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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inappropriate aquarium T-shirts: