranded in the Alaskan wilderness.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not belittling these people’s achievements. Alaska ain’t exactly Club Med (well, unless you see it by cruise ship like I did). In most episodes, the group goes days with little more than a mouse drumstick for nourishment. Literally. I’m not kidding. It’s certainly eye-opening to watch seemingly level-headed professionals digress into verbal sparring over sharing a couple ounces of mouse meat or comment on the delicious merits of porcupine paw stew.

Anyway, the group is now down to five from the original nine. Last week, the big, burly Jersey cop went home because the group couldn’t catch enough food (i.e. calories) to keep his muscular frame functioning. You see, each person carries a GPS device. At any time, a team member may push a button that instantly sends a rescue helicopter to their location. I can’t wait to see who drops next! I’m already excited about the premier of what is sure to become another globe-trotting favorite, Expedition Africa on the History Channel. Well, at least until the next season of The Amazing Race starts up.