Roma

I'm home at last - Rome's Gay Village!  Well, it's not just for the gays.  According to Max (our Roman guide), it's basically a huge, summer-long party that takes place at a park in Rome complete with theatre, sports, clubs, concerts, dancing and food.  Hmmm...sounds pretty gay to me - except maybe the sports.  Max says it's where all the cool, young people hang in the summer.  Well, duh, It is the Gay Village!

Our first stop in Rome (unfortunately, we were up way too early for the Gay Village) was the Circus Maximus.  I'm sure in its day it was impressive with the chariot races and all, but now it's just a big ol' field of gravel.  No worries, the spot also afforded us a great view of Palatine Hill (behind us), the ancient Roman equivalent of Beverly Hills.  

The myth of Romulus and Remus is the story of the founding of Rome.  Max explained it to us - something about twins and virgins and a wolf.  I don't know, something shiny caught my eye and I stopped listening.  Or maybe I was just lulled by the Italian accent.  Eez tah-roo, day reel-lee sound-ah like-ah dees.  Who knew?  Anyway, this is the Belvedere Romolo e Remo (where we're standing, above). 

And here are the ruins near the Colosseum.  And some Roman traffic, too.

  

The Pineda clan strikes a pose in front of the Roman Colosseum. 

Max is quite the photographer, isn't he?

Max's Tourist Tip #1: Always take a picture of the signage so you can remember where the hell you've been.

Here's the plaque outside of the Colosseum (aka Flavian Amphitheatre).  I have no idea what it says, but Max told me to take a picture of it.  And you do what Max says, bitches!

Here's the inside of the Colosseum. 

Where my gladiators at? 

Mom and dad couldn't maneuver all the steps in the Colosseum, so we left them with a gelato vendor and a fist full of Euros while Max took the young'ens (relatively speaking) on a tour.  For once, Val looks normal and I'm making an ass face. 

A view of the Arco di Costantino from the Colosseum.

Max's Tourist Tip #2:  The proper way to throw a coin into Fontana di Trevi (Trevi Fountain) is with your back to the fountain, tossing the coin with your right hand over the left shoulder.

Trish and I have just made 30 Euros worth of wishes.  Unfortunately, I later found out that you don't make wishes at the fountain, but instead, tossing coins guarantees that you return to Rome again.  Hmmm...what if one of my wishes is to return to Rome?  Then if it happens, technically, I'm getting my wish.  Think about it.

Up next on Max's whirlwind tour of Rome, a visit to The People's Square.

The Obelisk in the square is actually from Heliopolis, Egypt.  You can't tell from the picture, but if you stand directly in front of it, the square is a mirror image.  Fancy.

 The square also abuts (tee-hee) the North Gate of the Aurelian Wall, which was the Northern entrance to ancient Rome.  It now separates old Rome from modern Rome.  Yes, historically important, but I just thought it was pretty.

On closer inspection, I see my name on the gate.  I love it even more now.  But alas, the gate is not named after another famous "Fausto," but in this context is part of a Latin phrase translating to "may your entrance be prosperous and happy" - quite appropriate for an entrance gate, not so much for a lower back tattoo on a go-go boy.  Picture it and you'll get it.  Or not.

Flanking the outside of the gate is a statue of St. Paul on one side and...

...St. Peter on the other.  Rome is filled with random, beautiful statues of saints and emperors, all with incredibly chiseled arms and six-pack abs (check out Peter's forearm definition).  Who knew ancient Rome was just like toga night at Splash?

We've been going non-stop all morning, running from marble statue to marble building to marble ruin.  We love our tour guide Max, but he and his long, blond-highlighted tresses (he's a former hair stylist) are indefatigable and we need a break.  We beg for mercy (and a toilet) so Max brings us to his favorite siesta spot, Piazza Navona.

Here's the view of the Piazza from our table at Bar Navona.  It's here that Val had her angel choir moment and discovered San Benedetto iced tea.  Sadly, we only had an hour to order, eat, relax and pee before Max had to get us to our next destination, Vatican City, to meet our Vatican guide, the lovely Vanessa.  Along the way, he points out the Castel Sant’Angelo, the fort where Floria Tosca flings herself to a bloody death at the end of the opera, Tosca (Gotta' love that Puccini) and The Passetto, where Tom Hanks secretly scuttles to the Vatican in Angels and Demons.

This Morning's Itinerary:

Arrive at the Port of Civitavecchia and meet our guide, Maximilliano

Drive to Rome and see...
Pyramid of Caius Cestius
Circus Maximus / Palatine Hill
Colosseum / Arch of Constantine / Roman Forum
Piazza Venezia / Il Vittoriano - Tomb of Unknown Soldier (Wedding Cake)
Fontana di Trevi
Spanish Steps
Piazza del Popolo - North Gate & Santa Maria del Popolo Church
Piazza Navona - Church of St. Agnes & Four Rivers Fountain
Lunch at Bar Navona - discovering San Benedetto iced tea
Castel Sant’Angelo

Next Day in Pompeii and Amalfi Coast
Afternoon in Vatican City

Previous Day in Florence and Pisa

Just another Sunday afternoon in Florence

First stop, the Piazzale Michelangelo, overlooking all of Florence.

You were probably too busy admiring my red espadrilles to even notice the view.

The famous Ponte Vecchio bridge.  When daddy doesn't let her marry her boyfriend, Lauretta (Puccini's Gianni Schicchi) threatens to throw herself off this bridge ("O mio babbino caro").  Not much of a threat, right?  I mean, the worse that could happen is she would probably catch a nasty staph infection.

Neptune's a total DILF, right?  That's why they gave him his own fountain.

I'm posing for him seductively in the Palazzo Vecchio.

Here we are with our dashing personal guide in Pisa and Florence, Alessandro. 

Only a real Italian can carry off white pants.

"God, I'm sick and tired of all these quaint, beautiful streets!"

I just liked the architecture.  And the sign.

Piazza della Repubblica - see those little tents to the left of the merry-go-round? That's where we ate lunch.

A close-up of the merry-go-round.

Just another pretty Firenze (Florence) street.

The Duomo and Giotto's Tower.  So much marble!

mmmmmmm

Another view of the Ponte Vecchio.

Here we are at the entrance of the Ponte Vecchio. Believe it or not, it's just a bunch of jewelry stores.

No wonder Lauretta was so fond of it.

I'm in awe of the other "David"'s assets in the Palazzo Vecchio.  I think he works out. 

We visited the Accademia Museum and saw the real "David," but sadly, we were not allowed to take pictures in the museum.

More statues in Palazzo Vecchio.

A long shot of the Palazzo Vecchio.

"I'm here!  I'm really here!"

There's Val's leg, smack dab in the middle of the shot.  She's shopping for Italian goodies in one of the outdoor markets.  Florence's San Lorenzo market is where I purchased pair one of seven (!) new pairs of shoes. 

Today's towel animal brought to you by Lito, our Filipino cabin stewart.

Today's Itinerary:
Drive from Pisa
Roman Gate
Piazzale Michelangelo
Drive through San Niccolo Gate

Santa Croce Church

Accademia to visit Michelangelo’s David

The Duomo & Giotto’s Tower

Lunch in Piazza della Repubblica

Ponte Vecchio

Palazzo Vecchio

Shopping in San Lorenzo Market

Back to Port of Livorno

Next Day in Rome
Morning in Pisa

Previous Day in Barcelona

First stop, Pisa!

Mom and dad in front of the Baptistry in Pisa.

The Leaning Tower of Pisa.  And Trish.

Pretty.

The Duomo in Pisa.

Trish strikes a pose in Campo dei Miracoli (Field of Miracles).

How did Trish get in every picture?

This Morning's Itinerary:

Ship docks in Port of Livorno

Drive to Pisa

Campo dei Miracoli “Field of Miracles” - Pisa Duomo & Tower

Drive to Florence

Off to Barcelona: Day 1 & 2

August 23: New York City

I’m all set to go on my first real vacation in years and what happens just hours before I head off to JFK? A mother-f&$%in’ earthquake! Of course, I didn’t notice because I was too busy running around Times Square like a crack whore trying to score some smack (substitute Euros and Tums for smack) on my lunch break. Yup, the day I’m scheduled to leave for 10 days abroad, I also decide to squeeze in a half day at work.

Heading back to the office I notice an unusually large group standing outside the building on a smoke break. I guess those graphic bus ads brazenly displaying cracked chests with bulging blackened lungs aren’t really having the effect the Health Department had anticipated. And then I realize nobody’s smoking. I’m only slightly disturbed. It’s been a decade since 9/11, but the panicked memories of that day still resonate in this New Yorker’s psyche.

I see one of my colleagues on her cell phone and ask her what’s going on. “There was an earthquake and the building started shaking.” Huh? I ask again, “No, really, what’s wrong?” She reiterates, “There was an earthquake in Virginia and we’re feeling the aftershocks.”

This is New York. We do not have earthquakes. We have $20 lattes and a subway that smells like the sewer of a third world country, but we do not have earthquakes. At least not of the magnitude that causes buildings to sway. At least not until today.

Did that stop me from taking the elevator up to the 36th floor where I no doubt would soon find myself pancaked between layers of steel and rubble? Of course not. And besides, my passport is in my bag at my desk and there is no way in hell I am missing this trip over some lousy little earthquake.

I push through the crowd and argue with the security guard until she let’s me back into the building. I can feel the doubtful stares of my fellow employees burning through the back of my head as I stupidly head into the lobby and to the elevator banks. “Poor guy,” they’re thinking to themselves as they shake their heads. “Too talented and handsome to die so young.”

Stop laughing.

Anyway, long story short, the building did not collapse and when I reached my floor most everyone was still at their desks, too busy wheeling and dealing to let a little natural disaster disrupt their trading day. I check my email and there’s a one-liner from Val. “I think we just had an earthquake.” Ah, the eloquent simplicity of texting.

I turn on the TV in my boss’s office to find Anderson Cooper trying to make rattling tables and fallen picture frames sound as dramatic as a rebel attack in Afghanistan. What an Emmy whore. But I instantly freeze upon hearing three chilling words - Flights. Temporarily. Halted. Dear God, nooooooooooo! Now picture me dramatically dropping to my knees, fists flung skyward in anguish. I actually did no such thing, but that’s how the scene will play in my made-for-TV Lifetime movie. John Stamos will play me.

So now what? Well, I decide to leave work on the spot to beat the throngs of panicked New Yorkers trying to escape the city before it undoubtedly collapses into the ocean. I rush home (no subway delays), call the car company and reach the airport in record time to find no line at the Swiss ticket counter. I check in without a problem and now have over three hours to sit and wait to board my flight. Wouldn’t you know it, with typical blasé attitude, New Yorkers shrugged their collective shoulders and went on with business as usual. Earthquake, Schmearthquake (try and say that 10 times in a row).

After all that un-needed trauma, I just wanted to relax on my flight to Barcelona. Unfortunately, Clementine, the 14-month-old infant sitting next to me had other plans. Sure, she was cute as a button while we were on the ground, goo-ing and gah-ing like the perfect movie baby. But as soon as we were airborne, that little blonde angel morphed into a screaming devil child. So I immediately donned my earphones and turned up the sound on my personal TV screen imbedded in the seatback in front of me.

August 24, AM: Geneva, Switzerland

Seven hours, two meals, one movie and two sitcom episodes later I descended into Geneva for a nine-hour layover. Nine hours in an airport terminal seat? Not happening. You might as well strap me down and force me listen to an endless loop of Susan Boyle singing “I Dreamed A Dream”. So I promptly deposited my carry-on in a terminal locker, saddled up to the ATM for some Swiss Francs and jumped on the train for downtown Geneva.

For some reason I thought Switzerland was going to be colder. On our TV shows they're always showing shots of giant blondes hitting snow-covered slopes with enormous white smiles and zipped down snowsuits revealing melon-like cleavage. Lies. It was hotter, wetter and stickier than the inside of Kim Kardashian's thighs on a Friday night out in Miami. In August. During a thunderstorm. Unfortunately, I was dressed in jeans and layers of shirts, anticipating the inevitable chilly airline air conditioning.  By the time I reached downtown Geneva I was sweating like a drug addict on his first day going cold turkey.

Oh well, at least I didn’t have to spend any money on the train. Tourists visiting Geneva receive an automatic complimentary ticket into town. This is yet another cultural difference between Europe and America. Let's compare.

Heading downtown?
Geneva: Get handed a free ticket that will take you on a 6-minute train ride to the center of town.
New York: Pay for an AirTrain ticket to Jamaica, Queens, spend half an hour looking for the correct connection to the 7 train, buy a separate subway ticket and take a 40-minute ride into Times Square where you’ll be thrown out into the busiest intersection in the United States.
Geneva: “Welcome to our city!”
New York: “How bad ya' wanna’ see the Empire State Building, motherf*cker?”

Since Geneva was basically an unplanned stop for me, I decided to just wing it. Heading out of the terminal, I wandered around the station until I found what looked like the busiest street and just started walking. So much for planning, because three blocks later I found myself at the Geneva tourist information center with a lovely Swiss maiden handing me a new map and giving me directions to Old Town.

Along the way I had a lovely Japanese tourist take a picture of me in front of Geneva's most famous landmark, the Jet d’Eau, which I deduce means “giant stream of urine” in French (left). I also pass dozens of chocolate shops but somehow control my initial impulse to run into the first store and smear luscious truffles of every color and flavor over my entire body (nice visual, huh?).  I'll wait until I'm heading back to the airport to load up on the sweet stuff. 

It takes about 15-minute to walk from the train station to Old Town Geneva.  Crossing the lake, I stumble into a European postcard complete with trolley cars and endless outdoor cafes.  I pop a squat on one of the many benches on the main drag (right) and just soak it all in. 

Everyone here looks so cool and cosmopolitan with their slicked-back hair and over-sized sunglasses.  I feel like a shlub in comparison, flabby and unkempt with sweat rings under my arms and travel bag tightly pressed to my side just begging for a pickpocket to pounce on me.  Not pretty.

I wander around the side streets for another couple of hours, trying to give off that "I-meant-to-dress-like-this" New Yorker attitude.  It doesn't work.  I'm now truly exhausted and it looks and feels like I've just run a marathon in my traveling clothes. 

In the span of less than 24 hours I've gone from my earthquake-rattled office in New York to a bustling street in historic Old Town Geneva.  I know I should keep exploring - who knows when I'll be back? - but instead head back to the train station.  

My official Barcelona vacation is now just a one-hour flight away.

August 24, PM: Barcelona, Spain

I know Barcelona is known for its amazing architecture, incredible food and beautiful people, but come on, what about that airport?  Stunning.  It makes JFK look like a turnpike truckstop.  And those shiny black marble floors - to die for.  I guess I've been watching too much HGTV lately.

Anyway, exiting the terminal I jump into a cab.  I point to the address of the hotel on my printout and the cab driver nods his head.  He speaks no English and my knowledge of Spanish has been gleaned from the menu at Taco Bell.  He tries to strike up a conversation anyway and somehow I figure out he's asking if I'm on vacation.  I answer him in my best toddler Spanish, "Mi famiglia in hotel to cruise," while making a wavy motion with my hand and forearm, the international sign for "cruise."  Or is that the international sign for "I'm a crazy person"?

A 20-minute cab ride later and I'm at the hotel (Hotel Barcelona Universal).  On my way up to the room I sit in the mirrored elevator and realize I look like total shit.  The heat, humidity, travel and time zone changes have not been kind to me.  I can't wait to jump into the shower and take a nap. I get to my floor and the door slides open to reveal...wait for it...the entire Pineda clan standing in front of me waiting for the elevator!  We laugh at the ridiculousness of it all before they push me toward the room and tell me to hurry up and get changed.  We're going out to dinner!  So much for a shower and nap.

We drink sangria and munch on endless tapas at Tapa Tapa in the Maremagnum, a huge mall in the middle of the harbor.  It's late and the streets just get busier and busier.  Spain knows how to party. 

After dinner we put the parents in a cab and we head out on Las Ramblas. 

I guess I'll sleep some other week.

Off to Pisa

Follies

Thursday, August 18
Marriott Marquis Theatre
8:00pm performance

Follies is the Holy Grail of musical theatre and anyone who’s seen the original Broadway production claim that it’s never been, and likely never will be, topped.  Ever.  For these people, stay home with your twenty cats and resign yourself to a sad, lonely life of hoarding original cast LP’s and endless online debate over the better Mama Rose, Merman or Lansbury (don’t even mention Tyne, Bernie or Patti in the same breath unless you want to get your cyber fingers chopped off).  For the rest of you, get off your lazy asses and buy I ticket to this limited run!

The current revival (transferred from a run at The Kennedy Center last spring) is probably one of the most viscerally moving, aurally sumptuous and visually gorgeous pieces of theatre I’ve encountered in 25 years of theatre-going.  At the risk of sounding like one of those crazy musical theatre queens on all that chat who claim nothing of import has been produced on the Broadway since 1960, let me just say right off the bat, it’s not perfect.  Though it’s probably as close as we’ll get in my lifetime.

First off, the production boasts a full 28-piece orchestra (I almost jizzed my pants hearing that live harp) and 41 member cast.  Granted, Bernadette Peters as frumpy, delusional housewife (or as a frumpy anything, for that matter), Sally, might not be ideal casting.  And yes, the voice is showing some wear and there is some unwieldiness in her passaggio.  But that cracked perfection only adds to the effectiveness of her performance. 

The stunning Jan Maxwell is gorgeous (and acrobatic) as Phyllis, Sally’s former friend and roommate, now a society grand dame married to the man Sally has held a torch for all her life.  Maxwell’s “Could I Leave You” nearly stopped the show, as did her chiseled biceps.  Which reminds me, I need to head back to the gym.

Ron Raines plays Phyllis’ philandering prick of a husband perfectly and has a luscious baritone voice.  Will someone please write a new show with a baritone leading role?  Enough with all these squealing nasal tenor ingénues already.  I want a real man. 

Danny Burstein rounds out the quartet as Sally’s husband, Buddy.  It's to Burstein's credit that he can make the audience feel such sympathy toward his character's infidelity.

In Broadway’s current trend of feel-good, splashy, appeal-to-every-demographic earnestness, Follies’ sober, even depressing dose of regret and honesty is refreshing.  Having the spectacular baritone of Ron Raines doesn’t hurt either.   Again, someone please write a show for baritone leading man!

I honestly can't wait to see this show a second and hopefully even third time before it ends it's limited run at the end of the year.

Thoroughly Modern Anything Goes

Anything Goes
Stephen Sondheim Theatre
August 17, 8pm performance

Is Sutton Foster miscast as Reno Sweeney?  Well, yes and no.  She isn't exactly in the Merman-LuPone mold, that's for sure.  Shrugging off the gee-whiz, apple pie wholesomeness we've grown to expect, Foster's Reno is a sexy, character/ingenue hybrid - Millie's hardened, sluttier metropolitan raised-cousin, if you will.  Then again, my other Anything Goes experience was at the Papermill in 2000 with a 67-year-old Chita Rivera, a seemingly perfect Reno - had the production happened 30 years earlier.  She was still amazing, by the way.  Talk about your sexy cougars.

Foster's Reno could use a harder edge, but what she lacks in grit she makes up for in leg.  Her slit-up-to-the-neck skirts show off her gams to perfection.  And she's well matched by the dreamy Colin Donnell as Billy (though he can't touch Howard McGillan's luscious baritone in the LuPone revival).

The physical production is sleek and polished if not predictable.  Though granted, there aren't that many ways to present a cruise ship on stage.

The score, of course, is filled with Porter standards.  His lyrical wit only underscores the vastly inferior lyrics we've grown accustomed to in recent commercial Broadway offerings.  God forbid someone attempt to compose clever and funny lyrics that actually might require the audience to listen - but that's a rant for another day.

Most reviews praised the choreography, but I wasn't impressed.  The steps were there, but much of it was visually stagnant - the feet were moving, but not much else (was Stroman or Randy Skinner not available?  Or was this a Kathleen Marshall vanity project?).  In one non-sensical dance number, Billy and Hope share a romantic moment and are randomly joined by several other couples, on different decks, running in and joining for no apparent reason and then just as mysteriously disappearing offstage.  If you're not going to give us character driven movement, you at least need to give us some "wow" factor.

The book, which has undergone countless revisions since the show's premier, is just a zany excuse to string together these hit Porter tunes.  But really, who cares?  It's all about the songs and performances. 

It was nice to see Joel Grey perform in person, but his schtick seemed a bit old-fashioned.  Seemed like a missed opportunity to showcase this one-of-a-kind talent.  Perhaps Marshall didn't want to assert her directorial fist upon a Broadway legend? 

If anything, this production needed a stronger director and concept to keep all these enormously talented individuals (and no doubt, egos) on the same page, stylistically and conceptually.

Harry Potter's Ash

Today's blog title references the two exhibits Trish and I visited last night at the Discovery Times Square Center - Pompeii & Harry Potter.  Incidentally, I have seen Harry Potter's (aka Daniel Radcliffe) tushie when he bared it all starring in Equus on Broadway a few years back.  Disturbingly titillating as that experience was, eyeing a young Potter in the buff - even legitimately in the theatre- left me feeling like that dirty old uncle you avoid at family picnics.  You know, the one in the polyester pants, patting his knee and asking you to sit on his lap.  Yup, that one.

We decided to check out the Pompeii exhibit as a preview to our family's Mediterranean cruise at the end of the month when we'll be visiting the actual ruins of Pompeii - very exciting.  Trish and I (mostly Trish) have been feverishly researching private tour companies for shore excursions.  In 6 days we're seeing Rome, Naples & the Amalfi Coast, Florence, Pompeii, Pisa, Sicily, Marseilles and Mallorca.  Not to mention the 3 days we're staying in Barcelona before and after the actual cruise. 

My list of must-sees is probably unrealistically long - Leaning Tower of Pisa, ruins of Pompeii, Mount Etna, the Sistine Chapel, Trevi Fountain, the Colosseum, Michelangelo's David, Giovanni's House of Spicy Sausage (I made that one up - just making sure you were still paying attention) and on and on and on...but hell, I'll probably never be back again, so might as well try to cram in as much as possible.  I'll definitely need a vacation from our vacation when I get back. 

As for the Pompeii exhibit, it's definitely worth a discounted ticket on Goldstar (nearly half off regular admission).  It's not as glitzy as the recent King Tut exhibition (how do you compete with gold encrusted caskets?), but the room filled with plaster casts of the victims caught in the volcanic ash is really quite chilling. 

It also seems Pompeiians were pretty saucy in the bedroom.  Part of the exhibit focuses on the many brothels in the city and even displays some R-rated frescoes - we're talking wild threesomes.  Seriously.  Who knew Pompeii was the ancient equivalent of the Playboy Mansion circa 1975?

If you're a Harry Potter fan, the Harry Potter Exhibition is a must-see.  Though I advise you give yourself at least two hours to see everything.  We entered an hour before closing and had to rush through the last quarter of the exhibit.  At 10 minutes before closing time we were unceremoniously ordered to finish up our visit by a tall security person with the worst fake British accent I've ever heard.  In fact, all the poor workers throughout the exhibit were forced to put on horrible British accents.  The worst offender was the young man in charge of the sorting hat in the first exhibit room.  I'd honestly have preferred an American accent to his horrible fake British one.  Oh well, the tourists from Nebraska (yes, there was a Nebraskan in our group who got sorted into Gryffindor) didn't seem to notice or mind.

Unfortunately, we couldn't get any fun shots in Hagrid's hut or with the life-sized Buckbeak statue since photography was prohibited in the exhibit halls.  Damn those copyright laws! 

Miss Piggy, Rent & Aliens

What the hell happened to the summer?  It seems like just yesterday I was lounging in my caftan poolside while a bevy of hunky, young Abercrombie & Fitch models fanned me with palm fronds and hand-fed me bon-bons.  Oh, wait.  I totally made that up.  I was actually stewing in a pool of my own sweat, bare legs sticking to a piano bench in an un-air-conditioned, mold-infested theatre with a hundred crazed musical theatre students.  Potato - potahto. 

(below, Trish and I excited to see the Jim Henson exhibit at the Museum of the Moving Image and temporarily blinded by the stark white walls of the lobby).

With the summer dwindling away, Trish and I decided to cram a month’s worth of fun into a single weekend.  Friday night we did a double feature of Planet of the Apes and Cowboys & Aliens.  And no, we didn’t pay for both, we did the ghetto thing and snuck into Cowboys. 

Put that accusatory wagging index finger away and stop giving me that "oh-no-you-dih-ih" look.   We made it perfectly clear to anyone watching us that we were checking out other movie times.  After exiting the first theatre, we literally walked up and down the hall, stopped at each digital display and then discussed if we had missed too much of the movie to make it worth crashing.  And besides, my $130 soda and popcorn combo more than covered the price of two movies.

As far as entertainment value, Apes was the far better movie - stronger plot, better actors, interesting script, good pacing.  Cowboys had its moments, but even a shirtless Daniel Craig couldn’t push it above your basic summer action fare.  I found the pacing a tad slow and (spoiler) the sexy female alien thing a bit too ridiculous.   

Saturday morning we hightailed it to TKTS to try and grab Anything Goes matinee tickets.  TDF has this faboo new app that gives you real-time ticket availability at the half-price booth.  Unfortunately, by the time we got to Times Square tickets were no longer available.  We settled instead for the off-Broadway revival (um, didn't this just close on Broadway, like, yesterday?) of Rent now playing at New World Stages.

If you’re a Renthead forgive me for blaspheming, but I think the revival production is far better than the original Broadway production.  Whoa, I think a rotten tomato just flew past my head.  

Here’s the thing, they’ve fixed the balance between the singers and the band so that you can actually understand the lyrics!  I know, what a concept.  And the direction has been focused so that characters actually interact dramatically with each other rather than just screaming unintelligible lyrics at the audience.  Also, instead of the original industrial-chic wasteland of a set, the new designers have created a more flexible, multi-tiered unit that retains the industrial look but more clearly defines various locations through the use of movable platforms and (minimal) projections.  So what does all that mean to the average audience member?  If you haven’t memorized the cast album you can actually make out what the hell is going on.

Surprisingly, the revival director, Michael Greif, also directed the original Broadway production.  It’s interesting that he could have such a different take on the same exact material. 

As much as I do love the score and appreciate the tragedy of the composer’s early demise, I have just three words for those rich-kid characters playing at Bohemian life - get a f*kin’ job already!  Okay, that was five words, but you get the idea.  When I moved to New York as a starving young artist and couldn't pay the rent, I sucked it up, tossed my dignity out with trash and became a lowly Gap-girl, folding jeans and kissing up to obnoxious teenagers wielding mommy and daddy's credit card. 

Seriously, the whole show rests on your ability to feel sympathy for a bunch of free-loading hippie wannabees.  Oh well, I guess that's why they threw in a drag queen.  I mean, who doesn't love a sassy drag queen, right?  Sorry for all that bitterness.  I guess I still need to work out some issues with my therapist.  I still give the revival a solid B+.  Moving on.

If you haven't yet paid a visit to the Museum of the Moving Image in Astoria, get your lazy ass on the N train already!  I know, "That's all the way over in Queens!" you're saying to yourself.  Suck it up.  If I can commute to midtown everyday, you can drag your spoiled Manhattan attitude out to Astoria for one day.  You'll be rewarded with the coolest exhibit ever, Jim Henson's Fantastic World.

(right, Trish and I outside the mirrored museum doors)

On Sunday morning Trish and I actually managed to crawl out of bed before 10 AM so we could beat the afternoon museum rush.  First, we made a stop down the block at Brooklyn Bagel.  I always feel a pang of guilt upon entering the calculated quaintness of the franchise-perfect store.  When it first opened, I swore never to support the evil corporate machine.  Instead, I'd patronize our cute (but shabby) local mom and pop bagel shop.  "Screw 'the man'!" I exclaimed.  But alas, why does "the man" have to make such delicious bagels?

Seduced by Brooklyn Bagel's incredible reviews on yelp, I gave in to temptation one day and...well, as they say, the rest is history.  Damn you, yelp!

I do occasionally stop by the old mom and pop store to purchase a pity bagel.  Nothing like carbs and cream cheese to appease a guilty conscience.  Anyway, after a scrumptious toasted garlic-poppy seed Brooklyn bagel with sun-dried tomato and artichoke cream cheese, we were off to the museum.

For all my fellow 70s-babies, this exhibit is not to be missed.  The retrospective has original Muppets on display (including Miss Piggy in her wedding finery, left) plus storyboards, sketches and artwork by the one, the only, original Kermit, Jim Henson.  For you non-Muppet fans (i.e. soulless commie pinkos), the museum also has tons of movie memorabilia, set pieces, costumes, make-up and prosthetics on display.

We ended our museum sojourn with a free screening of Jim Henson's trippy movie, The Dark Crystal.  For those of you too young to have seen it in the theatres, it's like a fucked-up Muppet version of the Lord of the Rings except with a much simpler plot.  Henson and his cohorts must have been smoking some seriously strong doobage in the 70s and 80s.

The movie viewing also gave us a chance to see the museum's cool, new, state-of-the-art movie theatre outfitted with seats and carpeting in our official conservatory color, Pineda teal.  As always, the Pinedas are on the cutting edge of fashion and technology.  Not.

For anyone interested, this Saturday and Sunday the museum is offering free screenings (with your $10 admission fee) of The Muppets Take Manhattan.  I'll be there with bells on!

Our summer-in-one-weekend ended at Five Napkin Burger, just across the street from the museum, where we were seated by the most mis-matched couple on (we think) was a second or third date.  Actually, now that I think of it, I bet it was totally a post one-night stand meal!  One was super cute and put together while the other was a bit on the grungy side and sporting a homeless chic look (unshaven, worn t-shirt full of holes, etc. a la Derelicte).  They obviously weren't complete strangers, but they didn't really know much about each other from what I could overhear from their conversation.  And yes, if you sit next to me at a restaurant, I will totally eavesdrop on your conversation. 

(left, Trish's eggs benedict sliders and my breakfast burger).

I almost forgot about the delish new cupcake place Trish and I discovered near New World Stages on our way to Rent, Donna Bell's Bake Shop.  It opened only a few months ago and bills itself as a Southern bakery.  Trish and I are on opposite ends of the cupcake icing spectrum.  She likes butter icing (i.e. a stick of butter with food coloring) and I like the sugary, almost crunchy, wedding cake type icing.  Donna Bell's has the latter.  So while I have a new favorite, Trish is still a staunch Cupcake Cafe supporter.  Yes, Cupcake Cafe's cupcakes are much prettier, but hey, looks aren't everything.  Oh well, more Donna Bell's cupcakes for me.

I'm back!

12 performances of 5 different shows in 11 days with 100 teenagers - what kind of idiots came up with that preposterous schedule?  Why, the Pinedas, of course (at left making sure those Zangler Follies wigs for Crazy For You fit just right)!  We’re not exactly known for sticking to the status quo.  Some might even say we’re prone to unrealistic expectation (I’d say more like wishful thinking).  All I know is that I’m worn out and relieved to be back to my “real” job where I can relax at my desk and browse Amazon.com and eBay for rare musical theatre ephemera.  Could I be any gayer?  That was rhetorical.

You may have noticed the sound of crickets on my blog over the last two weeks, but I’ve been a little busy.  Our fourth Summer Conservatory program ended Sunday night with our final performance of Crazy For You by our high school Center Stage program.  To say I was stressed out would be a massive understatement.  Scenes were being blocked and re-blocked the day before our final dress rehearsal, one student didn’t know one of his second act solos (in fact, he didn’t even know he sang it in the show) three days before opening, there were daily choreography changes, props and set pieces didn’t appear until half-hour before the opening matinee and…well, you get the picture. 

Not that this summer is really any different than any other summer (or any Pineda production for that matter), except that I’m now treading terrifyingly close to “old fart” territory.  Fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants theatre should really only be attempted by twenty-somethings who still find this brand of guerrilla theatre thrilling.  Me?  I'll take my Equity break schedule and cot (see line (C)(8) in link), thank you very much.

Herewith is my list of this summer’s camp highlights (and lowlights):

• Fine Dining - This summer we were blessed with a handful of wonderful parents who supplemented our regular summer diet of donuts, coffee and leftover concessions with real food.  Mama Love's lemon chicken is da bomb!  Delish.
• Tropical Conditions - What the hell is up with the weather?  Some days it felt like we were working in a sweat shop in Calcutta.  For those of you who don’t know, we work and rehearse in an un-air-conditioned theatre and the temperatures this summer regularly pushed past 100 degrees.  Good times.  Val did purchase an industrial-sized “air cooling” unit that managed to cool the theatre down to a chilly 90 degrees. 
• General Laziness - some of our high school students literally didn’t know their lines or music just days before opening night.  Seriously?  We had scripts and scores available to these students (I won’t call them actors because that would be an insult to the profession) a month before rehearsals started and then in some cases, an additional four weeks of rehearsals.  One excuse I heard - “I learn on my feet.”  Bullshit.  That’s just a creative way of saying, “I’m too fucking lazy to learn the lines on my own.” 
• Slip of the Tongue - Juan, tired from a late night at the theatre accidentally ordered a "sausage egg and shit on a biscuit" for breakfast one morning at the McDonald's drive-thru and then couldn't figure out why Val, Trish and I were crying with laughter.
• Spotlight Program - I love our middle school kids this year.  They were always polite, prepared and friendly.  I even got recognized at their closing night “thank-you’s” and I didn’t even work on their show.  Well, actually I painted one set piece, but that was hardly worth a bouquet of flowers. 
• George Gershwin - “I Got Rhythm”, “Someone to Watch Over Me”, “Embraceable You”, “Nice Work if You Can Get It”, “I Can’t Be Bothered Now” - ‘nuff said?
• Sickness - Cast members were dropping like flies.  It seemed like everyone was sick sometime during the five weeks.  In one extreme case, the middle school student playing Mayzie in Seussical found herself voiceless before the matinee so our summer college intern sung and spoke the dialogue on mic from the pit while the poor girl lip-synched and walked through the blocking on stage. 
• Hook-ups - Stick 30 hormone-deranged teenagers in a confined space for five hours a day and you're bound for some hot gossip, right?  Wrong.  This summer was uncharacteristically tame (aside from a few rumored make-out sessions) with nary the whiff of a showmance.  Not to mention not a single boy (or girl) ventured out of the closet either.  Sad.  I'll have to check the accuracy of my spies, though, because someone's got to be spreading all those germs (see "Sickness" above). 

Of course, there were also the usual screaming matches between various Pinedas and staff over the stupidest production details, binge-eating and late night trips through the McDonald's drive-thru (they seriously need to consider offering a 50 piece chicken nugget box and bucket o' fries), emergency runs to Target for forgotten props and set-dressing and sleepless nights spent at the CDC turning over the sets for each new production.  But it's just as well, since a Pineda production without loads of drama off-stage would likely signal the end of days.