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.

Road Trip to Ruin - Part Deux!

Read part one

During last year's trip, Juan’s gout got the better of him.  He and Val were sidelined at the hotel most of the weekend while Trish and I enjoyed the DC sites Judy Garland-style aboard the Old Town Trolley.  Even with yesterday’s Flintstone-sized steak and protein-heavy meals, Juan managed to stay gout-free, so we decided to christen Sunday, “Trolley Day.”

We were still groggy and tired from last night’s fire alarm and evacuation, but we managed to make it to the trolley stop by a respectable 9:30 AM.  Though early - at least for a vacation Sunday - it was already hot as balls.  Just watching the joggers run past us caused instant sweat circles to form under my arms. 

As we waited, Juan noticed a petit Indian girl furiously texting at a nearby corner.  He made an offhand remark comparing her to Divya, the character on Royal Pains.  Of course, as she walked toward us we realized it was indeed Reshma Shetty, the actress who plays Divya.  I think she might be our first DC celebrity sighting.  She’s not exactly Obama, but I’ll take it.

For the most part, Trish and I had a great experience on the trolley last year.  But there was one guide who felt it was appropriate and entertaining to air his dysfunctional family’s secrets to us between his descriptions of DC’s famous sites - super awkward.  We prayed he had since been committed to a mental institution or was at least now delegated to an office were he no longer is required to interact with the general public.  I’m not sure if either option actually came to pass, but happily, we didn’t come across him all day.

After rolling by the National Cathedral, Embassy Row, Georgetown and Foggy Bottom, we jumped off the trolley downtown to check out the Hope Diamond at the Smithsonian’s National History Museum.  Maybe it’s a girl thing, but what’s the big deal?  I mean, it’s bigger than your average diamond - about the size of a quarter (I was hoping for something closer to baseball-sized) - in a seriously hideous setting.  There were far more impressive pieces in the rest of the museum’s gem collection.  Oh well, it was still worth the trip to view the whole collection.  There was also a really interesting exhibit about race in America and an insect exhibit that Juan and I were totally into; the gals, not so much. 

We were, however, all in agreement over the delicious and totally cheesy red, white and blue cupcakes in the museum cafeteria.  In fact, for a museum cafeteria, the food was pretty darn good.  It was no gourmet Italian five-course meal like yesterday, but hell, I don’t think my liver could handle another day of non-stop food and drink anyway.  

The museum entrance was jam packed with sweaty tourists waiting to get frisked and metal-detected by the time we headed out.  I guess the rest of DC had finally recovered from its Saturday night revelry and accompanying collective hangover.  To avoid the likely crush at the other Smithsonian museums, we opted instead for a relaxed trolley ride around the "orange loop," which would take us on a leisurely tour of the downtown sites.  Unfortunately, the ride was neither relaxed nor leisurely.  Like the museum, the trolley was soon filled to capacity with hot, sweaty bodies jockeying for window seats on the non-air-conditioned trolley car.  Adding to the misery of sticky seats and overheated bodies pressed tight, we were soon sitting in traffic, baking in the sun with nary a wisp of breeze.  We did, however, have front row seats to a gnarly bike accident that seemed to be the cause of all the traffic.  Lucky us!

Oh, I also forgot to mention the annoying southern wenches who made life hell for us and our poor driver/tour guide.  To avoid having us sit and bake in traffic, our guide made a huge detour that took us well off the regular route, but at least kept us moving.

Wench 1: (gesturing to a random gray building with a trace of condescending attitude and southern drawl) What building is that?
Guide:  (politely) I'm not sure.  This isn't my regular route and I wouldn't want to give you false information.
Wench 2: (full of attitude, reciting from a sign in front of another random building) That's the Department of Blahdity Blah's Building.
Guide:  Yes, I see.  Thank you.

We continue.  Yes, there is a long stretch of silence.  But the traffic is crazy and the driver is obviously concentrating on not getting us all killed.

Wench 1: (loudly and obnoxiously to the whole trolley car, annoyed that the driver isn't entertaining her) The building over there is the National Blah Blah Building.  We ate lunch there yesterday and if anyone wants a reasonably-priced meal, you should check it out.

Guide: (still polite) Thank you for that.  I apologize, but as soon as I negotiate this traffic and get us back on the route, I'll commence with the regular tour.  Thanks for your patience.

We finally get back on track and the tour guide starts his regular spiel.

Wench 1: (interrupting our guide - her overly friendly southern twang amplifying her condescension - she throws out a historical tidbit that she is sure he won't know in order to prove that she is indeed a total bitch)  Isn't it true that this area was mainly used as grazing land for livestock?
Guide: (calmly and without missing a beat):  You are correct.  In fact...
He then goes on to give a detailed account of the agricultural history of the particular area the wench was referring to. 

That shut the bitch up. 

Lest you label me a judgmental, north-biased asshole, bear in mind that throughout the entire trip these wenches continually hemmed and hawed, sighed loudly and dramatically fanned themselves to make sure we were all well aware of their discomfort and dissatisfaction.  If you can't stand the heat, ladies, get the hell out of the trolley.

Anyway, we finally disembarked after leaving a nice tip for the driver for putting up with the wenches and jumped on another trolley back to the hotel.  It had been a long day and the unbearable heat coupled with the even more unbearable southern wenches drained us of any motivation to continue sight-seeing.  The sky threatened thunderstorms, so we chose to lounge and nap in our hotel rooms for the rest of the afternoon.

Is there anything better than turning up the AC, stripping down to your underwear and just vegging out wrapped up in a big 'ole soft comforter?  Methinks not.  Anyway, when we finally rose from napping, it was already well past dinner time.  Juan and Val's room was empty so we assumed they had already headed out for a romantic dinner somewhere.  Trish and I, however, opted for a luxurious room service feast and trashy TV.  Why bother getting dressed when the food can come to you, right? 

Turns out Juan and Val just ran downstairs for dinner in the hotel restaurant.  When they got back, we decided to stay in the rest of the night and rent an in-room movie, Skyline.  I gag a little just typing the title remembering how wretched the movie was.  Poor Donald Faison.  Either his agent sucks or he has some crazy-expensive drug habit he needs to keep funding.  

As has become our tradition, we ended our DC trip with the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet in the hotel lobby, the resulting heartburn a lingering memento of our travels.  With July 4 falling annoyingly on a Monday, I decided it best to jump on the Acela train and head straight back to NYC rather than sitting in traffic with the sibs back to NJ and then fighting the fireworks traffic on the bus back into the city. 

I was safe and sound and back in Queens by 5:30 PM.   I'm already planning our gastronomical itinerary for next year's trip, though it will be difficult to top this year's carnivore's delight.  Maybe Brazilian Charruscarria...

Below are from our post-breakfast buffet photo session on the grounds of the fabulous Omni.

Trish posing seductively

The fountain

Where are the chips?   Too late, I'm bored.

July Fourth in DC or Our Road Trip to Ruin - Part One

Happy Independence Day, America!  Isn’t it ironic how our forefathers so vehemently fought for our independence from Britain, all the while being served dinner by their slaves?  It’s comforting to know hypocrisy has always been a important fixture of our government.  Oh well, It’s still a great excuse to take a road trip.  So here it is - drum roll, please - the Third Annual DC Fourth of July Pineda Road Trip to Ruin or TADCFJPPTR for you texters (our 2009 and 2010 trips). 

I was excited to head to NJ Friday afternoon to meet up with the rest of the Pineda clan.  Morgan Stanley had graciously granted me a half day at work.  When I called for a pick-up at the bus stop in Cranford I knew something was amiss from Val’s short and detached phone manner.  I was not surprised to find out the van had a flat tire. 

Juan had actually noticed a slow leak that morning and brought the van in to the local Goodyear store where their obviously incompetent technicians found nothing wrong.  On top of that, Juan had now been waiting four hours for their tow truck to bring the van back to the shop.  It never came.  We ended up calling AAA who arrived within the half hour.  Yeah AAA.  Boo Goodyear.  Oh well, no real Pineda sojourn is complete without some unplanned disaster.  At least we got it out of the way up front.   

The first stop on our little road trip was Target where we shopped our cares away as the mechanics at Goodyear replaced the tire.  We finally hit the road four hours later armed with our gourmet Target dinner - turkey jerky, an industrial-sized Frito-Lay variety pack, Swedish fish and Pepperidge Farm Tahoe cookies.  Don’t judge, we were stress eating. 

Thankfully, we missed a lot of the holiday traffic due to our late departure.  Even so, we made our regular pit stop, the Maryland House rest area, for crab & cheese soft pretzels at Phillips.  It sounds gross, but they’re actually quite delicious.  By midnight we were luxuriating in our regular DC hotel, the Omni Shoreham. 

With our first night in DC a bust, we headed to bed without even ordering room service.  I know, it’s so unlike us but we were ass tired.  Don’t you worry, we made up for it the next day at lunch by ordering a 50-ounce T-bone steak.  You read correctly, a 50-ounce steak!  And that was just one of five courses - yes, five.

Acqua al 2 is a little Italian restaurant we stumbled into by accident.  We were wandering around Eastern Market, a fun but over-priced flea market/tourist trap near capital hill, looking for some good food and a place to get out of the oppressive DC heat.  We literally picked the place at random from the many restaurants on the block.  Turns out it’s been touted as one of DC’s best new restaurants - pay back for yesterday’s flat tire.

Our Italian feast consisted of a salad sampling menu, an antipasto platter, a pasta sampling menu, the aforementioned steak (at left) and a dessert sampling menu.  I’d go into detail but there were just so many different dishes, all of them lip-smacking good.  Just check out the menu here.  The highlight, of course, was that perfectly cooked hunk of cow flesh, seared and juicy, wet-aged and so yummy you didn’t need extra sauce or seasoning.  Our sassy waitress, Khamise (rhymes with chemise), kept the bread basket full and the platters coming.  Coincidentally, she mentioned the chef is Filipino - holla! 

Oh, I totally forgot to mention our ultra-cool drink, a lemon vodka-based concoction spiced with hot peppers.  You could actually see the pepper seeds floating on top.  Spice + alcohol = love.  I learned that in AP calculus.

Bloated and tipsy, we headed back out into the sticky heat and straight to a gelato stand.  Yes, we literally rolled our fat asses away from a five-course meal and down the block for a second dessert.  We’re sick, sick people. 

After our Italian food orgy we hopped back on the metro for the ride back to the hotel.  I know the DC metro is immaculately clean and doesn’t smell like urine and homeless people like the NYC subway, but their pass system is not visitor friendly.  Every stop is a different price and you have to swipe that flimsy paper card to enter AND exit.  And what genius decided to carpet the train cars?  Seriously, that’s just nasty.

Back at the hotel we decided a couple hours at the pool would work up our appetites again for dinner as well as provide us an opportunity for more drinking.  Val (at left with her sassy new hat from Eastern Market) was a teetotaler all last month because of her fertility medication, but she’s taking a break in July.  So naturally, her aim this trip was to stay happily buzzed for the weekend.  I’m not sure this is exactly what Dr. Phil means by setting a goal and committing to it, but perhaps he should be more specific. 

Oh, did I mention we also ordered a few “snacks” along with our drinks to get us through until dinner?  Just a pulled pork sandwich, a Kobe beef hot dog, sweet potato fries and fried calamari - you know, some light fare. 

After a power nap to help digest the day’s incredible caloric intake, we headed out for a late dinner at Medaterra, a Middle Eastern restaurant around the corner from our hotel.  To keep Val on course with her imbiber’s resolution, we immediately ordered a pitcher of sangria.  We then followed with an array of appetizers for a tapas-style dinner - corn and spinach risotto, grilled shrimp, taboula, lamb sausage, pork chops, garlic string beans, bruschetta and mussels.  Again, just some light fare before bed.  We ended up skipping dessert.  Who wants those extra calories?

It took great effort not to vomit up the contents of my stomach on the walk back to the hotel, but I managed the two blocks incident free.  Weary from the day's alcohol and food binge, I fell into a deep, coma-like slumber as soon as my greasy head touched down on my pillow.  This is what hibernating bears must feel like.  Then the nightmare began.  There were flashing lights and sirens and a strange voice was speaking to me. 

Wait, this wasn't a dream, it was the fire alarm!

Believe it or not, at 2 AM the fire alarm in the hotel began a banshee-like wailing.  In surreal contrast, a female voice from a speaker in the wall then calmly told us to proceed to the nearest stairwell to evacuate.  Two minutes later, Val rushed into our room, roused us out of our beds and pushed us toward the stairs.  Apparently she was already wide awake, stricken by a mild case of DC's local version of Montezuma's revenge, or as I like to call it, Lewinsky's other dirty little secret.  I leaned over the edge of the railing and looked down at the bottomless pit of the stairwell.  Why the hell did we request a high floor?

Seeing all the pajama clad guests funnelling into the stairwell, I was actually impressed by how put together most people looked.  Yes, most wore mismatched t-shirts and shorts or bathrobes, but how come I was the only one with pillow lines across their face and bushy disheveled hair?  It was as if the hotel was taken over by perfectly coiffed movie-extra hotel guests.

Around floor two we came to a standstill.  If there really was a fire, we would soon be a delicious mound of human barbecue.  We soon spotted the source of our log jam, an elderly lady in a wheel chair who was now forced to limp slowly down the last couple of flights.  Why did her two young, healthy caregivers not fling her bony ass over their shoulders and haul her schmata-clad frame down those stairs?  What 'evs, I was just too darn tired to panic.  If I burn, at least I had one helluva last meal.

We finally made it outside.  There was absolutely no sign of urgency from the guests or the basically non-existent hotel staff.  Hundreds of guests were calmly milling around, just a few feet from a potentially towering inferno.  Then came the sirens.  Two fire trucks pulled up.  Again, absolutely no sense of urgency from anyone.  Put everyone in tuxes and gowns and it could've been intermission at the Met.

Finally, a bellman announced that all was safe and that we could return to our rooms.  We decided to wait it out given the capacity of the two elevators is about five people if two of them happen to be Olsen twins.  Fifteen minutes later we headed into the lobby where at least a dozen people were still waiting at each elevator.  Grudgingly, we decided to take the stairs back up to the eighth floor.  Note to self, avoid stairs if you've eaten thrice your body weight within the last 24 hours. 

Finally, sweaty and nauseous we climbed into our disheveled beds.  Thus ended day two of our Road Trip to Ruin.   

I’ll post Part Deux of our trip shortly.  Check back soon.

Me and my big wiener

Juan's poolside mudslide

Is Bernadette Peters a vampire? Is Baltimore the ultimate straight dude party town? Is a T-shirt with the pun "Harry Otter" emblazoned on the chest inappropriate even at an aquarium? These and more burning questions answered in today's lengthy post...

The woman (Ms. Peters) does not appear to age.  At all.  As I was getting off the train Sunday night from Baltimore, I noticed a cute red-headed girl and her mother sitting a few seats behind me waiting for the crowd to thin out so they could grab their bags from the overhead.  On second glance I realized it was Bernie.  No doubt returning from DC after the Sunday performance of Follies at the Kennedy Center.  And we did have eye contact.  Exciting.  But I didn't want her to think I was some crazy, obsessed fan, so I gave a pleasant smile that I hope read, "Don't worry, I'm not going to jump you, hold you down, pull out a pair of scissors and make off with a lock of your famous red mane.  I'm just going to acknowledge that I recognize your fame and respect your privacy."  Yes, I can say all that with a single look.  I am Norma Desmond.

Seriously, though, the woman looks amazing.  She had not a wrinkle on her face and sported the bod of a 25 year old.  I'm guessing the older woman was her assistant, since she ended up hauling this huge traveling bag while Bernie toted her tiny rolling suitcase.  Not that I'm judging.  If you're an assistant, that's what you sign up for, right?

It was actually refreshing to see Ms. Peters mingling with the riff raff on Amtrak, though we were in Business Class, thank you very much.  There was no special attention from the porters and no entourage (except the old lady).  Just her and a hundred other sweaty passengers squeezing onto a tiny escalator in the oppressive tunnel humidity.  She must use some amazing product because that curly hair still looked fab.  I guess I had a romanticized image of her being escorted by a team of hunky, black-suited guards, hovering and protecting her from a desperate groupie or jealous show queen.  Oh wait, that's my own personal fantasy.  Forget I said that.

Anyway, the reason I was in Baltimore was to keep Trish company while visiting a friend celebrating her Birthday.  Trish's friend is from Richmond, but they planned the trip to coincide with the New Kids on the Block / Backstreet Boys tour playing Baltimore over the weekend.  I opted not to attend the concert since I figured the arena would be filled with screaming housewives longing to relive their faded high school glory days.  Who am I to get in the way of a 40 year old mother of two wanting to toss her granny panties at Joey McIntyre?  Sounds like a boatload of crazy to me. 

Instead, I used the opportunity to visit the National Aquarium and explore the Inner Harbor which I hadn't visited since performing at the Morris Mechanic Theatre (now defunct with tours booked into the larger Hippodrome) in the National Tour of Grease! way back in 1996 (damn, I'm old)!  The aquarium was much smaller than I had remembered.  Funny how time tends to exaggerate your memories.  Or is the extra 30 pounds I've put on since 1996 skewing my perception?  Who knows, but even with timed entry, the place was packed.  And the new Australia section is an architectural wonder, though it's really just a giant green house with an alligator and some exotic birds thrown in for good measure.  Add a couple of natives, i.e. Hugh Jackman and Eric Bana in loin cloths, and you might have something.

As for the rest of the Inner Harbor, it's impressive at first sight.  But once that initial impression wears off, you realize you're just wandering around a really nice mall dressed up with a harbor view.  I'd definitely head back for a more in depth exploration of the outlying neighborhoods, especially to experience more of that famous Maryland crab.

Saturday night I agreed to join Trish and the other Richmonders for an evening of Birthday debauchery.  If you're a straight dude into getting wasted and hooking up with skanks, the Power Plant Live! is the place for you.  This weird adult Disneyland is a complex of bars and restaurants tailor-made for straight swinging singles looking for booty.  Though I'll admit, as a sociology experiment the place is fascinating.  You could probably base a doctoral thesis on just the wierdly homoerotic, bromance action on display.  I'm not going to imply anything, but is it normal for drunk dudes to constantly hang, hug and maul each other's chests when their wasted?  Seriously, I think 10% might be low-balling it.

As far as the Birthday girl (I'm keeping it vague to protect the innocent), she got sufficiently wasted and we ended up having to pull her down from a table where she was dancing and showing off the goods in her short skirt.  Ah, youth.  We dragged her drunk ass about 4 blocks before she decided she couldn't make it the rest of the way back to the hotel.  We promptly hailed a cab to avoid getting arrested for public intoxication.

As for the Birthday girl's supposed "friends," well, let me just say, I was not impressed.  They showed up four hours late, didn't offer to pay for any of the Birthday girl's drinks (other than a round of shots) and then basically abondoned her when she needed their help most.  With friends like that...

The highlight of the weekend?  The peach cobbler and red velvet cupcakes at the Ooh La La Cupcakery and our now regular stop at the Maryland House truck stop for a Phillip's crab pretzel.

Inappropriate aquarium T-shirts:

Philadelphia Fever

In my desperate attempt to fill the void I call my life during the barren theatre month of February, Trish and I decided to take a President's weekend road trip. What more apt a get away then historic Philadelphia, PA, home of the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall and Cheesesteaks! Impressed by Philly's friendly folks and good food during our trip last fall, we booked a room at the Hyatt Penn's Landing.

I guess the winter doldrums sparked a case of wanderlust for mom and dad as well and they decided last minute to crash our party (that's me and mom taking an evening stroll on Penn's Landing).  Of course I don't mind hanging with the 'rents, but Trish and I are on a serious budget.  I'm saving my pennies to blow on Margarita's and Italian hookers on the family's Barcelona cruise this summer (to celebrate my father's 70th birthday!).  So instead of booking an additional room, we decided to double up in the beds and sneak the parents and all their bags into our room.  When did double beds get so small?  Or rather, when did my midsection get so wide?  Don't answer that.

Continuing in this line of weird, rhetorical questions, how many bags do you need for a two night stay in Philadelphia?  At least four or five if you ask my mom.  Yes, I know you should always be prepared (those years as a boy scout were good for something, I guess), but I can only imagine the size of the steamer trunk those sailors will be lugging onto the Carnival Magic come August if a "quick weekend away" entails a bellhop and rolling cart.  We're talking Titanic-Atlantic-crossing big.

Pineda trips usually revolve around food and this was no exception. Trish and I headed to Jim's Steakson South Street before checking into the hotel and meeting the 'rents. We knew there was no chance in hell that mom in all her double-knee-replacement glory would ever agree to wait in line for an hour for a sandwich. On our last trip, Trish and I did the Pat's versus Geno's experience with Geno's just barely edging out Pat's for cheesesteak supremacy. Of course, this was before we found out that Geno was a big ole racist. Oh well, he makes one tasty, bigoted sandwich. I'm happy to report, however, that Jim's delish cheeseteak will make future trips south of South Street unnecessary. Jim's juicy, flavorful steak and crusty, soft roll is now my Philly fave - at least until the next trip.

The rest of the weekend was spent either looking for food, ordering food, waiting for food or eating. Saturday night was a soul food prix fixe at the hotel restaurant in honor of black history month, Sunday lunch was pork sandwiches at DiNic's and cupcakes from Flying Monkey and dinner Sunday night was a seafood feast at Chart House. By the end of the weekend I needed some serious pepto. Oh well, no pain no gain. And by gain, I mean about five pounds right around my already bulging muffin top.

The food orgy was only interrupted by the slightly creepy Filipino mass we attended Sunday morning at St. Augustine's. Who knew Philadelphia was a Little Manila of sorts? Imagine my surprise when the white priest greeted the congregation with "magandang umaga." Talk about a serious head trip. The sea of brown skin was interrupted every few pews by a somber, white face, undoubtedly linked by marriage. No one warned these poor gullible saps that their hot, exotic trophy wife also came with a boatload of relatives, a pantry full of spam and a front row seat to every Catholic mass - holidays included - for the rest of their life! Suckers.

We bid adieu to mom and dad early Monday morning then promptly headed back to bed until the noon check-out time. What better way to celebrate our nation's great leaders then by napping? At 11:39am with the maid knocking at the door, we stuffed our bags and headed north on I-95 with the beefy scent of brotherly love trailing behind us. We made a quick pit stop at the Jersey Shore Outlet Mall where I stocked up on some new work attire. Nothing like a little retail therapy to soften the ending blow of a long weekend vacation and the realization that you'll be back to the daily grind in less than 24 hours.

<--- Fausto Jr. and Fausto III enjoying ice cream at the Reading Terminal Market.

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).

Staycation

I’m really tired. Honestly, just plain tired. Since taking on a full-time gig at the Morg (i.e. Morgan Stanley), I’ve not had more than a long weekend off in almost three years. Yes, the corporate world has afforded me a lifestyle where a delicious Spam and Ramen noodle dinner is a choice rather than a necessity, but the schedule has left me a bit run down. Instead of using my three-week vacation time to jet set around the world, I’ve spent the time with the Pineda Conservatory kids at the summer sweat lodge known as CDC Theatre.

Yes, I know I shouldn’t be complaining but this is my blog. Where else can I go for a self-pitying rant?

Anyway, This past weekend Trish and I had a staycation in historic Philadelphia. It’s just over 2 hours from NYC, but it’s in another state and they have a different accent, so it's nearly a foreign country.  Anyway, this weekend "abroad" turned out to be my summer vacation (I know, sad).

Like most Pineda trips it was all about the food. I mean, yeah, we (Trish and I) went to the Liberty Bell (above left - looking very serious.  This is history, dammit!), took a tour of Independence Hall (above rightt - don't I look excited!?) and all that good shit, but the real historic moment was our cheesesteak taste-off between legendary South Philly rivals, Pat’s and Geno’s. Of course, arriving smack dab in the middle of lunch hour on a beautiful Sunday afternoon may not have been the smartest plan. Lines at both literally wrapped around the block and we waited a good half hour at each spot. For the sake of judging, we shared one sandwich at each location and picked the same toppings - onions and cheese wiz, the traditional Philly cheese of choice. Mmm-mmm (insert obscene oral sound here). The verdict? - Geno’s - their sandwich was just, well, "beefier" (is that even a word?).  But maybe that's just the special phlegm sauce (read on, it'll make sense).  Unfortunately, since getting back from our trip we discovered through the magic of Yelp that Geno is actually a racist asshole who sometimes spits in your food if you appear to be "not American" - City of Brotherly Love, my ass.  Blinded by my food-gasm I missed the "I am mad as hell!  I want my country back!" poster prominently displayed at the front counter and on the homepage of their website.  Moral?  Even assholes can be good cooks.  Thankfully, we enjoyed our sandwiches in blissful ignorance. 

For most people a beef, onion and cheese orgy would more than satisfy the need for vacation gluttony but this carnivore ain't most people.  Instead, we took Adam Richman's (the Man vs Food guy) advice and also stopped by Reading Terminal Market to share a Tommy DiNic's roast beef, spinach and sharp provolone sandwich and an assortment of Flying Monkey specialty cupcakes (including Lavender, Guinness and Mint Chocolate Chip flavors, yum!).  Full yet?  I think not!  After taking the afternoon to digest the days intake, we headed out to wine bar and tapas joint, Tria, where I got wasted on wine and extravagant food.  Just a sampling of our small plate feast included poached figs with gorganzola and prosciutto, truffled egg toast with fontana cheese and pistachio herbed ricotta with lavender honey.  I've got a food buzz just thinking about it.

Between bites of cheesesteak we were also able to check out the Cleopatra exhibit at the Franklin Institute.  It's from the same people who are presenting the current King Tut exhibit at the Discovery center in Times Square here in NYC.  It's actually a much more interactive exhibit than Tut with tons more articfacts.  But we were suffering from a bit of a food hangover so by the the time we had finished, we weren't in much of a mood to browse the rest of the museum.  We might have also been a wee bit annoyed that half the regular museum exhibits didn't work.  Oh, and frehen up that human heart exhibit already.  That thing needs a new coat of paint and a good Febreze-ing. 

Happy sphinx (below) and sexy headless Cleo (left).

July Fourth

Stricken with a case of gout, Juan gimped his way through our second annual Washington DC July Fourth Celebration at the fabulous Shoreham Hotel. The hotel was just as opulent and borderline inappropriate as I remember, with the bell staff (all black, of course) in white uniforms and gloves opening doors and pushing luggage. Gotta’ love the south. Because the other Pinedas were in camp all day and I had a half day at work, we weren’t able to leave NJ until around four in the afternoon. After our annual pee break and pilgrimage to the Maryland House rest area on I-95, where Trish and I noshed on cheesy crab pretzels at Philips, we rolled into DC around ten. As spoiled New Yorkers, we were surprised to find most of the restaurants in the area closing up by the time we checked in and settled into our rooms. So sadly, our first celebratory vacation meal consisted of Chinese take-out. We did end up splurging for some yummy room service dessert - cupcake of the day (vanilla w/ fresh fruit) and a trio of crème brulees.

Gouty McGouterson and Val spent almost all day Saturday lounging in their caftans poolside while Trish and I hit the tourist trail aboard the Old Town Trolley. I’d highly recommend the all day pass, which basically let’s you wheel around all the city’s famous landmarks serenaded by the cheese-tastic ramblings of the trolley driver. The only drawback is that the trolley route is one way, which forced us to ride the complete circuit twice after missing our stop the first time around. We also spent part of our trip trapped on a near empty trolley with a Jersey couple who seemed equally uncomfortable with our driver’s crazy disclosure of random personal facts - awkward. They jumped ship at the first opportunity for an “impromptu” visit to the National Zoo (likely story). We feigned interest in the Georgetown mall to escape our weirdo driver and happily waited for the next trolley.

Highlight of the day? You guessed it, lunch! We gorged at The Burger Joint in DuPont Circle, a poor man’s version of NYC’s Chelsea gayborhood. I’ve deduced that all the hot DC dudes are vampires, since none were on display in the afternoon sunlight. Oh well, we got our beefcake at lunch where I ordered a huge bacon cheeseburger and Trish ordered the lobster roll. To our surprise and delight, our order of roasted garlic fries came topped with (gasp!) whole, roasted garlic cloves. Perhaps further evidence to support my vampire theory, given the odoriferous sent emanating from our pores following our gorge-fest. Dinner was almost as memorable, with Trish and I ordering an array of gourmet hot dogs from room service, including one topped with blue crab. I know, sounds nasty, but everything tastes better topped with crab (or bacon, or cheese, or deep-fried!).

With Juan still out of commission Saturday night, Trish and I decided to check out the nightlife in DC’s current party spot, Adams Morgan. Conveniently located walking distance from our hotel, we followed the steady stream of tramps and preppies emerging from the nearby Metro station to Columbia Street, the hub of Adams Morgan. We found several blocks of back-to-back bars, cafes, restaurants and hookah joints populated by drunk skanks and douchie frat boys partying the night away, obviously looking to get laid. Heaven - if I were 15 years younger. Unfortunately, the median age of the revelers was well below my cut-off age. So Trish and I contented ourselves with people watching and scouting out likely restaurant choices for a daytime visit. On our trek back to the hotel, several bimbettes-in-training enlivened our trip with their attempt to walk the half-mile route slightly inebriated and in 3-inch stilettos. Girls, please, either practice at home or donate those fuck-me pumps to a pole dancer or homeless drag queen.

Since Juan spent all day Saturday recuperating, we decided to take a Sunday morning trip to the nearby National Zoo. Of course, we still had to get gramps a wheel chair since he couldn’t handle all the walking. As the older brother, I inherited the role of wheelchair custodian. Not too difficult a chore given that the zoo is built on the downward slope of a hill. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until reaching the bottom that we realized I would have to push all two-hundred-plus pounds of gimpy boy back up to the top, not a simple task in 100 degree plus weather. Oh well, at least we benefited from the wheel chair pity factor and easily pushed to the front of every exhibit.

After our zoo expedition, we treated ourselves to a long, relaxed lunch at Tryst, a trendy Adams Morgan bistro Trish and I spotted the night before. The vibe was very East Village and we wiled away most of the afternoon people watching and nibbling. That night, as has become our custom, instead of watching the fireworks live, we slipped into our PJ’s, ordered some pizza and wings and watched the concert and fireworks on TV. I know it seems lame, but lying in your underwear with a slice of pizza in an air-conditioned hotel room versus fighting sweaty crowds for a tiny plot of grass hours before the show? - seems like a no brainer to me.

Monday morning we loaded up at the hotel’s gourmet all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet before heading home. In a fun coincidence, are server was the waiter who served us at last year's BBQ buffet disaster!  We had a great laugh teasing him about it and he informed us the manager in charge of last year's fiasco was "no longer working here."  Oh well.  We thanked him again and told him we'd be seeing him next year.

Highway to Hell

How long does it take two Filipinos, a couple boxes of vintage 80’s costumes and a bag of dirty laundry to travel by car from Scotch Plains, NJ to Astoria, NY on a Sunday night?

a) 1 hour
b) 10 minutes
c) Over 6 hours
d) All of the above

If you guessed “c,” congratulations, you’re probably a jaded bitch who feeds off of the bilious snark and hyperbole of sad old queens like me. If you guessed “d,” well, you’re just plain stupid. Regardless, my personal Trail of Tears began with a dignity-stripping emergency potty break on the side of the interstate and ended with Trish and I thumbing for a ride with our belongings (boxes and all) on a deserted industrial stretch of Long Island City roadway.

You may remember the infamous "Chewbacca" incident of several years ago. Though not quite as dramatic, this “ride” - and I use the term loosely - lasted just as long as the Richmond trip, only this time we covered a mere 30 miles (as opposed to 340). So for all you aspiring mathematicians, this trip definitely supplied a better “bang-per-mile” ratio.

To provide some context to our evening, Trish and I had spent five hours earlier that day in the moldy CDC basement sorting sweat-stained costumes, picking up dirty socks and t-shirts and wiping down crusty make-up stations. Wedding Singer closed the night before and we were looking forward to a magical evening at home with some Chinese take-out and the DVR. Trish was anxious to finish packing for her six-week-long trip to the Philippines. Since she’d only have one full day at the apartment before heading to Newark, she wanted to have one last relaxing evening at home.

But alas, ‘twas not to be. With the GWB just within our sights, the car’s temperature gauge began a mocking monotone buzz. Of course, with cement walls to both sides of us and no shoulder, options for pulling over were severely limited and we decided to push onward despite the warning. Push on, that is, until the pretty, white plumes of smoke began seeping through the hood. With traffic barely moving and the car threatening to self combust, we decided to risk imminent collision and stop right there on the slow lane of I-95.

Call #1 to AAA - we are connected to something called the GWB Authority for a tow. Fine. Except that I’ve had about a gallon of liquids since we left Juan and Val’s and I will very soon wet myself. With no shoulder and no obvious discrete hiding place, I decide that waving my member out the door for discharge is too gauche even for this demure flower. Instead - as suggested by my resourceful sis - I cut the top off an empty Poland Spring bottle, hop into the back seat, wrap one of Trish’s fashionable scarves around myself for privacy and….aah…relief. Of course, a full, lidless bottle of urine is not something you want or need sitting around a steaming car, so despite the threat of a $500 littering charge, I dump the bottle and contents to the side of the road. Shhh - don’t tell anyone.

A tow truck pulls up and we are temporarily elated. The driver informs us he’s not with AAA. He just happened to drive by, notice our distress and that for cash, he’ll tow us off the highway for much cheaper than AAA. We decide he looks a bit too much like a child molester and wave him off.

Call #2 to AAA, one hour later - Like the first call, the operator transfers us to The Authority (I’ll use this abbreviation for “GWB Authority” going forward since to me, it sounds both menacing and dangerous - but in a sexy, military sort of way). The Authority explains that since they own this stretch of highway, we must use their towing service to get moved off the highway and from there, we can call AAA. Again, fine. But The Authority isn’t going to outsmart us this time. We take their direct number to avoid further wait times and transfers.

Call #3 to The Authority, one hour later - Still no sign of a tow and it’s now dark out. The traffic continues to lurch along slowly. In the last two hours, two good Samaritans have stopped to offer help. No offense to you Caucasian readers, but both helpful souls are minorities. Not that that means anything, but where’s the love from whitey? I’m just saying. Anyway, The Authority now explains to us that we’re actually not on their property. Instead, we need to call the NJ State Police who will set up a tow off the highway and then we can contact AAA. What the f*ck?!?

Call #4 to NJ State Police, 15 minutes later - The state police are extremely helpful and quickly take our location and information. They’ll have a tow truck to us within 30 minutes.

Voila! 15 minutes later a tow truck magically materialized out of the traffic. We’re saved. Except this driver wasn’t dispatched by the state police either. He’s another random passing truck. We’ve been on the side of the highway for over 2 1/2 hours and Trish says, “f**k the police, we’re getting off the road.” For a nominal fee (cash, of course), he is going to tow us to a gas station where we can finally contact AAA.

Call #5 to NJ State Police, 15 minutes later - Trish explains our current situation to the dispatcher. The police won’t take responsibility if we use an unauthorized tow. We don’t care. We are then whisked away to a gas station somewhere in Fort Lee, NJ. It’s closed, but at least now we don’t have to worry about getting rear-ended by a semi.

Call #6 to AAA, 5 minutes later - Trish excitedly speaks to a representative who instantly rains on our parade. Because we are at a gas station attached to a garage, we must prove to the tow truck driver that we do not have any outstanding unpaid charges due to the station. Of course, it being 10:30 pm on a Sunday night in Fort Lee, the garage is closed and we have no way of proving anything. We ask if we can move (push?) the car off the property, but are told that it’s already been documented so we might as well stay put and wait. F*ck you, AAA!!!

Trish now has the same problem I had two hours earlier and walks around the dark property looking for a squat spot. She returns a few minutes later hoping she won’t wake up in the morning with a nasty rash on her dainty bits. For the next 90 minutes or so, I nap and compulsively binge on the only food source in the car, Danish butter cookies and Sun chips. Mmmm, healthy.

It’s just after midnight when the bright beams of our salvation round the corner. Thankfully, this driver has never heard of the “prove-your-not-stealing-this-car” policy that AAA had explained to us just hours earlier. We refrain from kneeling down and kissing his well-worn work boots, jump in the front seat of the truck and direct him to our mechanic’s garage.

It’s now nearly 1 am and we are a block away from Salamis. As we approach, we notice that all the lights are off and the metal gate is stretched across the office door. Did I mention the garage is supposed to be open 24 hours? And that it’s located on a deserted, dirty, industrial stretch of Long Island City? Our friendly tow truck driver declines our tip. He’s probably grateful to get rid of two sweaty passengers and drive away from the likely location of a soon-to-be mugging and double murder.

Call #7 to Salamis, 90 minutes later - Standing just outside the locked office, we hear the ring of the office phone taunt us on the deserted street. Miraculously, someone answers. Tony has been sitting in the darkened office manning the garage phone. Apparently, just their towing service is 24 hours, the garage, however, is closed for the night. Yeah, whatever, just take our car keys and fix the damn thing.

Call #8 to Executive Car, 15 minutes later - Our new best friend, Tony (I made that name up. I don’t have a clue what his name is, but he looked like a Tony), calls us a car. Of course, Trish is leaving for the Philippines in less than 48 hours and has all her dirty laundry in the van as well as two huge boxes full of Wedding Singer costumes that need to be mailed back to the warehouse. We stand on the deserted street corner with all our bags and boxes, serenaded by Tony’s Brooklynese chatter, waiting for our car. Finally, Akmed (I made that name up, too - and yes - I’m racist) pulls up. We load all our belongings into the trunk and back seat of his Lincoln Town car.

“Are you moving?” he asks. “Shut the f*ck up and drive, bitch,” I want to say. Instead, I give a fake chuckle and say, “No, it’s complicated.” He doesn’t pursue it further. He sees by my glare that I’m mentally imbalanced and might possibly stab him through the back of his leather seat cushion with a machete.

We finally get home at around 1:30 am. I carry the boxes up the stairs and immediately head to bed knowing I’ll have to be at the office in seven hours.