My final Tony predictions

As one of the fraction of a percent of Americans who won't be watching the finale of "The Sopranos" Sunday night, here are my final Tony predictions. Unlike my wish list earlier this year, I'm trying to factor a bit of reality in with whom I would truly like to see win.

Best Play
The Coast of Utopia
Frost/Nixon
The Little Dog Laughed
Radio Golf

I didn't see "Radio Golf" and enjoyed both "Frost/Nixon" and "The Little Dog Laughed," but none come close to the beauty of Tom Stoppard's eloquent albeit a bit pompous trilogy.

Best Musical
Curtains
Grey Gardens
Mary Poppins
Spring Awakening

"Grey Gardens" has a troubled first act and will get its due elsewhere. "Curtains" is fun but uneven overall. "Mary Poppins" is lucky to be nominated. "Spring Awakening" is the real trail-blazer here.

Best Book of a Musical
Curtains, Rupert Holmes & Peter Stone
Grey Gardens, Doug Wright
Legally Blonde The Musical, Heather Hach
Spring Awakening, Steven Sater

The book is the weakest part of "Curtains," and although I haven't seen "Legally Blonde" yet, I feel pretty secure in counting it out. It's a squeaker, particularly since both are adapted materials, but I'm going with teen angst over middle-aged angst here.

Best Original Score
Curtains, Music: John Kander, Lyrics: Fred Ebb, John Kander & Rupert Holmes
Grey Gardens, Music: Scott Frankel, Lyrics: Michael Korie
Legally Blonde The Musical, Music & Lyrics: Laurence O’Keefe and Nell Benjamin
Spring Awakening, Music: Duncan Sheik, Lyrics: Steven Sater

If "Curtains" wins anything, it will be this as a sentimental nod to the late Ebb. But with "The Revolutionary Costume for Today," "Another Winter in a Summer Town" and, yes, "Jerry Likes my Corn" are the most effective pieces written for a musical in some time. The rockers lose this round.

Best Revival of a Play
Inherit the Wind
Journey's End
Talk Radio
Translations

Didn't see "Translations." "Inherit the Wind" was a dutiful but overall uninspiring presentation of a war horse. "Talk Radio" had little to offer outside of the superb Liev Schreiber. That's no small feat, but "Journey's End" was a triumph all around. Absolutely no contest here.

Best Revival of a Musical
The Apple Tree
A Chorus Line
Company
110 in the Shade

The real contest here is between "Company" and "110 in the Shade." Kind of like last year, when Doyle's "Sweeney Todd" lost to the old-fashioned but winning "Pajama Game." Look for the same to happen to Doyle's show this year.

Best Special Theatrical Event
Jay Johnson: The Two and Only
Kiki & Herb Alive on Broadway

Didn't see Kiki & Herb, but Jay Johnson's show got mostly great reviews, and deservidly so.

Best Performance By a Leading Actor in a Play
Boyd Gaines, Journey's End
Frank Langella, Frost/Nixon
Brían F. O’Byrne, The Coast of Utopia
Christopher Plummer, Inherit the Wind
Liev Schreiber, Talk Radio

This is one of the toughest ones. O'Byrne has been rewarded for much better work in the past, so count him out. Gaines is excellent but has the least showy part of the bunch. Plummer's a powerhouse, but the overall production he's in is mediocre. Same for Schreiber. Langella's Nixon is a master class in acting and is the last man standing here.

Best Performance By a Leading Actress in a Play
Eve Best, A Moon for the Misbegotten
Swoosie Kurtz, Heartbreak House
Angela Lansbury, Deuce
Vanessa Redgrave, The Year of Magical Thinking
Julie White, The Little Dog Laughed

This is another difficult category, perhaps even more so than leading actor in a play, as I could see anyone in it taking home the Tony. Though she's somewhat of a dark horse with a long-closed show, but the early buzz has White the victor, and I couldn't be happier. See what I said about Brian F. O'Byrne for Lansbury. And what I said about Liev Schreiber for Best. I missed "Heartbreak House" and haven't seen "The Year of Magical Thinking," but I'll go out on a limb and say that Kurtz is the possible spoiler here.

Best Performance By a Leading Actor in a Musical
Michael Cerveris, LoveMusik
Raúl Esparza, Company
Jonathan Groff, Spring Awakening
Gavin Lee, Mary Poppins
David Hyde Pierce, Curtains

Another tough category. Lee and Pierce are both great, but it's not going to be a good night for comedy. Cerveris should have won last year for "Sweeney Todd" and is doing excellent work again this year, but the fact that his show was mostly shut out of nominations doesn't bode well for him. That leaves Groff and Esparza. Hmm, seems familiar again: Devastating performance of the central character in a Doyle-directed Sondheim revival versus a fresh face in the season's biggest hit. But even Pierce has gone on the record as saying Esparza should win. Let's hope they get it right this year.

Best Performance By a Leading Actress in a Musical
Laura Bell Bundy, Legally BlondeThe Musical
Christine Ebersole, Grey Gardens
Audra McDonald, 110 in the Shade
Debra Monk, Curtains
Donna Murphy, LoveMusik

Ebersole has all but been promised the Tony all season, but an upset is looking less and less out of the question. McDonald received across-the-board raves for her work as Lizzie Curry and could score her fifth Tony. Murphy is pitch-perfect as Lotte Lenya. But in the end, I think Ebersole will and should still prevail. Monk has some brassy showstoppers, but I don't see her winning here. And poor Bundy is a guppy among sharks.

Best Performance By a Featured Actor in a Play
Anthony Chisholm, Radio Golf
Billy Crudup, The Coast of Utopia
Ethan Hawke, The Coast of Utopia
John Earl Jelks, Radio Golf
Stark Sands, Journey's End

Despite not being in the third part of the trilogy, Crudup's performance is one of the most memorable and effective in the show. This is one of my least certain picks, though, having not seen "Radio Golf." Sands also could eke out a victory.

Best Performance By a Featured Actress in a Play
Jennifer Ehle, The Coast of Utopia
Xanthe Elbrick, Coram Boy
Dana Ivey, Butley
Jan Maxwell, Coram Boy
Martha Plimpton, The Coast of Utopia

It's a toss-up between Ehle and Plimpton, so I flipped a coin, and Ehle won. While both Elbrick and Maxwell are deserving of their nominations, the gravitas of "The Coast of Utopia" will overshadow the melodrama of "Coram Boy." As far as Dana Ivey, I didn't even remember "Butley" was a part of this season. I think the Tony voters might feel the same.

Best Performance By a Featured Actor in a Musical
Brooks Ashmanskas, Martin Short: Fame Becomes Me
Christian Borle, Legally Blonde The Musical
John Cullum, 110 in the Shade
John Gallagher, Jr., Spring Awakening
David Pittu, LoveMusik

In this case, the fresh face wins out. Ashmanskas, Borle and Pittu are all talented and hard-working actors who've finally earned their due with this nomination, but neither will beat out Gallagher's tortured Moritz, one of the best performance's "Spring Awakening" has to offer. Cullum is fine but doesn't have much to do in his show.

Best Performance By a Featured Actress in a Musical
Charlotte d’Amboise, A Chorus Line
Rebecca Luker, Mary Poppins
Orfeh, Legally Blonde The Musical
Mary Louise Wilson, Grey Gardens
Karen Ziemba, Curtains

No contest at all here. d'Amboise got decidedly mixed reviews, and Luker and Ziemba just aren't given much to work with in comparison with Wilson.

Best Direction of a Play
Michael Grandage, Frost/Nixon
David Grindley, Journey's End
Jack O'Brien, The Coast of Utopia
Melly Still, Coram Boy

The real contest here is between Grindley and O'Brien. "Journey's End" was nearly flawless, while "Utopia" had some rough spots. I'm probably wrong here, but I'm sticking with Grindley and hoping it doesn't jinx him.

Best Direction of a Musical
John Doyle, Company
Scott Ellis, Curtains
Michael Greif, Grey Gardens
Michael Mayer, Spring Awakening

The best musical doesn't direct itself. Right, Martin Scorsese?

Best Choreography
Rob Ashford, Curtains
Matthew Bourne and Stephen Mear, Mary Poppins
Bill T. Jones, Spring Awakening
Jerry Mitchell, Legally Blonde The Musical

Jones might ride the rising "Spring Awakening" tide, but really -- is the spastic hopping in that show really superior to the dazzling nod to old Broadway on display in "Curtains"? I'd put the cutesy "Mary Poppins," which features an upside-down tap dance from the proscenium, in before it, too, and it very well might win. But I'm sticking with "Curtains."

Best Orchestrations
Bruce Coughlin, Grey Gardens
Duncan Sheik, Spring Awakening
Jonathan Tunick, LoveMusik
Jonathan Tunick, 110 in the Shade

Tunick's reworking of a lovely classics beats his own reworkings of a great writers songbook.

Best Scenic Design of a Play
Bob Crowley & Scott Pask, The Coast of Utopia
Jonathan Fensom, Journey's End
David Gallo, Radio Golf
Ti Green and Melly Still, Coram Boy

"Utopia" could win on its opening visuals alone, but its design is lovely through-and-through.

Best Scenic Design of a Musical
Bob Crowley, Mary Poppins
Christine Jones, Spring Awakening
Anna Louizos, High Fidelity
Allen Moyer, Grey Gardens

Cat food cans and old newspapers? I love what you've done with the place, Moyer!

Best Costume Design of a Play
Ti Green and Melly Still, Coram Boy
Jane Greenwood, Heartbreak House
Santo Loquasto, Inherit the Wind
Catherine Zuber, The Coast of Utopia

With enough period costumes to clothe a small Russian city, Zuber is the clear winner here.

Best Costume Design of a Musical
Gregg Barnes, Legally Blonde The Musical
Bob Crowley, Mary Poppins
Susan Hilferty, Spring Awakening
William Ivey Long, Grey Gardens

"Spring Awakening" has that drab, oppressed look, "Legally Blonde" is blindingly bright and "Mary Poppins" is both in just one scene. But Long's revolutionary costumes carry the day.

Best Lighting Design of a Play
Paule Constable, Coram Boy
Brian MacDevitt, Inherit the Wind
Brian MacDevitt, Kenneth Posner, and Natasha Katz, The Coast of Utopia
Jason Taylor, Journey's End

As great as "Journey's End" was, the most frequent complaint was how damn dark it was. The "Utopia" team gets this one.

Best Lighting Design of a Musical
Kevin Adams, Spring Awakening
Christopher Akerlind, 110 in the Shade
Howard Harrison, Mary Poppins
Peter Kaczorowski, Grey Gardens

Hey, someone had to hang all those bulbs from the season, if if they weren't using all of them.

Eurydice in wonderland

Here's an idea: Instead of putting Greek gods on roller skates, why not put them on a tricycle hauling a baboon?

Well, it wasn't "Xanadu," but Greek mythology is getting an equally jaw-dropping, bizarre treatment down the street at Second Stage Theatre's production of Sarah Ruhl's "eurydice," now in previews. It's an attempt by the Pulitzer Prize finalist (though certainly not for this show) to tell the story of Orpheus from the point of view of the unfortunate and rather amoebic character of his eponymous wife.

Now, thematically--dealing with the dangers of attachment to what is lost--the play has a lot going for it. Somewhere in between Eurydice's encounters with The Nasty and Intersting Man, her dead father, a chorus of stones dressed up as chimney sweeps and the trike-riding Hades himself and the ultimately bleak conclusion, this is all lost, however. Eurydice and her father's banal chitchat of their former lives and Orpheus' incomprehensible pronouncements--something about sending notes with worms and sucking himself through a straw--drone on for too long to the point where I was about ready for a cup of that mind-erasing water myself. Still, Maria Dizzia as the titular character and the Charles Shaw Robinson as her father are standouts in the cast of largely unknown actors.

The set catches the whimsical nature of the play quite well. It looks something like a towering public washroom, tilting at the angle of optical illusion and back by a water-gushing elevator.

The sound design, however, is overpowering to the point of making "Coram Boy" seem subtle by comparison. Ear-splitting tunes pop in at inopportune times to the point of making the audience uncomfortable. I sure feel sorry for anyone wearing those listening aids, because if they weren't deaf before...

Seeing Deimos after Phobos

Forget Willy Loman, King Lear or Brick Pollitt. If I were an actor, my dream role would be Mike Hogan. No, not one of Sandy Duncan's kids from that sitcom, but the brother of the powerhouse role of Josie Hogan in Eugene O'Neill's "A Moon for the Misbegotten." Think about it. You come on stage, put on a pair of boots, bounce a few lines off a fantastic actress and then go sip coffee in the green room until curtain call.

I kid, mostly because I don't have a whole lot to say about the revival of "Moon" now winding down at the Brooks Atkinson. While I certainly respect O'Neill, his works are not always the most pleasant experience for me, particularly because a few things hit too close to home. Double this with the fact that I already saw an excellent production of this on Broadway just seven years ago.

So how did this production compare? Not even close, I'm afraid. Kevin Spacey as self-destructive alcoholic James Tyrone makes some bizarre, bizarre choices and is never as heartbreaking as Gabriel Byrne. Eve Best is wonderful as Josie, even though it's difficult to forget Cherry Jones in the 2000 version. But there was one actor who made me particularly glad I caught this production: Colm Meaney as Josie's father Phil. I had completely misinterpreted this character from the impish Roy Dotrice's performance, who I had thought was fantastic at the time but now can see was a bit miscast.

And this production has one other thing going for it: There won't be another "Madigan Men" following it. God, John Hensley was cute, though.

Martha Stewart living much better than me

Martha Stewart -- who my dad used to affectionately call "that woman who makes stuff out of her garbage" -- spoke at an event I attended today. And it made me feel the most inadequate I've felt in years.

Her chat centered around her showing slides from her travels around the world. Call me crazy, but I was the one who never minded flipping through the dreaded vacation photos from other people. Only someone like Martha Stewart, however, could rattle off hikes up Mount Kilimanjaro and ice-climbing in Norway as a matter-of-fact as Aunt Fran's trip to Branson, in a tone as if these were valid travel options for a majority of the audience. Especially little details like -- "This was our visit to Russia. In the background, you can see a friend of mine taking off in a rocket to spend a few days in space."

It reminded me of the brilliance of Ana Gasteyer's portrayal of her. Gasteyer once described it as a playing a woman who thinks she's coming across as warm but in reality is as icy as that Norway climb. For some reason, I find it endearing, however.

What really won me over was when she rattled off her top ten pet peeves about hotels. Things like overfull gift baskets that you're unable to consume before your trip is complete, automatic upgrades to too-big penthouse suites and being put in a two-story room when arriving at a luxury hotel late at night.

Yeah, I hate when that happens.

Life stinks

One of my morning subway distractions is the collection of games I have downloaded on my cell phone, including a version of The Game of Life. It's a bit different than the 70s version of my sisters' that I used to play as a kid, but the premise is generally the same. I realized this morning, however, that I couldn't play this horrendous game anymore. Think of what it promotes:

1) Money is worth something only when you don't spend it. What's the point of the game? To end up with the most cash in hand. How do you lose the cash? By landing on spaces like "Tour South America" or "Backpack through Europe." In other words, it's better not to do these sorts of things in favor of amassing a Scrooge McDuck-sized pile of gold to sit on in your money room in your old age.

2) Marriage is mandatory, and no homos allowed. No matter what I do, I'll always get that little woman head stuck in my car with me when I pass that marriage space. I guess I could get the man of my dreams by disguising myself as a woman at the game's start, but I don't play that way.

3) Who needs college when you can just screw the other guy? One of the changes from the version I'm used to is that you have a choice whether to go to college or not. Going to college starts you out in debt (fair enough), but you get a few more chances for a good job in salary. But not so fast. There are plenty of "switch salaries with another player" spaces, so that yokel who skipped college can drop his $20K a year salary on you at any moment. Besides, the college-skippers usually end up drawing the $100K salary right away, and they get an extra payday space to boot.

4) In picking a career, pipe dream jobs are the best, but avoid serving the community at all cost. Another change is that the money you lose from spaces usually goes to whomever drew the relevant career. The two most lucrative careers on the board that seem to generate the most money? Athlete and artist. And I don't mean any type of artist, like a singer or a dancer. This is the little stereotypical painter with a palette. Yeah, that's promising career. The worst jobs? Teacher and police officer. Nobody ever lands on those spaces.

5) Children are worth a little upon birth but then serve as nothing but drains on your finances. If I recall, in my old version, you got a bit of money for each kid in your car at the end of the game. Not so in this version. In fact, the only purposes the kids seem to serve after birth are to add to the amount you have to pay when you land on the "pay for your children's education" spaces.

6) Life experience has little value. Another new twist is little "Life Cards" that you get with each event, such as the birth of the child, when you run for mayor or your honeymoon. The turn into cash at the end of the game, but the amount is rarely enough to change the outcome, particularly since the person with the most money gets four of them just for existing.

7) Good housing is for losers. The final new twist is the "buy a house" space, in which you randomly draw a variety of house, ranging from the $40,000 split level to the $200,000 Victorian. These have absolutely no value at the end of the game, so the lucky ones are the ones who draw the split level or the mobile home.

So there you go. I refuse to participate in this conglomeration of the ideals of Grover Norquist, Donald Trump, James Dobson, Matthew Lesko, Lorenzo de Medici, Roseanne Conner and Baron Bombast into a one sickening, evil dystopia. I'm sticking with that boxing game where you beat up the different ethnic stereotypes.

Wait, that's not right, either...

They said it, not me

I wrote not too long ago about my rather depressing voyage aboard a gambling boat that sails from the Corpus Christi area. Well, for reasons that will become clearer in a moment, let me describe one particular patron who graced the karaoke stage several times during the final hour of the trip. She never actually sang any songs herself but seemed to be the self-appointed back-up singer and dancer for everyone else. I'm guessing she was in her mid-40s or so, and using my armchair psychology skills, recently divorced or made single. Her wallet-like skin and jellyfish-tentacle hair indicated far too much time spent at the beach. She wasn't horribly overweight, but she certainly had a few extra pounds and rather bulbous breasts that sagged halfway down her chest, trying to escape the unfortunate tank top she had chosen. The droopy jelly balls wobbled back and forth as she gyrated gently behind butchered versions of "American Pie" and "Unchained Melody," pursing her lips and eyes in what I think she perceived as a sexy squint to the single men in the front row.

In other words, the is the kind of sight that, if I hadn't already been gay, could have been the last push I needed to cross that Kinsey midpoint. Despite that, I have to give the woman credit for her unmitigated self-confidence. She was on that stage, dammit, we could enjoy it or go to hell.

I mention her now because she seems an appropriate metaphor for "Xanadu," the musical, based on the Razzie-winning film of the same name, now in previews at the Helen Hayes Theatre. It sounds like a spectacularly bad idea on paper and doesn't disappoint in its execution. It drips with more cheese than a king ranch casserole, has a Six Flags-ready book and even manages to get a key part of Greek mythology wrong (note to the writers: Hector killed Achilles, not Paris).

And yet I couldn't help but have a good time, mostly because the cast and the show itself knows it's awful. It's full of self-referential asides of how shaky the premise is, my favorite being when the always entertaining Jackie Hoffman strides off the stage, saying: "This is just children's theatre for 40-year-old gay men, anyway."

How this got on Broadway rather than somewhere it might have a fighting chance -- say Vegas, or New World Stages, or gay day at Busch Gardens -- I'll never know. I'll also never know why anyone would expect an audience to spend $100 to see it. I'll also never know why talented folk like Tony Roberts, Mary Testa and Hoffman are slumming in it. But, hey: They're having fun, and so did I. At least this time, unlike with my South Texas temptress, I'm in on the joke.

If I were a doctor, I'd be Lilith Sternin

Every once in a while, I have to step back and wonder if I've become too icy and detached. You know, like when the announcement comes over the subway intercom that you're being delayed for a sick passenger, and the first thought that goes through your head is not "Gee, I hope this person is alright" but "How dare this decrepit idiot get on a public train and screw up everyone's commute?"

Flying back to Houston last week, as I was walking to my seat on my already late flight, as passenger boarding the plane behind me passed out. Frantic flight attendants asked whether a doctor was on board. Unlike most of the other passengers who were craning to gawk at the proceedings, I pushed my way to my seat and started to read the in-flight magazine. After all, I'm not a doctor. The fainting individual was not an acquaintance of mine. Therefore, my best contribution to the situation seemed to be to stay the hell out of the way. And, of course, it did cross my mind as to how this would further affect my travel plans.

As it turns out, the person was fine. I couldn't tell you if the person was a man or a woman, old or young or whatever, though. I stayed out of it. And I'd really forgotten about it until now, but now in retrospect, it bothers me a bit that it didn't bother me at the time. Does that make me a terrible person?

Because my sisters and mother love it when I reveal their ages

Something interesting came to mind today as I am preparing for yet another trip back to Texas (I have to get a visit in before the weather gets too unbearable there). Well, interesting to me, at least. Because of huge age differences in a few marriages in my family as well as my being born rather late in my parents' life, my immediate family -- only three generations of it -- will span nine decades in less than six years, when my oldest sister, Debbie, turns 50 in April 2013. Here how:

80s: My father
70s: My mother
60s: Debbie's husband Mike
50s: Debbie
40s: Middle sister Cheryl, youngest sister Pam, Pam's husband James
30s: Me, although I probably won't be admitting it.
20s: Cheryl's son Anthony (good Lord, that makes me feel old)
Teens: Cheryl's daughter Samantha, Pam's daughter Alyssa
Single digits: Pam's son Evan

And who knows? With it being six years away, I could even have a single-digit addition of my own by then. Kids still seem like such a foreign concept to me, but if it worked for Mary Cheney...

WND: Bush is a mind-boggling loser

Sometimes it's hard to pick out a good title. So why not use two? Here's the title Joseph Farah used for his column on Bush today:

And here's the title for that same column that appeared -- on the same page -- as part of the column links on the side:

Always go with your first instinct, I say.

Review roundup

Coram Boy
At some point in time during this show -- I'm not sure if it was during the unearthing of baby skeletons as a choir pelted out a minor version of "For Unto Us a Child is Born" or later -- I suddenly began to expect Damian himself to materialize or one of the cast members' heads to start spinning. That's how over-the-top this London melodrama import -- Helen Edmundson's adaptation of Jamila Gavin's novel -- is. The story, which centers around a baby-killing monstrous man and one family who survives his antics, is compelling, but the characters are as two-dimensional as these letters I'm typing. The background choir, working in the music of Handel (also a character in the story) goes from a nice touch to overbearing quickly, but you might just forgive them when they give a stirring "Hallelujah Chorus" at the end. Also delicious is Jan Maxwell, who has icy bitch down to an art form. And Xanthe Elbrick was deserving of her Tony nomination, and I look forward to hearing her name butchered on the broadcast. Even when she inevitably and rightfully loses to Mary Louise Wilson EDIT: Make that Jennifer Ehle or Martha Plimpton, at least she'll have the distinction, as far as I know at least, to be the only woman ever nominated for playing two characters who are father and son. At any rate, this show isn't exactly a triumph, but I found it a pleasant enough diversion and certainly deserving of a run longer than a few weeks.

Waitress
I don't usually do film reviews, but this film -- Adrienne Shelly's last opus before her tragic murder -- is endearing and likely enough to be overlooked that I thought I'd give it a brief mention. Keri Russell is winning as a woman trapped with a husband she can't escape and a baby she doesn't want, it's always a plus to see Andy Griffith on film, and if nothing else, I left the theater wanting some damn pie. There's not much out worth seeing movie-wise right now, so pass up third appearances of ogres and radioactive venom victims to give this little gem a chance. Oh, and that mention of Andy Griffith comes with an automatic exception of the film "Spy Hard."

Joining the veterans

I had the pleasure this weekend of crashing a gathering of some of New York's (and one of Toronto's) finest gay bloggers. I say crash because these guys are all a lot more established than me. Eric at Southern Boy was kind enough to invite me along. He knows that I'm very likely to accept any invitation that includes access to cosmos, particularly at happy hour prices. Not only did I get to meet two bloggers who have visited here -- Billy of Living My Life in NY and Steven of Human Nature -- but I also have three new daily reads now, thanks to meeting Brechi, Cooper Lowenthal and Chris of About a Boy and his Briefs.

All in all, a pretty damn good way to spend a Friday: cheap drinks at therapy, that wonderfully creamy mac and cheese at Vinyl, more drinks at Barracuda and great conversation. So thanks, guys, for letting the green guy tag along.

They're already posting photos of the event, but I'm still without a memory card for my camera. So I had to use my cell phone to shoot a making-of while the others were actually taking photos. Here's Steven taking a photo of Chris and Eric at Therapy...


Here's Brechi, Cooper and Billy posing for somebody else.


And what the heck. Here's a photo of us all, that Eric was kind enough to let me borrow.

Considering I've already identified everyone else in other photos, use that knowledge to determine which one is me.

Back with reviews tomorrow! That is, if I can still type. We're running our expo tomorrow at work, so that means nonstop cocktails from 4 p.m. until about 9 p.m. But no cosmos, I'm afraid.

More answers to reader mail

Time again to open up the mail bag -- aka keyword searches through statcounter -- as I attempt to answer the questions that led people to this blog. Oh, and for all those who've stopped by in the last few days searching for information about "Falwell" and "segregation," the answer is: Yes, he was for it before he was against it. Oh, and I still have no idea if Tyler Hanes is gay. Anyway, onward!

How do you say thanks to a Virgo?

Don't bother. Whatever we did for you, we probably did it because we knew you wouldn't do it the right way in the first place.

Is McGreevey a gay Gemini?

Well, he's certainly two-faced! But that's more of a Janus, not a Gemini.

Did a child die while watching "Barney"?

Not to my knowledge. Perhaps you're thinking of the third installment of the "Halloween" film series, in which the Silver Shamrock masks were designed to kill the children as they watched the flashing pumpkin, causing bugs and snakes to come out of their head. No, what am I saying? Nobody actually saw "Halloween 3."

Is there a karaoke version of "Surabaya Johnny"?

God, I hope not.

Autopsy photo of anorexia?

No, but I'd imagine it would be a fairly quick procedure.

Underarm hair in mainstream movies?

I'm thinking that new one with Larry the Cable Guy might be a good start. Or anything starring Alec Baldwin or Richard Kind.

Lunar cycle calculation for conception of a gay boy?

Aww, designer kids. I love it!

What's Sweeney scientology?

They eat people now? Run, Katie!

On the train kiss erections?

I'm on the A train daily if you care to join me.

Is there a gay Brazoria County beach?

Funny story about that. Back when I lived in the Houston area, my boyfriend at the time and I decided to take a late-night trip to Bryan Beach, a quiet little beach in Freeport, Texas. Stupid me, I left my keys in my pocket while I was in the water, short-circuiting the controller for the car alarm. I couldn't manually shut the alarm off, so I couldn't even start my car. To make matters worse, this was when Hurricane Keith was out in the Gulf, so the vicious tide was getting dangerously close to my car. Finally some drunken high school kids came out and helped us. I was sure they would give us trouble, because the boyfriend was in a very, um, gay bathing suit, but they didn't. But to answer the question -- no. And that goes for gay bars in Brazoria County, too. Except when I visit one.

Jesse Duplantis trip to heaven?

Umm, thanks, but I'll wait for the next train.

Deuce-engaged

Based on the scuttlebutt, I was expecting "Deuce" to be spectacularly awful. It wasn't. That didn't stop it from being spectacularly boring in spots.

Really, there's not much of a point for me to pile on any more than the "real" critics already have. They were mostly right. Angela Lansbury and Marian Seldes remain at the top of their game despite the material Terrence McNally dealt them. I'd never play these ladies in poker, as they could probably beat me with a pair of threes in their hand.

The script -- centering around the reflections of Midge and Leona, two retired tennis pros -- is sloppy in its characterization of its leads, subjects us to amorphous secondary characters for pointless exposition and drags on about half an hour longer than it should. Little is revealed over the course of the play, and what is revealed is given so shaky a context that we don't really care. One of the prime shocking moments was supposed to be when Lansbury uses the word "cunt," but truth be told, I'd mentally checked out by then and didn't even catch it until she said it for a second time. One can only hope these ladies get material worthy of them for a true Broadway swan song.

But I found another level on which to enjoy this production. At one point, Midge and Leona recall their final match, an exposition game against two former male pros by then in their 60s, which was an easy win for the gals but hardly a spectacular exit. Maybe this whole play is a larger metaphor for how we treat older actresses, giving them roles like this, or rapping grannies, or crusty old neighbors or Depends commercials in their later years.

Farewell Falwell

Grave-dancers always make me feel a little ghoulish, to be honest. I try to think of a redeeming moment from just about anyone when they die. And in this case, it's difficult. Jerry Falwell championed segregation and fought against civil rights, showed zero compassion for AIDS victims, pushed a dangerous dominionist agenda for the country and took the effort to dehumanize and stigmatize people like myself to almost sublime levels of absurdity (see Tinky-Winky).

About the best I can come up with is those first days after Matthew Shephard's murder. It was Falwell who agreed to meet with Rev. Mel White's Soulforce in an effort to try to tone down the rhetoric against gays and lesbians to perhaps quell further violence. It was a damage control move, I'm sure, because remember: This was when many of us were getting our first look at the nasty underbelly of Fred Phelps -- who, by the way, was no fan of Falwell either and will undoubtedly be picketing his funeral. And, as far as I can see, it didn't really change anything. But it was an effort that showed a shred of decency, at least.

However, those who are wringing their hands over some of my progressive brethren's lack of compassion about Falwell's death, let's recall those few days after Sept. 11, not 24 hours after Congress members from both sides of the aisle stood together at the capitol building and sang "God Bless America." It was Falwell who fired one of the first partisan shots, blaming the attack on the ACLU, atheists, gays and the rest of that laundry list of the far right's enemies. He obviously cared little about our mourning then, so I can hardly condemn those who care little about ours now. I'll also be sure to visit the hand-wringers should Michael Moore or Jimmy Carter drop dead anytime soon.

At any rate, rest in peace, Rev. Falwell. Here's hoping that God shows you a bit more compassion than you showed a good portion of the population during your lifetime.

How my Tony wish list fared

As it turns out, my picks didn't do too badly. The only ones not to get a nomination were:

"LoveMusik" for best musical
Hugh Dancy for lead actor in a play (he definitely deserved it over Brian F. O'Byrne, I'd say)
Martin Short and Hadley Fraser for lead actor in a musical (Fraser was beyond a long-shot, anyway)
Kristin Chenoweth for lead actress in a musical
Alisan Porter for lead actress in a musical (another long shot, as I knew they'd go with Charlotte d'Amboise if they went with anyone)
Amy Irving for featured actress in a play (and in retrospect, I should have included Jennifer Ehle on my list anyway)
John Mahoney and Johnny Galecki for featured actor in a play (I haven't seen "Radio Golf" yet, so I can't complain)

Also, both Gavin Lee and "Jay Johnson: The Two and Only" were on my list and were nominated, but not in the categories I would have put them in. Perhaps someday there will be some sort of understandable criteria for what makes a special event. Even better, this is good to prioritize my show-seeing plans in the coming weeks. I obviously need to see "Radio Golf" and "Coram Boy" and have no need to hurry to "A Moon for the Misbegotten."

All in all, not a bad year, though. A great mix of shows, nothing too dominant among the nominees and no horribly glaring oversights. I'm certainly looking forward to June 10!

Weekday review roundup

Stairway to Paradise
Curse this show. After more than a year of not having Comcast cable, and therefore not watching Comcast's all-Broadway music channel, I had finally gotten that darn "Triplets" song that came on all the time out of my head -- until I saw this show. But the song, as well as the entire new revue being put on by Encores! at New York City Center is so gosh darn charming, I'll forgive it this once. Yup, vaudeville is back, if only for a few days, and it couldn't be in better hands than director Jerry Zaks and Jack Viertel, who conceptualized the piece. They've arranged a top-rate cast and a great collection of songs both familiar and unknown as well as a few comedy bits that, despite being nearly a century old, seem more fresh than what appears on Saturday Night Live much of the time nowadays. I'm finally beginning to be won over on Kristin Chenoweth, because her chemistry as part of a comedy trio with Kevin Chamberlin and Christopher Fitzgerald is not to be missed. Shonn Wiley and Jenn Gambatese are properly cute in their juvenile/ingenue numbers, Capathia Jenkins is both brassy and touching in one of the show's few serious numbers and Kendrick Jones stops the show with his tap skills. And my only complaint about Ruthie Henshall is that we don't get to see enough of her. The dancing, choreographed by Warren Carlyle, is as good as almost anything on Broadway right now. Hard to believe they threw this together in 10 days. Here's hoping someone puts out the money to get this (legally) recorded.

Jerby with a Y
There's some saying among New Yorkers that one of the worst things to hear from a friend is "Come see my cabaret show." Having sat through my share of self-indulgent, pretentious cabaret acts, I know this is too true, but not when it comes from this bud of mine. John Raymond Barker -- who coincidentally grew up in Alvin, Texas, also a part of Brazoria County, but the two of us never knew each other until I moved here -- is back with his latest self-made show at the Duplex, and as usual, he's a delight. With impeccable comic timing, he'll wrap up Broadway, rock and rap into a ball of bawdiness and then whack you with a left hook of pathos and relevance while you're distracted. So let me turn into a shill for a moment and mention that there's but one chance left to see his show -- this Saturday -- so tell them I sent you, and maybe we can convince him to throw at least one number from the musical version of "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane" (which, in its grand premiere in Houston, he was in I am proud to say I actually saw) next time.

If I ran the Tonys

I'm postponing my usual weekend review roundup to throw in who I'd like to see nominated when the Tonys are announced this Tuesday. Quick disclaimer: As indicated in the title of this post, I'm not paying attention to Tony rulings about who is featured/leading and am really not able to say much about the things I didn't see. This is completely based on my firsthand theatre-going experiences. Some categories are short, but I'd rather leave it short than throw in something that I haven't seen -- which includes "Legally Blonde," "Coram Boy," "Translations," "Heartbreak House," "Radio Golf," "A Moon for the Misbegotten" and "The Year of Magical Thinking." Please also note that the omission of "Losing Louie" and "High Fidelity" is in spite of me actually seeing those shows. And, to keep it concise, I'm sticking with the acting and overall categories. So here we go:

Best Featured Actor, Play
Billy Crudup, The Coast of Utopia
Johnny Galecki, The Little Dog Laughed
Ethan Hawke, The Coast of Utopia
John Mahoney, Prelude to a Kiss
Stark Sands, Journey's End

Best Featured Actor, Musical
John Cullum, 110 in the Shade
Gavin Lee, Mary Poppins
David Pittu, LoveMusik

Best Featured Actress, Play
Amy Irving, The Coast of Utopia
Martha Plimpton, The Coast of Utopia

Best Featured Actress, Musical
Alisan Porter, A Chorus Line
Mary Louise Wilson, Grey Gardens
Karen Ziemba, Curtains

Best Leading Actor, Play
Hugh Dancy, Journey's End
Boyd Gaines, Journey's End
Frank Langella, Frost/Nixon
Christopher Plummer, Inherit the Wind
Liev Schreiber, Talk Radio

Best Leading Actor, Musical
Michael Cerveris, LoveMusik
Raul Esparza, Company
Hadley Fraser, The Pirate Queen (Yes, I said it -- this is in spite of his show)
David Hyde Pierce, Curtains
Martin Short, Fame Becomes Me

Best Leading Actress, Play
Julie White, The Little Dog Laughed

Best Leading Actress, Musical
Kristin Chenoweth, The Apple Tree
Christine Ebersole, Grey Gardens
Debra Monk, Curtains
Donna Murphy, LoveMusik
Audra McDonald, 110 in the Shade

Best Revival of a Play
Journey's End
Inherit the Wind
Talk Radio

Best Play
The Coast of Utopia (all three parts)
Frost/Nixon
Jay Johnson: The Two and Only
The Little Dog Laughed

Best Revival of a Musical
110 in the Shade
The Apple Tree
A Chorus Line
Company

Best Musical
Curtains
Grey Gardens
LoveMusik
Mary Poppins
Spring Awakening

My lead actress in a play category is really weak, but that's because I haven't seen the shows ("Heartbreak House," "Moon..." and "Deuce," which I see Tuesday) that most of the current favorites are in. All I'll say is that if Julie White doesn't get the nomination, that's a travesty. Toughest categories? Leading actress in a musical and leading actor in a play. There are several whom I would like to include but didn't, including Michael Sheen, Bill Nighy and Lea Michele.

Redecorating!

Look! In another effort to be more social, I've added my technorati favorites feed over there on the left. I haven't finished putting all the spots on my favorites, so if you're not there yet, don't fret! And as always, I'm happy to be a link whore, so scratch my back...

Just don't look at my authority level. If this were the presidential election, I think I'd be somewhere between the guy from Alaska and Lyndon LaRouche. Speaking of, pretty cool that Ron Paul is the top technorati search. Did I ever mention that he was my mother's doctor when I was a fetus? He was supposed to deliver me, but I was a few weeks early and he was out of town.

Swoon over Miami

My trip to Miami this week was for business and lasted only two nights, but it was still my first time there, so here's a few thoughts:

1) At least I made it to South Beach for one night! The Lincoln Road walk was charming, and Delano's bar is absolutely lovely, even more so when you're drinking on an expense account.

2) You know that nutty skycap who just got fired for bleating Leviticus over the Fort Lauderdale airport intercom? I think it's an epidemic in South Florida. The day I was flying out of Miami, the airport saw fit to announce a mass in the nearly empty terminal. My cab driver on the way to the hotel treated my co-worker and I to a bizarre radio program in which the host encouraged a head-in-the-sand approach to sexual temptation, such as intercepting racy junk mail catalogues and turning off any beer commercials. And another cab driver ranted about Hillary Clinton trying to be more like a man than a woman, which made her a lesbian and...well, I had a few too many drinks to even bother following his inane logic.

3) While I found Miami itself aesthetically appealing, the outskirts in which we were staying -- Doral -- resembled the bastard child of Galveston and Houston. Strip malls and palm trees. I say this as an observation, not a judgment. Some might find that to be a positive.

4) The old-people-in-Miami jokes? Retire them! Not only are they the equivalent of airplane food or VCR programming jokes, they're also becoming less accurate, as one of my convention's speakers told us. Thanks to increased longevity, the oldsters' pensions are running out, and they're leaving Florida to move back in with their families. So dust off those old-people-in-Hartford jokes.

5) Speaking of old people, I had that damn song Dorothy and Rose wrote on "The Golden Girls" stuck in my head the entire time. "I have to say what I feel..." Actually, Blanche wrote that line. See, she was upset about Big Daddy -- never mind.

6) Judging by the hors d'oeuvres at Bongo, I'm guessing Fidel Castro's longevity must be the perfect storm of cigars and Cuban food that has the grim reaper completely befuddled. I couldn't find anything that wasn't fried.

7) Overall, I judge a city by this criterion: If I couldn't live in New York, would I mind living there? From what I saw, the answer would be a yes. And I won't even say what I found out about rent prices in Fort Lauderdale. I might start packing now if I think too hard about it.

Why I'm not a photographer

Along with Southern Boy Eric and his BF, I caught Amy Sedaris' wine-tasting appearance at Bottlerocket this evening near Union Square. I took some photos during the event, and while I noticed the camera was acting a little goofy, the photos seemed to be coming out fine. Then I got home to upload the pictures and...nada. Why? It turns out there was no card in the camera. Brilliant! Almost as brilliant as holding an event that is guaranteed to attract a large crowd in a business that sells goods made almost entirely of glass.

So -- here's about the closest thing I have to a photo. Me and some other celebrity:



More on that experience some other time, maybe. But anyway, Sedaris was a lot of fun. She made something out of pantyhose, stopped an audience member from throwing a nautical-themed party and mentioned that she'd love to do a Christmas Jerri Blank show.

Meanwhile, I'm still recovering from a business trip to Miami (which also explains my blogging absence). Blogging on that tomorrow.

But no photos, of course.

Weekend review roundup

Spalding Gray: Stories Left to Tell
Spalding Gray is alive and well and living in Greenwich Village. Or his words are, at least. The crew of five performing "Stories Left to Tell" does justice to the prolific writings of the observant, neurotic Gray, who committed suicide in 2004. Conceived by his widow Kathleen Russo, the show is a perfect blend of bizarre experiences and poignant family moments captured by Gray. No one, thank goodness, tries to impersonate him, but rather, bring their own personality to the writings, which range from his early years to his final days, in which horrible injuries from a car accident had made living unbearable. Hazelle Goodman, Frank Wood and particularly Ain Gordon all Lisa Kron, who is filling in for Kathleen Chalfant, was a little too tied to the book, but I'll chalk that up to her relative newness to the part. And Bruce Vilanch is fun in the rotating celebrity guest star spot. It won't be everyone's cup of tea -- I saw quite of few dozers in the half-full Minetta Lane Theatre -- but fans of Gray won't be disappointed. And special credit to any show that can effectively use two of the most obnoxious songs of the late 1990s: the Spice Girls' "Wannabe" and Chumbawumba's "Tubthumpin."

The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee
I've mentioned my Ernie Sabella curse before, which I finally broke with "Curtains. Well, I have a new curse: the Vice Principal Douglas Panch curse. I had the opportunity to return to "Spelling Bee" Friday night, and I was looking forward to seeing Mo Rocca's take on the deadpan, ad-lib-ridden role. Alas, he was out, and was replaced by Todd Buonopane, who was also filling the role for Jay Reiss the first time I saw the show. No matter. The original cast is long gone, but the show is still in great shape. Special credit goes to Jared Gertner, who has a slightly different take on the incredibly obnoxious character of William Barfee. He even made him a bit likable.

Today in New York City
OK, it wasn't a show, but could there have been a better day than today? Absolutely gorgeous. Clear blue sky, not too hot and a nice breeze. I took the occasion to walk all the way from the East Village to the north end of Central Park, rewarding myself afterward with a lemon slice and cafe au lait from the Hungarian bakery near the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. All in all, with the zigging and zagging, it was about a 7- or 8-mile walk, and the weather was nice enough that I didn't even break a sweat. For once, I'm glad I wasn't trapped inside a theatre today!

And in this corner, weighing 143 pounds...

All this talk of the Ultimate Warrior and Hacksaw Jim Duggan--both of whom I saw wrestle live at some point in time, I might add--reminded me of my tiny place in wrestling history. Or standing next to it, really.

When I was about 8 or 9, my oldest sister Debbie and her then-husband David used to take me and David's brothers to matches quite often, whenever whatever tour from the WWF was coming through Houston. We usually had floor seats, but the best were when we somehow managed to snag a pair right on the aisle where the wrestlers enter. When we arrived, Debbie insisted that since she bought the tickets, she got the aisle seat.

The final match was a tag team bout pitting Randy "Macho Man" Savage (now hawking Slim Jims) and Hulk Hogan (never left the spotlight, I guess) against Ted "The Million Dollar Man" DiBiase (now an evangelist on the Trinity Broadcasting Network) and Andre the Giant (long dead, obviously). Even with my hindsight in light of my sexuality, I have no idea why I was so desperate to reach out and touch a stringy-haired, balding, beefed up man as he walked by, but I really wanted to touch Hogan. So, after Savage and Hogan won the match, David's brother, my sister and I -- David was long past the point of coherent sobriety at this point -- squelched our way out in the crowd to try to get a feel.

As Andre the Giant walked by, my other sister Pam and I noticed Debbie suddenly was stumbling backwards. "He hit me!" she shouted. Yup. Andre the Giant, with the enormous arc or his swinging arms, managed to give my sister a nasty whack on the shoulder as he passed. I don't even think he realized he did it. We were so surprised we completely missed Hogan as he passed.

So there you have it. Andre the Giant beat up my sister. Debbie had a nasty bruise but not much else. I still say she should have sued Vince McMahon.

Oh what a wiki web we weave

I know, I know, you should never trust Wikipedia, but I'm darn addicted to it. Especially when you find an obvious hack -- and I mean one not pushed by Stephen Colbert.

Just a few days ago, for some reason, I found myself reading the entry for "bacon." Somewhere near the top, it mentioned the following factoid: "The origins of bacon are not known, but it is commonly accepted that it was invented by the Ultimate Warrior in 1956." I'd link to it, but it's already been taken off the site.

But anyway, as a one-time wrestling fan, that got me wondering what the heck ever happened to the Ultimate Warrior. I remember hearing the rumor that he died, but not so, according to Wikipedia. It turns out he legally changed his name to "Warrior" in the early 1990s and was last seen ranting about "queering" at the University of Connecticut. And my sister used to think he was cute. Oh, and he also has two books coming out this year. I can't wait! The first chapter: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" Beat only by Hacksaw Jim Duggan's latest expose on Deborah Jean Palfrey, "Hoooooooooooo!"

Hmm. Whatever happened to Hacksaw Jim Duggan? Back to Wikipedia. This might be a long night.

Loudon love

In a frenetic week, sometimes a little six minutes of brilliance is all you need to make you happy. Here's one of my favorite clips of all time courtesy of YouTube -- the crazy medley by the crazy lady who left us far too soon.

Write like a man

According to the Gender Genie, I'm all man, baby! Except when I talk about Madonna. Here's an analysis of my last four blog posts:

Brecht/Weill reviews:
Female Score: 610
Male Score: 747
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: male!

Gay dating in the Styx (Part 5)
Female Score: 262
Male Score: 593
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: male!

Madonna thing
Female Score: 223
Male Score: 189
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: female!

Gambling boat
Female Score: 452
Male Score: 524
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: male!

Good to know. Just for fun, I plugged in a few of the writers I somewhat admire (and one I, um, don't). Here were the results:

Peggy Noonan
Female Score: 0
Male Score: 0
Words nobody ever uses score: 1,325
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: pretentious!

Joseph Farah
Female Score: 0
Male Score: 562
Question marks score: 257
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: in need of basic journalism writing training!

Andrew Sullivan
Female Score: 263
Male Score: 632
View from window score: 460
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: likely to solve a murder with Grace Kelly!

Lone Star Times
Female Score: 115
Male Score: 689
Panda sex score: 632
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: edward albee!

mambo palace
Female Score: 102
Male Score: 562
Matt Sanchez score: 205
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: wonkette!

Southern Boy
Female Score: 423
Male Score: 532
Young bottoms in love score: 621
Becca Mann score: 621
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: really confused!

Weekend review roundup -- The Brecht/Weill edition

LoveMusik
Even if "jukebox musical" has become a pejorative, I can think of a lot worse combinations than Alfred Uhry, Kurt Weill, Donna Murphy and Michael Cerveris. "LoveMusik" -- now in previews at the Biltmore Theatre -- is a good utilization of the genre, using Weill's music to tell the story of his relationship with Lotte Lenya, a relationship without which neither of their careers would be what we know today. Uhry's somewhat bloated book is a bit boring in spots, however. Watching the opening scenes of Lenya and Weill's bizarre courtship, I thought I was in for a long evening. Fortunately, the show picks up considerably as their respective careers do the same. What follows, in fact, is some utterly terrific moments. Murphy's "Alabama Song" and "Surabaya Johnny" are sublime. Cerveris, after playing a string of over-the-top antiheroes like Sweeney Todd and John Wilkes Booth in "Assassins," is wisely understated as the diminutive Weill. His quiet second-act "That's Him" is delightfully done in a bizarre context that's ultimately touching. And David Pittu brightens up the stage with his every appearance as Bertolt Brecht. Between this and recent scene-stealing turns in "The Coast of Utopia" trilogy and last season's production of Harold Pinter's "Celebration" at the Atlantic, Pittu is proving himself quite a comedic asset to the New York stage. The show, however, still drags on too long despite cuts made since the start of previews. Weill's death fails to register the requisite emotion, and neither does the later turbulence of his relationship with Lenye. If neither of them seemed to care much about their relationship, why should we?

Happy End
Watching Donna Murphy perform "Surabaya Johnny" was one of those moments that made me feel lucky to be a theatre patron. Little did I know that this weekend would afford a very different but equally thrilling interpretation of that song -- in Theater Ten Ten's production of Brecht and Weill's "Happy End." This is Brecht to the core, down to the uncomfortable folding chairs for audience seating. But sore butts are worth the payoff. Lorinda Lisitza is exceptional as Hallelujah Lil, the Salvation Army firebrand who infiltrates a gang of nasty criminals. This gal could have kicked Sarah Brown up and down Runyonland any day of the week. Despite the lack of flashy credits in the bio, the rest of the ensemble, many of whom double as the orchestra, is mostly excellent as well. All in all, a great chance to see a rarely produced piece of theatre history.

Threepenny Opera
I wasn't blogging when the Roundabout's "Threepenny Opera" was running last year, and I'm certainly not going to rehash my thoughts on this show now. But this Brecht/Weill-heavy weekend renewed my wish to have a recording of that production. On one hand, perhaps it's a good thing to not have that atrocious translation preserved for the ages. But I really, really want a copy of Cyndi Lauper's "Solomon Song," along with a few other moments from that production. I know it's not going to happen now, but a boy can dream, right? At least I have Charlotte Rae's "Pirate Jenny." I've mentioned this recording before. Download it now if you haven't already.

Gay dating in the styx (part 5)

As passive aggressive as I might be, I enjoy flirting. Every once in a while, it pays off. More often than not, however, I end up in a situation like this:

In my first weeks in New York, I made a point to try out as many of the bars as possible. Most of the time, I had guides, but every so often, those friends were all busy. Now, dance clubs are one thing, but it's always a little daunting to go into an actual sit-down bar by oneself. But, I thought I'd give it a try once, at least.

So, after plomping myself down at the most center-of-the-room bar stool I could find, I began to survey. Couples, couples and more couples. That's pretty much all you find in bars nowadays, thanks to Internet hook-ups, but this time, I also noticed a particularly dapper man of about my age giving me an occasional stare. We played this game for about 20 minutes -- and word of warning, I've been known to play it all night without ever showing my hand -- but he eventually came over and introduced himself. Pierre. Nice, quasi-exotic name.

We moved upstairs where there were tables, and the cute, awkward waiter who couldn't have been on the job more than a few days came and took our order. Upon his return, he accidentally dumped my drink all over Pierre. Even though it was a Cape Cod, which has a rather high staining potential, Pierre took it pretty well and resisted chewing out the hapless kid. Another good sign.

Then, the whispered sweet nothings began.

"Are you going to come take care of me?" he hissed in my ear.

"What do you mean?" I asked, thinking I was reading between the lines. Alas, this was something for literal interpretation.

"I mean, would you come to my apartment and cook for me? Clean for me? Take care of me while I work? I think you'd look..."

And, that was enough for me. I took his number, and wisely for once, did not give him mine. Strangely enough, I've never called it. So, don't ever say there aren't any more old-fashioned guys out there. Believe me, there are. And you can have them.

Gonna deaf you up with my love

I didn't spend all my time in Texas playing blackjack, of course. I made it back to one of my old haunts in Houston -- the gay club South Beach -- for their annual Madonna-rama. Yup, an entire night of Madonna music.

But I'm getting old. While I had fun, I left the club almost completely deaf. I don't ever remember that happening at South Beach before. Is it the daily destruction I do to my ears by listening to my iPod at high volumes every day? Or is Madonna a special ear-piercing decibel that shouldn't be listened to for long periods?

Never mind. Here's a cruddy cell phone video I shot of a Madonna impersonator at the club. I'm giving her the attention because she tossed me a Jagermeister T-shirt. Enjoy!



Seriously, though. If there are any entrepreneurs out there, Houston needs a new gay dance club. South Beach is fun, but it's the only game in town now, it seems. For the country's fourth-largest city, that's pathetic.

The dewussification of gambling

Not counting the one time I won about $300 playing blackjack at Caesars, the casinos in Atlantic City always ultimately depressed me. While the casinos in Las Vegas were always full of the tourists who were either somewhat savvy or too rich for me to care whether they won or lost, the Atlantic City patrons always seemed to lean a lot more toward the type of person who wasn't going to make their rent if the dice didn't come up as seven or if that third plum didn't turn up on the reel. But even that seemed like a laugh riot compared with the final moments on the Texas Treasure.

Yes, as part of my brief trip back to the Lone Star State, I joined my parents, my eldest sister and her husband on the gambling boat that makes trips into the law-free Gulf of Mexico from the Corpus Christi area. I'm not sure what causes one to get to the point in which dropping about a thousand bucks on slots seems like a keen investment, but Lord, I hope I never get there.

Don't get me wrong. I had a lot of fun on the boat. But I think what makes gambling boats a bit of a downer is that last half hour or so, when the boat is too close to shore to allow gambling to continue. There's not much to do but watch the defeated folks doze in the lounge and make some frightening attempts at karaoke.

There was one boat patron, however, who upped the coolness average considerably. Glancing out the window at dinner, my family and I noticed a mustachioed man, dressed mostly in black including a black cowboy hat who was chomping on an unlit cigar. It turned out to be Kinky Friedman. I saw him a few other times throughout the night, but I have no idea if he won or lost. Pity, however, that he never made an appearance during the closing karaoke moments.

Take that, Bella Beauty Supply!

Just a quick update to say posting will be sporadic for the next few days. I'm back in the Lone Star State, visiting family and will be heading down to Corpus Christi for a few days tomorrow. But thanks to StatCounter, I just found out that I am the No. 7 Google search result for "frosted hair." Woo hoo!

No need for currying favor here

All right. I admit it. I was completely wrong. I was sure Audra McDonald's Lizzie Curry in the Roundabout revival of "110 in the Shade," now in previews at Studio 54, would be another Bernadette Peters as Mama Rose. In other words, a Broadway star who gives an enjoyable performance despite being woefully miscast.

Well, I was wrong. Not only is McDonald not miscast, but she's giving one of the best musical performances I've seen this season. Right up there with Christine Ebersole in "Grey Gardens," I daresay. Her Lizzie -- the sassy but self-conscious young woman who is terrified of becoming an old maid -- is heartbreakingly awkward underneath her trademark gorgeous soprano.

The show itself, based "The Rainmaker," isn't exactly PC anymore, but this production never feels dated. And lucky for us, McDonald has a fantastic score with which to work. Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidts' score isn't one of the better known in musical theatre canon, but there are some real gems in it, like the "Another Hot Day" motif that runs throughout the show, Lizzie's spicy showstopper "Raunchy" and the epiphinal "Old Maid," which I think rivals Billy Bigelow's "Soliloquy" in "Carousel" as one of the best single-character Act I closers.

Not all of the cast quite stands up to McDonald's greatness. Steve Kazee's Starbuck, while vocally excellent, doesn't really have the magnetism needed to draw in someone as headstrong as Lizzie. The reliable John Cullum was a good choice for Lizzie's father, as was Bobby Steggert -- part of the fantastic Off-Broadway cast of "columbinus" last summer -- as her simple brother Jimmy. Carla Duren is a bit cloying as the flirty Snooky but does well in her number with Steggert.

Overall, this lovely production of this sleepy little musical is in great shape. There seemed to be a few tempo problems last night, however. I don't know if it's the bizarre Studio 54 set-up for the orchestra -- they're in the upper level boxes, split on each side -- but they seemed to be going at different pace than the cast at times. Still, I wouldn't dwell on that too much, as it's still early in the preview period.

Wrexis nexus

While I'm sending out positive vibes, I'd like to send a few out to New Jersey Gov. Jon Corzine, for whom casting my vote was one of my last official acts as a New Jerseyan. I never saw a wreck on the Garden State Parkway that wasn't horrific, mostly because everyone, including state troopers, will pass you like you're standing still if you're driving 80 mph. Compared to the wrecks I used to drive by, he came out lucky.

My own luck with cars has been about as good as my luck with pets, so I always have a special empathy for car crash survivors. Those dreadful car insurance commercials in which the people having some sort of banal conversation in their car get sideswiped are quite disturbing to me. Take a look at my roster of vehicles:

Car #1: 1994 Plymouth Sundance
As a stupid 16-year-old, I made the error of letting an unlicensed 15-year-old friend borrow my car for a drive to the store less than a tenth of a mile away. She promptly backed into the car behind her. Knowing the parental ramifications of letting someone else borrow my car, I said I was driving and took the blame for that accident. God, I hope my parents never find this blog. The car was repaired, but three years later, when I was a sophomore in college, I totaled the car when I sped into the back of a truck at 50-something miles per hour on I-45 in Houston. That wreck gave me nightmares for quite a while.

Car #2: 1998 Plymouth Breeze
Less than a year after I got this car, I T-boned an uninsured woman on Westheimer in Houston who had suddenly decided to make a right turn from the left lane. It was a pretty minor accident, but it put my car out of service for a few weeks and it was never the same again. The axles were off, I think, so I managed to get eight flat tires in the course of a few years. I finally sold it.

Car #3: 2005 Nissan Altima
This was another car that lasted about a year. Pretty much the same thing happened as with the Breeze, save this was a lost Pennsylvania tourist who made a left turn from a far right lane and that this one was at about 60 mph on the Atlantic City Expressway. The car, again, was totaled. My insurance payoff--from the woman's insurance, not mine--on this one was pretty sweet, actually, and eventually helped me finance my move to New York.

Car #4: 2006 Nissan Altima
This one actually made it until I moved to New York, whereupon I gave it to my parents.

So, to keep count, that's four accidents, three of them bad enough to deploy airbags, two cars totaled and one trip to the hospital. Amazingly, my only injuries were a few deep cuts from the airbag in the second wreck and a sore chest in the fourth. That unbreakable Bruce Willis character has nothing on me. But I should also point out that only one was really my fault!

Delay of game

I actually had a self-indulgent news commentary-type thing I was going to write today, but I'm going to put it off a day. It doesn't seem appropriate today, so I'll just send my best wishes and prayers to the folks at Virginia Tech. No politics, no commentary about it. Just good thoughts for all involved.

Weekend review roundup

Frost/Nixon
If I were squinting and had cataracts, I wouldn't mistake Frank Langella for Richard Nixon in a dark alley. Jimmy Stewart as Richard Nixon, maybe. But even in the view from a front row center orchestra seat under the bright lights emulating a television studio, Langella's performance as the disgraced former president is the most powerful, true representation of a historical figure I've seen on the stage in a long while. That's not to say Peter Morgan's play, now in previews at the Jacobs Theatre, is perfect. There's too much narration from secondary characters and too much background set-up on Nixon at the beginning. It's still a compelling treatment of all-too-familiar material, and Langella's ultimately pitiable Nixon is a sure contender come Tony time. Equally delicious is Michael Sheen's David Frost. Only Dudley Moore could make an English playboy more delightful.

Talk Radio
Like Langella, Liev Schreiber is catapulting a flawed play a bit closer to the territory of greatness. As the Barry Champlain, the call-in show host with a God complex in Eric Brogosian's "Talk Radio," Schreiber almost tops his impeccable Richard Roma in the recent "Glengarry Glen Ross" revival. Unfortunately, he doesn't have much in the way of a supporting cast here. While the voice actors handling the radio show calls are good, the play comes to a screeching halt anytime Schreiber leaves the stage. Still, Brogosian's play gets an additional boost from current events. There are, after all, other paths to self-destruction for a talk radio host that don't involve critiques of hairstyles. Like taking one's self too seriously. Thank goodness that so rarely happens on the AM dial today.

Forbidden Broadway
This isn't a review so much as a quick commentary: I haven't seen "Forbidden Broadway" since they days they were doing Bernadette Peters' Mama Rose, but seeing it today only magnifies the over-reliance on meta-humor and irony in the "real" Broadway. The best illustration? They are able to parody "The Song That Goes Like This" from "Spamalot" without changing a word until halfway through the song. As to the show itself: Even though it's harder to parody something that's already parodying itself, "Forbidden Broadway" still has more hits than misses. They really need to do another update, though. Shows like "Lennon" were such flashes in the pan that they're hardly worth the effort.

What is a mandatory elective, anyway?

As Texans try to decide whether the Bible should be taught in every public school, one renegade mayor might be doing more harm to his own cause than anything the ACLU could muster up.

Fresh from his national news-grabbing move to ban the n-word via resolution, Brazoria Mayor Ken Corley and his City Council have now passed another loaded resolution, this one demanding that public school reinstate daily prayers. Never one to mince words, the mayor uses the usual defense of such a move in saying no one would be forced to pray, but adds this:

“Non-Christians can pray, too, if they want to,” Corley said. “Who knows, maybe we can convert some of these non-Christians.”

The mask didn't stay on long, did it? A neutral study of the Bible is ultimately a good thing, and I value the courses I took on it in college. But somehow, I figure suddenly asking every school to put in a Bible study elective will force districts to throw the load on teachers who probably aren't prepared for such a course. And grandstanding like that doesn't do much to erase that cynicism.

Besides: The rock-solid fundamentalists would never stand for a true neutral teaching of the Bible, anyway. Do you think they want their kids to learn the similarities between Noah's ark and Gilgamesh? Do they really want a historical perspective of all of those Old Testament stories? Or would they rather everything be taught as a literal historic retelling without any context? Because teaching the Bible as an infallible document ain't a neutral study. Sorry. True study of the Bible should cause one to question the blind faith they've been taught all their lives, and many high schoolers aren't mature enough to do so. So be careful what you with for, fellas.

Grease that wheel, already

I've threaded two common themes across several posts in this blog, both of which lament something missing in political discourse today: crackerjack columnists and the ability of nuance. Well, I've found the perfect exemplar of both of those themes in columnist Burt Prelutsky. This man seems to have the easiest job in the world, as his columns are nothing more than the same Mad Lib (forgive the pun) every week with a few different adjectives thrown in. No common theme, no particular reason of timeliness -- just the same hackneyed arguments week after week after week. Just read this week's column.

I'm not even going to quote from it, because it's so asinine. It's nothing more than a bunch of broad generalizations with all the hot-button names (Nancy Pelosi, Robert Byrd, Ted Kennedy) thrown in for pointless garnish. Nothing specific to today is mentioned.

Now go to his archives and read last week's column. And the week before that. And so on. It's all the same thing! And when they are on a timely issue, they provide no more insight to it than reading a few posts at FreeRepublic. It's not even his positions I find as repulsive as the intellectual sloppiness and laziness it must take to so consistently produce something of poor quality. There are numerous conservative writers -- Peggy Noonan, Andrew Sullivan, mambopalace or some of the guys over at the Lone Star Times, for example -- whom I don't often agree with but respect the thought and/or humor they inject into their positions.

And yes, there are plenty of liberal versions of Prelutsky out there, too. I can't even get through a sentence of theirs. To see what you actually believe in turned into a cartoon would make me reconsider my positions more than Noonan's most florid prose.

Answers to reader mail

Actually, that title's a lie. I rarely get email from this blog, but I have noticed -- courtesy of StatCounter -- that there have been a lot of people finding their way here by asking questions via search engine. And most of the time -- when they're not about Patricia Heaton, Lea Salonga or frosted hair -- they're questions that aren't answered on the blog. So I'll try to tackle a few of them (question marks and articles added where appropriate):

What is Steve Blanchard's salary as the lead role in "Beauty and the Beast"?

Less than what Angela Lansbury got paid to do the movie, but more than whatever kid is playing the teacup now is taking home. And, I'll wager, probably more than what I make.

Is Jenn Colella a lesbian?

Most of the questions revolve around determination of someone's sexuality. In Ms. Colella's case, I have no idea, but she played one effectively in "The Color Purple." (UPDATE: I have no idea what I'm talking about, as I was obviously mixing up Jenn Colella and someone else. But I'm sure she would be a great Celie. Even though she's white. Carry on.) While I'm on the subject, I also have no idea whether Tyler Hanes, Wentworth Miller or Johnny Galecki are gay, either. Sure, I could make educated guesses, but I don't have any hard evidence on any of them. Unfortunately.

How can you tell if a Gemini is gay?

Hmmm. Well, I'm a Virgo, but I'll try to answer anyway. My guess would be that in the case of a Gemini, you should probably find some way to determine whether they enjoy sexual relations with people of the same gender. If that answer is in the affirmative, then they probably are gay. By the way, this also would apply to all the other Zodiac signs. Except Scorpios. Those people will do anything with opposable thumbs.

How do I make applesauce?

Here's my special recipe: Go to the store, and buy a jar of applesauce. Dump it into a bowl, add in some cinnamon, and if high-falooting company is coming, some raisins. Say it's an old family recipe.

Toot, toot, tootie?

Excuse you.

Gay pedophilia photo?

Sorry, could you say that again? The dude from Dateline NBC couldn't quite hear what you were saying. Besides, I might look like a spring chicken, boys, but believe me -- I'm well over 17.

Anne Coulter Baldwin?

That would be the best marriage ever. Unless we're talking Stephen Baldwin. No "e" in her name, by the way. That might help with future searches.

Have I stayed too long at the fair, Marlene?

Not at all! Have one more sausage on a stick and jump on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

Hot gym steamroom on YouTube.

That's not a question. But you have my attention.

Who is Justin Chatwin dating?

Not me. Thus, I don't care.

Weekend review roundup

Manuscript
I see a lot of fledgling Off-Broadway and Off-Off-Broadway works about which I rarely feel compelled to comment. However, I want to give a little mention to "Manuscript," a new play by Paul Grellong now playing at the Studio Theatre at Theatre Row Studios. It's presented by You Are Here Productions, an independent group from Theatre Row that was started to help new playwrights. While I'm not going to say much about the production itself, I will say that Grellong's script -- which centers around three Ivy League students who get their hands on a great writer's unpublished manuscript -- shows a lot of promise. The "Deathtrap"-esque twists and turns and some snappy dialogue made it an overall enjoyable evening. The script is in dire need of some editing -- the ending drags on way too long, and a line near the beginning gives a far too obvious hint at the final twist -- but overall, it's an admirable effort. This isn't the first time "Manuscript" has been seen in New York, as Bob Balaban directed a version at the Daryl Roth with Pablo Schreiber and Jeffrey Carlson a few years ago, but I missed it and was glad to be able to see it in some form. So much of the new stuff by budding playwrights that I see tries too hard for shock value in a feeble attempt to be edgy. One recent show which I won't mention by name had so much pointless vulgarity, including one out-of-the-blue mention from a female character how she liked to masturbate her own horse, that even I was almost offended to the point of walking out. But it's good to see that there is still some up-and-coming talent that's getting the basics right. Greg Cayea and Duane Langley, who act in this production, and Vadin Lum You, who is the assistant production manager, created You Are Here Productions about a year ago and should be commended for giving this work another chance to be seen.

The Dark at the Top of the Stairs
It's a rare opportunity to see William Inge's overlooked gem from 50s onstage, and fortunately, the Transport Group's current production at the Connelly Theater -- billed as the 50th anniversary production -- does it justice. Donna Lynne Champlin, last seen squeezing an accordion as the greedy Pirelli in John Doyle's "Sweeney Todd," is utterly divine as the overbearing Cora Flood, the over-protective and over-doting wife and mother whose daughter would rather play Chopin than socialize, whose son would rather look at his album of movie stars than play outside and whose husband would rather travel on business than stay at home with her. Also exquisite is Michele Pawk as Cora's sister Lottie, who has her own marital problems with her aloof husband Morris (Jay Potter). These two fine actresses have great chemistry together, and the show sizzles in the second act in which they both dominate. Pacing elsewhere is a bit slow, as the entire show clocks in at about three hours with two intermissions, and it didn't have to be that long unlike a production of, say, "A Long Day's Journey Into Night." The set design, by Sandra Goldmark, is also worth a mention. The stage is mostly bare with the exception of the looming staircase and a few furniture pieces behind a translucent screen, so a lot of the action takes place almost in silhouette. It's an intriguing and usually effective device. The towering Patrick Boll also is superb in his too-brief scenes as Cora's husband Rubin. The show runs only through April 21, so don't miss the chance to see this work in the hands of a talented ensemble.

Speaking of 'Wind' wakers...

Christopher Plummer in an interview with "Playbill" called "Inherit the Wind" a "wonderful warhorse," but it should come as no surprise that the theatre legend, the oldest actor one the stage, breathes the most life into that warhorse's creaky joints.

Plummer is the Clarence Darrow-based Henry Drummond in Doug Hughes' revival of the classic, now in previews at the Lyceum Theatre. The wise, wizened old lawyer who stands on the side of reason over blind faith couldn't be in better hands. And luckily, Plummer has a good match in Brian Dennehy as the bombastic Matthew Harrison Brady.

The drawback to having two such bright stars on the stage together is that it also brings out the weakness in some of the ensemble. Seeing that it's still previews, I won't name any names at this point, but I will say that Denis O'Hare is a fine fit as the caustic journalist (is there any other kind?) E.K. Hornbeck and that Byron Jennings does what he can with the cartoonish Rev. Jeremiah Brown.

So was this revival necessary? Unfortunately, Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee's play remains as timely as ever. I say unfortunately, because one would hope reason would have made more of an advance in the last century, but any newspaper today could prove to the contrary. And the pandering Brady could easily pass for any politician today spouting dull religious platitudes that he only half-heartedly believes. But while the language of the play is lovely, particularly coming out of Plummer's and Dennehy's mouths, the whole ignorant hick town premise feels incredibly broad, silly and even a bit offensive today.

None of that matters, though. It would be worth seeing even if it was just Plummer and Dennehy reading through the speeches in the show.

A caution about stage seating: Like "Spring Awakening," this production utilizes on-stage seating for a number of audience members. The seats, at a little less than $40 a pop, are a great bargain to see this production. They're incorporated into the set, so the audience members in them are among the cast as the crowd in the courtroom, at the rally to welcome Brady and the prayer scene. The latter is especially chilling for the onstage audience, as it's drawn into the center of the increasingly ill-spirited chants of the crowd. This a rare opportunity to sit onstage with two great actors, but keep in mind that the show is designed to the actual audience. Most of the time, it works, but there are a few points when the main dialogue is drowned out by other actions, particularly some offstage singing at one point. Also, the onstage audience will hear the ad-libbed asides of the ensemble, and that can be a bit distracting, too.

Remembering Link lust

One thing I haven't mentioned here is what a video game geek I used to be. I say used to be, because I still probably would if I ever had time to play them anymore. But my tastes leaned toward the adventure and RPG types, so that's much more of a time investment than I'm willing to give anything right now. That doesn't stop me, however, from charting the sexuality of one of the hottest elf-men to ever be in 8-bit graphics. But as fans of the series might notice, the sexuality of our hero is a bit difficult to determine over the series.

Link in the short-lived cartoon version -- the Friday version of the Super Mario Brothers Super Show -- was a bumbling oaf and an insensitive clod who always ignored the feelings of that fairy thing on the left. His biggest ambition seems to be getting a kiss from Princess Zelda much to the detriment of all the hero stuff he's supposed to be doing. And he looks to be hitting the carbs pretty heavily.
Kinsey rating: 0, or a Ray Romano

Arguable the best of all the Zelda games, A Link to the Past finally gave Link the back story that Zelda and Ganon had been hogging all that time. This Link had a sensitive side, reuniting feuding brothers, delivering mushrooms to witches and numerous other good deeds outside of the old saving Zelda gig. He didn't even laugh when the obese fairy makes an appearance at the end. But our man here is undoubtedly hetero at the core, as he almost lets a wicked thief confuse him Elmer Fudd style when he disguises himself as a beautiful woman.
Kinsey scale: 2, or a Hugh Grant

The Ocarina of Time featured the first video game version of Link who could really be considered a hottie (the adult version, at least). He was a hit with the ladies in the game -- not only Zelda, but also that horse farm chick whose name I forget. In all, he was pretty darn manly. But come on. The whole game revolved around him playing a flute. That sort of counteracts everything, yes?
Kinsey rating: 3, or a James Galway

Ah, the wonderful old standard that brought me into the world of adventure games. This little pixelated wonder wasn't much to look at, and his main goal was largely hetero -- save the princess. But then again, this is the game that taught us the importance of accessorizing. Did Mario need to carry around bombs, candles, bows, pieces of meat or what have you? And the boy could decorate. With a well-placed bomb, he could create a little square-doored cave with a working staircase. And he wasn't really all that excited when you finally found Zelda. In fact, you had to play the whole damn game again. Also, the Link in this photo appears to be broke, which means he could totally be one of my ex-boyfriends.
Kinsey rating: 4, or a Ty Pennington

Fans of the series cringed when they saw the graphic design of the most recent Zelda game, The Wind Waker. Any moves toward realism were suddenly replaced with the cartoony, cel-shaded Link you see on your left. Through the convoluted tale, it turns out that this guy isn't even the real Link. Or something like that. But what matters here is that this Link is a real mama's boy. Or grandmama's boy, in this case, as his grandmama gets deathly ill when he leaves her. Not only that, this Link has a fashion sense! Do well in the game, and what's your reward? You get to play in a whole new outfit!
Kinsey rating: 5, or a Gianni Versace

In the subpar second game, The Adventure of Link, the plot would seem to be the most hetero of all. Zelda's been put to sleep, and Link must scramble to wake his girl and prevent Ganon's resurrection. They even mark the end of the game with a behind-the-curtain (those drape things you see there lower at the end). But let's look at the evidence against him. He has a magic spell that turns him into a fairy. He fights something called an Ironknuckle. And most damning of all, the "enemy" he faces at the end is his own shadow -- which either is a Judy Garland reference or is some sort of coming-out-of-the-closet metaphor. The beard thing with Zelda will never last. You are the gayest Link! Hel-loooooooo!
Kinsey rating: 6, or a David Gest

Coincidentally, I'm writing this because it's a slow news day

One of the worst things about working on a Saturday rotation schedule as a small-town journalist -- besides the fact that you're working on Saturdays, naturally -- is those daily, disposable "events" you always have to cover.

Take a look at a small-town Sunday or Monday paper and you'll see what I mean. You'll see those stories about dinky church events, town festivals, police barbecues or something similar that might have some sort of news peg -- the organizers are trying to start an annual event, or it's the town's 45th birthday or something to that effect -- but it's usually not enough to make the event interesting to anyone who didn't have the desire to attend it in the first place.

Ivory tower journalism professors might use these as an excuse to show how every story should count and how a good reporter could use it as an opportunity to find the a compelling story among the chaff. OK, perhaps, and this might work out in some cases, but realistically, the reporter, who in most cases is working the day alone, probably wants to get in and out of the event in about 45 minutes and doesn't have time to get the life story of every attendee to see who wins queen for the day. After all, the reporter doesn't want to miss any real news that's breaking, because trust me: The editor isn't going to care how great the Annual Tree Lighting story came out if the reporter missed a murder that occurred that day.

Still, I don't even blame the editors for assigning them, because the stories serve a few purposes, after all. They're an easy way to get a community that doesn't make news very often in the paper. They're useful filler for the thick Sunday editions or usually news-dry Monday editions. Most importantly, they're a chance to put in cute pictures of kids.

That's also the horrid part for the reporter, however: interviewing those kids. Little is more excruciating than trying to mine a 7-year-old for a quote, because in my experience, kids rarely say the darndest things. In fact, they rarely speak in sentences that are more than four words long when put on the spot by a reporter, so that's why you'll see quotes like: "It's a lot of fun," 6-year-old Paducah resident Caitlyn (they're always named Caitlyn) Williamson said. "I liked the horses." And despite journalism school's best efforts to teach aspiring writers that quotes should be a garnish used sparingly in the story, the mindset in the real world pervades that if a person isn't quoted, they're not really in the story. So Caitlyn's monosyllabic grunts make the cut.

My point in bringing this up is to give a little perspective for the next time you see one of these eyeroll-invoking stories in the paper. I like to defend those usually budding journalists when I can, because I know they get a lot of flack. They probably didn't want to write the story any more than you wanted to read it. So just skip it over and think of how happy Colton's (they're always named Colton) parents are that he's on the front page.

To be fair, I guess I should link to one such story I had to write. It took some digging, but I found one, copied onto Free Republic of all places. Scroll down a bit, and it's there. It was one of those "Rally for America" things that took place at the beginning of the war. You know, when it was actually popular in the South? It's a bit more newsy than the events I was talking about, but keep in mind that one of these things was going on every weekend in those days, so it was a stale story going into it. I did, however, manage to invoke the imagery of red, white and blue vomit rather high up in the story, so I guess that's worth something.

Weekend review roundup

Howard Katz
Given the dismal reviews, I expected "Howard Katz," Patrick Marber's dark comedy now playing at the Laura Pels Theatre, to be a disaster. It wasn't. But a horrible flaw in the play left the nastiest aftertaste I've gotten from the theatre in some time. The dependable Alfred Molina plays the titular character, a toothless shark of an agent who represents reality show cast-offs and commercial actors and watches his life dissolve as he dares to question his purpose. Like Job, he suffers calamity after calamity that shatters everything in his family and career. But while Molina and the supporting cast -- which includes Alvin Epstein and Elizabeth Franz -- are excellent, Katz's suffering is unpleasant and hollow to watch. So many characters make the point of what a horrible, soulless man he is, but none of the plot backs that up. Sure, he's distant from his wife, but he doesn't really mistreat her or cheat on her, either. He doesn't have much respect for his clients, but they don't seem to have much respect for him. We even find out that he's been financially supporting someone else in his family. Thus, watching the self-destruction of this pathetic man is no more pointed or satisfying than watching some earnest fool blow his paycheck on 500 Mega Millions tickets. Although, speaking of gambling, I will admit that the scene about the blackjack table anchor we all love to hate was rather funny.

Fugue
While the melody of "Fugue" -- a Lee Thuna work now playing at the Cherry Lane Theatre in Greenwich Village -- is engaging, a distracting counterpoint makes this two-and-a-half hour play about amnesia ultimately forgettable. Deirdre O'Connell is a treat as the mysterious Mary, a woman suffering from the "fugue" type of amnesia, meaning her memory is running away from a past trauma. Director Judith Ivey does a great job here of staging the ephemeral memories that come in and out for Mary in the form of her family and acquaintances, but the play loses steam every time the play shifts its focus to her helpful doctor John Oleander (Liam Craig). The simple set -- a hospital room with a catwalk overhead -- is effective, and the ensemble is strong. But even they can't elevate the script above another melodramatic "doctor with a purpose" tale. Perhaps this fugue would be better served as a monophonic piece.