Has it really been...

a month since my last blog entry? Well, life has been extremely busy in Pineda-ville, so I’m just finally catching up. My apartment has been sorely neglected and I’m just starting to wipe away the dust and cobwebs from bookshelves and removing the green, fuzzy stuff from the back of the fridge. But I’ll be furiously writing and updating in the next week or so, so keep checking in. I’ll add entries in calendar order - “as they happened” - just for the sake of continuity.

Until next summer...

As usual, the craziness that is Pineda Summer Conservatory overwhelmed all else this July, thus, the silence on my blog. Fear not, sweet ones, I have returned with highlights of this summer’s sweatfest at the CDC theater. There’s definitely some crazy ozone depletion going on since temperatures in the non-air conditioned theater never dipped below a chilly 80 degrees. Choreographer and dance instructor Señor Chris - returning as a permanent member of the Pineda staff - rarely changed t-shirts less than twice a day. Stop with the aerosol cans already, people!

The newly vamped Cabaret Night aka Walking On Sunshine went off splendidly. Our own Frankie and Annette, Chris (choreographer/co-director) and Trish (musical director/co-director), spun a modern day Beach Blanket Bingo theme around the talents of our high school campers. This year we upped (read: added) production values with full set, props and even - gasp! - costume changes.

No doubt I’d have enjoyed this year’s Pineda Idol had I not been frantically painting a trolley car behind the second black traveler while our contestants warbled away. I did, however, get to hear all the wonderful talent as well as the wise and sometimes odd comments of judges Señor Chris, Jaygee (my lovely Kim from Seaside’s Miss Saigon) and Lori (last summer’s zany middle school dance instructor visiting from her new home, Italy!). I do hope Jaygee got her shoes back after excitedly hurling them at our wide-eyed contestants. And I hope they were flats, as a spiked-heel to the forehead is not a sexy look. I know that from experience. Don’t ask.

Starlight Theatre’s (our elementary school program) production of Disney’s Aladdin upped the “awww” factor with the young’ens strutting their stuff Arabian style. How could one not get teary-eyed watching two ten-year-olds awkwardly fall in love to the strains of “A Whole New World”? Of course, that’s only when the young Aladdin manages to stay awake during his princess’s verse. I kid you not. I know, they’re young and it’s really hot in that theatre, but it’s still amusing.

Our middle-schoolers got all hormonal with this year’s production of 13. Full of backstabbing, sexual politics, boy-on-boy kissing, drinking, bar mitzvahs and cheerleading (sounds like my trip to Fire Island last weekend), the Pinedas once again proved they are moral pillars of the community. Seriously, though, if this is an accurate depiction of the lives of today’s 13 year olds, what they hell are they gonna’ be up to when they’re 18?

Finally, we ended the summer with a gorgeous - if I do say so myself - production of Meet Me in St. Louis which I choreographed with Señor Chris' assistance. It's amazing the quality of work you can produce under panic conditions.  All in all, the trolley trauma proved worth the hassle. The act one closing tableau will surely grace our literature for years to come. And I only had to lose my sh*t once during tech week. Honestly, is it that difficult to learn ones lines after having ones script for six weeks? Back in Colonial times when I was doing summer stock with a young John Wilkes Booth, we’d have cranked out five fully staged productions in that same time frame. So much for work ethic. Oh well, according to 13, teens these days are too busy drinking and fornicating to concentrate on the trivialities of discipline and responsibility. Kidding. Not. Oh, and I also want to give a shout out to Michael Miguel and Deanna Killmer for helping our teens perfect their gorgeous period 'dos. Holla!

So there you have it. Six weeks, four full productions and four very exhausted Pinedas (plus Señor Chris, Chris Grimm and Mr. B - our newest staff addition at the piano). It’s going to take at least until next summer for us to recover, but those March auditions always seem to creep up on us so quickly. And no, we do not know what shows we are producing next year, so don’t ask until at least December.

American Idiot

August 4, 8:00 pm show

I finally got around to seeing American Idiot. First impressions - slick, stylish and loud. It still baffles me that Michael Mayer wasn’t nominated for best direction. The show is visually gorgeous and his staging is inventive and kinetic. But with all that cool movement and rock concert lighting, I still lost interest in the story about 15 minutes into the 90 minute one-act. I found myself analyzing the staging and choreography rather than becoming emotionally invested in any of the characters. It’s not that there wasn’t a clear plot, it’s just that the stories presented weren’t explored (expanded?) beyond the typical representations of post Gen X slackers. Twenty minutes in I was wondering what the point of it all was. Why didn’t these characters just go and get jobs and stop whining? Yes, the main character does get a job toward the end of the show. But, surprise, it’s as a stereotypical soul-less corporate pencil pusher. Like, there are no other interesting, cool jobs in the whole entire world. Hello, how about culinary school? Fashion? Web media? Tug boat captain? I mean, if you have to go trite and true, at least make it interesting.

You’ll get no gripes about the physical production from me. The ensemble cast looks like their having a f*cking great time. The staging is super tight and the cast is invested in the material like it’s Hamlet. The singing is miles above what we used to get in those early Rent years, when all the casting directors wanted “authentic” voices that couldn’t make it through an eight show week. But the great performances and dazzling physical production failed to move me. In the end, it still felt like a big ole music video translated to the stage.

Here’s a thought, maybe someone should encourage Green Day to compose a new show specifically for the stage rather than trying to force their catalogue into a narrative.

Team Lucky and the organist from hell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Photo courtesy of Leslie Cruz Ruegsegger)

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.

Happy belated Pride...

Instead of prancing about in daisy dukes and skintight tank, I spent my Pride weekend sweating it out in a theater detail-painting a trolley car. Which, when you think about it, is pretty gay, too. Most of the set for Meet Me In St. Louis, this year’s high school show for our Conservatory kids, is already completed. We’ve decided to try and minimize our late nights at the theater this summer and actually pre-build the set. Thankfully, there’s not much major construction for this one, unlike that behemoth Les Mis barricade. Who’d have thought a pile of junk would be so difficult to construct?

We start rehearsing MMSL today, but sadly, I will not be able to join the cast for today’s 95-degree scorcher in the un-air-conditioned CDC theater. Am I disappointed? As Whitney circa 2000 would mutter while wiping the crack sweat from her brow - hells to the no! Instead, I will be luxuriating in the cool comfort of my 36th floor desk overlooking Times Square. Ah, the corporate life. But come July 12, my fat ass - or as we assistants have affectionately termed it, “banker butt” - will be sweating with the youngsters for three weeks of “Banjo”-ing (perhaps one of the stupidest songs ever written for a musical - up there with the “Garlic” song from Dance of the Vampires).
I mean, it’s not even a real historical dance. And let me tell you, I’ve researched the dances of the period to get some choreographic inspiration and they are not exactly musical theater friendly. The cake-walk? The two-step? They all look rather silly. We’re going to have to push to the more exciting, though historically inaccurate, Jitterbug / Charleston. Oh well, it’s high school summer theater, so I’m not going to kill myself over it. I’m already forced to include a Waltz and a Square Dance. Have you ever tried to teach 14-year-old boys how to Waltz? Not pretty.

Coming up - our second annual July 4th weekend in DC at the lovely Omni Shoreham.  Frozen drinks and fried food poolside, here I come!

Quote of the day...

I was browsing the opera blog, Parterre, today during a particularly slow day at the office and came across this gem posted by BETSY_ANN_BOBOLINK:

MANON from Opera Ottawa features Michael Schade and Nathalie Paulin, not negligible vocalists by any means, but not the sort of cast to make queens wet their jeans.

So for the next week, I will try to use the phrase "...make queens wet their jeans" at least once a day.  I encourage you to do the same.

My name is Fausto and I'm a...

Is there a 12-step program for reality show addiction? Because I just can’t stop. Thank you networks for the particularly cheese-tastic array of choices available for summer viewing. These are my drugs of choice:
Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List
Mall Cops: Mall of America
The Fabulous Beekman Boys
Losing it With Jillian
So You Think You Can Dance?

I literally had to delete shows from my DVR list because it can only record two shows at one time (sorry Intervention and Hoarders, you will be missed but not forgotten). And there are still shows that I want to see but am physically unable to squeeze into my 18 waking hours a day (Cupcake Wars anyone?). Here’s why I can’t live without them (OK, maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but I am a thespian and a homo - the perfect storm of theatricality):

Kathy Griffin - A gay man with a vagina, Kathy lacks any trace of subtlety and tact, but she is fuckin’ hilarious. I like that she calls celebrities (and herself) out on their bullsh*t and would be honored to have her as my hag.

Mall Cops - This show is brilliant. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d think it was a parody a la "Waiting for Guffman." I mean, a show about the dangers of being a mall security guard? Last night’s episode had the guards stopping an ice cube fight, chastising a fast food manager for blocking a fire exit and helping a special needs customer find his slushie. You can’t write that shit.

The Fabulous Beekman Boys - A gay NYC couple, one an OCD former doctor and VP with Martha Stewart and the other a former drag queen turned advertising exec, buy a farm upstate and attempt to run it using information gleaned from Google and advice from Farmer John, a gay animal lover whose love for his llamas literally brings him to tears in the first episode. ‘ Nuff said?

Losing it - I love watching people cry.

SYTYCD - The only talent show on TV that actually rewards people for having legitimate training. Imagine that?

And speaking of TV, I caught the first two acts of Live from Lincoln Center’s HD broadcast of Simon Boccanegra last night starring Placido Domingo. The man is 69 and still sounds incredible (although that wig - yikes!). I’m 40 and feel used up. It’s just not fair.

Crazy Sh*t on the Tonys OR Who knew Lea Michele was British?

What a crazy, mannered, I’m-going-to-force-this-down-your-throat-whether-you-like-it-or-not rendition of a classic. Yes, girlfriend can belt but she obviously can’t feel a downbeat and only has two volume settings, loud and really loud. And what’s with the British accent? She always sounds fantastic on glee - granted, they auto-tune the sh*t out of everyone and have multiple takes - but she was quite lovely in Spring Awakening only a few years back. What happened? She also exhibited not a bit of charm, humor or charisma needed for the character or song. She made Fanny Brice seem like a total b*tch - “Don’t rain on my parade, God Dammit!” To hear how it should be sung, check out Barbra’s original or Ms. Lillias White’s non-traditional, but a thousand times more moving, rendition from Seth’s Broadway 101:



Some other random Tony observations:

Sean Hayes was charming and funny. He was self-effacing, comfortable and at ease in a live, on camera situation. But some of those presenters, Oy! You’d think theatre actors had absolutely no sense of humor, reading the copy like they were auditioning for King Lear. Lighten up, people. And those play synopses - dear God - they actually made me NOT want to see these plays. Why is everyone so serious? The guys from Next Fall were the only two who seemed to have any idea how to entertain or engage an audience. Too bad their show (which I enjoyed, but didn’t love) wasn’t as good as their Tony schtick.

I’m sorry, but I couldn’t make it through any of Fela!’s numbers. I’m sure they’re much better in context, but I just fast forwarded through them. Yes, I’m a racist.

The sound guy sucked. How many times did I need to see lips moving without sound? I can understand tweaking the levels as you go, but how about “on” and “off” for starters?

Catherine Z-J looked cra-cra during "Send in the Clowns"! I thought her eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. She had the expression of a crack whore desperately in need of a hit. Again, I saw and enjoyed her performance in the theater (what happened since?) but between the crazy-face, back phrasing and inappropriate breathing, it came off like she was singing in a different language that she didn’t completely understand. “Isn’t it … (crickets) … rich. Are we a … (crickets) … pair.” Could you please complete your … wait for it … thought. Without breaking it … wait for it … up? Someone get her to a vocal coach, stat!

Thank God Christiane Noll was on hand to show ‘em how it’s done. Her all too short snippet of “Back to Before” was welcome relief from all the screaming and screeching. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against rock or pop shows, but how come nobody seems to really sing anymore? It seems technique, phrasing and dare I say it, a nice tone, is just not a prerequisite for performers anymore. Sigh…

And until yesterday’s little reminders, I had forgotten that Annie (really?) is going to be revived in 2012 and that Ricky Martin is going to be Che in the upcoming Broadway revival of Evita next year. I’m just not sure if he has the acting chops for this one. Unless, of course, he’ll be performing shirtless. In which case, no one will be paying attention to either his singing or acting. I hope he proves me wrong (but still hoping for the naked concept).