Food, Fun & "Fancy Free" - Memorial Day Weekend Staycation

Staycation: Day 1 (Friday, 5/24)

What better way to inaugurate the official beginning of summer than with a Brazilian buffet and Audra McDonald (not together, of course - though the thought of it does get me all hot and bothered - not sure my heart could take the fanboy excitement combined with the cholesterol).  Trish has raved about Villa Brazil for months since her friend, Mara, introduced her to it's carnivorous pleasures.

The restaurant is in our Astoria nabe, but torrential rains (and my laziness) combined with unseasonably cool temperatures forced us to drive the 15 blocks rather than walk.  Mara enthusiastically agreed to join us even though she had just supped with Trish the day before.  Like us, she never passes up an opportunity to stuff her face with grilled meat.

We dropped our umbrellas in the foyer and faster than you can rip the tape off a Brazilian bikini wax, Mara had dragged me to the back of the restaurant where a buffet of South American delights awaited my watering mouth.  I have no idea what anything was (nothing is labeled), but it was all delicioso.  Especially the churrascaria-style meats (pictured above) that the grillman cuts and piles on your plate to order.  I can feel my arteries hardening at the sheer memory of those scrumptious, bloody cuts of sirloin, skirt and rib.

We followed up our animal flesh bacchanal with a trip to, where else, the Entenmann's Bakery Outlet.  It's only two blocks from the restaurant, so we trudged through the wind and rain for $1 pound cakes and english muffin packs.

Trish and I ended our evening in a post-feast haze, watching The Goddess, Audra McDonald, on Live from Lincoln Center.  We were privileged to be in the audience during the live taping, but I wanted to re-live that night from the comfort of my couch and with the added luxury of close-ups.

The gorgeous lobby of the Koch Theatre

Staycation: Day 2 (Saturday, 5/25)

With dreams of Audra wafting through my brain, I slept in until almost noon.  But once up, there was no time for more lounging.  I'd already wasted half of staycation day 2 in my jammies.  With just enough time for the three "sh"'s (shit, shower and shave), Trish and I were off to Lincoln Center for New York City Ballet's "Tribute to Broadway."

Today's matinee program included ballets based on or taken from classic Broadway shows.  First up - "Fancy Free," the Jerome Robbins ballet that inspired Leonard Bernstein to write On The Town.  Gotta' love a man in a tight white uniform, right?  And since Fleet Week was canceled this year, today's show was my only opportunity to openly ogle sailors in NYC this spring.

Second on the program was Christopher Wheeldon's "Carousel" (not to be confused with Agnes de Mille's "Dream Ballet" created for the original Broadway production).  The Wheeldon ballet is a loose interpretation of the musical's Billy/Julie relationship employing excerpts (including the thrilling "Carousel Waltz") from the iconic Rodgers & Hammerstein score.  This piece was new to me, and I appreciated the intricate pattern work and liberal use of - for lack of a better term - the "peel-off" effect.  I also made a mental note of how Wheeldon created a human carousel with his dancers and a few poles.  I'll definitely be stealing this moment...er, I mean recreating the moment "in homage"...the next time I'm called to choreograph the show.

Intermish photo shoot - aren't we lovely?  That's rhetorical.

Trish and I took advantage of the extended intermission to stretch and do some minor back re-alignment.  Our cheapo fourth ring seats, though front row, were way off to one side so we had to sit in an abnormally twisted position in order to see the stage without resorting to some serious Cirque du Soleil neck contorsion.

Act 2 was comprised entirely of Robbins' "West Side Story Suite."  It's sort of the Cliffs Notes version of West Side Story.  I'd never seen a performance of the suite, so I didn't realize the scenes (except "Something's Coming") were literally exerpted from the original staging - including the singing.

I know there are some kick-ass dancer/singers out there, but yikes.  The singing in "America" was barely at the level of a competent high school production.  To be fair, it is a ballet company, but I just couldn't get past Anita's thin, underpowered vocals.  Chita and Rita have forever spoiled me.  Thankfully, a professional singer (on mic stage right) sung the role of Tony during "Something's Coming."

Staring at emaciated dancers for two hours can really work up the appetite.  So after the final curtain call Trish and I headed to Aldea, a Michelin-starred, Iberian restaurant in Union Square.  Normally, this type of fancy-shmancy place is out of my price range.  But the advantage of a staycation is not having to shell out for flights or hotel rooms.  Instead, I was able to divert the extra cash to fund my favorite pastime - gorging until I throw up!

Aldea's small, sleekly furnished dining room has a clear view of the open kitchen in back. The modern design afforded us an unobstructed view of hunky celebrity chef, George Mendes. Talk about wetting - I mean whetting - your, um, appetite.  Yowza.

We decided to forgo restraint in favor of the gluttonous 9 (!) course chef's tasting menu.  You can check out all the gory details to the left (I have no idea what that brown smudge is, but I'd venture to guess it's probably my drool).  Jealous yet?  If not, let me list the "Petiscos" for you:

- Mojito sandwich with coconut water (like a little lemon-mint macaron)
- Potato chip w/ goat cheese and beet purée
- Raw oyster on half shell
- Asparagus soup w/ fresh peas (my favorite)
- Bacalao croquet
- Beet-soaked mini hard-boiled egg

...and the "Pre Dessert":
- Vanilla curd cream with mango granita and mint sorbet topped with vanilla wafer balls

...and yet a tenth, post-dessert bonus "Petit Four" course:
- Almond financier
- Lychee strawberry gelee pâtes de fruits
- Ginger clusters

Is it any wonder the meal took over two and a half hours to serve?

I was so mesmerized by the volume and variety of dishes and the gorgeous plating that I forgot to take pictures.  I finally regained my composure by the dessert course, at least enough to make Trish take this aerial shot (left) of the dessert plate.  Beautiful AND tasty - just like me.

In an effort to burn off a few calories, after dinner we decided to walk uptown to the next subway stop instead of jumping on at Union Square.  As we reached 23rd street we noticed some brightly colored tents and strung carnival lights.  With no other plans for the evening, we decided to investigate.  Nearing the site, the hypnotic smell of beer and fried food wafted passed us and we knew we were heading into dangerous territory - an outdoor food festival.

Just past Eataly, on a tiny triangle of asphalt just west of Madison Square Park, the festive tents of Madison Square Eats were buzzing with a mix of Flatiron yuppies and excited tourists.  I stood wide-eyed, mesmerized by the stands of artisanal street foods.  Though still obscenely full from our 9 course dinner, I was tempted to sneak down a side alley, purge and re-fill.  Instead, Trish and made a plan to return later in the week for dinner.

Not wanting to leave the festival empty handed, we stopped by Macaron Parlour's stand for a sample pack featuring some of their more unusual flavors (including salted caramel, smore and - wait for it - candied bacon with maple cream cheese frosting and - wait for it again - cheetos infused white chocolate ganache!).  We managed to make it all the way home to Astoria before ripping the box open and devouring all 12 of the the colorful, chewy bundles of cream-filled goodness.

Memorial Day Staycation continues...

Far From Heaven - A Valiant Attempt

Far From Heaven
Playwright's Horizons
Tuesday, May 14, 7pm

I desperately wanted to love this show given the merits of the artistic team, the subject matter and the fantastic cast (dreamy Steven Pasquale and the always lovely Kelli O’Hara).  But by the closing scene, I found myself surprisingly unmoved.  And this from a man who literally cries at the end of an Undercover Boss episode.

Trust me, I was open and ready for the moment I’d be moved to tears for Cathy, the show’s heroine (played sensitively by O’Hara).  But it never came. 

(MAJOR spoilers ahead)

Let me break down Cathy's shitty life for you (I almost cried just typing it):

• Her sexy, closeted husband won’t put out.
• She walks in on sexy husband with his tongue in another guys mouth.
• She falls in love with Raymond, a black man (in suburban 1950s Connecticut, no less), whose daughter gets attacked by white thugs.
• Raymond breaks it off and moves to Baltimore.
• She's abandoned by her husband for some hot young twink he meets on their vacation and is left alone to raise two young children.

Seems like a pretty emotionally devastating evening, right?  Sadly, I was left admiring the artistic effort and the talent on stage, but not so much the final product.

The first act was most troublesome for me. The opening number sets the tone well, but the rest of the act seems like a string of plot points relayed through a pleasant, if perfunctory, score.  Perhaps the writers are trying too hard to mirror the repressed emotional state of the characters through the writing.  The approach sounds good in theory, but in practice comes off like an extended recitative interspersed with several notable musical motifs that don't get fully developed. 

The second act is more successful.  There is a romantic sweep, almost lushness, to the score that I found missing in the first act.  Unfortunately, there are also many missed opportunities, moments – like the train station scene (seriously, where’s the big duet about lost love/opportunity?) – that pass without comment yet to me, scream out to be sung.  And don’t get me started on the embarrassingly bad blocking for the stoning scene.  Talk about not giving an audience credit for having an imagination.  

Yes, the setting is an idealized 1950s suburbia where everyone has the restrained veneer of Stepford perfection.  But this is also a musical, dammit!  A musical about passion, forbidden romance and lost inhibitions - massive emotions I didn't hear expressed in the score.  

The writers obviously respect the source material, but perhaps to the detriment of their adaptation.  There are some satisfying moments (especially between Cathy and Raymond, her black gardener) in both acts.  But for the most part, what's on stage is a faithful but dispassionate musicalized version of the movie. 

The ubiquitous Kelli O’Hara is the ingénue du jour, and rightly so.  She’s gorgeous, sings beautifully and is always so natural and un-mannered in her acting.  She’s perfect for the role of a dutiful 1950s housewife.  Steven Pasquale is equally perfect, handsome with a strong, lovely tenor.  Though for some reason the writers have chosen to set most of his character's music in Pasquale's less powerful lower range.

But the real travesty on the Playwrights Horizons' stage is the hulking, hideous scoffold set.  It looks like scavanged remnants from the Rent bus-and-truck.

On a side note, the fabulous Christine Ebersole (Tony winner for Korie & Frankel's Grey Gardens) sat right in front of me.  During intermish she chatted with composer Scott Frankel about recent productions of Grey Gardens in Brazil.  

Orphans and Trip To Bountiful

It’s been a while, but here are some thoughts on plays I’ve seen recently.

Orphans

Schoenfeld Theatre

Tuesday, April 9, 7pm

it’s hard to take Alec Baldwin seriously in a drama when he’s delivery his lines a la Jack Donaghy (which he plays brilliantly on 30 Rock). 

Maybe he’s inhabited the Donaghy character for so long that he’s adopted that same dry, self-important tone in real life.  Who knows?  But what should be a taut, psychological thriller loses its edge with unintentionally funny line readings from Baldwin that kill any sense of tension.

Tom Sturridge gets the showier role of the emotionally-stunted, seemingly simple-minded younger brother, Phillip, to Ben Foster’s short-tempered but well-meaning older brother, Treat.  Their interaction and weirdly co-dependent relationship is intriguing and hints at so many darker themes of abuse and abandonment.  Unfortunately, once Baldwin enters, the piece just sort of deflates.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like the play suddenly turns into a Neil Simon comedy.  But there’s an underlying, ominous quality that sort of dissipated as the show progressed.  In fairness, I’d place a large portion of the blame on the director for not coaxing the right style out of Baldwin.  Too bad, since we're not likely to get another revival anytime soon.

During my silent intermission brainstorming session (Trish wasn’t with me and the friendly father and son from Calgary seated next to me were enjoying the show too much for me to rip it to shreds in front of them) I came up with some more interesting casting choices for Baldwin's role:  Liam Neeson, Liev Schreiber, Tony Goldwyn, Dustin Hoffman, Ed Harris, Russell Crowe, Denzel Washington, Sean Penn, Mark Ruffalo, Stanley Tucci, Michael Shannon...to name a few.  These guys all possess a dark quality and twisted sense of humor that Baldwin lacks.  I guess I just don't find Baldwin "dangerous."

On a side note, I can’t imagine Shia LeBeouf coming off well in the role of Treat, since Treat needs to have an intrinsic charm and likeability to counteract his abrasive character.  Given LeBeouf is about as charming as a bucket of dirt, I’d say they producers were lucky he left the production.

The Trip To Bountiful

Stephen Sondheim Theatre

Friday, April 5, 8pm

Talk about star wattage – Vanessa Williams, Tom Wopat, Cuba Gooding, Condola Rashad AND Cicely Tyson.  I imagine there was probably a lot of ego bumping during rehearsals.  But if so, it didn’t manifest itself on stage.  And anyway, I’m sure they were all bowing down in deference to Ms. Tyson.

Even with the A-List cast, the only reason to check out this revival is the performance of the legendary Ms. Tyson in the lead role of Carrie Watts, an elderly woman hoping to escape a stifling city life in Houston to return to her rural hometown.   To say she commands the stage would be an understatement.  She’s mesmerizing even when silently rocking on a chair and looking out a window.  And is it humanly possible the woman is 88 years old?  I hope I retain the same energy and mental capacity when I’m the same age (in 2058!).

The play itself can feel slow and a bit talky and in the wrong hands can be a real snoozer.  Luckily, director Michael Wilson has kept the dramatic pauses to a minimum and the pace brisk without feeling rushed.

As for the supporting cast, Gooding (as Carrie’s son, Ludie) and Williams (as Ludie’s self-centered wife, Jessie Mae) are a good match.  Though Gooding was a tad on the whiny side, he was still likeable in his Broadway debut.  The role of strong-willed Jessie Mae, on the other hand, seems tailored made for Williams and her particular brand of powerful sexiness.  It certainly doesn't hurt that Williams looks dazzlingly beautiful in the period costumes. 

Speaking of costumes, one upside to non-traditionally casting the main characters as a black family is that you can get away with some more colorful choices for the period clothing given their skin tones.  It's nice not to see the usual dour muddy hues usually associated with plays set in this period.

My favorite moment of this revival came during the bus station scene.  Tyson’s character is celebrating her escape from the city with an impromptu rendition of “Blessed Assurance.”  By about the third line, the audience had spontaneously joined her, singing out full-voiced like we were at a Sunday revival.  It's a moment that could only happen in the context of live theatre and reminds me why iPads and wide screen TV's will never replace the spontaneity of a live performance.

Save some time on the telecast and just hand Ms. Tyson her Tony already.

For the Love of Audra! Audra McDonald at Avery Fisher

This guy

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

This guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Last 5 Years and Dogfight redux

The Last 5 Years
Second Stage
Saturday, May 4, 2pm

I’ve never seen a staged production of the show, so it was interesting to finally see the material on its feet.   And with composer Jason Robert Brown directing, I guess there’s also really no debate regarding the author’s intent.  I mean, he created the thing, so how can you argue that he’s “wrong,” right?

I’ve always admired the score but have wondered if the structure - simultaneous reverse timelines - would work onstage or if it was really just a gimmick, an intellectual experiment meant to impress a grad school theatre professor.  But I found myself fully engaged and at times, moved by this study of a relationship that blossoms unexpectedly, yet coasts to a sad, inevitable end.

Adam Kantor (Jamie) and Betsy Wolfe (Cathy) are giving heartfelt and vocally impressive performances, especially Wolfe.  An actor playing Cathy is at a distinct disadvantage given that her storyline begins as the relationship is already falling apart.  She begins the show as a shrill, sniveling mess, while Jamie starts the show off as a charming, lovestruck young man. 

Wolfe finds laughs in unlikely places, yet never to the detriment of the material.  Her high belt and mix is extraordinarily clean with no trace of break between belt and head.  For me the audition scenes, painfully familiar to any NYC actor, were a particular highlight.   And judging by the audience’s response, many of us were in attendance. 

I don’t mean to undermine Kantor’s contribution to the show, but let’s face it, Brown doesn’t hide the fact that the show is autobiographical.  Is there really any wonder why Jamie comes off as the sympathetic one of the pair?  I’ll even admit to some near-tears at the end of the “Schmuel Song.”

Now we shall wait for the movie.

Another Second Stage production, Dogfight, just released its original cast album.  I have to admit, I’ve been playing the song “Pretty Funny” on repeat for the last couple of days.  Heartbreaking.  I nearly cried on the subway on the way to work, but pretended to have an extreme allergy attack.

Jekyll & Hyde (sigh)

Jekyll & Hyde
Marriott Marquis Theatre
Sunday, May 5, 2pm

Wow, just wow.  This Broadway revival is the (hopefully) last stop after a 25-week national tour.  I mean, I’m all for second chances, but the current revival is really just a train wreck.  I can’t believe any producer thought this was Broadway ready/caliber.  And besides, 12 years seems a bit soon for a show that is generally not considered a “classic” by most (all?) musical theatre experts.
 
The show has been re-worked, notably given new rock arrangements that I assume were implemented to give the score an “edgier” sound.  I’ll admit this score has always been a secret guilty pleasure, especially with Colm Wilkinson and Linda Eder’s vibrant vocals on the original concept album.  But the new synth-heavy orchestrations reduce the already power ballad-heavy score into a cheesy tribute to 80s hair bands. 

Unfortunately, no amount of electric guitar riffs or excessive American Idoli-esque vocalizing can hide the scores shortcomings – notably the lack of lyrical specificity and the generally unimaginative melodic/harmonic structures – though there’s no denying Wildhorn has a gift for writing memorable musical hooks.

Constantine Maroulis employs his signature curly mane to excess and his pouty trademark “blue steel” is intact for all the fans.  But vocally?  Hmmm.  Yes, it’s a strong voice with an impressive range, but either the musical director has no balls or Maroulis just doesn’t give a rats ass about vocal finesse or about serving the lyric.  His back-phrasing is so extreme that at times it sounds like a recording where the technician pressed the “start” button on the vocal and orchestral tracks a measure (or more) apart.  It’s self-indulgent and screams - literally - “look at ME” at the expense of the score.


And his “accent” – oy vey!  Does Maroulis have something against ending sentences with a long “e” vowel?  i.e. “listen to meh,” “…to beh or not to beh” – OK, that last quote is not from Jekyll & Hyde, but you get the idea.

Deborah Cox fairs much better.  She’s not a natural actress and at times seems to be giving a somewhat mechanical, though committed, performance.  But she’s gorgeous (those calf muscles are dazzling) and has star presence and charisma to spare.  She at least gets an “A” for effort. 

At yesterday’s matinee Cox was suffering from some obvious vocal fatigue, but I give her props for somehow managing to squeeze out a thrilling last note and verse on “A New Life.”  And in a British accent cage match, her cockney would beat the living crap out of Maroulis’ high Brit. 

Trish hated the physical production, though it didn’t bother me.  Compared to the scaffolding of the originally production, this seemed positively lush.  At times the projections did seem like overkill.  Come on, producers, give the audience a little credit for having some kind of imagination.  And I actually liked the steampunk-inspired costume designs.

If you didn’t get a chance to catch this production, too bad.  It’s closing seven weeks early due to low ticket sales. 

Welcome to Minnesota!

Scenic Minnesota from our rental car window.

With the last performance of Into the Woods now just a painful memory and rehearsals for The Music Man crushing my already empty soul, the Pinedas took a weekend jaunt to that vacation wonderland known as Minnesota to celebrate the nuptials of cousin Marion to her Midwestern beau, John.  Nothing against our red state brethren, but stepping out into that flat, barren countryside wasn't exactly the picker-upper I was looking for given my already mentally (and physically) weakened state.  I'm sure it's a green and bountiful land of plenty in the summer months, but in late April the lifeless fields could double for the Plains of Mars.

With an almost 2-hour flight delay, I arrived at MSP cranky and nauseous from the "Moroccan" chicken dinner (a soggy chicken breast over a flavorless bed of couscous) served in first class.  That's right, bitches, since I anticipated a horrible work day and an even more horrible (horribler?) travel day, I shelled out the extra hundred bucks to sit with the big wigs up front. Sadly, my $100 dinner left me reaching for the barf bag and a roll of tums.  Real silverware cannot mask the taste of a nasty meal.

Juan, Val and Trish picked me up at the airport and we immediately headed to the nearest McDonald's in order to obliterate the memory of my in-flight meal.  Nothing like cheeseburgers and chicken nuggets at midnight when you're stuck at a budget hotel off the interstate.

The wedding was fine.  It was basically just a lot of crying and the usual dubious fashion choices.  Juan, Val, Trish and I sang those perennial hits, Ave Maria and Panis Angelicus (yawn).  But the highlight of the morning was the wedding venue, The Cathedral of Saint Paul.  It rivals anything you'll see in the European capitals of the world.  It was truly a pleasure to sing sans microphone under that gorgeous acoustic dome.

The bride looked radiant in part thanks to Trish, who only hours earlier was applying Marion's make-up while frantically attaching hairpieces to the bride's panicked head.

Incidentally, we had to email our performance resumés weeks in advance to the musical director for his approval to sing at the ceremony.  I know, pretty ballsy, huh?  I can understand wanting to maintain some quality control, but if I'm shelling out two grand to rent the place out for an hour, I should have the option of letting my tone deaf Aunt Bertha cross that line off her bucket list if I so desire.

The awe-inspiring dome inside the Cathedral of Saint Paul.

I'm sorry, but only a gay can carry off orange pants and a pink and purple-striped bow-tie.  I sport my spiffy duds with my aunt Clodelsa (Tita Girlie) at the reception held at the scenic Schaar's Bluff Gathering Center.

Close up of Trish and a new relative behind us.

The reception was an extended affair with the wedding party showing up nearly two hours late due to an incompetent photographer.  It's 2013, dude.  Any loser with a digital camera can quickly snap pictures and by sheer luck, end up with a portfolio of usable shots.  This lumbering dolt literally took 30 seconds between each shot and an eternity setting up between each pose.  The extent of his direction was, "Everyone turn in and squeeze close together."  He didn't even bother to get up from his chair, so all the group family shots are from an oh-so-unflattering upward angle.  And who shoots with their subjects facing into direct sunlight?  We're already slanty-eyed Asians.  We don't need the extra squinting from the glaring Minnesota sun.  OK, rant over.

Of course, the situation would probably have been hilarious had we all been drunk.  But there was no alcohol at the reception so we had to deal with the photographer's shenanigans stone cold sober.  Oh well, at least there was a beautiful view and lots of family to commiserate with.

Val's sad look when she discovered no alcohol would be served at the reception.

After waiting two hours, cousin Tiffany's daughter (and flower girl), Penny, could no longer contain her hunger and raided the buffet early.  She sneaks behind a table, hoping to hide her ill-gotten goods from the menacing caterers.

The blushing bride finally arrived flanked by Cali friends, Lea and Cathy.

Marion and John cutting the cake.

The thought of going the rest of the weekend without alcoholic lubrication left Val, Juan, Trish and I in a panic.  So the four of us volunteered to stop by the liquor store to stock up for the after party.  With a case of beer, a couple bottles of wine and five bottles of champagne in hand, we headed to the "haunted house" for more food and a champagne toast.

Before the party, Juan, Val Trish and I had to make our pilgrimage to one of the Midwest's most revered destinations, Culver's.  For those of you who have not experienced the joys of a butter burger and frozen custard, you are missing out on a truly spiritual culinary experience.

The "haunted house" above bears a striking resemblance to Norman Bates creepy abode in Psycho.  Marion and her family rented the house for the weekend instead of staying at a hotel.  Though the exterior was slightly off-putting (Tita Girlie refused to step foot in the house until we confirmed the lack of dessicated corpses), the inside was surprisingly warm and comfortable - a perfect location to drink and relax after a long day of smiling and feigning interest in idle chitchat.

Finally, after a few drinks, Val let's loose with Tiffany's other daughter, Lily.  There's apparently an old chair somewhere in the house that's now missing its upholstering.

The groom's sister, Jane, shows the rest of us how they throw down in Minnesota.

With the wedding day festivities drawing to a close, we hit the sack early to rest up for the post-wedding brunch the next morning.

For our last day in Minnesota, we got up early to enjoy our last complimentary pre-brunch "snack" at the hotel's breakfast buffet (processed chicken cutlets with sausage gravy - I kid you not).  Soon after, we packed up the car and headed back to the haunted house for a final congratulatory hug for the newlyweds.  Still queasy from my earlier "snack," I still managed to snarf down an extra large piece of the groom's cake.  I never turn down free baked goods.

When traveling to Minneapolis, it's heresy to leave without paying homage to America's number one past time - shopping!  So even though I only had a couple of hours to make my flight, I bid good-bye to our relatives and new family and hightailed it to Mall of America, the USA's largest indoor shopping mall.

520 stores, 50 restaurants, an indoor amusement park and water park and an aquarium.  Yes, an aquarium in the middle of land-locked Minnesota.  God bless America.

Juan, Val and Tita Maxine (right - who also joined us on our little shopping excursion) admire the indoor roller coaster in Nickelodeon Universe.  Sadly, the park only sells days passes so we just settled for watching the screaming teens whiz by us.  With only an hour of shopping time, I was still able to do a couple hundred bucks worth of damage to my debit card.  Au revoir, Minneapolis!

MORE PICTURES HERE

Teotihuacan Pyramids and our sore glutes...

Standing atop the Pyramid of the Moon w/ Pyramid of the sun behind

(Sorry for the delayed posting on this, but it's been a rough couple weeks.  If you want to start from the beginning of our trip, click here)

Even though we were exhausted from only a few days of frantic sightseeing, Trish and I managed to get our lazy asses down to the lobby in time to meet our private guide, Carlos San Roman.  He suggested the 7:30am meeting time so we could beat the Sunday crowds to the pyramids at Teotihuacan.

Carlos proved to be an excellent, and surprisingly tall (6'3"!), guide.  Though perhaps a bit dry in his delivery, he had a seemingly unlimited knowledge of pre-historic Mexico.  Though I'll admit, during the hour-long car ride I'd drift in and out of listening during his lengthy and detailed explanation of ancient Mexican history.  Don't judge.  You try staying alert during a 7:30am lecture on pre-historic peoples.  And besides, I was too mesmerized by the scenery passing by - the endless northern suburb of Ecatepec, where the homes are literally built into the hills, stacked on top of each other.

Oh, and did I mention we just barely missed dying in a high speed car chase on the highway?  It doesn't do much for the nerves hearing a siren and then turning around just in time to see a car spin across the lane and smash into the middle barrier directly behind you at 70 mph.  This must be business-as-usual in Mexico City, since Carlos didn't blink an eye.  He just calmly pulled to the shoulder at the next toll booth, rolled down his window to inform a policeman and then continued on with no further mention of the incident the rest of the day.

I'm glad we took Carlos' advice and arrived early.  The site was nearly empty so we got to explore the southern end of the Avenue of the Dead virtually tourist-free.  In the distance is the Pyramid of the Moon.

Here I go, trudging up one of the many shorter mounds surrounding the public square (Ciudadela).  Those damn pre Mesoamericans sure had long legs (or extremely tight glutes) if those high steps are an accurate indication.

After trudging the mile-long walk up the Avenue of the Dead (Carlos somehow failed to mention he could drive us to the next destination), we reached the larger pyramid, the Pyramid of the Sun.  See that little speck dead center in the white cardigan?  That's me about two thirds of the way from the top.

After my climb, we decided to take a breather and head to the Teotihuacan Museum.

One of the large murals hanging on the front facade of the museum depicting Mexico's history and mythology.

The museum was the perfect place to take advantage of Carlos' encyclopedic knowledge.  Instead of reading the placards, we let Carlos fill us in on the various artifacts - the ultimate lazy tourist move.  Above are ceremonial braziers.  I thought they were pretty so I made Trish take a picture.

These unfortunate fellows were human sacrifices to the Gods.  They were buried together in a mass grave.

Here's the view from the Pyramid of the Moon looking south to the Pyramid of the Sun (far right).  With Mexico City's high elevation and those crazy-steep stairs, I was sweating like a meth'd up crack whore in July by the time I reached the pyramid's first platform.  Because of the deterioration on the pyramid, tourists aren't allowed any higher.

Trish and I strike a pose in front of the Pyramid of the Sun.  As you can see, there are literally no railings on the Pyramid and according to Carlos, nobody's ever fallen.  I find it hard to believe some frustrated mom's never "accidentally" pushed her screaming eight-year-old off the side.

Trish decided to take a breather on her way to the top, but decided that if she wanted to waste her day on the stairmaster, she'd have stayed at the hotel.  So after this picture was taken, she made her way back down to solid ground.

Pretty steep, huh?  See tiny Carlos and Trish (hint: next to the arrow)?  Believe it or not, there were, like, 90-year-old grannies trudging to the top.  Again, no one's ever fallen?  Sounds a bit suspect to me.

Here's my shot for the GAP Mexico City catalog.

Fun with the iPhone!  Trish takes this panoramic shot of the square in front of the Pyramid of the Moon.  Carlos and I are mesmerized by something in the distance.

Here's the view looking south down the Avenue of the Dead from the Pyramid of the Moon.  I can't believe we actually walked that entire length when we could've driven.  Oh, Carlos.

Trish sports her new, sassy native look.  And before you report us to the NAACP, the Mexican clerk dressed her up like this and insisted we take a picture.  Way to perpetuate those stereotypes, Mexico!

Climbing pyramids sure does work up the appetite.  So we left the tourist crowds behind and settled in for an al fresco lunch at a nearby restaurant.  This tasty carnivore's delight was the perfect end to a strenuous morning of stair-climbing (cheap, too - about 100 pesos ($9)!).  Incidentally, a busload of Scandinavian tourists were seated around us and several of them ordered... wait for it... hamburgers!  4000 miles from home and you order a hamburger?

After a couple of power naps (both in the car ride back from Teotihuacan and at the hotel), Trish and I decided for one last "hoorah" in old Mexico City.  Sunday is apparently everyone's day off because the city was bustling with people.  It was also the first time we'd seen people taking pictures.  Emboldened, we decided it was OK to whip out our phones for a couple of touristy shots.  Above is the fancy Palacio de Bellas Artes (Palace of Fine Arts).

With our weekend jaunt to Mexico City coming to an exhausting end, we wearily trudged back to the hotel, ordered room service and fell asleep to re-runs of CSI: Miami in subtitled Spanish.

More pictures here.

Our final day of travel hell...

Rehearsal Hell and Broccoli Pizza

...and thus it begins.  My two month descent into show hell kicked off with this weekend's tech and opening of Into the Woods (pit keyboardist) at the Union County Academy for Performing Arts.  In two weeks, I will be deep into tech and opening weekend of The Music Man (appearing as "Marcellus") at CDC Theatre.  Once that closes, I have two weeks before tech and opening of Pineda Lyric's The Magic Flute (Val's bitch/pit keyboardist).  Throw in a weekend wedding in Minneapolis, my 9-to-5, assorted rehearsals and a daily soul-crushing double commute (Queens to NYC to Jersey and back to Queens) and you can all but confirm the reservations for my extended stay at the Crazy Town Hilton in June (though I'll only have a few weeks recovery time before the Summer Conservatory begins).

Of course, no Pineda production would be complete without a little opening night drama.  For Into the Woods, that would be our Witch losing her voice halfway through the first performance.  The lilting melody of "Children Will Listen" somehow loses it's poignancy when the actor is forced to speak the lyrics in a raspy whisper.  Of course, you can't blame the student.  Sh*t happens.

Thankfully, most of the lead roles were double cast (a nightmare for rehearsal purposes, but a welcome relief in just such an emergency).  So we gave Witch #2 a scant three-hour notice that she'd be making her debut a week earlier than scheduled.  Her shocked look was priceless.  Talk about some bulging cartoon eyes.

Given that teenagers possess a resiliency that adults seem to lose once they hit the legal drinking age, the evening show went off without any major glitches.  Brava, Witch #2!  Sure, there were the usual skipped lines and jumped measures, but heck, it's Sondheim, so certain allowances need to be made.  Or as one of the young performers brazenly explained to me after I scolded him for ignoring the notated rhythms in the score, "I'm really more of an actor so I go with how I feel."  To which I replied, "If you're really that good an actor, you would be able to make it work as written."  Looks like someone ought to start brushing up on their cater waiter skills.

Hopefully we'll get through closing weekend without any major snafus.  Fingers crossed.

How lucky am I that my birthday falls smack dab in the middle of all this chaos?  Not very, says I.  A large chunk of my special day was spent sitting through a painfully slow Music Man rehearsal.  Insomniac?  Stop by the CDC theatre during a Sunday afternoon rehearsal.  I dare you to stay awake.

Three hours later, rubbing my glazed-over eyes and wiping the drool from my open mouth, I somehow managed to crawl out of the theatre and back into the blessed sunlight.  With most of my day already consumed by the rehearsal, I decided to just stay in Jersey for an impromptu birthday dinner with Juan, Val, Trish and family friend, Susan Cook. 

Unlike the the Pinedas, Susan has her finger on the social pulse of NJ.  She's like a Real Housewife, only sane and without fake lashes or hair extensions - so actually nothing at all like a Real Housewife.  Per her suggestion, we headed to Anthony's Coal Fired pizza in Edison for a sloppy night of pizza and drinks.

These tasty birthday morsels came courtesy of Susan.  And no, I did not share.

This comely drag queen was my birthday present from Trish (obviously on a very tight budget).  Turned out it was just Susan in her finest Newark crack ho drag.  That's not her real hair, in case you were wondering.

Trish enjoys her pizza while Val, bored with us all, checks email.  

I give Susan a "thank you" smooch for the fantastic restaurant recommendation.  Though it doesn't sound very appealing, the roasted broccoli pizza was the surprise hit of the evening.  Shocked carnivore, Val, admitted she preferred it to the (also delish) sausage pie.  And the chicken wings (fire-roasted and smothered in caramelized onions)?  Better than sex (unless it's sex with Gerard Butler).  Or better yet, sex with Gerard Butler followed by wings.  Or even better, sex with Gerard Butler smothered in caramelized onion-covered wings.  Mmmm.  Bring on the wet naps!

More smooching, but this time with a pink whale at Yapple Yogurt where we stopped for dessert.  Incidentally, the 16-year-old straight boy working the register was the only person all day to comment or acknowledge my bright pink "Birthday Princess" sash (scroll down for better view).  Weird, huh?  Even weirder,  he had the nerve to try and one-up me by bragging that he wore the same sash on his birthday except that he also had...  wait for it...  a tiara.  I was about ready to cut a bitch.

The siblings did good in the present department.  Here's my new Kindle Paperwhite, courtesy of Trish, and fancy new Kindle case, courtesy of Juan and Val.

Since you can never have too many cupcakes, Trish, courtesy of black Billy, presented me with more delightful treats from Billy's bakery - that would be Billy's Bakery in Chelsea.  Black Billy does not have a bakery.  Not that I know of.

Poor, sick black Billy (again, not to be confused with the Billy's Bakery Billy), after delivering my birthday treats through a fever-induced fog.  He's resting up for the arduous 2-block walk back to his apartment. 

And thus endeth year 42 of my life on earth.  Here's hoping the 43rd is filled with more friends and cupcakes.