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.

Introducing Inimeg Ranul Eht Productions

I felt like I was in Dexatrim ad today. Someone was asking to see a photo of me -- don't ask -- and photos of me online are somewhat limited. So I found a goofy little photo I had taken with Patti LuPone when I lived in New Jersey, and imagine my horror when I realized:



OK, I knew I had lost some weight since moving to New York, but my God I was fat! Just look at my face. As a comparison, here's a more current, post-weight-loss photo:


OK, ignoring how greasy I look...and I had always hoped that if I had anything in common with Oprah, it would be her ability to give out diamonds as party favors. But this got me thinking back to my attitude toward food in New Jersey. Even though I was working out three times a week or so, I was largely sedentary. Still, I never felt like I was getting enough food. I probably eat half of what I ate when I ate there. But there's a reason for that.

I don't know if there's a such thing as reverse anorexia, but if there is, I had it. As a kid, I was quite skinny. I was a picky, to be sure, but I ate well when it was something I liked. That didn't stop everyone -- friends, family, nosy adults -- from telling me I was too skinny, gangly, sickly or whatever other adjective that came to mind. I felt like I was never eating enough, so I ate horribly in order to compensate. Even as my weight started to creep up when I hit college, the feeling that I wasn't eating enough still lingered. I would eat when I wasn't hungry because I thought I had to do it to be healthy. It wasn't until I put myself on a calorie-counting diet that I realized how wrong I had been. Think about that before you tell one of those hackneyed "can't see you sideways" or "slide you under the door" jokes to a kid like this:

Gay dating in the styx (part 4)

Moving to New York from southern New Jersey was a famine to feast move in regards to a dating scene, but -- if you'll pardon the mixed metaphor -- I quickly learned that not all fishing holes were created equal. In particular, it was only a matter of months before I learned to avoid Splash on a Saturday night, that awkward mix of eager tourists and natives equally eager to exploit them.

A little debauchery is fun, sure, but I found out how fast it turned to awkwardness thanks to Igor. While he was cute and sweet, he was one of the zero to 60 gays, meaning he seemed to be ready for a long-term relationship shortly after meeting. But as I always say, I'll go out with almost anyone once, so I agreed to a date. In Brooklyn. My first venture into the outer boroughs, not counting the airports.

Unfortunately, Igor was not the easiest person to understand, thanks to an incredibly thick Polish accent, so his directions to me were a little flawed. Simply telling me to take the "express train," I assumed he meant the A train, the only express train near me. It was only until I was nearly in East New York that I realized he had meant the 2 train, which isn't anywhere near me, and it took me a good 90 minutes of wandering through Brooklyn to right this wrong.

As I mentioned yesterday, I was battling a somewhat nasty cold during this date, so arriving weakened from walking so long and nearly two hours late really set the tone for the evening. As luck would have it, he had prepared the dinner that any sick boy would dream about: heavy sausage, potatoes and sauerkraut. I ate as much as I could -- mostly in silence, as he was angry with me for misunderstanding his directions -- and I was trying not to be intimidated by the giant photo of John Paul II staring at me from the mini-shrine in his honor ("You like?" he asked me, motioning to the Pope, to which I feebly answered yes).

I was ready to call it a night after dinner, but he insisted we return to Splash, where I sat nearly comatose at the bar for about two hours with the rather, er, interesting videos that were playing. Let's just say the men in the videos were pretty darn handy and put their all into their work.

Not surprisingly, I tried the fade away after that date, but karma never has been kind to me in the dating department. The first time I ever returned to Splash, nearly six months later, guess who was there to greet me? Ah, how quickly I was reminded why I should never return to my passive aggressive ways. I certainly don't want to eliminate every going out opportunity in the city for me.

Still, Igor was a gentleman, which is more than I can say for...well, we'll get into that one the next time.

Same phlegm next year

The pathetic little cold I've been battling the last few days would be hardly worth mentioning except for one fact: It seems to be turning into an annual event.

I remember having the same cold at this exact time last year for three reasons. First of all, I remember it coming right after a yearly corporate black tie event, which was last Monday. I also remember having it when calling my youngest sister on her birthday, which was last Sunday. And most of all -- I remember having it on one of my worst dates in recent history, on which I'll go into more detail about tomorrow.

But whatever. This cold is so unoriginal. It's even the exact same progression of symptoms: A day of a scratchy throat, a day of sinus pressure and then a few days of pointless hacking. Shake it up a little next year, little microbes! Or better yet -- find somewhere else to vacation.

Stars of screen and stage -- simultaneously

After seeing uncredited guest appearances by Jon Stewart, ragin' Cajun evangelist Jesse Duplantis and Papa Smurf on the Off-Broadway stage, I must declare enough!

The first time I saw a working television as a part of a play was "Hurlyburly" a few years ago. It was an interesting convention, seeing the Smurfs or Go-Bots or whatever other "Hey, it's the 80s" statement they wanted to hammer in. And I suppose closing out with Johnny Carson had a plot purpose.

Then, a few weeks ago, I caught "Stone Cold Dead Serious," which treated us to a pre-show QVC extravaganza of sports memorabilia as barely lucid Dad napped on the couch. OK, the QVC appearance figured into the plot, too, although the later appearance of Duplantis was just bizarre. And it was a show about media -- largely video games, but television, too -- so it gets a pass. Barely.

Then, Wednesday, I caught "Dying City," during which an episode of "Law & Order" played on the sparse set as the audience wandered in. Yes, again, "Law & Order" figured into the dialogue, but later on, when the television started playing "The Daily Show" -- which also had been a part of the dialogue -- it was the most distracting moment of all. Some in the audience were actually chuckling at Jon Stewart's quips rather than pay attention to the acting on stage. Hear that, directors? Your props are upstaging your actors!

Listen, guys and gals. We might be an over-stimulated generation, but we still have the capability for a slight suspension of disbelief. Just like we know that there's not a big transparent wall in someone's apartment that's letting the audience peer in, we also could probably accept that a blank television set is not actually playing "Law & Order," "The Tonight Show," "Jerry Falwell's Old Time Gospel Hour" or whatever.

Because you know what the extra media element brings me back to? That dreadful tour of "Starlight Express" with the 3-D movies in lieu of races. And trust me: That's one theatrical memory you do not want me to dredge up while watching your show.

The sum of all queers

Oh, how times have changed. It seems like only yesterday Terrence
McNally was sparking fiery protests with his gay Jesus allegory "Corpus Christi." Now he's getting titters out of the blue-hair crowd at Second Stage Theatre with jokes about bathhouses, online booty calls and even...gasp...gay marriage with his latest work, "Some Men," now in previews for a March 26 opening.

It's the M-word that's at the center of the show, a series of vignettes throughout gay history bookended an unseen couple's nuptials. The scenes--spanning from an underground Harlem nightclub to the inevitable future of legalized gay marriage--all tie to the various wedding attendees, a veritable who's who of gay archetypes portrayed by a deft ensemble.

McNally's writing is as good as ever in many spots, particularly in the large ensemble scenes. The trite subject matter of a gay Internet chat room is freshly humorous, the nightclub owner's onstage antics in talking of the coded messages sent by gay songwriters to their lovers is an exquisite monologue and the furor created by a drag queen's appearance in a piano bar neighboring the Stonewall riots would make a striking 10-minute play by itself.

Unfortunately, a few scenes don't work at all, like the beach rendezvous of a Jewish Wall Street broker and his Irish chauffeur, and others, like a modern group therapy session, drag on far too long. The second act as a whole could use a good trim, as the play clocks in at about two and a half hours including intermission. And it seems pointless as characters suddenly reveal family relationships with all the characters from the older scenes. After all: One of the seasoned gay characters responded incredulously when a young upstart referred to gays as a "people." So why the need to make further ties between the scenes other than merely the diverse gay experience?

Standouts in the strong ensemble include Don Amendolia in a variety of "older man" roles, Kelly AuCoin as the recurring character of Bernie who makes the decision to come out when it wasn't en vogue and the honey-voiced David Greenspan as the foul-mouthed drag queen.

It's telling that my three choices are all the "older" ensemble members. Perhaps it's generational, but the older characters ring much truer than the younger and run together much less. Poor Pedro Pascal has so many similar roles that I couldn't even remember where his wedding guest fit in the story fabric by the end of the show. But he looks good in a towel, so all is forgiven.

Despite the cliche scenarios and stereotypical characters, however, this Cliff's Notes of gay history seems necessary. Perhaps it's that familiarity that makes it palatable with some of the same people who might cringe over a gay Christ-like character. With the crescendo of verbal crassness and physical violence toward gays that's been around in recent months, it's delightfully sobering to watch these disparate histories converge into the conclusion of equality, for better or for worse.

Behead me, baby!

I have a problem with the new miniseries "The Tudors."

That's King Henry VIII, by the way, as played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Therein lies the problem. Henry VIII is on the short list of historical figures about whom I should never have impure thoughts! Right between Mahatma Ghandi and Walt Whitman. Yes, I know the man was quite a looker in his younger years, but don't put me in the position to have to picture my not-so-secret little crush Johnny with a turkey leg hanging out of his mouth.

Of course, the show promises "gratuitous nudity," so maybe it has some redeeming qualities after all.

Review roundup

I've fallen behind in my reviews, thanks to being overwhelmed by a visit from the parents and everyone else under the sun (there were seven people sleeping in my two-bedroom apartment at one point last weekend). So, in the interest of space, here are a few quick capsule reviews of the shows I saw during their visit:

"Curtains"
Perhaps it was my hunger from my recent lackluster experience with "The Pirate Queen," but few shows in recent memory have left me with as pleasant an aftertaste as "Curtains," now in previews for a March 22 opening. Although the show--a murder mystery set among the colorful characters trying out a show in Boston--is far from perfect, the cast is pretty darn close to it. As the theatre-loving investigating police lieutenant, David Hyde Pierce is his usual nebbish self but manages to do so in a way that feels delightfully fresh, unlike some others who have fallen into that type (paging Matthew Broderick). Debra Monk, as the producer, stops the show with her brassy numbers, and leading man Noah Racey is probably the best dancer on Broadway right now -- and that includes the entire cast of "A Chorus Line." Even Edward Hibbert, whom I usually find cloying, scores here as the director. Some songs are certainly better than others, and I found myself not really giving much of a damn about the whodunit aspect, but overall, this is truly a crowd-pleaser that might not be a critical darling but certainly deserves a decent run. And I finally broke my Ernie Sabella curse! He was out when I saw "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum" and "Sweet Charity," but the third time was the charm. EDIT: I can't believe I forgot to mention Karen Ziemba and Jason Daniele, both of whom also are excellent, and ditto what I said about Racey for Ziemba.

"Prelude to a Kiss"
What began as a seemingly dull and trite romantic comedy cliche actually turned into an engaging evening of theatre. The absurd plot centers around an idealistic but morose young bride (Annie Parisse) who somehow switches bodies with a feeble old man (John Mahoney) on the day of her wedding. The early scenes detailing the courtship of Peter and Rita drag on for quite a while, and one almost expects to see the Lifetime logo in the bottom corner of the stage. But oddly enough, Rita becomes a much more entertaining character when she's played by Mahoney. Alan Tudyk is fine as the befuddled Peter, but show-stealing honors go to Robin Bartlett and James Rebhorn as Rita's parents.

Lea Salonga in "Les Miserables"
I hereby recuse myself from ever reviewing "Les Miserables." I have far too much of a history with that show. Yes, I was one of those teenagers who had all three CDs of the complete symphonic cast recording memorized, and I've probably seen that same darn production of it more times than any other show, and like a dear old friend, I can love it despite its faults. So just a few words about it's new leading lady. Following the departure of the much-maligned Daphne Rubin-Vega, Lea Salonga--star of "Miss Saigon" and former Eponine--is a fine fit for the overly tragic role of Fantine. She does what she's supposed to do: sings the hell out of "I Dreamed a Dream," gets abused in a few scenes and finally gasps her last, vanishing (save the well-disguised appearance as a boy at the barricade) until her ghost comes back for the finale. Hey, you wanted nuance? This is "Les Miserables." If I want nuance, I'll go watch "Grey Gardens." But let's see Christine Ebersole try that deathbed scene!

Be my test audience, please

Hello, all. I've been invited to do a little comedy routine at a certain event, and there's some new material I'd like to try out. I'm going to write out the routine, and I want you all to be brutally honest. Is it funny? Here goes:

I really don't understand the big flap over the so-called "anti-Christian" bloggers employed by John Edwards. The last thing they should do is apologize for using the word "godbag." The last time I heard the word, it was from a casual acquaintance of mine who goes to a Lutheran church or something like that, so obviously it's not offensive to any Christian anywhere.

If anything, decrying the use of the word "godbag" would be offensive in of itself, as it would leave no alternative but for us to be "evolutionbags," and heaven knows that crap never happened! But enough about that. Here's what the bloggers should do next:

1) Start a Web site called "Global War on Christians" today.
2) Begin writing essays calling for the cleansing and purification of society via the mass murder of Christians.
3) Distribute videos on the Web site showing the actual murder of Christians.
4) Circulate instructions on how to bomb Southern Baptist churches in the South.
5) Circulate a "battle dispatch" to give specific information on America's most notorious Baptist churches.
6) Apply for a job at Liberty University.

Laughing yet? No? Surely you're laughing as much as I was when I read this column by Mike S. Adams over at Townhall.com. Even more of a riot were the comments below it. I particularly loved the one by the appropriately named "Handy": Whenever a gay guy comes on to me, I ask him if he's into "fisting." Regardless of his answer, I put one on his nose just for good measure.

Ha ha ha ha ha! It's funny because it really happens. Truly, Townhall, you should be proud.

So that's where you've been, charming Billy

Forget an ill-timed joke and a trip to Florida. The clod of the year award prematurely goes to the Prince Philip of American television, Bill O'Reilly, who wasted no time in turning the tragic Bronx fire into a diatribe against immigration.

Never mind that he doesn't even know whether the children killed in the were here legally. No, he points his finger squarely at those who don't agree with his immigration stance and says, "You helped this to happen." Jerry Falwell would be proud!

His paper-thin link of the two stories centers around the living conditions at the Bronx building. Granted, they weren't ideal. I would, however, suggest that O'Reilly take a tour of the housing options open to people in New York who cannot afford more than $1,000 a month in rent. Having a green card does not get you any credit toward a better place, I'm afraid. As Kirsten Powers noted, there are plenty of legal citizens -- a group in which these folks might very well be included -- who live in similar conditions. From all accounts, this fire was the result of nothing more than a space heater, missing batteries and understandably panicked reactions from some very frightened people.

Perhaps O'Reilly should visit the Tenement Museum in the Lower East Side and learn about the conditions in which some of his (presumably legal) ancestors used to live. Then perhaps he might give a little consideration before tossing out a speciously seasoned piece of red meat to his base in an effort to capitalize on someone else's tragedy.

A little shameless self-promotion

Since I know a good portion of the people who either visit regularly or just stumble upon this blog are New Yorkers, I have to throw in a quick plug for my upcoming concert.

OK, not my upcoming concert, but I will be one of more than about 100 men (and a few women) performing in the New York City Gay Men's Chorus' "Classically NYCGMC" concert at Merkin Concert Hall on Monday and Tuesday.

Having worked with several different styles of choral directors in my lifetime, I can't say enough good things about our director for this concert, Casey J. Hayes. He's done an impeccable job from start to finish, from picking the music to getting me feeling as prepared as I've ever been for any performance. The "classical" designation is purposely loose, as we'll be doing well known favorites like Offenbach's "Barcarolle" and selections from "Die Fledermaus" and "Carmina Burana" as well as some lovely new works -- terribly modern, as Vera Charles would say -- that are being recorded for the first time. Our guest artist, Met mezzo Kathryn Day, is worth the price of admission alone.

Or look at it this way: For anyone who has ever hated one of my theatre reviews, here's your chance for revenge.

Tacky? Or a breach of trust?

When it comes to a crisis, I don't think many would mistake Mayor Mike Bloomberg for Winston Churchill. Or even Mike Brady. Just a few weeks after he orders a rash of parking tickets during the worst winter storm of the season, he gets caught in an incredibly insensitive quote following one of the most horrific fires in the city's history, which killed nine people, including eight children, in the Bronx on Wednesday.

In talking about criticism that he did not cancel a planned trip to Florida after the fire, he told the Daily News: "Some people think I'm here for spring break. But actually I was thinking about doing a movie in South Beach -- 'Mayors Gone Wild.'" Not exactly the best tone for the moment, to be sure.

Whether he should have canceled his trip is a different debate entirely, and I tend to fall in line with the Daily Intelligencer in saying no. Somehow, I don't think knowing the mayor's in town is going to be of much comfort to the families involved, and stirring up controversy over it is a distraction from the tragedy. But there's no question his joke was ill-timed. Still, rather than place the blame entirely on him, I'd also question the reporter's judgment in using it in the story.

When a reporters have to build rapport with sources, they'll often have off-the-cuff conversations with them. Trust me: If you've ever lost a loved one in a car accident, you don't want to hear the way police officers sometimes talk about accident victims. It can range somewhere between indifferent and joking. I certainly can understand why -- they see this stuff all the time and can't fall apart over it every time something happens -- and I certainly never used any of it in my stories. Not only would it have been insensitive to the families involved, but the officer in question never would have talked to me again.

Now, I'm not comparing Bloomberg with a first responder. He's not a warm, comforting presence, and he probably never will be. I'm just saying that it wouldn't surprise me if this joke occurred in the conversation long after the talk had moved from the fire itself. If not, it should have been put in better context within the story. If it was jarring to me, I can't imagine what it was like for someone who had a much closer connection to the tragedy than merely living across the river from it.

The Magic Kingdom comes to the Emerald Isle

Forget "The Little Mermaid." The void left by the shuttering "Beauty and the Beast" is already being filled at the Hilton Theatre by a musical that is every bit as Disney -- it just doesn't admit that it is.

I caught the first preview of "The Pirate Queen," the latest from the "Les Miserable" and "Miss Saigon" team Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schonberg, last night. Given that it was a first preview and has a while before opening, I'll naturally be selective in my criticism and try to focus on the things I'm sure will not change before its official opening April 5.

Elizabethan history buffs might be familiar with Grace O'Malley, the Irish clan leader in the sixteenth century who later forged a short-lived truce with Queen Elizabeth I. Well, the Grace O'Malley now at the Hilton -- played by Stephanie J. Block -- seems to be her as imagined by Michael Eisner. Every bit as plucky and lovely as any of the other Disney princesses, O'Malley swashbuckles and grapples as well as any man in an era in which women were not given respect. Yes, that theme is hammered in throughout the show to the point where it seems like every character is the ancestor of those people destined to find themselves watching mandatory workplace sexual harassment training videos today.

All the other stock characters are there, too: wise, benevolent father Dubhdara (the excellent Jeff McCarthy); handsome suitor Tiernan (Hadley Fraser); the vain wuss who Grace must marry, Donal O'Flaherty (Marcus Chait); and the scheming, Snidely Whiplash-esque villain, Sir Richard Bingham (William Youmans). Even Her Majesty (Linda Balgord) is reduced to a shrieking Cruella de Vil in the first act, although her character is given a much better treatment in the second act. I kept waiting for a talking animal sidekick to appear for Grace.

The result is an entirely too broad story, with heroes and villains so black and white that they make a "Dick Tracy" comic look nuanced. Foreshadowing is done with such a heavy hand that I could not only pick out which characters were going to die, but I also could pick out the order in which they would die.

While the story structure seems familiar, it becomes even more familiar at the hands of Boublil and Schonberg. Many of the melodies will seem familiar to "Les Miz" fans. The opening motif sounds almost beat-for-beat like an echo of "Do You Hear The People Sing?". And many of the standard B&S conventions are used, such as the counterpoint confrontation scene that inevitably happens between Grace and Donal.

Some of the tunes are quite lovely. One of Grace's early numbers, "Woman," particularly stands out, as does the duet for Grace and Tiernan, "Here on This Night," Elizabeth's driving "She Who Has All" and Tiernan's "I'll Be There," even though the latter has the misfortune of sharing a motif with the Miss America theme. Others, like Donal's "Boys'll Be Boys," a drinking song reminiscent of "Master of the House," would be better served on the cutting room floor. Much of the rest is rather forgettable. And overall, the lyrics are so banal and predictable that it's easy to see the coming rhyme long before the singing character ever reaches it.

The show's shortcoming are in no way the fault of the actors. Block is talented and doesn't disappoint. Fraser is a nice discovery, and Balgord does great work in the horribly constructed role of Queen Elizabeth. Youmans' character is the most cartoonish, but his acting skills still come through. Chait's performance is the most problematic, as his villainy is so without cause that it actually brought applause when he died. No one applauded when Thuy or Javert died. Even Thenardier, who had no redeeming qualities, is an audience favorite.

I have little comment on the technical aspects, as those are undoubtedly a work in progress. Mostly, the show seems to be in good shape in that regard, although something needs to be done to improve the sound quality in the cavernous Hilton. Elizabeth's soprano numbers were particularly difficult to understand at times.

Despite the similarities, this isn't Disney, and without Disney's marketing muscle, I don't know what's going to happen for this show. While it wasn't my cup of tea, the people, mostly tourists, around me -- I always eavesdrop on the way out of a performance -- adored it. The producers have done what I consider a pretty wise strategy of offering discount $25 for all seats during early previews, in an effort I can only assume to fill the house and build word-of-mouth. Possibly it will work. While I can't imagine going back to see this show when paying more than $25, maybe it will catch on with tourists who will overlook its weaknesses and survive. I wouldn't begrudge it success. I'll make this prediction, however: The critics are going to tear this show to pieces.

At any rate, if Grace O'Malley is still around come next fall, Ariel might have to fight a bit harder for her target audience. But at least she has that singing crab.

Turn around

I have a theme song!

I'd almost forgotten I was even doing this, as I had no idea it would take so long. That's what I get for having more than 1,300 songs on my iPod and, for the most part, exclusively using the shuffle feature without the aid of playlists. This also could explain how my workouts are often driven to a standstill when a song by Jessica Molaskey or Norah Jones comes up, when a Widor organ sonata comes up, or worst of all, the most sluggish song on my iPod: a suite of songs from "Camelot" performed by Julie Andrews shortly before she lost her voice.

But back to the issue at hand. After about six months, the Barbra/Judy duet finally came up, leaving me with only one song: the remix of "Total Eclipse of the Heart." How uplifting!

I do love that song, though.

Close to the maddening crowd

The year of the pig, indeed.

Honestly, by themselves, I couldn't care less about Ann Coulter's latest comments. Read the second paragraph in what I said about Tim Hardaway. Was anyone really surprised? I mean, she's already called Al Gore a fag and insinuated that both Bill and Hillary Clinton are gay. So why should her comments suddenly ascend above a third-grade level now? Meanwhile, as I noted in this blog's early days, the unmarried Coulter has been known to pal around in West Hollywood with lesbian conservative Tammy Bruce -- whom I stupidly called Tammy Baldwin in that post to which I'm referring. Totally different person.

I'm also not a big fan of the demanding a renouncement game from everyone aligned with a certain political movement, a practice I most commonly associate with Sean Hannity. However, to their credit, a lot of conservative bloggers--including The Lone Star Times' David Benzion and, of all people, Michelle Malkin--had harsh words for Coulter. But of course, a lot of folks out there were quick to jump on any dissenters in an effort to protect their right to call people a faggot -- which they have, of course, but I suppose free speech to them means freedom from criticism as well. And that got me to thinking: This just hasn't been a great year for the gays so far. Let's see:

1) Some pipe-wielding monster in Detroit beats a 72-year-old guy to death after calling him a faggot.
2) A guy gets beat up after leaving a PATH train because he was wearing pink pants.
3) Michael Savage equates Melissa Etheridge raising a child to child abuse.
4) The Tim Hardaway nonsense.

This is all in the course of a matter of weeks. And to think none are related to the other is folly. Degrading someone to subhuman status in speech trickles down the idea that it's OK to beat such a person with a pipe. Perhaps as this nastiness reaches a crescendo, we'll continue to hear more sane voices from the right like Benzion who at least know how to disagree respectfully.

In happier gay news, I didn't realize until now that this guy came out the other day:


Christian Chavez. Never heard of him? He's a singer with pop group RBD, which spun off from the soap opera "Rebelde." Don't ask how I knew who he was. But welcome to the fold, Christian!

For there was no joy at Mambo Palace

As much as it pains me to be the bearer of bad news, I must inform our dear proprietor of Mambo Palace that he's out of the running for a job of a lifetime.

It looks like he, my co-worker, me and everyone else I knew who applied just didn't quite have the "thirst-hand knowledge" to be Four Points by Sheraton's chief beer officer. On the other hand, take a gander at the description of the four finalists. We have:

1) A guy who's visited 340 breweries around the world and tried 2,800 kinds of beers.
2) A guy whose wife works at a bar and who named his dogs Porter and Stout.
3) A woman who already works at a brewery and has received medals from the Great American Beer Festival and World Beer Cup.
4) Another brewery guy who developed a magazine about beer.

C'mon, Sheraton! These people certainly sound qualified, but isn't picking one of them kind of like Bill Gates winning the lottery? Give my buds a bone and let them live the fabulous life these people already are living.

Meanwhile, I guess my own essay, which entailed how it takes me an hour to gag one glass of Guinness down but I was willing to learn beer-love, didn't go over a la Barbara Park's "Skinnybones" like I thought it would. Remember that book? When the kid got to be in the cat food commercial because his essay...? Never mind.

Retreating to my slimy place

I shouldn't have insulted my apartment management. I'm now cowering on my couch after spotting a mouse hopping around my stove, no doubt planted there by the visiting repairman this morning who didn't like his timeliness questioned.

So I'm trying to return to my filthiest memory, something that will make me feel better about sharing an apartment with vermin. And this is what comes to mind.

As a reporter, I saw a lot of awful things: mangled and decapitated bodies in car wrecks, gruesome autopsy photos at murder trials and municipal budget hearings. One assignment particularly sticks out, however.

With my work phone number printed in the paper every day, I got all sort of, let's just say, interesting ideas for stories to pursue. A lot of the times, the people knew me or my family because I had grown up in the area. One in particular was an older woman speaking in a thick Southern drawl, telling me that I had known her grandson in the Cub Scouts and that she wanted my help in finding two of her other grandchildren, given up for adoption by their estranged stepfather in Iowa. I guess she had heard about our vast Des Moines readership. She nearly made a grave error by saying she was reminded of me when watching "Barney and Friends" episodes with her grandchildren, in that I looked like the obnoxious, mugging blond kid (also named Michael) in the show, but my editor and I decided we'd let that unintended insult pass.

The photographer and I drove out to her trailer in Jones Creek, and the second we entered, the smell hit us: a mixture of mold, cat excrement and who knows what else. Dirty dishes lined the kitchen and den as cats writhed all over the furniture. The photographer and I tried to find the cleanest spots possible on the couch to chat with the woman, who was largely unable to walk because of her weight. I asked questions as best I could while I watched the photographer try not to gag. At one point, we saw a huge roach scuttle across his notepad as we exchanged anguished looks. After an excruciating 20 minutes or so, the task was done.

As it turned out, the interview paid off. Grandma reconnected with her grandchildren within a few days thanks to step-dad's acquiescence, and I quietly said thank the Lord when my editor allowed me to do the follow up story by phone.

OK, I'm feeling better. The mouse seems to be gone, hopefully having climbed down the stovepipe into the basement where he belongs. Meanwhile, I know what I'm doing this weekend! Scrub, scrub, scrub. And maybe getting a few hundred cats.