Decitification complete

So, I suppose I should throw in a few photos from the Vermont trip, as I leave again this Sunday for yet ANOTHER out-of-town trip. This one will be pure business, but it should be fun. Hint: I'm hoping to be a true tequila expert upon my return. Anyway, here are a few shots from our great green north (click for full size, if you're so inclined):

This very cold waterfall that I can't remember the name of was quite refreshing to wade in, but the rocks were quite pointy and slippery. A sign at the front had the list of everyone who had died while climbing on the waterfall. The most recent one was a few months before I was born. My goal was to not trip, crack my head open on a rock, drown and break an almost 30-year safety record.

Seriously, why don't more towns have pedestrian-only main drags? This is Burlington. Lovely little town, save one pushy girl in the mall. (We were only in there to buy a quick pair of board shorts. Honest.)

I don't know why, but these cover bridges fascinate me. I'm sure Freud could come up with something on that. I never got to drive through one, unfortunately. This shot was particularly hard to get, because cars kept trying to get through.

I didn't shoot much during our day trip to Montreal, but this was the bar -- Le Drugstore -- where we caught happy hour. Very laid back and fun, but one quibble: The drinks came in large glasses, but they still only used one shot with the full glass of mixer! Somewhere among my gallon of cranberry juice, there were a few molecules of vodka, I guess. Oh, this would be, from right to left, Eric from Southern Boy, his boyfriend Brett and my dear friend Kristina from Houston. Kris had hell getting home on Sunday, what with all the canceled flights out of Boston.

But this is why we were really here, right? Notice everyone had abandoned me except for my beloved pomegranate champagne.

Fact #1: My reflexes are slow

So, apparently, while I was away on business, I totally missed being tagged of doing the "eight random facts about me" meme. I think I'm about the last blogger alive to actually get this, but since I haven't done it, and since I just tagged my tagger with something else, I'll go ahead and do it. I shan't tag anyone else on this, though. Unless Southern Boy wants to do it a third time.

1) For most of my childhood and high school years, my career of choice was to be a veterinarian. In fact, I was a member of the local veterinary explorer group. I lost interest when I realized how repetitive the job would be. You see one cat hysterectomy, you've seen them all.

2) I once owned an embarrassingly large collection of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures. The April O'Neill was the hardest to find. Someone also gave me ninja turtle pencils for my birthday once, but I was too ashamed to use them in class.

3) My mother's house has two freezers, and one is used almost solely for Bluebell Ice Cream. Seriously. To this day, she keeps about a dozen gallons of the stuff in there so they can have their flavor of choice on the designated "ice cream night" (Sunday).

4) Growing up in the Philadelphia area, my father and his family would often take summer trips to nearby Ocean City, N.J. One summer, he played on the beach with a lovely young girl who grew up to be none other than Grace Kelly. OK, those last two were really more about my parents than me, but still...

5) Being the only boy after four older sisters, I was assumed to be a girl until the day I was born, and my name was supposed to have been either Laura or Amanda. My boy name should have been David, but my sister was dating a David at the time who wasn't well liked, so that was out. I was on this earth for quite awhile before I officially had a name!

6) My church growing up was not one of those ones that were afraid of Halloween. In fact, we did a haunted house every year. They let me play Norman Bates' mother.

7) Despite gay tendencies from even the youngest age, I did have quite the crush on Lisa Bonet back in the day.

8) I once voted in a Republican primary. In 2004. That's where the local races are decided in Brazoria County, so if you want to have any say-so in local politics, that was the only way to do it. I refused to let them stamp my voter registration, however, and I left all the national posts -- including president, of course -- blank.

(insert lame variation of Descartes quote here)

So my vast knowledge of the career of Edie McClurg as well as my ability to pick out guest stars from "The Golden Girls" (actually, Edie McClurg was one of those, too, come to think of it), I seem to have snagged a Thinking Blogger Award from my dear southern neighbor. This, however, means I need to single out five others who are equally deserving. In no particular order, they would be:

Kevin Barnett: My fellow Brazoria County cum New Yorker. Not only does he have the best pulse on the local film and music scene, but he also has the design cred to back it up.

Theatre Snobbery At Its Finest: Cameron can boil down any show into a succinct few sentences of perfect praise or evisceration. Even when my reaction to the show was different, I can never disagree with his larger points.

Human Nature: One of the few people who actually knows how to make a purely personal blog entertaining to read. I think it's the superior health care system.

Rusty's Balcony: Another fellow Texan, and a fellow fan of the long-form posts. And I actually read them from beginning to end! That says a lot, coming from an ADD type like me. Ooh, someone's shouting outside my window...

David Benzion of The Lone Star Times: Considering we are usually on the opposite side of the political aisle, it says something that I keep reading. And under Benzion's guidance, the discussions generally avoid falling into that nasty trap that prevent me from reading the comment sections of most major political blogs. Take a look at how swiftly he put the kibbosh a discussion of Marvin Zindler's death from becoming a tacky questioning of whether Marvin's gathering a camera crew to check on the kitchen in heaven or hell.

Well, that's five. There are several others I'd love to pick, but I either assumed they've already won one or they lost a coin toss.

Lainie Kazan's muumuu of choice today, by the way?

Rats, roaches to run rampant over Houston restaurants

I'm back! Quite a lovely trip, but I'm not quite ready to put that post together yet.

So, instead, I'll just send fond wishes out to the family of Marvin Zindler.

He's not a familiar face to those who have never lived in the Houston area, but musical theatre buffs might know him better as the inspiration for Melvin P. Thorpe in "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas."

When I attended the University of Houston, I always enjoyed watching the Texas newcomers see Zindler for the first time. Their response was usually, "Is this guy for real?" Yes, indeed, Marvin was always Marvin. Only he could turn the fungus that grows on poorly tended icemakers into a catchphrase and eventual funk song. Truly. Watch this.

I actually had the opportunity to meet Zindler briefly not too many years ago. It was in my first days of working as a reporter for The Facts in Brazoria County, and I was assigned to do the "Seen and Heard" piece (basically, a short story with a bunch of posed shots of all the local muckity-mucks who attended) on a fundraiser -- a roast of longtime KTRK anchor Dave Ward -- for the local women's center. Zindler, along with former Houston Oilers coach and Blue Ribbon bacon and sausage hawker Bum Phillips, were among the roasters. I'd link to the story, but thank goodness, it's long gone from the publicly accessible Facts archives.

We actually chatted only a few minutes, so I won't pretend to have any inside knowledge of what a wonderful man I'm sure he was. But he did at least have enough of a sense of humor to auction off one of his wigs and a pair of blue glasses as part of the fundraiser. If I remember correctly, they fetched about $25.

At any rate, I knew it was grim when I heard about Zindler's pancreatic cancer a few weeks ago. Coincidentally, that same disease claimed another Houston icon -- furniture entrepreneur Robert "At your fingers" Finger -- not too long ago. Perhaps they're now somewhere enjoying a good game of golf. Or tennis. Or whatever makes them happy.

Time for a break!

I'm off to Boston tomorrow for a few days on business, followed by a few days of R&R in Vermont and possibly Montreal. I might be checking in occasionally, but no promises!

Meanwhile, to give this post a little substance, I stole a page from Rusty's Balcony and created a Simpsonized version of myself.


Rather than make it myself, I used the tool where the avatar is generated from a face photo you submit. Granted, the tool is VERY fickle. I won't say how many photos and tries it took me to get it to work. But, other than a quick adjustment to the hair color and style, not too bad! Although I think it makes me look like one of those environmental activists who convinced Lisa to live in a tree, I do own that shirt.

I also visited the Kwik-E-Mart replica near Times Square not too long ago. No photos, as it felt too touristy, but I'm certainly going back to buy some Buzz Cola sometime! Not to actually drink, mind you. There's ebaying to be done.

Thank you, "Thank you, church of Oprah"

I, unfortunately, have one of the most un-Googleable names around. It might not be John Smith, but my first name is the fourth most common name in the United States, and my last name is the 37th most common in the United States. Hell, my father's brother even named his son Michael, so I wasn't even the first Michael Baker in this generation of my family.

In fact, a quick Google search shows that I am:
1) An engineering firm
2) A sculpture studio
3) A National Scrabble Association member
4) A liability insurance claims investigation agency
5) An energy firm
6) An astronaut
7) A bike maker (how original)
8) An economics professor

And so on.

Except -- I just found out that, thanks largely to a link from Pam's House Blend and a few other helpful blogging bigwigs, at least one post of mine manages to come in as twelfth in a Google search of my name. And I'm actually fourth in the search for "lunar gemini" now.

So now, my goal is clear. I must become the most popular Michael Baker on the Internet. Or at least more so than the Scrabble dude.

Darn it, I thought Don Rickles would be insulting Pat Boone

I'm probably the last to report in from the great New York blogger weenie roast this weekend, hosted by the fabulous Curly McDimple. Despite my penchant for getting completely lost in outer boroughs, I managed fine thanks to the southern contingent as my entourage: Eric, his boyfriend Brett and Roy, who braved a crack-of-dawn flight and the M60 bus from LaGuardia to get here from Austin. Between Brett, Roy and me, we had the three Texas triangle cities covered. I guess that other state (the one next to Texas that kind of looks like a foot and you have to drive through all those crazy East Texas I-10 cities to get to) was represented, too. And even though I didn't eat one weenie -- plenty of hummus, dip and veggie burgers, though -- it was still a blast.

So, like, I guess I'm supposed to post some pictures or something.

Here's Roy and another guy named Roy. I wasn't taking notes, but I do recall that Roy on the Right has a blog but doesn't post often and has great taste in shorts and watches. Roy on the Left, meanwhile, knows the right ice cream to get, and we determined that he might have judged me in a forensics competition when I was in high school. Which was NOT that long ago, I'll have you know. Oh, and they were being quiet, so all signs were being obeyed.

Here's Eric and Brett talking to, um, a guy in an indigo shirt who, uh, blogs at guyinanindigoshirt.blogspot.com. OK, so my lack of notes renders my captions rather useless.

Hey! Remember that wine tasting thing I went to with Amy Sedaris, and I'd forgotten to put an image card in the camera? As it turns out, the photo was there all along, as I found it when I was getting my camera ready for the weenie roast.

I even snagged a photo of our pictorially elusive host!

Fine. I'll admit it. I pulled out my camera a few minutes before we were leaving and took some half-assed, badly framed shots. But it was still fun, nonetheless. And, as a bonus, we got to watch during our post-party dessert some brain-baked chick start a fight with the ice cream server over $2.

A hate crime on my home turf

Quite a disturbing story. It's pretty clear that the confessed killer here is bat-shit crazy in comparing himself with an Old Testament prophet. Yet, it's also clear that he has been influenced by anti-gay religious rhetoric. I'm not expecting to hear much from the folk who usually spew that venom, because in most non-Phelpsian cases, they're silent when their position is indefensible (at least until Elizabeth Vargas sends down a camera crew in order to find a way to blame the victim). Texas, amazingly enough, does have a hate crimes law that covers sexual orientation -- albeit unfortunately referred to as "sexual preference" in the law -- so here's hoping this scum has seen his last sunrise. I think the statute of limitations from my personal coverage of the office has expired, so I might add that Brazoria County does have a fantastic district attorney who will do all she can to see that happens.

There's not much else to say except for thoughts and prayers to Mr. Cummings' family.

Mike Huckabee almost gets it

So, presidential candidate Mike Huckabee (R-Quixotic) responded to Michael Moore's latest film "Sicko" with the retort, "Well, he's fat." OK, he said a little more than that. Quoth he, per The Associated Press:

"Frankly, Michael Moore is an example of why the health care system costs so much in this country. He clearly is one of the reasons that we have a very expensive system. I know that from my own personal experience," said Huckabee, who lost more than 110 pounds and became an avid runner after he was diagnosed with diabetes.

Well, yes, actually, that's not a bad point, Mikey, despite the childishness of the premise that, in order to retain a higher ground, is preventing me from making any Arkansas jokes. And he goes on:

"Anything we could do to help steer people to healthier habits comes back to us many times over and that's a real focus that needs to happen," Huckabee said. "Right now, insurance companies will pay $100,000 or more for a quadruple bypass but wouldn't pay a couple hundred dollars for a person to have nutrition counseling and maybe to work with an exercise physiologist to determine how to get those extra pounds off. ... It's a lot better to spend some more money on the prevention side than it is on the intervention side."

Again, a good point. I'm lucky enough, in fact, to have insurance that covers my yearly check-ups in full. But guess what? Do you think all those uninsured people have the money to spend those hundreds of dollars for nutritional counseling for their whole family? Do you think they even can afford regular doctor visits so that their first medical treatment is a severe problem in the emergency room, when the enormous bill gets shifted over to the taxpayers anyway?

Perhaps it's time for the government to take that last bit of advice, eh?

It only sounded too good to be true

It was with with great trepidation that I attended the first preview of New York City Center's production of "Gypsy" on Monday. Not only was one of my favorite musical theatre actresses starring on one of my favorite musicals, but said actress had already performed the role to near-unanimous raves in Chicago last year. There was no way, I thought, this show could live up to the impossible expectations I set for it.

Well, it did. And it surpassed them.

Patti LuPone's Mama Rose is a terrifying tornado of ego, determination and fury, and just like one of those windstorms, instinct might tell an observer it's time to hide under a chair, but one can't help and watch the raw destructiveness at its finest. Witness the well-known Act 1 closer "Everything's Coming Up Roses," which could easily be diluted thanks to innumerable versions by everyone from Ethel Merman to That Middle-Aged Lady Who Gets Cast In Every Production At Your Local Community Theatre. Well, as LuPone ferociously circles the stage spitting out the song, this doesn't feel like yet another actress staking her claim on a warhorse. Just watch Louise (Laura Benanti) and Herbie (Boyd Gaines) cower in fear during the number as if they were at a mausoleum facing a fireball-shooting Phantom of the Opera. And it doesn't feel like an overreaction. And you know that moment is still to come.

LuPone could have been backed up by the children's choir on the touring company of "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" and this show would be worth seeing, but fortunately, the supporting cast assembled here is top-of-the-class. Count me among those who thought Benanti was miscast, but unrecognizably awkward in a wig that makes her look like a young Imogene Coca (did such a being ever exist?), her inevitable transformation from gawky to swan is stunning. Leigh Ann Larkin brings a new vision to Baby June, making her far less squeaky and grating and more just plain agitated. It works. The scene-stealing strippers--Alison Fraser, Nancy Opel and Marilyn Caskey--also don't disappoint, particularly Caskey as the brain-fried Electra, who brings the house down with an inaudible, deadpan whisper. Someone save this woman from eight shows a week as Madame Giry! My only casting quibble is that Tony Yazbeck is really too good of a dancer as featured newsboy Tulsa, although to be fair, his number and scene were always my least favorite in the show, anyway.

Sets are scarce, and pacing is awkward at times -- and for pity's sake, this was a first preview -- but none of that matters. When that moment, "Rose's Turn," arrived, the woman next to me whispered, "Fasten your seat belts." Good advice. But an equally thrilling moment comes afterward, in the close of the show that has almost always felt rather anti-climactic to me. Leave it to LuPone to find a way -- oh, and I guess the show's creator and this production's director, Arthur Laurents, deserves some credit -- to top the ultimate 11 o'clock number.

Look at my past reviews. I often praise but rarely gush. Don't miss this show.

Tempered temper

As anyone who knows me will attest, I'm not a patient person. At all. Yet, even though I'm usually fuming if I have to wait longer for the A train than the time it takes for three songs to play on my iPod, I'm unusually serene whenever I fly.

Witness Friday, when my flight was about three hours late taking off thanks to severe weather in Houston. Sure, my initial reaction was one of disgust -- just ask my ex, who had the misfortune of being on the phone with me as I saw the delay get posted on the board -- but it only took me a few minutes to cool down. I just enjoyed chatting with my fellow passengers, including one crazy, drunk woman who told me at least five times about her having to rush over to LaGuardia after her flight from JFK had been canceled.

Perhaps it's because -- thanks partially to my work -- I know that most delays are far out of the airlines' control. Or perhaps it's because I just love to travel, even if it's just for a few days to the place where I spent the first 20-some-odd years of my life. And perhaps my attitude would have been different if I, like some of my fellow passengers, had a connecting flight to catch. At any rate, a three-hour delay doesn't even crack the Top 5 of my worst flights ever. Those would be, in no particular order:

1) A horrifically overcrowded charter flight from Istanbul to JFK. It was one of those double-decker planes that takes about an hour and a half to just board. I was in the center of a row of about seven people for the flight that ended up lasting more than 13 hours, thanks to an unscheduled stop in Bangor, Maine, because we were running low on fuel. I barely missed what was supposed to have been an easy connection at JFK. Although I usually wouldn't have complained about spending the night in New York, when you've been out of the country for three weeks, you're just ready to get home.

2) A terrifying flight from Houston to Boston. About 20 minutes after getting the announcement that we'd be landing shortly, I looked out the window and noticed we were suddenly over Cape Cod. The captain then announced that we were circling because they weren't able to get the flaps on the wings up, but he was going to go ahead and try to land anyway. When we did land, the plane was going so fast I didn't think it would ever stop, and the firetrucks waiting for us didn't make me feel any better.

3) A Christmas Eve flight from Philadelphia to Houston via Atlanta. Actually, the flight itself wasn't bad. It was a little late, but that was to be expected, considering it was late at night on Christmas Eve. I even sat next to Santa Claus on one of the legs. What made it bad was the six inches of snow that the Texas coast was getting upon my arrival. Not only do Texans not know how to drive in the snow, but their roads are not prepared for that sort of weather, either. The 80-mile drive from the airport to my parents' house took six hours. I got in about 6 a.m. Christmas morning.

4) Yet another flight from Philadelphia to Houston. This time, we had to make an emergency landing in Lake Charles, La., because of a fuel problem. See, that's why I usually drove THROUGH Lake Charles.

5) A flight from Anchorage to Seattle when I was a kid. It was the roughest flight I've ever been on and the closest I've ever come to being airsick.

The best flight? That would be my return from Copenhagen a few years ago. As we were waiting in line to get our seat assignments, a particularly pushy couple behind us in line kept edging their suitcases to the front. When it was our turn to get to an agent, they darted in front of us. As it turned out, they nabbed the last available seats in coach, so we and everyone behind us in line got bumped up to first class. Aha! I think I just remembered the source of my patient attitude toward air travel.

Milking one more post out of that trip

So, a fellow blogger told me that, as this blog is mostly personal in nature, I need to put in more photos of myself. Well, OK, I always feel kind of like I'm doing Vacation Slides 2.0 when I do that, Iceland trip not withstanding, but to give it a try, here's some shots from that Fire Island trip. Thanks to my fellow chorines for the photos!

Here I am arriving on the dock. I couldn't find my iron.

We sang really pretty. I'm wearing pink, if you can't tell.

Fall Out Boy was our opening act. Those rumors about Pete are true.

Somehow, someone got a photo of me at an open bar party without a drink in my hand.

So, they caught me eating, instead. And wind is kind to your hair for only so long. Notice the sunglasses I was wearing in the first photo and had hanging from my pocket in the previous photo are now gone. They're on the beach somewhere, so if you find them, give me a ring. Or maybe not, because now I can see they made me look like Lisa Loeb.

So, there you go. OK, one of those captions is somewhat deceptive. I knew where my iron was all along, I just didn't feel like ironing a T-shirt I was going to be wearing for less than half a day.

Where's Amy Fisher when you need her?

I couldn't help but start eavesdropping when I heard the words "fag" and "homo" being casually tossed around as mock insults. As it turned out, that would be some of the least offensive conversation I'd be hearing.

Poor planning left me next to rather repulsive, raucous group of teenagers on the Long Island Railroad on Sunday. The epithets earned a few glares from me, but they didn't notice. Believe me, these four didn't notice anything outside of their immediate little bubble. Not there, not anywhere else.

The conversation quickly indicated these four kids were of the privileged class: talk of yachts, talk of an errant cook, talk of houses in Rome. For the 90 endless minutes on the train, they yammered about the money they had, and even worse, the money they knew they were going to earn once they entered business school.

One was eagerly awaiting Fidel Castro's death so he could gobble up land in Cuba and build a slew of hotels. Another was insistent that he would NEVER work in a job that required him to be in a cubicle. No, he would only have an office, moving directly from school to upper management. No sitting through meetings. He'd be the one running the meetings. The chubby girl in the group continued to spit out the fag and homo accusations. They were going to meet some group of people who had apparently berated Mr. Castro Death Watch to no end the last time they were together, calling him a faggot because of the plaid shirt he wore. Classy. Fortunately, that gathering was nowhere near Penn Station when the train ride mercifully ended.

It was those insufferable MTV Sweet 16 breeds in the flesh. Their concept of business sounded about as mature as a five-year-old dreaming of being an astronaut or a star shortshop when he grows up.

Remember in the film "Run Lola Run," when she'd pass a bystander on the street, and immediately split-second flashes of the rest of that person's life would pop on the screen? I've never wanted that superpower more than that moment. I wanted to watch these kids graduate from business school -- if they ever did -- and see the harsh reality of the corporate world slap them across the face. After all, they couldn't be THAT wealthy if they were riding a passenger train with the rest of us rabble.

As it turned out, I had to write my own ending. Mr. Castro and Ms. Homo-Hater were already a bit chubby, so no doubt their weight problems would be exacerbated as they entered their 20s. Ms. Homo-Hater ended up in Staten Island with a minimum wage husband and six children. Donald Trump beat Mr. Castro to the punch on his Cuba development deal, so he was left developing a block in Wildwood, New Jersey where 10th place finishers from American Idol and a Loverboy cover band are regular performers.

The Girl with the Errant Cook dropped out of college following an unwanted pregnancy stemming from an unfortunate frat house incident. She works the counter at a Duane Reade in East New York after her family cast her out. The fey Mr. No Cubicle, meanwhile, got his dream job and dream wedding. Unfortunately, he now pays a hefty portion of his salary to said wife, who caught him in bed with one of his "poker buddies" and is now blackmailing him.

This never used to happen on New Jersey Transit.

A last-minute redemption

June, for me, was a rather wretched month this year for a bevy of reasons. It almost made up for itself with its grand finale this past weekend, however. So pardon me for gushing for a moment.

First, Nancy Wilson. What an absolutely extraordinary concert! The guest performers alone -- including Regina Carter, who can make a violin sing as beautifully as any voice; pianist Herbie Hancock and the exquisite Dianne Reeves -- would have been a great night on their own. Wilson, meanwhile, is on that same Barbara Cook regime that makes a voice as effective at 70 as it was at 20. To hear her perform live "Day In, Day Out," the devastating "Guess Who I Saw Today?" and "How Long Has This Been Going On?" (which she's never recorded, unfortunately) is something I'll truly never forget. I also got to celebrate, albeit quite briefly, the birthday of a dear friend to boot.

Next, Fire Island. With the New York City Gay Men's Chorus, one of the drawbacks to performing in large concert halls is you can rarely see the faces of your audience as you perform. Well, thanks to a construction schedule snafu, we ended up performing in a firehouse rather than a concert hall, so it was certainly up close and personal! The audience, however, couldn't have been more appreciative. Just watching one big Billy Strayhorn fan in the back sing along with every song, including beating us to the last note on "Lush Life," made it worth the long trek out there. Plus, the weather was absolutely gorgeous for a weekend at the beach.

Sunday wasn't really part of June, but it was certainly lovely in its own right, too. So, you're forgiven, June. I guess I'll allow you to come back next year.

When one diva door closes...

I'm absolutely crushed. I had the opportunity dangled in my face this week to attend a private concert by Diana Ross, and then it was mercilessly yanked away from me. The concert was part of a publicity event for a certain airline (don't try to guess which one, because you never will). Unfortunately, the invitation reached my desk past the RSVP date. I'm actually calling BS on the agency planning the event, because a coworker of mine who called a full day after I did mysteriously got admitted.

No matter. Tomorrow night, I'm seeing my true diva first the first time live: Miss Nancy Wilson. No, NOT the lady from Heart!

This Nancy Wilson, unfortunately known to too many just as Denise Huxtable's mother-in-law from "The Cosby Show" and not at all to too many others. I, however, just adore her take on every song I've heard her sing: her breathy "I've Never Been to Me," her tart "Makin' Whoopee," her divine "Lush Life" and all the wonderful gems on her RSVP album, particularly "Blame it on my Youth." Albeit a few months late, she's celebrating her 70th birthday at Carnegie Hall tomorrow night, and you bet I'll be there. And perhaps Phylicia Rashad, Bill Cosby and Moses Gunn will be there to join her in a rendition of "Moody's Mood for Love." Of course, that might be much more likely were Moses Gunn actually still alive.

Another point for progress

This is a paraphrased actual conversation I had with my mother last night, while telling her about my trip to Fire Island this weekend for a concert as part of the New York City Gay Men's Chorus:

MOM: So, are you ready for the concert?
ME: Yeah, if anyone's there to hear it.
MOM: Why do you say that? Haven't they sold any tickets?
ME: Oh, I'm sure they have. But it's not exactly easy to get there, so we're mostly depending on the locals. I think mostly older, rich folks stay there.
MOM: Oh. I always thought mostly gay people live there.
ME: Well, yes, that, too.
MOM: Well, good. Maybe you'll find yourself a rich gay man.

Yes, my mother, who only eight or so years ago had difficulty even saying the word "gay" is now wanting me to find a sugar daddy.

Review roundup -- A coupla white chicks sitting around talking

The Year of Magical Thinking
I had the pleasure of catching Vanessa Redgrave's "A Long Day's Journey Into Night" a few seasons ago, so getting to this show -- in which she becomes author Joan Didion to retell the experience of death of her husband and the subsequent illness and death of her daughter -- just to see the master thespian in action was not a priority. I'm glad I did, though, because it clearly cements Redgrave's status as one of the all-time greats. Calling this work a play is a stretch, as it's more of a florid memoir that is no more theatrical than a book on tape, but Redgrave transforms it far beyond that. Redgrave spends most of the time in a chair and still commands more presence than most leading actresses working today. The precise moments of both deaths, particularly a bit regarding a piece of jewelry, are crushing. At the beginning of the show, Didion warns the audience that this experience will happen to us all someday if it hasn't already. For those who have had it recently, this play will be shattering, as evidenced by the weeping woman who stayed clustered in her husband's arms even as the rest of us filed out of the theatre. For the rest of us, who have either had ample healing time or still have that inevitable experience hanging over us like the sword of Damocles, the show is a sometimes tedious but ultimately worthwhile piece.

Old Acquaintance
I'm not exactly sure why Roundabout felt the need to dust off this old John van Druten bagatelle, but I suppose giving two of New York's most stalwart character actresses a chance to shine is reason enough. Margaret Colin and Harriet Harris are playing the roles made famous by Bette Davis and Miriam Hopkins, respectively, in the film based on the play. Those unfamiliar with the film or play might be surprised that Colin, not the scenery-ravenous Harris, is playing the Davis role, but the character, the highbrow author Katherine Markham, is the together one here. Harris' Mildred Watson Drake, the more prolific writer of trashy novels, is the basket case. Not a whole heck of a lot happens in this show, especially considering the main romance centers around the completely obnoxious character of Drake's daughter Diedre. By obnoxious, I mean the way the character is written and no reflection on the actress playing it, here the capable Diane Davis. The show also seems incredibly drawn out thanks to two intermissions made necessary by massive set changes in the script. Still, the actresses are at their best and are enough to ensure that this "Old Acquaintance" isn't soon forgot. OK, I had to work that in, because everyone else is.

Thank you, church of Oprah

Interesting column from Michael Riedel (aka - the only reason I'd ever link to the New York Post) today about the newly found success of "The Color Purple," which recently added American Idol victor Fantasia to the cast as Celie. Here's a snippet:

Stand outside the Broadway Theatre on any given day, and you'll see four or five buses, some from as far away as Chattanooga and Atlanta, unloading their passengers.

(Not all the groups are from churches. The show also attracts student groups, labor groups, even family reunions.)

What was a steady stream of business last year has turned into a torrent since Fantasia joined the show in April. "The Color Purple" now regularly grosses more than $1 million a week, and advance ticket sales are nearing $10 million.

Church groups are an enormous and, for Broadway, which has long struggled to attract black audiences, relatively untapped market.

Ebenezer African Methodist alone has a 10,000-member congregation. The church has already sent two groups to "The Color Purple" and plans to send more in the fall.

Now, what I find intriguing is not that an American Idol winner has breathed new life into what had been a somewhat struggling show. No, what I find intriguing is that this musical has found such an audience among churches.

The musical version of "The Color Purple" deals with the lesbian relationship between Shug and Celie in a tasteful but quite frank way. One of the loveliest, truest moments in the show is the duet they share, and they even swap a kiss onstage. And the churches keep coming. Somehow, I suspect that a good portion of them are not gay-affirming churches, either.

Pam's House Blend, which has done a fantastic job of chronicling the issue of homophobia in the black church, mentioned a similar disconnect a while back -- UPDATE: thanks, Pam, for sending me the link -- talking about a group of church ladies who in the same breath ridiculed a passing drag queen and mentioned how they wanted to see the latest Tyler Perry project in which he performed in drag as big momma Madea.

Of course, this should surprise none of us. All of us, particularly those of us from more rural areas, probably know people -- perhaps even family members -- who are virulently homophobic but have no problem with us as individuals. Well, guess what? That's a step. It's why we come out, folks. It's why we tell our stories. It's why we celebrate pride.

Happy pride, all. I'll be serving drinks in the VIP section at the pier dance this Sunday, so say hi if you're in the area!

Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now

A little Brazoria County anecdote that that makes a nice segue from "Radio Golf..."

When I was still a Texan, our community theatre put on a production of August Wilson's "The Piano Lesson." I adored the show, but since there were obviously no parts for me to play, I volunteered to be its stage manager.

The production, staged in the round, was pretty fabulous, if I do say so myself. One night, however, we noticed on the monitors that one audience member wandered out the wrong exit in the middle of the performance.

Kenny, the uber-hot guy who worked maintenance at the arts center, a cyclist with an absolutely fantastic body -- er, what was I talking about? Anyway, Kenny went back to check on her and saw her squatting in the corner. He asked her if she was all right, and she stood and said, "I am now," and returned to her seat. It was then he noticed the puddle.

Yes, the woman had urinated in the corner. Apparently, she had gone to look for the bathroom, gotten confused in the pitch-black backstage area and couldn't wait any longer. And we're not talking about a blue-hair matinee-goer, either. This was a woman in her 40s at most. And the kicker? She returned to her seat and watched the rest of the show as if nothing had happened.

Fortunately, urine-mopping didn't fall under my stage managerial duties. Poor Kenny. But -- and I can't remember if this was an apocryphal part of the story or not -- he got his reward. At the season's end, the co-directors presented him with a T-shirt that had the letters "iano" blacked out. Lesson learned.

Weekend review roundup -- "Radio Golf"

"Radio Golf," the final play in August Wilson's decade-by-decade cycle of the 20th Century black experience, is certainly not a hole-in-one, or even a birdie or an eagle. But it is a respectable par and a fitting last piece of the puzzle to the Wilson canon.

Three of the five characters in the show -- rising political star and real estate developer Harmond Wilks (Harry Lennix), his Lady Macbeth-lite wife Mame (Tonya Pinkins) and yuppie Roosevelt Hicks (newcomer James A. Williams) -- almost feel anachronistic. Considering Wilson's delicious control of language, to hear them chat about Starbucks and Whole Foods or listen to En Vogue on the radio seems like Richard III shouting "My kingdom for a Mercedes!"

The message, too, seems a bit heavy-handed at times. There are far too many lines that sound designed to merely elicit "mmm-hmms" from the audience. No matter. Despite its shortcomings, the play is consistently entertaining, ripe with some great humor and sterling performances from all involved, particular Tony nominees and Wilson veterans John Earl Jelks and Anthony Chisholm as the folks whom, unlike the others, Starbucks-world success has eluded. Pity the show's not lasting longer than it is.

Note from home

Dear blogosphere,

Please excuse Mike's absence from blogging these past few days. Or should that be last two days? He never knows, as two of his editors have each insisted on a different rule throughout his career. See, one thought "last" was too doom and gloom, indicating while that there wouldn't be any more days following, while the other thought "past" was too vague, as any day in history is technically a "past" day and therefore does not necessarily refer to the two days immediately preceding today.

But I digress. My poor son has been very, very ill with a disease known as work overload. He's doing one of his major projects for the year at the office, which entails trying to wrest sometimes confidential business information from about five dozen hotel companies and owners. Some of them have been much nicer about it than others, but he prefers not to name names. He also has to throw together a data-rich story of about 3,000 words at the same time and will be doing that most of this weekend.

At the same time, he's preparing for his Monday concert so he doesn't have to mouth "watermelon" during the patter-ish "Imaginary Guy" song. That tricky Lorraine Feather!

He plans to be back in action very soon and will certainly be making up the work he missed during his absence.

Sincerely,
Mike's Mom

p.s. You can probably see the family resemblance in our writing styles!

Lying to you through song

Once again, I'd like to give myself a little shameless plug, as it's time for yet another concert with the New York City Gay Men's Chorus. This time--next Monday, 8 p.m. at the Nokia Theatre in Times Square, to be precise--we're focusing on the music of Billy Strayhorn in a new work, "Take the A Train."

Never heard of Strayhorn? To be honest, neither had I until not too long ago, but I was certainly familiar with his work: "Satin Doll," "Lush Life," and, of course, the title song. Strayhorn, who is most known for his 20 years working with Duke Ellington, was an out gay man, and it's pretty darn obvious when you listen to his lyrics.

And, of course, it's not just us you'll be seeing. We've got two great soloists: Darius de Haas, who has put out a full album interpreting Strayhorn's work, and Judy Blazer, a dynamo who now has a supporting role in "LoveMusik." Writer Jeffrey Lane, last represented on Broadway with "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels," penned the book, and Tony winner Joanna Gleason is directing the stage part of the show. Not a bad crew if I say so myself.

I'll admit that it took me a while to warm up to this music. I do like jazz, but I wasn't used to choral arrangements of it at all. The chromatics can be quite difficult to hear, particularly as it seems my part ends every single song on a sixth of a major. What's more, some of the baritone notes are NOT baritone notes, being much further down or even below the staff than I ever care to see! But I've truly come to enjoy it, and after hearing it with the entire band last night, I'm more confident than ever to egg people to come see this. One night only!

Oh, but I should warn you that the title song is a lie -- on weekends, at least. Seeing how sporadic A train service has been since the beginning of the year, it's no longer the quickest way to Harlem. Should we sing "You must take the D train" instead?

Hooray for my C minus!

So, my Tony predictions were 72 percent correct. My major mistake was underestimating the zeitgeist associated with the two lead shows as well as the apparent dislike surrounding one particular talented actor.

Where I was right: Best play, best musical, best book of a musical, best revival of a play, theatrical event, lead actor in a play, lead actress in a play, lead actress in a musical, featured actor in a play, featured actress in a play, featured actress in a musical, featured actor in a musical, direction of a musical, scenic design of a play, costume design of a play, costume design of a musical, lighting design of a play, lighting design of a musical.

Where I went wrong:
Best original score, choreography, orchestrations
Truly, is there straight-ticket voting for the Tonys? Orchestrations I'll concede, but how nice that the stunning "Mary Poppins" choreography (the "Curtains" piece wasn't as showy as it could have been) came so soon after that award was given. And, let's see what song the Julie Wilson du jour is still sticking in her cabaret in 60 years: "The Bitch of Living" or "Another Winter in a Summer Town."

Best revival of a musical
I should have gone with the odds on this one. I didn't mind being wrong on this one, although it's a pity that "110 in the Shade" went home empty-handed.

Lead actor in a musical
Wow! Upset of the night. Raul Esparza's more rabid fans are already sharpening their claws, so David Hyde Pierce, God bless him, might want to increase his security detail for the next few days.

Director of a play
I said in my predictions I was probably wrong here. So, in a way, wasn't I really right?

Scenic design of a musical
In this case, it was overestimation of a zeitgeist that never really happened. Ah, well. Poppins deserved it. The house even upstaged some of the actors.

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.