The other day, I realized that I was approximately 8 minutes and 31 years from Camp Arrowhead--where I was packed off in 1979. I remember it distinctly because Vivian Vance died that summer and it was the first time I was away from home for an extended period of time.
NOT THE BEST IDEA...
When you're twelve and your concept of team sports extend only to brunch and shopping--and hormones are doing what hormones are gonna DO at that age--to be surrounded--in the freakin' wilderness by a bunch of other feral, sports loving boys is an invitation to abuse, terror and confusement.
Paraphrasing-- it was a horrible experience but for winning a horse show and learning how to sail on Lake Summit. I was never more homesick in my life. And there were spiders... BIG SPIDERS... the kind with visible, unblinking eyes, fangs... and HAIR.
GOD!
So, cut to 2010--thirty one years later, I am doing a play at an Equity theatre here and realize that I am closer than I ever wanted to be again to this place, but seeing as how I was here, I thought--well, might as well go and put the demons to bed.
I drove off the highway, on to a state road.. then on to a county road, then onto some gravel... Turning up the radio VERY loud to a current station, I tried to remind myself that I am a 44 year old, grown man. A few deep breaths, then a turn onto the property to find that NOTHING HAS CHANGED THE SLIGHTEST BIT IN OVER THREE DECADES. Holy crap.
The current and very kind staff (who had seen our show here in Flat Rock) allowed me carte blanche to roam as long as I was long gone by three as that was when they locked the gates. As that scenario was far too Dante-esque to contemplate, I turned pale, gulped and quickly agreed.
I started by heading to cabin 5... my cell-- I mean home for five long weeks. Surprise led to complete shock when I saw that there was still graffiti on the walls and ceilings going back to 1957. I found my old bed and laid down on it. When I saw, "Preston Dyar. 1979. I HATE it here!!!", on the wall I jumped to my feet and high-tailed it out the door.
Walking all over the place, I tried to come to grips with what had been an unusually scrappy and miserable summer. I realized that it was not the place... The place was idyllic and absolutely charming... nor was it SOLELY the other kids. I knew that I was ... well... an UNUSUAL child, so I had to take some responsibility for it all.
Roaming every square inch of the place, smelling long gone scents of trees and cedar that made the logs of the cabins, I forgave the others... the place... and myself.
Joining me on this little uphill schlep on Memory Lane was an Irish Setter puppy that truly refused to let me be alone until I got back to my waiting car.
It was lovely to have the company, because frankly, I could see this turning into a Stephen King movie at any moment.
As I drove away--knowing that I would never see the place again, I locked myself more firmly in the present knowing that the distant past was just that. Remote and VERY past.
Then I pulled into Umi and ate my own weight in sushi and raised a glass to old wounds, new lessons and the grace that unites them both.
Then I took a VERY long nap.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Flat Rock, My Ass.
Two days of gardening in Flat Rock, North Carolina at my friend's house.
The name of the town in this particular case is misleading as the rocks are not so much flat as shattered into hundreds of pieces and scattered about the back garden of her place.
Day one included denuding the area of every weed known to mankind and getting lashed across the face with a swathe of poison oak. Lovely. Yet, we managed to get the area clear and then take off to all the nurseries of the area with a vengeance and purchase a Japanese Maple and a "Burning Bush". Lovely Autumn additions to what is becoming an Asian-inspired, terraced rock garden.
Dig the hole, add the soil, scream at what you thought was a rock as it uncurls itself into some creepy hybrid of Cricket/Locust/Tarantula and run for the refrigerator where all the Coors Light is kept. Sit for a few moments, sweat like a field hand, stare blandly into space, start an argument--just to get the blood flowing and then back to the Back 40.
By the end of the first day, we really began to have something nice.
Day 2:
The Rental of the Log Splitter. A GIANT Jurassic Maple Tree fell over in their yard and the bottom-most parts of the trunk are positioned around their fire pit. The rest of this monstrous tree snakes off into the woods like some long dead, serpentine remnant. As we hauled them all over to the log splitter, I pulled all the weeds (some taller than I) out of the soft ground. At 9 am, we started a fire and at 11 pm that night, it was still going. Unbelievable. Logs, rotten fence, weeds and Rhododendrons all chucked on this inferno as we saw a garden emerge.
On a personal note, I loathe Rhododendrons.
They are gritty, bulbous and the flowers are ugly.
Like dirty, fat people with bad hair. No wonder it's the Regional Flower of The South.
12 pain-killers, umpteen beers and countless cracks and groans later, I returned home to sleep. We later sat around the fire pit and roasted hot dogs, made S'mores (Have never had those things... wow) and drank champagne...
From cursing the ground in the am, to drone-like work in the pm, to catatonic champagne stare in the darkness, "Never again!!", became... "Look at all that wood we found... You know... an ARBOR...and what about Wisteria???"
Bland stares became bright-eyed, whispering complicity as our backs heal, her husband rolls his eyes and we think about tomorrow...
The name of the town in this particular case is misleading as the rocks are not so much flat as shattered into hundreds of pieces and scattered about the back garden of her place.
Day one included denuding the area of every weed known to mankind and getting lashed across the face with a swathe of poison oak. Lovely. Yet, we managed to get the area clear and then take off to all the nurseries of the area with a vengeance and purchase a Japanese Maple and a "Burning Bush". Lovely Autumn additions to what is becoming an Asian-inspired, terraced rock garden.
Dig the hole, add the soil, scream at what you thought was a rock as it uncurls itself into some creepy hybrid of Cricket/Locust/Tarantula and run for the refrigerator where all the Coors Light is kept. Sit for a few moments, sweat like a field hand, stare blandly into space, start an argument--just to get the blood flowing and then back to the Back 40.
By the end of the first day, we really began to have something nice.
Day 2:
The Rental of the Log Splitter. A GIANT Jurassic Maple Tree fell over in their yard and the bottom-most parts of the trunk are positioned around their fire pit. The rest of this monstrous tree snakes off into the woods like some long dead, serpentine remnant. As we hauled them all over to the log splitter, I pulled all the weeds (some taller than I) out of the soft ground. At 9 am, we started a fire and at 11 pm that night, it was still going. Unbelievable. Logs, rotten fence, weeds and Rhododendrons all chucked on this inferno as we saw a garden emerge.
On a personal note, I loathe Rhododendrons.
They are gritty, bulbous and the flowers are ugly.
Like dirty, fat people with bad hair. No wonder it's the Regional Flower of The South.
12 pain-killers, umpteen beers and countless cracks and groans later, I returned home to sleep. We later sat around the fire pit and roasted hot dogs, made S'mores (Have never had those things... wow) and drank champagne...
From cursing the ground in the am, to drone-like work in the pm, to catatonic champagne stare in the darkness, "Never again!!", became... "Look at all that wood we found... You know... an ARBOR...and what about Wisteria???"
Bland stares became bright-eyed, whispering complicity as our backs heal, her husband rolls his eyes and we think about tomorrow...
Sunday, August 8, 2010
We are winding down a run of The Producers here at Flat Rock Playhouse and it has been nothing but nonstop joy to be onstage in this production.
I feel as if something terrible is going to happen to me because it is truly the most fun I have ever had on stage. The songs are in my key, the comedy is a joy to play and the damned dress fits!!!!
It will be sad to put this away, but this is moving to the top of my resume.
As always, it is a joy to be here.
Our audiences have ranged from joyfully intelligent (getting every nuance and joke) to silent and hostile (not getting any of it and probably thought they were about to see South Pacific), but I don't care as this wins the prize for THE best production I have ever been a part of. Working with old friends, making new ones, getting giddy reviews, cooking for "framily" and laughing my butt in rehearsals and backstage at old and new jokes.
It is a bit scary to return to being a nameless New Yorker, but shows like this are the reason I am in this business and I can only hope to play the part again!
Thanks, guys and gals of FRP!
I feel as if something terrible is going to happen to me because it is truly the most fun I have ever had on stage. The songs are in my key, the comedy is a joy to play and the damned dress fits!!!!
It will be sad to put this away, but this is moving to the top of my resume.
As always, it is a joy to be here.
Our audiences have ranged from joyfully intelligent (getting every nuance and joke) to silent and hostile (not getting any of it and probably thought they were about to see South Pacific), but I don't care as this wins the prize for THE best production I have ever been a part of. Working with old friends, making new ones, getting giddy reviews, cooking for "framily" and laughing my butt in rehearsals and backstage at old and new jokes.
It is a bit scary to return to being a nameless New Yorker, but shows like this are the reason I am in this business and I can only hope to play the part again!
Thanks, guys and gals of FRP!
Monday, June 7, 2010
Halal, Help and Humour
Had the great idea to make Chateaubriand last evening. STUPIDLY, having lived in Manhattan in the past--where I can pretty much be assured of getting cuts of meat without need of a Berlitz guide, I thought I could pretty much just walk into any butcher and ask.
Ah... silly me.
First Stop. C-Town. No such luck. Didn't have it, but at least she spoke English... well, sort of.
Then off to Trade Fair--deep in the heart of the Hood, however it's open 24 hours and USUALLY has everything and anything. Just never need to ask anyone who works there a question. It's not a language barrier because I asked in Spanish. They're just kind of ...dim. We went to the Halal butcher in the back (yes, the same place in which I was asked last December if goose was meat) and asked for tenderloin. He said yes, and handed us cheap sirloin, then argued that yes this WAS what we were looking for. Deciding not to take the meat and hurl it at the surly son of a bitch, I let my FAR more diplomatic roommate handle the situation.
Off to butcher number three.
Another Halal joint on Jamaica Blvd. Replete with no a/c, no refrigeration to speak of, flies, an unidentifiable smell of putrification and a glass counter full of severed and bloody GOAT HEADS.
I think I managed a gasp and clutch, before I almost ran to the car.
BAAAAAACK to C-town where Mrs. Kim gave us "good price" on steaks. Served that with demi-glace, Gratinee Dauphinois, Mussels steamed in Vermouth, butter, shallots, parsley, bay leaves, thyme, salt and pepper, my roommate's near perfection in the form of Ceviche and a Tarte Fraise which we just ate out of the plate without cutting it. "Family Style". Sounds better than, "We went at it like refugees".
Overwhelming heat, alleviated by a newly bought and oddly successful fan in the window and hauling my a/c down several flights of stairs.
Last big dinner of the Spring.
Two more weeks of this nonsense and then off to the mountains of North Carolina.
Ah... silly me.
First Stop. C-Town. No such luck. Didn't have it, but at least she spoke English... well, sort of.
Then off to Trade Fair--deep in the heart of the Hood, however it's open 24 hours and USUALLY has everything and anything. Just never need to ask anyone who works there a question. It's not a language barrier because I asked in Spanish. They're just kind of ...dim. We went to the Halal butcher in the back (yes, the same place in which I was asked last December if goose was meat) and asked for tenderloin. He said yes, and handed us cheap sirloin, then argued that yes this WAS what we were looking for. Deciding not to take the meat and hurl it at the surly son of a bitch, I let my FAR more diplomatic roommate handle the situation.
Off to butcher number three.
Another Halal joint on Jamaica Blvd. Replete with no a/c, no refrigeration to speak of, flies, an unidentifiable smell of putrification and a glass counter full of severed and bloody GOAT HEADS.
I think I managed a gasp and clutch, before I almost ran to the car.
BAAAAAACK to C-town where Mrs. Kim gave us "good price" on steaks. Served that with demi-glace, Gratinee Dauphinois, Mussels steamed in Vermouth, butter, shallots, parsley, bay leaves, thyme, salt and pepper, my roommate's near perfection in the form of Ceviche and a Tarte Fraise which we just ate out of the plate without cutting it. "Family Style". Sounds better than, "We went at it like refugees".
Overwhelming heat, alleviated by a newly bought and oddly successful fan in the window and hauling my a/c down several flights of stairs.
Last big dinner of the Spring.
Two more weeks of this nonsense and then off to the mountains of North Carolina.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Lobster Night
Early morning yesterday and I staggered downstairs in the bathrobe and mismatched pajamas to start the coffee. I noticed the large ice chest on the butcher block, but didn't think much of it. Until it moved...
Screaming and vaulting over the couch, I remembered that my housemate had brought back lobsters from his trip to Maine.
Kept the little suckers on ice until I got home (New boss. In this novel, The Devil Prefers an Aisle Seat, but whatever) and started the lobster pot.
Tossed in some quartered white potatoes, thyme and corn along with the doomed crustaceans (yes, I know I am a Julia-holic-but in this case, simpler is better) and started clarifying the butter and lemon.
Time's up... Grabbed the tongs and hefted the little buggers out of the water. Perfectly timed, but annoyingly, the last one slipped off the tongs and fell back in the pot, splashing boiling water all over me. My souvenir of Lobster Night--aside from a growing waistline, is sadly a series of blisters across my stomach, hand and face.
Probably some sort of Jack-Vegetarian Kharma.
Screaming and vaulting over the couch, I remembered that my housemate had brought back lobsters from his trip to Maine.
Kept the little suckers on ice until I got home (New boss. In this novel, The Devil Prefers an Aisle Seat, but whatever) and started the lobster pot.
Tossed in some quartered white potatoes, thyme and corn along with the doomed crustaceans (yes, I know I am a Julia-holic-but in this case, simpler is better) and started clarifying the butter and lemon.
Time's up... Grabbed the tongs and hefted the little buggers out of the water. Perfectly timed, but annoyingly, the last one slipped off the tongs and fell back in the pot, splashing boiling water all over me. My souvenir of Lobster Night--aside from a growing waistline, is sadly a series of blisters across my stomach, hand and face.
Probably some sort of Jack-Vegetarian Kharma.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Looking For Work?
If anyone is looking for a job here in Gotham, I would like to take a moment from my normal rant and recommend having Solomon Page help you out.
When I first came back from parts wild and unknown, I rambled through every temp/placement agency I could find and then found this company. I don't really work with any other. No need.
Through Solomon Page, I have been placed with companies that have asked for me time and time again and I am paid a competitive salary.
This company listens, advises and then meticulously looks for the right fit for you.
So--if anyone out there is looking, and honeys-- in this economy, who isn't--give them a ring.
Solomon Page (212) 824-1560.
And now back to my regularly scheduled opinion...
When I first came back from parts wild and unknown, I rambled through every temp/placement agency I could find and then found this company. I don't really work with any other. No need.
Through Solomon Page, I have been placed with companies that have asked for me time and time again and I am paid a competitive salary.
This company listens, advises and then meticulously looks for the right fit for you.
So--if anyone out there is looking, and honeys-- in this economy, who isn't--give them a ring.
Solomon Page (212) 824-1560.
And now back to my regularly scheduled opinion...
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Loooooovely dinner last night. First one at the new dining table with food that required a defibrulator.
Last hurrah before decamping to Flat Rock/Theatre Narnia.
Very happy that everything tasted decent, nothing was burned and botulism kept it's distance!
Something about cooking is just hypnotic, therapeutic and meditative.
Will be bringing the books to North Carolina to take over the kitchen of whomever lets me!
Last hurrah before decamping to Flat Rock/Theatre Narnia.
Very happy that everything tasted decent, nothing was burned and botulism kept it's distance!
Something about cooking is just hypnotic, therapeutic and meditative.
Will be bringing the books to North Carolina to take over the kitchen of whomever lets me!
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Saute-ing and No Sleep
Well, that's it. I am officially a Foodie Geek.
I am fixing dinner for some folks tomorrow night and in lieu of said event (very excited as there is now a table to eat off of... if we could just get some decent chairs), I Netflix-ed Julia Child's, The French Chef to siphon off as many Boeuf Bourgignon tips as humanly possible.
This morning was spent quartering mushrooms, peeling and scoring Pearl Onions, making Lardons (Ooooooooh look it up. I had to.) for the bacon, and basically just getting everything ready to pop into the oven tomorrow.
Picking up the beef from the butcher, etc...
Feeling very Mrs. Dalloway about the whole thing, but sad to see my friends leave for California.
I was going to make the Boeuf Bourgignon today, but having crawled in at 4:30 am from ...oy...A STRIP CLUB... (wasn't my idea) I just didn't have the energy.
One of the strippers--in her attempt to offer a lap dance sat square on me. I asked, "Please. No... Now please, would you just please get up?". She breathed, "Ah darlink... Dooon't be shyyyy", with some unplaceable Eastern European accent. Retorting, "I'm not shy, just gay, now shift it, ya succubus"... definitely lessened the lap activity.
At any rate, bottle service, a VIP booth and more silicone than could build an igloo made for rather surreal evening/morning.
Truly an odd way to spend an Monday.
Ah well.. at least I could sit down.
All right... Off to The Guggenheim to try not to throw drinks in the face of pretentious art twits and then back to the oven.
Will more or less cook it tonight once the headache goes away.
I am fixing dinner for some folks tomorrow night and in lieu of said event (very excited as there is now a table to eat off of... if we could just get some decent chairs), I Netflix-ed Julia Child's, The French Chef to siphon off as many Boeuf Bourgignon tips as humanly possible.
This morning was spent quartering mushrooms, peeling and scoring Pearl Onions, making Lardons (Ooooooooh look it up. I had to.) for the bacon, and basically just getting everything ready to pop into the oven tomorrow.
Picking up the beef from the butcher, etc...
Feeling very Mrs. Dalloway about the whole thing, but sad to see my friends leave for California.
I was going to make the Boeuf Bourgignon today, but having crawled in at 4:30 am from ...oy...A STRIP CLUB... (wasn't my idea) I just didn't have the energy.
One of the strippers--in her attempt to offer a lap dance sat square on me. I asked, "Please. No... Now please, would you just please get up?". She breathed, "Ah darlink... Dooon't be shyyyy", with some unplaceable Eastern European accent. Retorting, "I'm not shy, just gay, now shift it, ya succubus"... definitely lessened the lap activity.
At any rate, bottle service, a VIP booth and more silicone than could build an igloo made for rather surreal evening/morning.
Truly an odd way to spend an Monday.
Ah well.. at least I could sit down.
All right... Off to The Guggenheim to try not to throw drinks in the face of pretentious art twits and then back to the oven.
Will more or less cook it tonight once the headache goes away.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Caught a matinee of A Little Night Music at The Walter Kerr.
Angela Lansbury, Catherine Zeta Jones, Leigh Ann Larkin, Erin Davie, Arron Lazar--really, realllllllly good (although there was something Elaine Stritch-like about Zeta Jones... Not that I am complaining) She really nailed it. Earthier than other Desirees I have seen.
Angela Lansbury gives hope to anyone, anywhere who pray for career longevity as she is completely remarkable, subtle and sounds amazing. Arron Lazar--GREAT accent work and formidably talented. Erin Davie (my friend Dana said, "When the hell did Erin Davie become 40?!?!?") sublime, Leigh Ann Larkin's Petra-diction perfect (Miller's Son is a bitch of a song!) and funny as hell.
The rest... er, beige. The actress playing the ingenue belted her way through the entire show. I kept waiting for her bust into Rose's Turn any second and Henrik had his matinee falsetto on.
The understudy for Frederick... Meh... But it's hard to cover a part in a Sondheim show.
Anyway, it was fantastic to see it revived, although in the 8th row mezzanine, my knees started to feel like they had ground glass for joints and I was sitting like a Heiroglyph (Is the Mezzanine where they put children and Asians? Because frankly I felt like a freakin' Hippo up there).
I love this score so much and any orchestra that makes use of a bassoon has my attention (I was forced to play one in Jr. High... until the damned thing broke... twice... I then switched to the flute because I wanted something to fit in my locker... plus... ooooooo shiny)
Anyway, such a great score... could do without Rhapsody of Unwrapping Candy in the cheap seats. Matinee audiences should be forced to go to some form of training because it really is a Colosseum-like vibe at work. Kept expecting Angela Lansbury to hurl a spear at the altakaka square dancing with her Baby Ruth bar... ANNOYING.
At any rate... if it takes a movie star to get people to come see works like this, well so be it. As long as the movie stars can do the work, and these sure as hell step up to the plate and deliver.
Angela Lansbury, Catherine Zeta Jones, Leigh Ann Larkin, Erin Davie, Arron Lazar--really, realllllllly good (although there was something Elaine Stritch-like about Zeta Jones... Not that I am complaining) She really nailed it. Earthier than other Desirees I have seen.
Angela Lansbury gives hope to anyone, anywhere who pray for career longevity as she is completely remarkable, subtle and sounds amazing. Arron Lazar--GREAT accent work and formidably talented. Erin Davie (my friend Dana said, "When the hell did Erin Davie become 40?!?!?") sublime, Leigh Ann Larkin's Petra-diction perfect (Miller's Son is a bitch of a song!) and funny as hell.
The rest... er, beige. The actress playing the ingenue belted her way through the entire show. I kept waiting for her bust into Rose's Turn any second and Henrik had his matinee falsetto on.
The understudy for Frederick... Meh... But it's hard to cover a part in a Sondheim show.
Anyway, it was fantastic to see it revived, although in the 8th row mezzanine, my knees started to feel like they had ground glass for joints and I was sitting like a Heiroglyph (Is the Mezzanine where they put children and Asians? Because frankly I felt like a freakin' Hippo up there).
I love this score so much and any orchestra that makes use of a bassoon has my attention (I was forced to play one in Jr. High... until the damned thing broke... twice... I then switched to the flute because I wanted something to fit in my locker... plus... ooooooo shiny)
Anyway, such a great score... could do without Rhapsody of Unwrapping Candy in the cheap seats. Matinee audiences should be forced to go to some form of training because it really is a Colosseum-like vibe at work. Kept expecting Angela Lansbury to hurl a spear at the altakaka square dancing with her Baby Ruth bar... ANNOYING.
At any rate... if it takes a movie star to get people to come see works like this, well so be it. As long as the movie stars can do the work, and these sure as hell step up to the plate and deliver.
Hello, I Must be Going.
Thomas Wolfe once said that, "You can't go home again.". Well, you CAN, but it requires planning, the Internet and you're always older, hopefully wiser ...and thinner (as long as we're hoping, here...).
I just found out that my dear friend T. is coming back to Flat Rock with me to play "Leo" in The Producers. This makes me happy beyond belief as he's just so talented that I have to lie down. Not to mention an utter blast to be around.
It's also a trifle bittersweet, as two others that I truly love will not be there and will be missed tremendously. Still--- Two outta four ain't bad! This place is in the mountains and directly across from Connemarra (Carl Sandburg's Farm). I mean... the only thing that's missing are Unicorns and a talking lion...
A friend is taking me to see A Little Night Music on Broadway today and I am QUITE chuffed as it is one of my all time favourite scores and I have never actually seen the show.
To quote, La Martha... "It's a GOOD thing." Yes, this is a Spring of many good things. A true turn around from a year of not so much. That's the 13th hour on my clock, by the way, and for the past year, the time has read half past not so much o' clock. I'll digress before I break into a "Woman on the Verge" number...
I DO love good news.
On the cooking front, a farewell dinner for my friend P. as she loads up the covered Lexus and heads off to San Diego for Grad School. Three Broadway shows and several national commercials under her belt and she's going back to school. Seriously. That's a level of dedication that requires a nap. I have recurring nightmares that I am still IN school, so volunteering to return--regardless of the League's Ivy, at the VERY least, is deserving of a toast or six.
Lots of goodbyes and changes, but several returns.
The menu will be Pear and Stilton Salad on Boston Bibb lettuce with a Sherry Shallot Vinaigrette (yes, I'm making the Vinaigrette), Boeuf Bourgignon, something with Potatoes and pretentious name and maybe a Bavaroise. T.L. is making his famed Ceviche that is so delicious it could make Rocco Dispirito blush. Lots of wine followed by me hoisting my carcass out of bed and slapping on a tie to temp the following am. Perhaps the Hedge Fund Partners will enjoy some leftovers... Sigh...
Perhaps I will enjoy being face down on my computer for most of the morning until the Vivarin kicks in.
Leaving for the mountains in a month and thrilled.
I just found out that my dear friend T. is coming back to Flat Rock with me to play "Leo" in The Producers. This makes me happy beyond belief as he's just so talented that I have to lie down. Not to mention an utter blast to be around.
It's also a trifle bittersweet, as two others that I truly love will not be there and will be missed tremendously. Still--- Two outta four ain't bad! This place is in the mountains and directly across from Connemarra (Carl Sandburg's Farm). I mean... the only thing that's missing are Unicorns and a talking lion...
A friend is taking me to see A Little Night Music on Broadway today and I am QUITE chuffed as it is one of my all time favourite scores and I have never actually seen the show.
To quote, La Martha... "It's a GOOD thing." Yes, this is a Spring of many good things. A true turn around from a year of not so much. That's the 13th hour on my clock, by the way, and for the past year, the time has read half past not so much o' clock. I'll digress before I break into a "Woman on the Verge" number...
I DO love good news.
On the cooking front, a farewell dinner for my friend P. as she loads up the covered Lexus and heads off to San Diego for Grad School. Three Broadway shows and several national commercials under her belt and she's going back to school. Seriously. That's a level of dedication that requires a nap. I have recurring nightmares that I am still IN school, so volunteering to return--regardless of the League's Ivy, at the VERY least, is deserving of a toast or six.
Lots of goodbyes and changes, but several returns.
The menu will be Pear and Stilton Salad on Boston Bibb lettuce with a Sherry Shallot Vinaigrette (yes, I'm making the Vinaigrette), Boeuf Bourgignon, something with Potatoes and pretentious name and maybe a Bavaroise. T.L. is making his famed Ceviche that is so delicious it could make Rocco Dispirito blush. Lots of wine followed by me hoisting my carcass out of bed and slapping on a tie to temp the following am. Perhaps the Hedge Fund Partners will enjoy some leftovers... Sigh...
Perhaps I will enjoy being face down on my computer for most of the morning until the Vivarin kicks in.
Leaving for the mountains in a month and thrilled.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Just saw my old friend Lois Sage return to NYC last night to do a cabaret at The Laurie Beechman Theatre. She was wonderful. Has one of the best voices in the business and has taken twenty years off, give or take, to raise a family.
It was so wonderful to see her back in action again as she has so much to give.
Nice to know that things can turn around at any age, for anybody.
Other great news is that I will be returning to Flat Rock Playhouse to play Roger deBris in The Producers... Could NOT be more happy about THAT, as it is one of those parts that you'd sell a sister or brother for!!!
Flat Rock is a place I love dearly and their shows are always an absolute blast to be a part of. A level of professionalism that just makes you never want to leave once that final curtain rings down.
Things seem to be slooooooooowly turning around career-wise. It's been a tough few years back in the city from being oversesas. Getting my Equity card back, getting signed with an agent and getting WORK. So, seeing Lois start over is pretty inspirational.
Rock on, sistah.
Thank God...
It was so wonderful to see her back in action again as she has so much to give.
Nice to know that things can turn around at any age, for anybody.
Other great news is that I will be returning to Flat Rock Playhouse to play Roger deBris in The Producers... Could NOT be more happy about THAT, as it is one of those parts that you'd sell a sister or brother for!!!
Flat Rock is a place I love dearly and their shows are always an absolute blast to be a part of. A level of professionalism that just makes you never want to leave once that final curtain rings down.
Things seem to be slooooooooowly turning around career-wise. It's been a tough few years back in the city from being oversesas. Getting my Equity card back, getting signed with an agent and getting WORK. So, seeing Lois start over is pretty inspirational.
Rock on, sistah.
Thank God...
Monday, April 5, 2010
Easter and The Yankees
I went to Mass at St. Francis' Church on 31rst Street yesterday. Lovely place. I like The Franciscans. Very appreciative of Life and loving of nature, living things, etc... and there is a real zeal and encouragement to question things. My inner Half-Jew loves that and I have truly enjoyed my time in this place. Lovely environment and I just feel good when I'm there. I could launch a million explanations as to the whys and the wherefores, but the bottom line is how it makes me feel. And the sum total of all of the pros and cons is that "it makes me feel good!"
So... anyway, Easter Sunday. Kind of a big day in the Christian world...
I get there at five to 11--forgetting that people who aren't in weekly attendance sort of come out of the woodwork for the "Big Days". There is no place--I mean NO PLACE, to sit. Totally SRO. I am getting nervous as the thing is about to start and I don't want to get caught wandering around--nor do I want to stand with my gamy leg. FINALLY, someone official comes up to me and asks me if I want a seat. I smile and say "Yes, please!!!". Thinking I'll end up in the back because as a non-Catholic I don't get up for Communion and I really don't need all and sundry seeing me sitting down in an empty pew wondering what I've done to keep me from going up to the priest (Small Town-itis even in Manhattan), but I blithely follow the lady with the badge.
She then heads up the aisle, onto the altar and then puts me square in the middle of the twelve seats in plain view of the 2,000 plus congregation. Oy... so... the beautiful Mass begins (trumpets, clarions, choir, piano, GORGEOUS voices, stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight) and all I can think of is how to avoid looking like a refugee from The Scarlet Letter, sitting up there on the main altar with everyone seeing lonesome little me NOT going to Communion...
So... The priest begins to wander through the church, with the vat of holy water and the very large, very golden censer to spray it all over us. Total silence in the church as he comes to the twelve of us first in the "Royal Family" seats.
"In the name of the Father, the Son and--BAM!!!!!!!!" The very gold, very heavy end of the censer flies off, arcs through the air and hits me square in the chest. I go tottering backward and the whole church gasps. I look at the priest and his eyes are open VERY wide and I think I remember saying, "I CAUGHT IT!!!!!!" (a feat in itself for anyone who knows my lack of hand/eye coordination... My people don't catch.) At which point, everyone starts laughing and my friend Joe (a wonderful associate in the church) comes running up to me to get it back saying, "THAT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!!"
Um... I'm not Catholic, but I gathered that.
So ... Communion was the least of my worries with The Holy Water Follies being played out in front.
I wonder if St. Francis' has a baseball team...
So... anyway, Easter Sunday. Kind of a big day in the Christian world...
I get there at five to 11--forgetting that people who aren't in weekly attendance sort of come out of the woodwork for the "Big Days". There is no place--I mean NO PLACE, to sit. Totally SRO. I am getting nervous as the thing is about to start and I don't want to get caught wandering around--nor do I want to stand with my gamy leg. FINALLY, someone official comes up to me and asks me if I want a seat. I smile and say "Yes, please!!!". Thinking I'll end up in the back because as a non-Catholic I don't get up for Communion and I really don't need all and sundry seeing me sitting down in an empty pew wondering what I've done to keep me from going up to the priest (Small Town-itis even in Manhattan), but I blithely follow the lady with the badge.
She then heads up the aisle, onto the altar and then puts me square in the middle of the twelve seats in plain view of the 2,000 plus congregation. Oy... so... the beautiful Mass begins (trumpets, clarions, choir, piano, GORGEOUS voices, stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight) and all I can think of is how to avoid looking like a refugee from The Scarlet Letter, sitting up there on the main altar with everyone seeing lonesome little me NOT going to Communion...
So... The priest begins to wander through the church, with the vat of holy water and the very large, very golden censer to spray it all over us. Total silence in the church as he comes to the twelve of us first in the "Royal Family" seats.
"In the name of the Father, the Son and--BAM!!!!!!!!" The very gold, very heavy end of the censer flies off, arcs through the air and hits me square in the chest. I go tottering backward and the whole church gasps. I look at the priest and his eyes are open VERY wide and I think I remember saying, "I CAUGHT IT!!!!!!" (a feat in itself for anyone who knows my lack of hand/eye coordination... My people don't catch.) At which point, everyone starts laughing and my friend Joe (a wonderful associate in the church) comes running up to me to get it back saying, "THAT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!!"
Um... I'm not Catholic, but I gathered that.
So ... Communion was the least of my worries with The Holy Water Follies being played out in front.
I wonder if St. Francis' has a baseball team...
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Start Spreeeeeeadin' the News...
The USS Intrepid is a battleship that saw active duty in WWII, Viet Nam and countless other military initiatives. As far as The USA is concerned, it is an absolute icon permanently moored off The West Side of Manhattan. Today it is a museum.
To those of us in the theatre who must support ourselves with jobs here and there between gigs, it is a place we cater-waiters occasionally and grudgingly trudge off to work. Grudgingly as it is a Grand Exodus to get there. The Blue Line Subway gets you as close as 8th and 49th and then there are long blocks to go in the cold past theatres, restaurants, apartments and eventually warehouses and buildings that belong to another century and whose use is now mysterious and at best, circumspect. Getting back after work is even more fun because--belieeeeeve me--you want to take a cab to either Penn Station (Ah, Kew Gardens), your apartment (if lucky enough to live in Midtown) or back to the E/C train because it is dark, late and potentially dangerous... even post gentrification of Hell's Kitchen. And puh-LEEZE---as long as Port Authority is nearby, it will ALWAYS be Hell's Kitchen regardless of what cute little name you want to attach to it. "Clinton"... Uh huh... and Shell Shock is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I digress.
You never know what you're going to have to put up with when you go to a catering gig. Here, you know it's a steel floor and a dodgy sewer system. Last night, add dressing up like a sailor in a tshirt, dog tags and little sailor hat... which sat on my big head like a yarmulke with fintails.
Adding to this discomfort, my cheap, black, polyester trousers decided to abandon ship and break the clasp, so I ran around trying to look as if my shirt were tucked in, when in reality I was praying to any handy deity to please at least keep my loose zipper half of the way up so said trousers would not slide South during the salad course.
During the set up, I noticed that the white, red and gold motif was a little on the MGM side--circa 1963... Did Jerry Lewis work for MGM? I don't know, but it looked like one of his sets.
Essentially it was some Australian company that was being treated to a concert--direct from Atlantic City... Cher, Bette, Liza, Diana and Sinatra lookalikes crooned/lyp synched into the wee hours whilst I tried to smile, serve coffee and keep my pants on.
Discomfort and embarassment reached sitcom potential when I realized that the Sinatra lookalike ("look" is all, because "sound a like" was beggaring belief) was someone I had a brief but memorable and sweet fling with 1,000 years ago.
Folks--nothing tops an evening when you must consistently walk past an old amour--dressed like an extra in South Pacific and schlepping dirty plates when they are clad in an Armani tux.
I sometimes wonder if my life is on pay-per-view up on Mount Olympus, or wherever the gods meet to laugh at we mere mortals....
The fun of this night kept exploding like a concussion grenade... Humiliation after degradation--
UNTIL--he and the drag queens began a rousing rendition of New York, New York.
Clad in Armani, surrounded by drag queens and a bad sound system--there he was, attempting a kick line. Ghosts of sailors past more than likely watching in amazement, I realized that while he may be in a tuxedo, and I was dressed like a cheap sailor we were equalized by the serving up of the cheesecake.
I like to think that mine was palatable.
To those of us in the theatre who must support ourselves with jobs here and there between gigs, it is a place we cater-waiters occasionally and grudgingly trudge off to work. Grudgingly as it is a Grand Exodus to get there. The Blue Line Subway gets you as close as 8th and 49th and then there are long blocks to go in the cold past theatres, restaurants, apartments and eventually warehouses and buildings that belong to another century and whose use is now mysterious and at best, circumspect. Getting back after work is even more fun because--belieeeeeve me--you want to take a cab to either Penn Station (Ah, Kew Gardens), your apartment (if lucky enough to live in Midtown) or back to the E/C train because it is dark, late and potentially dangerous... even post gentrification of Hell's Kitchen. And puh-LEEZE---as long as Port Authority is nearby, it will ALWAYS be Hell's Kitchen regardless of what cute little name you want to attach to it. "Clinton"... Uh huh... and Shell Shock is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I digress.
You never know what you're going to have to put up with when you go to a catering gig. Here, you know it's a steel floor and a dodgy sewer system. Last night, add dressing up like a sailor in a tshirt, dog tags and little sailor hat... which sat on my big head like a yarmulke with fintails.
Adding to this discomfort, my cheap, black, polyester trousers decided to abandon ship and break the clasp, so I ran around trying to look as if my shirt were tucked in, when in reality I was praying to any handy deity to please at least keep my loose zipper half of the way up so said trousers would not slide South during the salad course.
During the set up, I noticed that the white, red and gold motif was a little on the MGM side--circa 1963... Did Jerry Lewis work for MGM? I don't know, but it looked like one of his sets.
Essentially it was some Australian company that was being treated to a concert--direct from Atlantic City... Cher, Bette, Liza, Diana and Sinatra lookalikes crooned/lyp synched into the wee hours whilst I tried to smile, serve coffee and keep my pants on.
Discomfort and embarassment reached sitcom potential when I realized that the Sinatra lookalike ("look" is all, because "sound a like" was beggaring belief) was someone I had a brief but memorable and sweet fling with 1,000 years ago.
Folks--nothing tops an evening when you must consistently walk past an old amour--dressed like an extra in South Pacific and schlepping dirty plates when they are clad in an Armani tux.
I sometimes wonder if my life is on pay-per-view up on Mount Olympus, or wherever the gods meet to laugh at we mere mortals....
The fun of this night kept exploding like a concussion grenade... Humiliation after degradation--
UNTIL--he and the drag queens began a rousing rendition of New York, New York.
Clad in Armani, surrounded by drag queens and a bad sound system--there he was, attempting a kick line. Ghosts of sailors past more than likely watching in amazement, I realized that while he may be in a tuxedo, and I was dressed like a cheap sailor we were equalized by the serving up of the cheesecake.
I like to think that mine was palatable.
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