Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Highway to Hell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, May 13, 2010

(Almost) no rehearsal this week OR Fausto has too much time on his hands because he's writing on that damn blog every single f*ckin' day!

So all I do is bitch and moan about how busy I am. Finally I get a couple of days off and I’m bored. I’m not saying I’m thankful that I had to trudge out to NJ for the brush-up rehearsal last night - and thanks to the MTA for making me miss my bus - but I guess I’m just the kind of personality that needs constant amusement, like a cat or a 3 year old.

Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty to do. My bathroom is disgusting and don’t even ask me how long it’s been since I’ve changed the sheets on my bed. But rehearsals, work and commuting have been a great excuse to put off other, probably more important tasks like cleaning up that lethal black mold city growing in the shower and getting rid of that three week old plastic bag of white and green fuzz in the fridge. And don’t even get me started on the DVR list. I guess I just have to wrap up in my snuggie, order a pizza and have a Fringe, Survivors (BBC series, not the reality show), and Glee marathon. Honestly, I enjoy Glee for the musical numbers (when are they going to have a Sondheim episode? And before you say it, I know, I know, nobody outside musical theatre cares about Sondheim, but a girl can dream), but quite frankly, it’s pretty badly written. I mean, every single character is a scheming two-sided bitch. Even Mr. Shuester isn’t that sympathetic a character. Oh well, maybe it needs some time to find it’s rhythm. I mean, those early episodes of Sex and the City were pretty inconsistent. Remember Carrie’s asides to the camera? Scary. And wait, what was the point of this paragraph? Oh yeah, I’m a procrastinator and use my “busy” life as an excuse to live in filth. Who needs a therapist?

The cast seemed pretty upbeat at today’s brush-up rehearsal. I was afraid people would show up all attitude-y since a brush-up was never included in the original rehearsal schedule. But hell, if you want to maintain “the best dancing that’s been seen on the CDC stage in years” you have to crack the whip, LOL! I don’t mean to make light of a wonderful review in this week’s Westfield Leader (and Ms. Dougherty, if by some weird reason you’ve found this blog, please stop reading) but technically, praising the dancing is a compliment to the dancers not the choreographer. She never actually says that the choreography is any good, although I think that’s what she means. Or does she? In a veiled way is she saying that the choreography sucks and that the poor talented dancers rise above it? Is she trying to sabatoge my career? Does Ms. Dougherty not think I would see through her charade? Mama, am I pretty? Ok, maybe I do need therapy.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Is that a tomato in your pocket or are you just glad to see me...

Like Frankie says, “Relax.” Well, sort of. After months of rehearsals (granted, only a couple of times a week), The Wedding Singer finally opened Friday night. Truth be told, I’m relieved to finally get the show up and running. I haven’t taken the lead - choreography and co-directing - in a big, dance-heavy show like this since Millie years ago and my old, rickety bones and fat ass weren’t exactly an asset in this particular instance.

With all the press, the color pic in this Sunday’s New York Times NJ section and a visit from local boy Matt Sklar (who happens to be the show’s composer!), I think we’re on our way to another big seller for the CDC. I smell a Tony - LOL. And yes, I will take a moment to pat myself on the back, since the last two critical and box office hits at the theatre have also been Pineda productions - last year’s High School Musical and Oklahoma! a couple years back.

The crowds have been wild and vocal (in a good way) and ticket sales are chugging along briskly. It’s nice to see the cast finally relax into their roles and find their timing with a live audience. For better or worse, the f-bomb doesn’t seem to offend much anymore and the sex seems almost quaint nowadays. The reaction that caught me off guard is the huge ovation that greets the first act gay marriage proposal (on both nights). It’s funny how topical that moment is now even though the show was written years before Prop 8 or any of the recent gay marriage debate. And already, several audience members have confided to me that their favorite number in the show is “Single.” Really? I mean, the men certainly sell the sh*t out of it and it’s a great number, but a show favorite? - unexpected. Just goes to show that audiences connect with characters and not difficult dance moves.

On the cast gossip front, I hear (since it spanned well past this old man’s bedtime) that the Saturday night cast party took a turn into college dorm territory with an interesting game of “Truth or Dare,” emphasis on the “Truth.” Hmmm, I might have to take a power nap before next week’s party so I can stay up with the kids and listen in.

And while we're on the subject of not sleeping, I'll soon head into opera territory with Val and the opera company's Young Artist's production of Elixir of Love in a week or so, playing keyboards and helping out with some set painting. From there, we figure out how to build (and store!) a freakin' trolley backstage for the Conservatory's summer production of Meet Me in St. Louis. Vacations are for pussies!

And for those of you in the know, my Big Boy and German Johnson are doing just fine despite the cold weather, thank you very much.

Friday, May 7, 2010

After tonight’s final dress of The Wedding Singer, I feel a bit more secure about tonight’s opening night performance. The invited audience of mainly senior citizens defied my expectations by embracing (or maybe just overlooking) the f-bombs and overt sexuality written into the script. Grandma and grandpa were even up shakin’ their groove thangs during the curtain call!

I’m not saying the run was perfect by any means, but no train wrecks. I’ll have my usual notes and last minute blocking changes. Honestly, it wouldn’t be a Pineda production without me changing the choreography for at least one number during the half hour call tonight.

What I’m most looking forward to about opening tonight? - not having to commute to NJ next Tuesday for rehearsal. My fingers are crossed for many broken legs tonight.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Wedding night jitters...

I can’t believe The Wedding Singer is finally opening tomorrow night after only three months of rehearsal. In case you didn’t get it, that’s sarcasm, folks. Granted, we only rehearse a couple of times a week, but it seemed like a lifetime.

This week was particularly trying as the usual personality flair ups and hidden egos emerged from formerly docile individuals under the stress of the dreaded TECH WEEK. I, myself, am guilty of losing it a couple of times over the past few days, mainly for messy choreography. Unfortunately, my “extremely angry” is other people’s “mildly irritated.” Which I guess is probably slightly confusing for the cast, since I rarely raise my voice unless I’m screaming out counts. The day after my “tantrum,” I had to explain to a couple of cast members that I was, in fact, very angry at a certain individual, even though it seemed like business as usual. Which probably means I’m going to snap one day and murder an entire cast for some trivial mistake - “I said kick on ‘two’ not ‘three.’ Die biyatches!” And curtain.

My other flip out this week was over costume changes. We had a few people complaining about the unreasonable amount of time they had for changes. I don’t know where these people have worked before, but to me, a “quick” costume change is under 20 seconds. Anything over that is basically a spa day. I’m especially unsympathetic when you complain after only trying the change once or twice without giving us the opportunity to work it out. Hello - that’s what tech week is for. It’s especially laughable knowing we had a 15 second full costume change in our last show at CDC. Seth has a fun section about quick changes in his Broadway 101 show - it’s also only 15 seconds and even has a wig change!



I think Trish (our costumer) has finally worked out all the kinks and everyone will get onstage fully clothed. Well, if they’re supposed to be, anyway. Tonight we do our first performance for an invited audience of mainly senior citizens. Scary, I know, considering the show is squarely in PG-13 territory with some questionable sexual content. But, hey, senior citizens deserve a little excitement in their lives as well, right? I feel some walk outs coming.

Monday, May 3, 2010

La Cage…ewww…foul…

Thursday, April 29, 8:00 PM performance

Personal hygiene is not optional if you want to be an active participant in the modern world. How is it that we can govern small countries from our cell phones, but can’t get everyone to use soap? The foul stench emanating from a fellow audience member seriously hampered my enjoyment of the current Broadway revival of La Cage. For most of the second act, I had my jacket pulled up to my nose as a makeshift gas mask. Obviously, I couldn’t quite give my full attention to the action on the stage.

That said, I still wasn’t totally overwhelmed by this British import. My biggest disappointment was the choreography. The production numbers lacked a sense of style and exoticism. I want my drag queens glamorous and fabulous, damn it, and the Cagelles seemed a bit rough and unsophisticated. I guess that might have been a directorial concept, but come on, this is La Cage, I want to see rhinestones, feathered headdresses and high kicks! Enough with these “pared down, gritty” re-thinking of the classics. Producers should just admit they’re cheap and get on with it. And while we’re talking about cheap, the orchestra (and I use the term loosely) sounded like a couple of kazoos and a washboard. Sad, just sad.

Frasier…er…Kelsey Grammer was impressive in his Broadway musical debut. He can carry a tune well enough and is convincing as the butch half of the central couple. The jury’s still out for me on Brit Douglas Hodge’s take on the flamboyant Albin. Although he had some hysterical line readings and has a wonderful gift for physical comedy, his singing voice is almost unbearable. A.J. Shively is a boring Jean-Michel who doesn’t sing or act especially well. His love interest, Anne, was saddled with an ugly Donna Pescow wig a la “Angie.” I kept waiting to see Maureen McGovern’s head poke out past the proscenium and belt out “Let the time flow, let the love grow…” (anyone…anyone? Am I that old?).



I loved Robin DeJesus in In The Heights, but the set’s covered with his bite marks. He hijacks “Anne in My Arms,” upstaging Shively at every turn. Although I’ll bet this blocking is intentional, given Shively lack of voice and charisma. Hopefully, I just saw him on an off night.

Still, the revival had its moments and the chemistry between Grammer and Hodge is always believable. I only wish the production around them reflected the same glamour and finesse. Please, no more Broadway-on-the-cheap.


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"I'd rather be nine people's favorite thing thana hundred people's ninth favorite thing."

Jeff Bowen, Lyrics "[Title of Show]"