Smorgasburg virgins

For Trish's Last Supper (or in this case, Last Brunch) before getting Snatched, we decided to pop our Smorgasburg cherries and meet the Westfield, NJ contingent in über hip Williamsburg for a bacchanalian day of excess. Here's how the day progressed in pictures!

After a fairly painless subway ride, including a transfer to the dreaded L train, Trish and I emerged in NYC's hippest borough, Brooklyn. We strolled toward the waterfront, throwing death stares at the cute brownstones and chic apartment buildings reserved for goatee sporting, skinny-jean wearing, gluten-free, pretty people.

We arrived about 20 minutes before 11am - just enough time to cruise the vendors (many still setting up) and plan the day's caloric intake. The Guerrero-Cook crews were still stuck in cars somewhere in NY traffic, so we grabbed a bacon pretzel from the bitchy gal manning the Bronx Baking Co.'s tent and started our first round of munching. Since the pretzel was so delicious, we decided not to let that bitch's attitude dampen our enthusiasm or appetite.

Grilled maple bacon stick anyone? We made it about halfway around the ring of food tents before giving in to a gooey, sweet slab of pork belly from Landhaus. 

You can never have too much pork belly, right? (Someone needs to cross-stitch that on a pillow) Next stop, Bite Size Kitchen for crispy pork belly and braised duck leg buns. From behind, we overheard two pretentious, twenty-something gals straight out of Girls, snootily turn their noses up at these buns because, "Oh, we make those at home." From the look of their manicured hands and expensive-though-made-to-look-vintage clothing, there is no way those girls have made homemade anything, ever.

Having completed our initial exploratory loop, it was time to cleanse our palates with dessert. We ended up sharing a fluffy, yeast-raised, dulce de leche and almond doughnut from Dough. These little diabetes bombs give Doughnut Plant a run for their money. Heresy, I know.

An hour later and the Jersey crew still hadn't arrived.  So we grabbed a fried chicken and bacon biscuit (somewhat disappointing following all our decadent pork belly treats) and relaxed at a picnic table overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Up until now, we had been taunting our car-bound friends by texting them these pictures as we cruelly described each scrumptious bite.

I'm usually not one to shy away from excessive bitchiness, but even I started to feel guilty as the time passed and our companions continued to sit in food-free torment on the highway. So after this picture, we decided on a food porn moratorium until after their arrival.

Just passed our table, Trish spied a long line forming by one tent. Without even checking out the offerings, we got in line. Whatever is under that blue tent better be worth the wait or this bitch may just cut you.

With the line barely moving, Trish went on reconnaissance to make sure we weren't wasting our time. Ramen burgers! Score. But it was now close to noon and there was a noticeable increase in foot traffic. We decided to split up. Trish made a beeline for Might Quinn's where another long line was forming. She hooked us up with some pork BBQ and brisket sandwiches.

After about 20 minutes, I finally made it to the front of the line and purchased my $9 (!!) burger. Sadly, the product didn't live up to the hype. I mean, it's a burger wedged between two slabs of greasy ramen noodles. Didn't taste bad per se, but really nothing special. We ended up taking a few bites and tossing the rest. No use wasting precious stomach space.

The Philippines is representin' in Brooklyn. Though I'm sure they are delicious, we didn't try their lumpia because we were suspicious of the pretty plating and garnishing. We're used to seeing those little critters piled up haphazardly in a foil tray, ghetto style.

The Guerreros, Cooks and Nadeaus finally arrived and we spent the rest of the afternoon taking turns guarding our picnic table and hording food.

The End

AUDITION HELL PART 2: Do you hear the people sing...

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Audition Hell: A recollection of my very worst audition experiences. You're welcome! 

Remember way back in 1996 when there was that big uproar at Equity because Les Mis was going to fire most of the existing Broadway company? The production team thought the cast of the already 9-year-old show was suffering from long-run-itis and they wanted to inject the company with some fresh blood (not to mention that many of the actors cast in their 30s were now in their 40s and still playing students).

Like every other singer/actor within a 1000 mile radius of NYC, I signed up for the ECC. I showed up and waited all day to get my 30 seconds of face time with who I assumed was some lowly intern made to sit through a day of Les Miz auditions as part of some sick casting agent hazing ritual. But lo and behold, a few days later I received a callback for that upcoming weekend at the historic 890 Broadway building (once owned by Michael Bennett).

I should have known something was up due to the odd scheduling and audition location. But I was young and stupid. I showed up at the audition set to sing "No More" from Into the Woods. I know, horrible choice, but in my youthful arrogance I thought I was going to wow them with my cerebral choice of Sondheim.

Anyway, the monitor approached me and the two other people who had been called during my time slot. He handed us a sheet of paper and said, "Here's who's in the room today." It read:

Cameron Mackintosh, Producer
John Caird, Director
Claude-Michel Schonberg, Music
Alain Boublil, Book

There were more names, but I had tunnel vision and everything around those names was just a blur. One of my audition companions appropriately uttered, "Holy shit!" under her breath. And I nearly did wholely shit my pants on the spot. This could possibly be the single most important audition of my life.

I entered a cavernous room with the world's longest table set-up. There were literally dozens of people sitting behind it all smiling politely at me. Standing and leaning against the piano was a distinguished gentlemen who appeared to be reading my resume.

"Hi Fausto. I'm John Caird. How are you today?"

I almost soiled my panties a second time. He then proceeded to ask me questions about my family, about my schooling and other random personal questions. After what seemed like hours (probably 2 minutes tops), he asked me to sing.

I showed the accompanist my cuts, walked back to my spot, nodded and listened to the intro.

"No more ques-(voice cracks)-tions, please..."

Yes, in front of the entire Les Mis creative team I did the one thing I have never, ever done during an audition (before or since). It wasn't even a high note. But it was too late. I was mortified. I completely lost focus and could only think about that one splattered note through the whole audition. In my defense, I was only a few years out of school and didn't have the experience or emotional fortitude to just shrug it off and I'm sure it showed.

I finished my song and Mr. Caird gave me a polite "thank you."

Holding back tears I fled the building dejected.  At the time I thought my professional life was over, so I just went home to cry and eat Ben & Jerry's.

Epilogue: Since that first fateful audition, I eventually got my shit together and was called in several times for Les Mis (including a couple of times specifically for Marius).  I never booked it, but I guess that splat wasn't as horrible as I thought.  Either that, or casting agents have very short memories.

Italians, Asians and White Bitches...

Who said there isn’t any diversity on Broadway?

Here’s a down and-dirty re-cap of a few shows I failed to review earlier this year.

Bridges of Madison County

Schoenfeld Theatre

Tuesday, January 21, 8PM

The movie version is a guilty pleasure of mine, having bonded with my now sister-in-law, Val, while watching a rerun on TV and weeping uncontrollably as we watched Meryl agonizingly clutch the door handle of her truck while both of us screamed at the TV, “Go! Go with Clint!”

Perhaps it was our youthful idealism (or I’m now just a jaded, old bitch), but seeing the same scenario play out onstage nearly two decades later, Francesca’s choice doesn’t seem all that complicated to me. Stay with your loving husband (yeah, he’s boring, but you chose him) and children, or drop everything for the hunky drifter you’ve known for all of four days.

I know, it’s a romance and Steven Pasquale, I mean Robert, is super tasty, but in this case the pragmatist in me over-rides my hormones. Maybe that’s why I don’t quite buy the “soul mate” argument in this case.

That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy Bridges (the musical). The score is gorgeous, and filled with JRB’s trademark soaring folk-pop ballads along with some more – dare I say – sophisticated writing for Kelli O’Hara’s lovely legit soprano. Sadly, I think her wonderful performance might get passed over once again at this year’s Tonys for bigger names and showier roles – always the bridesmaid. Oh well, at least she doesn’t have to compete against Audra.

Steven Pasquale is the reason the wife-beater t-shirt was invented. What a voice. And did I mention he’s hot?

My main quibble is with the show’s structure. Opening up the story gives too much time to secondary characters. I wanted to stay with Robert and Francesca. Their attraction is obviously sexual at first. But when/how does it become emotional? What’s Robert’s story (other than having an ex that left him a guitar that he can’t play)? They have sex and all of a sudden they’re in love and want to run away together? There are just so many details of their relationship I wanted to explore, but instead we get a random chorus member clogging at the state fair.

Kung Fu

Signature Theatre

Tuesday, February 18, 7:30PM

Bruce Lee’s story is fascinating and definitely worth telling, but this play suffers from multiple personal disorder. It’s sometimes a by-the-numbers biopic, sometimes a campy homage to Lee, and sometimes a visually stunning father-son dance fantasy.

That said, Sonia Tayeh (one of my favorite SYTYCD choreographers) is a goddess. Her choreography and movement (along with fight director, Emmanuel Brown) are the real stars of Kung Fu. Any time the piece moves – that includes the intricately choreographed set changes – I was engaged. The book scenes seemed like filler to get us to the next production number.

The cast, too, is uniformly excellent with Cole Horibe, a SYTYCD finalist with no previous acting credits, giving a respectable NYC stage debut. Though his thick, cartoonish accent – which I guess the real Bruce Lee may very well have possessed – often took me out of the moment. What he lacks in subtlety, he more than makes up for with his dancing, martial arts expertise and six pack.

Heathers

New World Stages

Sunday, March 30, 7:30PM

Heathers is maybe the gayest thing to hit NYC theatre in years. It’s a camp musical based on a camp film full of campy performances and campy catch phrases featuring shirtless young studs. Bring on the gays! I’ll also wager the producers hope to snag nostalgia driven forty-somethings (like me) longing to feel cool and relevant. Though the homo sub-plot, snicker-inducing at the time the movie was originally released, now seems positively quaint.

Heathers is a tad darker than the same songwriting team’s last stage effort, Broadway’s Legally Blond, but it covers similar ground. I was actually hoping the satire would be darker, more on the level of their earliest commercial work, Bat Boy. Oh well, at least we get a fun evening filled with the zinging one-liners that made the movie an instant classic. I mean, has any movie graced the English lexicon with a more memorable exclamation than “fuck me gently with a chainsaw”? Methinks not.

The score is efficient and pleasant enough, with the obligatory high belting to signify emotion. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just so, well, obvious. That said, I found “Blue,” sung by Kurt and Ram about a certain condition of the male genitalia, hilarious. Yes, my sense of humor is about on the level of a 10-year-old. And I’m sure the bullied Martha’s moving 11-o-clock number, “Kindergarten,” will be so overdone at auditions and cabarets over the next year that I’ll grow to hate it.

The cast is young and pretty and sing beautifully and loudly.

The unit set looks like the interior of a space ship from a bad 70s sci-fi movie (except in violet and pink hues) and at no time even remotely suggests any of the settings within the show.

The direction was adequate but pedestrian – basically moving traffic on an off the stage.

As a whole, the show felt like a Broadway musical banished to an off-Broadway house. The material and story cried out for a bigger venue and large cast.

At the performance I attended, the audience was peppered with annoying superfans that squealed and screamed at every familiar line or scene.

But did I enjoy myself? Yes.