Smorgasburg virgins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End

First World Food Problems - To Take-Out or Not To Take-Out

NYC-ers don't cook in their kitchens.

As a typical New Yorker, I'm used to ordering out for every meal.  My stove is basically a fancy metal closet for my non-seasonal clothing.  But no more.  Since I've been Snatched-ing it's seen more action  than Pamela Anderson's vagina.

If I'm not cooking up a batch of brown rice for the week, then I'm likely roasting some veggies or hard boiling eggs.  Unfortunately, all this culinary activity has left my poor sweaters homeless, forced to squat on the narrow strip of floor surrounding my bed.

The kitchen sink, once sparkling from disuse, is now a continually shifting skyline of crusty pots, pans and Ziploc containers balancing precariously over discarded avocado rinds and carrot peels.  Sure, it sucks to be in a constant state of dish-washing, but the positive effect on my bank account (and waist line) make it almost - almost - worth the pruned fingers.

Still, it's been a serious challenge following my Snatched nutrition plan and hitting my calorie and protein goals.  Who'd have guessed it would be so difficult to cram down 2200 healthy calories?

I'm a spoiled New Yorker when it comes to dining options.  Why bother cooking when there's every type of ethnic food just a phone call and delivery boy away?  But now that I'm counting every calorie and gram, take-out has suddenly become the devil.

It doesn't help that my previously tame OCD tendencies have blossomed into full out crazy now that I've hit my mid-40s.  The thought of ordering Chinese food while on my Snatched plan literally sends me into a panic.  I picture myself huddled over that white take-out container with a pair of tweezers, separating and meticulously weighing out each ingredient on my shiny new digital food scale, wondering if I should pat down the steamed chicken to get rid of the extra water weight, and then tossing everything back together to make sure I have an accurate calorie count.  I know, sick, huh?

Anyway, It's now the end of week 3 (of 6).  Thanks to my high daily calorie goals I'm rarely hungry, unlike some of my fellow Ninjas (that's how clients are referred to at MFF) who seem to be starving all the time.  But I'm also bloated and gassy as hell thanks to all those damn veggies.  I've learned to quietly and stealthily release while sitting in the subway and then immediately turn to the person next to me with my just-sucked-on-a-lemon face as if to say, "Did you do that?" thereby deflecting blame away from me.  I'm not proud of it.

The workouts have also gotten progressively more difficult each week.  Exhaustion is my new normal.  I'm resigned to the fact that my muscles will perpetually remain in ache mode.  At least the trainers have the decency to wear tight, skimpy clothing.  So even while I'm heaving for breath and just about to vomit up the protein shake I just guzzled an hour earlier, I'm also ogling their tight asses and muscular thighs and drooling like a cougar at a frat party.

On the bright side, my clothes are beginning to loosen up and I no longer have to do the "suck in" to button up my work pants.  And although my weight loss has plateaued over the last few weeks, I still see major shifts in my body shape.  The man boobs are starting to deflate and my flat ass is starting to get some J-Lo curve.  So I'm sticking to the plan and getting through the next 3 weeks by visualizing the plate of stuffing and gravy I'll be sucking down come Thanksgiving Day as my reward for finishing my Snatched journey.

A Vegas virgin books a flight from hell

August 30, 2013 >>

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

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

And then it all fell to shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another fifteen minutes passed before the next announcement.  

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

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

We sat for another ten interminable minutes before another announcement.  

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

  

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

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

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

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

Another announcement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Staycation 2013 NYC part deux

Friday, July 5 (click here for part une)

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, July 6

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

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

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

Here's my artsy-fartsy overhead shot.

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

Here's Juan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, July 7

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

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

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

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

Staycation 2013 NYC

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

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

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

Wednesday, July 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, July 4

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

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

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

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

Staycation continues...

Everything's Better with Pork Belly!

First course, lobster roll from Red Hook Lobster Pound.

With my stomach finally recovering from Memorial Day weekend's overindulgences, I was prepared for another colon crushing food adventure.  Earlier in the week, Trish and I stumbled upon Madison Square Eats on our way home from a decadent 9-course dinner at Aldea.  But our poor distended stomachs couldn't handle another crumb, so we made a plan to return later in the week.

Apparently, this yearly (though after 20 years in the city, this is the first I've heard of it, LOL) food festival sets up shop in the Flatiron district for a month each May and showcases some of the top food vendors in the city.

Armed with a roll of Tums, I headed downtown to meet Trish.  With unseasonably high spring temperatures in the 80s, it was a perfect evening for al fresco dining amongst the throngs of confused tourists and pale New Yorkers finally soaking up some vitamin D after months of winter hibernation.

I made a beeline for Red Hook Lobster Pound where I ordered up a Maine-style, cold lobster roll.  And yes, it tastes as good as it looks.  Trish decided to go the pork route with an Asiadog.  I've driven by Asiadog's brick-and-mortar location several times on my many chauffeured drives home from Jersey (thank you, slave...I mean, Chris Grimm), so it was nice to finally satisfy my curiosity with a bite from one of their Asian fusion wieners.

Course #2: pork belly, pork bbq & spinach noodles

After enjoying our sandwich course in nearby Madison Square Park, Trish was able to snag a coveted Worth Square table right in front of Mighty Balls.  Since we've tasted their saucy balls down at the Hester Street Fair, we decided we'd pass in favor of trying some new vendors.

A sucker for all things pig, I was unable to overcome the siren song of pork belly buns calling to me from Hong Kong Street Cart.  We ordered 3 perfectly juicy, salty slabs of fatty pig each nestled in a slightly sweet, spongy bun.  Noticing the abundance of protein on our table, we also decided to include a "vegetable" in the form of spinach noodles smothered in a spicy peanut sauce.  Hey, they're green.

Trish can't decide what to eat next.

We needed a side dish to complete our Asian-themed meal so Trish got in line at Seoul Lee Korean Bar B Cue for a spicy pork bbq sandwich.  Technically, the sandwich is served in a dish which we then placed to the side of our meal, thus "side dish."

After all those exotic tastes, we decided to go old school for dessert and grab some ice cream at Dreamscoops.  Trish had the cookies and cream and I opted for salted caramel.

Anticipating the strenuous 20-minute subway ride home, we thought it best to swing by Macaron Parlour for some late night "emergency" macarons.  You never know when that blood sugar's gonna' dip and you'll need a handy pick-me-up.  They're practically medicinal. Like aspirin.

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.

Blizzard, shmizzard…bring on the orphans! And tales of Times Square and mom jeans.

With Storm Nemo threatening to close down the city, Trish and I decided to throw caution to the wind and ignore Mayor Bloomberg’s warning to “stay off the city streets.”  Instead, we treated visiting Summer Conservatory staff member, Dylan Shelofsky, to a day in the gray-brown slush of a NYC snowstorm.  As a native Coloradan, we figured a couple feet of snow would barely impress, let alone hamper, Dylan’s mobility during her weekend trip to the Big Apple.

My Times Square office, on the other hand, was in full panic mode and dismissed us early.  Trish and I took advantage of my free afternoon and the uncharacteristic empty sidewalks to explore midtown with our visiting protégé.  Since Dylan is way too cool to have visited any of the usual Times Square tourist traps on previous trips, we decided to take advantage of the storm-thinned crowds to go full frontal tourist!

First stop?  The Hershey Store, of course.  Where else can you buy the same candy bar your local drug store carries and sells at half the price?!  At least they give out free samples.  Next, we headed across the street to M&M’s World where they somehow manage to fill three retail floors with M&M’s merchandise.  Did you know there’s an M&M military jeep dispenser?  Who knew?  Who buys?

Dylan and Trish enjoying the Ferris wheel.

With the snow piling up to nearly a whopping eighth of an inch, we bravely made our way to the TKTS booth.  All real New Yorkers know that the best time to get great seats for a Broadway show is during a snowstorm (or a Jewish holiday).  Since none of us had ever seen a professional mounting of Annie, we decided to fork over our cash to see that plucky red head just stick out her chin and grin and say…everyone sing!

We still had a couple of hours to kill before show time.  So our next stop was Toys R’ Us Times Square.  Now, I’m usually a cynic when it comes to the Times Square big box retail stores, but Toys R’ Us is definitely worth a stop if only for it’s full-sized ferris wheel and Barbie castle.

Usually, tickets to ride the ferris wheel are sold out by mid-day, but thanks to Storm Nemo’s threatening conditions, the store was practically empty and we were able to jump right on.  Sadly, Barbie’s castle was undergoing some renovation.  But even under construction, we were able to laugh and make disparaging comments about the Pink Label Edward and Bella Barbies on display.  I’m sure Kristen Stewart is lying at home wiping away tears of hurt with hundred dollar bills even as we speak.

An example of my indelible fashion sense.

Finally, we headed to my favorite Times Square retailer, Forever 21.  Yes, you read that correctly, Forever 21.  I know many of you look to me as a barometer of teen fashion, so I hesitantly give away my fashion secret weapon.  Given the day’s busy tourist schedule, however, I was in no mood to sift through racks of skinny-legged jeans.  And yes, I do see the irony of me considering purchasing “skinny” jeans given my healthy 38” waist, but style trumps function, says I.  (For those of you new to my blog or unaware of my “unique” sense of humor, that entire last paragraph was meant to be sarcastic.  It was only a few years ago that Trish had to pry my favorite pair of high-waisted mom jeans from my death grip.)

After a needed injection of Chai tea and a slice of chocolate banana bread from Starbucks - incidentally, one of the few stores still open in the wake of the “blizzard” - we headed to the Palace theatre hoping a gaggle of depression-era orphans might cheer us up on this cold, snowy evening.

Viewing the half empty theatre from our ninth row orchestra seats, it was obvious most citizens heeded Bloomberg’s advice.  But other than a late start, the show proceeded with a full cast (no understudies!).  As the old adage goes - the show must go on - even without an audience.  You can read my review here.

2013: A Balloon Odyssey

After gorging ourselves on a seven-course, Tom Colicchio New Year's Eve dinner, Trish and I bade farewell to Val and Juan and made the treacherous voyage home, balloon in hand.  Will we - and Trish's balloon - make it home unscathed?  Follow our amazing journey below (Just click the arrow).

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.