Someone Like Me

This is a song called "Someone Like Me" from Cyndi Lauper's underheard album (and for me, her masterpiece) Hat Full of Stars.

Cyndi's legacy to pop music will suffer because most of her best songs were never heard by a mass audience. Also, the instrumentation and production on her records are such a product of their time that today much of her music can sound dated.

That is the case with "Someone Like Me." But don't listen that way. Just hear the message. It's a song of self-discovery, of epiphany, that "aha moment" when you realize you deserve better than what you've settled into. I had one of those realizations recently myself, which is why I dug out this old gem.

And now I'm like singing it in the shower, cleaning the house to it, dancing around in my turban singing to a swiffer, "what's someone like me doing in a life like that?"

enjoy. hang in there. and be encouraged.

It's that time again

Did I Go Through With It? (Beard Blog 5)

DID I GO THROUGH WITH IT???

Well obviously Hurricane Sandy threw a wrench into my plans (and a Snapple machine in my general direction). Here's how I'm coping, what's in store, and the future of my beard!

Another Radio Appearance

Click Below to hear my post-hurricane wrap-up with Morning Radio Masterminds Bob & Sheri

Sloan on the Phone: SANDY'S AFTERMATH

The Aftermath of Hurricane Sandy in Pictures

Here's me serving Trash-Heap Eleganza on a recently landed Snapple machine. There's more 

AFTER THE JUMP

The Bob & Sheri Show

This morning I was featured on the nationally syndicated morning drive radio program The Bob & Sheri Show talking about Hurricane Sandy and how her impending wrath has affected the people of NYC. Click the link to listen to my segment, known as "Sloan on the Phone"

Hurricane Sandy! (Beard Blog 4)

an update on both the impending storm AND my impending beardlessness...

Share! Create! Unite!

The National School Climate Center recently held a fundraiser in midtown Manhattan to benefit it's anti-bullying initiative known as BULLYBUST: PROMOTING A COMMUNITY OF UPSTANDERS.

Attendees participated in a silent auction, bidding on items from jewelry to vacation packages. Also on hand was Satya Jewelry selling special bracelets featuring Gonesha, Hindu god known as the "remover of obstacles," and onyx, a gem they say is the "stone of endurance" and guides decision-making in challenging times.

Cassandra Bankson is a model and viral-video-internet-starlet who attended the event as the spokesperson for NSCC. She told the compelling story of her battle with bullying that became so severe, she left school to seek one-on-one instruction. (How's that for an ugly duckling story?!)

Donate to Decorate

Boy Meets Girl donated hoodies that people were able to decorate with words of encouragement to bullying victims. The hoodies were then to be donated to area schools working in conjunction with NSCC.

Also in attendance was Lee Hirsch, filmmaker and award-winning director of the documentary film Bully. Hirsch talked about the making of and the resulting impact of his film. It's a must-see. Check out the trailer below...

The Story of My Beard: episode 3

The Story of My Beard: episode 2

The Story of My Beard: episode 1

Me, my beard, and my quarter-life crisis...

Sad truth...

from an Anonymous New Yorker...

"Just when I get one aspect of my life together, I'll be damned if something else don't fall the fuck apart."

Seen Around Town: Upper Harlem

Give Me a Beat!

Yesterday I was walking around Union Square and noticed a drummer setting the rhythm for all the people walking by. Nearly everyone synched his or her gait to the drummer's beat as they passed. The performer is Alex Green.

Copy Editing The City

The M line is supposed to be ORANGE

The City's Best Muffin

Recently on a walk from Tribeca, I cut through China Town on my way to the Lower East Side. It's no surprise that certain parts of China Town at certain times of day smell bad. Fish market deliveries? This was one of those times.

But as I was walking I found an olfactory oasis. I stopped dead in my tracks when I smelled this sweet scent wafting about me. Then, like a bloodhound I spun around and followed my nose back to a small and nondescript storefront whose very existence would have been swallowed up in the painted scenery of Eldridge Street were it not for that glorious AROMA. Said oasis turned out to be called Panade Puffs and Pastries. The smell had been fresh mixed berry muffins baking in the oven.

After waiting five minutes for them to come out of the oven, I enjoyed an iced coffee and a muffin on a bench out front.The muffin was hot and sweet and light and moist and finished with a thin layer of just-crisp crust. You Must Go.

Traif, a Brooklyn Blemish

The thing one must become accustomed to when dining in the City is the propensity of restaurateurs to regard your patronage as a privilege THEY have bestowed upon YOU. And it makes me sick.

Dialogue with a pretty, often pre-occupied hostess usually begins something like this:
"Um. Hi. Do you need a table or something? Well the wait is going to be about 3 hours, so unless you have a reservation you might just wanna go fuck yourself. Theeenks."

And so it was, a few nights ago when a companion and I wandered into TRAIF on the outskirts of Williamsburg that we were greeted and treated in a similar fashion.

I won't bog down this post with details from the horrific service experience we were subjected to courtesy of a pert, self-important pig claiming to be the owner, but I will mention that the food (though downright stingy in proportion) was interestingly put together, however it took well over a half-hour to be delivered to the table we were SO LUCKY to have been seated at.

Oh, and do you know what TRAIF means? It means any food that is non-kosher. By the way, the restaurant is situated right in the middle of a Hasidic Jewish neighborhood. There's something about this that I find to be in poor taste.

My recommendation? How shall I put this? I'd sooner go hungry than ever return.

AfroPunk Festival

August 25 & 26 saw the return of the AfroPunk Festival at Commodore Barry Park in Fort Greene. Headlining acts at this free event were Erykah Badu and Janelle Monae, but the real stars of the weekend were the 30,000 attendees from punks to fashionistas to the fabulous of all complexions.

Shameless Self-Promotion

The Urban Boy Scout will no longer be used as a hub for my published works.

To stay abreast of my non-TUBS-related writing career, you may follow BySloanRollins.tumblr.com.

Come Out & Play

The Urban Boy Scout will be scouting for images and stories to bring you from today's AfroPunk Festival in Brooklyn. Come on out and say HELLO. It's free. Why not?

My latest Fitness Scheme

I happened upon a huge metal hula hoop covered in candy-colored foam rubber at the 99 Cents and Up store on Ludlow St near Delancey on Manhattan's Lower East Side.

It is a very cheaply made metal ring held together by a block of wood and nails where the two ends come together. It is filled with plaster dust, pebbles and dirt, presumably straight out of the ground in China. How do I know what's inside, you ask? Well the first hoop burst within 2 days of use and my living room was covered in it. The replacement hoop did the same thing. So when I went back for the 3rd hoop, not only did I demand a discount, but I also covered the thing in duct tape in the hopes that it would stay together and the dirt would stay inside. It's been about a week, and so far so good. I covered it in another layer of duct tape yesterday, just to be sure.

Why go to all this trouble? Well the thing is a killer work-out. And though my hips are completely bruised, the inches around my mid-section seem to be melting off. And hooping is fun. The more you do it, the more control you gain and the stronger your core becomes.

Check out the video above. Remember, just 3 weeks ago I could barely keep the thing off the ground for more than a handful of revolutions...

REVIEW: MargOH! Channing is Tipsy!

originally published by edgenewyork.com 4/3/12

MargOH! Channing bills herself as the most decorated extra in the history of motion pictures and television. Born to an inbred and intolerant family in Bangor, Maine, MargOH! was rescued by a "drunk slut" aunt and whisked away to be raised in the glamorous confines of a brothel.

She overcame her rather checkered past with a new name inspired by the acid-tongued Bette Davis in All About Eve and gained new confidence from picking herself up "by the bra-straps." She then obtained a measure of notoriety in Hollywood before settling here in New York to focus on inserting herself into the downtown scene as one of Manhattan’s premiere cabaret divas. "MargOH! Channing is Tipsy" is the latest installment of her ongoing serial of autobiographical shows chronicling her harrowing journey to hell and back.

In truth, MargOH! Channing is the drag persona of performance artist BT Shea. Shea has endowed MargOH! with a hilariously absurd backstory, but he draws the character with such honesty, truth, subtlety, and vulnerability, that she becomes -- if only for a couple hours -- a living, breathing person. Henceforth and therefore, this review will refer to Ms. Channing not as a character, but as the star of her own one-woman show.

Perhaps "tipsy" is in the eye of the beholder, but as far as I could tell the title of her show is a major understatement. Ms. Channing was so visibly drunk that she had to be walked out onto the stage and propped against her microphone by her gal-pal, the celebrated drag queen and gorgeous ex-con Flotilla DeBarge.

Through slurred (and sometimes inaudible) speech, Ms. Channing spoke of her life’s humble beginnings as the daughter of New England fishmongers from the "school of hard knockers." With every wrong recounted, she poured herself another drink: perhaps to keep the emotions flowing, perhaps to dull the pain.

Ms. Channing is a singer who understands her limits as a vocalist, and even warned us that her voice may be a little "scratchy." But what she lacked in pitch and tone, she sure made up for in her ability to fearlessly and shamelessly emote. It’s clear why she detests cheap sentiment: the bitch can sell a song.

She transitioned from Tom Waits’ maudlin "Shiver Me Timbers," which she imbued with heartbreaking genuineness, to "Rusty Warren’s novelty "Bounce Your Boobies," that underheard, ironic feminist anthem.

This medley illustrated for Ms. Channing’s audience the very essence of drag: the pain of leaving behind one’s family, friends, and identity in order to seek out another life where beauty, glamour, and fantasy reign supreme. Drag queens empower themselves by choosing illusion over hard truth. That’s sad, and also beautiful.

In the tradition of Victor Hugo’s "Notre-Dame de Paris" Ms. Channing marries the sublime and the grotesque in a show that transcends its comedic trappings to become the portrait of a woman whose dreams have been dashed but whose hope springs eternal.

Her whispered and wistful rendition of "Everything Changes" was devastating. I only wish it had come later in the show, because for me it was climactic.

Throw in an earnest tribute to Amy Winehouse, a couple of glitter-dipped back-up singers, and a duet with Ms. DeBarge, and "MargOH! Channing is Tipsy" became a hilarious hodgepodge of performance art, stand-up comedy, cabaret, theater, and drag. We are allowed to see MargOH! at her best and at her worst, somehow at the same time. It’s that fine-tuned duplicity that makes her so real.

Watching the performance was like seeing a cat thrown from a roof: you pity it, you fear for it, you witness its desperate flip-flopping. But then it lands on its feet, and you marvel at the grace of it all.

"MargOH! Channing is Tipsy" played on March 30 at Dixon Place, 161A Chrystie Street. For information on MargOH! Channing’s future shows, visit margohchanning.blogspot.com.

HOT (damn) YOGA

I got duped into a session of HOT YOGA two nights ago at Yoga to the People on 27th St in Chelsea. "Oh I didn't tell you it was hot yoga?" my friend asked 2 minutes before we entered the studio. If he had, i wouldn't have gone.  I'd never done any yoga before, and I wouldn't think one's first time ought to be in a room set at 110 degrees.  But since I was already there, and I have been looking for ways to improve my fitness, I decided to give it a go.

When we walked into the lobby, there were two sweaty men sitting on the floor whose eyes seemed to cry out, "heeelp ... meee." For some reason I didn't think anything of it.

I got changed, filled my water bottle and then entered the studio.  At that moment I realized I was in for something.  The heat in that room was unlike anything I've ever known.  When it's hot like that outside, the sun is usually beating down on you with bright light.  But this room was totally dark, so my body wasn't quite sure how to respond. The simple act of breathing was disarming because you could actually feel the heat in your lungs when you inhaled.

And it smelled like a sex party.

We were allowed to trickle into the room over the course of the next half-hour or so, I guess to give people time to come to terms with the fact that they'd be spending their Monday evening in an oven.

What happened over the next hour is kind-of a blur. It was challenging in that the poses, stretches and contortions weren't made up of my usual daily body shapes. The forms rely heavily on balance and the engagement of very specific muscles. At one point, my heart was racing and sweat was raining down onto my rented mat as though I'd just stepped out of the shower.

It's a very strange sensation to be standing perfectly still while you're pouring sweat and your heart is beating double-time.

I had to stop once and catch my breath while the class carried on.  I re-joined a moment later, once i realized that while you're in a room set on low-broil, there is no breath there to catch.

I thought I might vomit, or collapse.  And honest-to-God I considered running for the door, leaving and never looking back. But I pushed through.  Ann-Elise, the instructor, later said, "if you're feeling like you might be sick, maybe that means you haven't been very good to your body lately and the real you is trying to break free."

So many times we are tempted to stay inside our boxes of normalcy, never to venture outside of our usual, daily poses. And even when we do, something inside will say, "wait! stop! you shouldn't be doing this."  Yoga is good for the body and the spirit because it is about pushing yourself beyond what you think your limits are.  Your body gets to move in new ways, increasing circulation to remote areas of underused bloodlines. And in your head, you understand better how you do have your own personal limits, but they're never as restricting as you think they are.

I learned something about who I am the other night. The light inside and the untapped potential are dying to break free. And all it took was a solo game of masochistic twister to show me.

Incidentally, at the end of the hour, I lay there for at least 15 minutes, unable to do anything but breathe. When I mustered a little strength, i basically crawled to the window to get to fresh air. Later, when i was able to get up, I walked to the bathroom, stuck my head under the faucet and drank the cold New York City tap water and--i shit you not--LAUGHED because it tasted so damn good.

I'm going back tomorrow.

UPDATE: Lonely Guy from poster was a comedian

According to this NY Post article, excerpted below, "Jeff, One Lonely Guy," is publishing a book based on the more than 65,000 responses he received from his weird poster that The Urban Boy Scout brought you back in December. I knew it couldn't be for real...

When a pimp calls to cheer you up, you know you have problems.

After Jeff Ragsdale, a stand-up comedian and actor from Harlem, was “near suicidal” following a painful breakup, he posted fliers around the city soliciting other forlorn New Yorkers to reach out.

“If anyone wants to talk about anything, call me (347) 469-3173. Jeff, one lonely guy,” read the fliers, which he plastered across the Upper West Side, Chelsea and the East Village in mid-October 2011.

A pimp soon responded with some free advice.

“You know, you’re too old to be posting your number on the streets, man,” he said. “What kind of chick would meet a guy from a street poster?”

ANGEL CHEVRESTT

FREQUENT FLIERS: Actor/stand-up comedian Jeff Ragsdale posts one of his “one lonely guy” fliers, which have triggered a flood of responses from across the globe.

He ended the exchange with an offer of “great women by the hour.”

Another man called to ask for advice about buying a co-op, and a Goldman Sachs trader gave him updates on the Occupy Wall Street protests. Others gave advice, and many vented about their own issues.

The first day, he got 100 calls and texts. A week after the flier went viral, he got a thousand texts and e-mails a day. To date — he’s still taking calls — 65,000 texts and calls have come in.

One day, he spent 16 hours on his smartphone.

Read more: http://www.nypost.com/p/news/local/manhattan/hey_we_re_lonely_too_jjtpdcWm72z57AQpA9C8GM#ixzz1pYxHYgG8 

Trapped in the Elevator!

Tonight I spent a half-hour stuck in an elevator in my building.  And I lived to tell the tale.  Below there are 2 separate videos documenting my captivity...

In the next video you'll hear even more of the disembodied voice of Satan laughing at my plight. I didn't panic, but any longer and i'd have pissed myself!

So now what? Do you think I should ask for a rent discount or something? I feel like some of my uptight neighbors would probably raise hell. I should march into the leasing office and demand compensation for my lost half hour and my pain and suffering, right?

Review: Marieann Meringolo's "You Must Believe in Spring!"

Early in her set at uptown supper club Feinstein’s at Loews Regency, Marieann Meringolo asked her audience coolly and without irony, “Would you choose to be reincarnated for your lover?”

“No,” cried a voice from the audience, evoking a roar of laughter from the sparsely populated room.

Unscathed, Ms. Meringolo replied, “Well, you’re really going to have to use your imagination for these next few pieces.”

And she carried on, singing her collection of songs by Michel Legrand, most of which featured maudlin lyrics by sap-squad Alan and Marilyn Bergman.

That moment illustrated the inherent disconnection from her audience that Ms. Meringolo worked hard to bridge throughout her performance.  I’m not sure she ever managed to, but she certainly did try.

In cabaret performance the banter between songs is almost as important as the tunes themselves.  It serves to expose the real person beneath the characters, stripping away the artifice thereby endearing the performer to her audience.  Also, it should offer a light-hearted break from the sometimes high drama of the musical numbers. 

Ms. Meringolo’s songs were ballads: some loud, some soft, all saccharine.  The banter that should have been a respite after each foray into the Bergmans’ dated, schmaltzy sentimentality became instead an extension of it.

After singing songs with lyrics like “The world is like an apple whirling silently in space,” she chose to describe her relationship with music in this way: “The words of a song are the wine in a glass, and the music is the way I drink it into my soul.”

As directed by Eric Michael Gillett, this show was just too much heavy, serious emotion.  Even Macbeth had the porter scene to lighten the mood.

And then there’s the singing.  Ms. Meringolo is a singer of considerable strength and stamina.  She is at her best when she is understated and gentle, but she simply cannot resist the urge to finish every song with a modulation followed by a full-throated fortissimo. 

The best song of the evening, “Pieces of Dreams,” found Ms. Meringolo standing plaintively on stage, without vocal histrionics or melodic embellishments.  Her simple, straightforward crooning was sweet and pretty, and it conveyed the melancholic longing in the song’s lyrics.  For a moment, she was Streisand.  But then the band changed keys, and she put the pedal to the metal. 

Rather than “drinking the music into my soul,” like a glass of that lyrical wine she spoke about, the ending had all the subtlety of a frat-party keg stand.

A recipient of both Backstage Bistro and MAC Awards, Ms. Meringolo should stop trying to prove herself as a vocal powerhouse, and instead focus on telling stories with her songs.  The voice is there, and it is fine.  If she would let the song be the star, her talent would shine even brighter.  When a singer’s power is greater than her passion, it can raise questions about her artistic credibility.  Look at Christina Aguilera. 

Ms. Meringolo seemed perfectly at home in the beautiful, intimate, Feinstein’s, singing her concert “You Must Believe in Spring!”  She joined the audience off the stage for a number or two.  Once, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror that happened to be across the room, and briefly sang to her own reflection.  It was in these moments that she was most accessible, because they were charming in their casualness.

And I must mention her band.  The obviously well rehearsed trio of musicians had the benefit of being led by pianist Doyle Newmyer.  Ms. Meringolo, too, would have benefitted from such masterful guidance.  I can’t wait to see her perform a concert in which she herself is properly directed.

Marieann Meringolo’s "You Must Believe in Spring!" runs through March 18 at Feinstein’s at Loews Regency, Park Ave & 61st St. For info or tickets call 212-339-4095 or visit feinsteinsattheregency.com 

Review: The ThreePenny Opera

my review for EdgeNewYork.com published 2/13/12

Hidden inside an unassuming building on Manhattan’s west side, tucked away on its third floor, hides the TGB Theater, a small but suitable black box where Marvell Rep has assembled one of the most collectively talented casts currently performing on a midtown stage.

"The Threepenny Opera" by Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht is a pioneering work of the musical comedy genre and one of those oft-produced shows that, despite its existence in several varying translations from the original German, has become a standard of the American theater. Sometimes when a show is such a steady presence on the New York scene (it has seen seven Broadway mountings since it premiered in 1933), we view each new production with a nostalgia that can temper the work’s impact.

Artistic Director Lenny Leibowitz has made sure that this production will not be viewed through that lens of nostalgia, but with a fresh and nuanced gaze. It is not simply a remounting of a treasured piece from the canon: it is a living, breathing-at times, exciting-theatrical experience.

The sprawling plot line begins with Peachum, an entrepreneur in Victorian London whose business is to demand a tax from all the street beggars in town, finding out that his daughter has spent the night with Macheath, a dastardly criminal known colloquially as Mack the Knife.  We have previously been introduced to Macheath during the prologue by one of the beggars, the delightful (and delightfully pants-less) Stephen Sheffer singing the show’s most famous song, "Mack the Knife," which chronicles Macheath’s history of murder, larceny, rape, and general heartlessness.

In the second scene, the pathetic wedding of Macheath and Polly Peachum, we finally meet our antihero. Cruel and thoughtless he may be, but there’s no question why Polly would fall for such a bad boy: as played by Matt Faucher, Macheath is also strong, sexy, and charismatic.  Emma Ronsenthal’s Polly is no shrinking violet in the shadow of Macheath’s muscle. She brings a fearless, devil-may-care quality to the naïve Polly, and her renditions of "Pirate Jenny" and "Barbara Song" are feats of musicality and acting, respectively. Her name could be above the title.

Other stand-out performers include Joy Franz, deftly navigating a rather pronounced vocal break as the sneering, conniving Mrs. Peachum; Chad Jennings, who brings character-actor competence and leading-man charm to corrupt cop Tiger Brown, and the wonderful Ariela Morgenstern, whose bribe-taking prostitute Jenny Diver looks like a jaded, unbowed Natalie Wood.


As it is the benchmark of Brecht’s Epic Theatre movement, "The Threepenny Opera" should, in production, continually remind the audience that they are viewing a play. Rather than be caught up in the action and transported to an alternate reality a la Stanislavski, we are aware of the artifice.


To act as aides memoires, the ensemble of beggars and whores introduce each scene and song with a hand-painted sign suggestive of those carried by Peachum’s beggars. They draw a patch-worked set of red satin curtains, every swing of which evokes the billowing scarlet from Macheath’s bloody past.


Brecht’s London is a town populated by beggars, thieves, and whores. Corruption is the standard. It’s kill or be killed in this Marxist send-up of Capitalism gone haywire. Macheath gets double-crossed by just about everyone he knows but still doesn’t have the good sense to get out of town. He uses his every opportunity for escape instead as a time to go and have sex with prostitutes. This is what happens when lust for hedonism precludes the anticipation of its consequences.


Brecht did not want to be preachy and pious in this cautionary tale, but in the end (somehow) Macheath gets what’s coming to him. The show may be close to a hundred years old, but I’m still not going to tell you the ending. Go see it.


"The Threepenny Opera" plays in repertory through February 28 at TGB Theater located at 312 W. 36th St, just west of 8th Ave. for more information, visit www.marvellrep.com

Brazil! Brazil!

a review of mine for EdgeNewYork.com published 2/15/12

The New Victory Theater is a microcosm of Times Square’s transformation through the end of the last century. In the 1940s it was home to Minsky’s Burlesque. Throughout the 1970s and 80s it was a porn cinema. Today it is the city’s only theater devoted to performances geared exclusively toward children and family audiences. My, how things have changed!

But its current show "Brazil! Brazil!" is probably not what comes to mind when you think of Children’s Theater: "Hansel and Gretel" this ain’t. It is a love song to -- you guessed it -- all things Brazil. It is a plotless, hour-long, fast-paced celebration of the music, culture, and global influence of the Brazilian people. And it’s actually pretty sexy.

Throughout, there are video projections of a soccer ball (canary yellow and Kelly green, the Brazilian National football team’s colors, naturally) bouncing its way through the streets and beaches of Rio de Janeiro, past street artists, footballers, children, and adults.

Co-Creators/Co-Directors Toby Gough and Dr. Hana Al Hadad have produced a show that takes us on that same journey, catching glimpses of Brazilian life and customs, from the point-of-view of a wandering, run-away soccer ball.

"Brazil! Brazil!" is part concert, part circus, and part dance theater. A five-piece band remains onstage throughout the performance, providing the soundtrack for all the festivities. With its two electric guitars and drum set, it is more of a rock-n-roll band than a traditionally Brazilian one, though it does feature heavy on Brazilian rhythms and percussion.

One of the first vignettes is a showcase of Capoeira, an Afro-Brazilian martial art that incorporates dance and music. Here we are introduced to the show’s five strapping dancing men who will go on to dominate the bulk of the performance. This Capoeira is a tightly choreographed pseudo-battle with rapid high-kicks and quick spins that leave the audience dizzier than the shirtless heartthrobs onstage. It is interesting to note that the Capoeira is performed to up-tempo samba music rather than a traditional capoeira bateria.

While the Capoeiristas catch their breath and change costumes in the wings, a trio of "freestyle footballers" who have seemingly magical powers over their respective balls entertains us. These three have pretty impressive resumes when it comes to freestyle footballing. One of them (John Farnworth) participated in the 26-mile London Marathon all the while keeping a ball in the air. (Incidentally, during the marathon he was representing and raising funds for HIV charity Kick4Life.)

The children in the audience are particularly impressed by these gravity-defying soccer stunts. Judging by the "ooh’s" and "aah’s" coming from the crowd, I imagine they were all practicing with their own soccer balls the next morning.

The extravaganza is peppered with appearances by two beautiful women (for which Brazil also happens to be well known). Paloma Gomes sings a few traditional sambas, occasionally duetting with Mickey Beigi, who, in addition to being a dancer, is essentially the evening’s emcee.

But it is Gianne Abbott, lead dancer, who tries with lightning-fast gyrating and soulful dance moves to steal the show. Occasionally, she succeeds. Even after she leaves the stage at the show’s conclusion, one gets the impression that she continues dancing right into the elevator of her hotel.

"Brazil! Brazil!" arrives in New York after touring Europe, UK, and Australia as a show that could be Brazil’s theatrical ambassador to the world. Even if the families in the audience don’t understand every reference to lambada or samba or Carnival, the cast’s love and devotion to their own culture is obvious and infectious.

"Brazil! Brazil!" runs through February 26 at the New Victory Theater, 209 W. 42nd St. For information on tickets or attending a Capoeira workshop, visit newvictory.org.

NYC: The Rat Race Illustrated

Spiderman: Turn off the Shit Spigot

Last night I had the occasion to see that much talked about musical on Broadway, Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark. 
I'm probably a little late, reviewing a show that opened on Broadway last June.  Anyway, here's my take on the whole thing using 3 jpegs:

More specifically, this show is a very expensive (at times, dazzling) joke.

Peter Parker is a bright high school student who is regularly bullied by jocks.  This important plot point is illustrated in the HORRENDOUS song "Bullying by Numbers," a ditty which conspicuously does not appear on the soundtrack album.  I don't even know what "bullying by numbers" means.  I know that painting by numbers is a contrived way to create artworks with absolutely no talent, inspiration or skill.  So maybe it's like that.

Peter gets bitten by a genetically-altered spider on a school field trip to the local Top-Secret Genetic-Modification Research Facility and transforms into a superhero.

After Peter's idol, scientist Norman Osborn (played by the only person in this show worth mentioning Patrick Page), transforms himself into a genetic mutant he gets the cockamamie idea that all of humanity would be better off if they would too.  Villainous shenanigans ensue.

Useless Sub-Plots and Plot Points 

• Peter decides to use his new powers for good. But his girlfriend Mary Jane can't deal with him not being around.  So he decides to quit.  A minute or two later he decides to go back to being a super hero.
• The mad scientist creates 6 super villains all of whom are defeated by Spiderman in the course of one song.  
• Mary Jane's abusive, drunk father has one line and is referenced in only one song early in act 1.  
• Peter's uncle gets car-jacked.
• The mad scientist has a wife whom he accidentally kills and then 2 of her appear to him in a hallucination. i enjoyed that character but she was totally unnecessary.

Things That Made No Sense

•  I realize that when it comes to superhero stories (and musicals, in general) sometimes one must suspend disbelief and just go with it, but I ask you: wouldn't a bite from a genetically enhanced venomous spider just be more poisonous than usual?
• Mary Jane lives on the Lower East Side (presumably in the projects since her Dad is a drunk and doesn't work) and Peter lives in Washington Heights, but they go to high school in Queens. 
• Also, in the pile of crap known as Act I, Peter walks Mary Jane home after school.  That would have been a helluva walk.  And for no reason at all, the actors walked on a turning treadmill in order to walk while staying center-stage.  ummmmm, really? a treadmill built into the stage  for one stupid scene? no wonder this musical had such an outrageous budget and will never (mark my words) turn a profit.
• The Spiderman coffee mug in the gift shop at the Foxwood Theater cost $15.00.
• The title! I can't even tell you why it is called "Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark."  There is this one shit song called "Turn Off the Dark" that Arachne (the spider lady from greek mythology) sings to Peter (don't ask).  But I don't see why they didn't just call it Spiderman.

      Things I liked

• The opening number is super cool! The Greek spider lady is transformed into a spider by an angry goddess and a huge web is woven in front of our eyes on stage using ugly yellow fabric, aerialists, gravity and perfect timing.  The awesomeness of this moment is the only reason this character even exists.
• Spiderman flying out over the audience was spectacular.  Also you get to see muscled stuntmen in skintight clothes fly, spread-eagle, directly over your head. It's a great view.
• The sets were very inspired, especially when the audience is transported to the top of the Chrysler Building. 
• The ending. not the way the story was resolved; i was just glad when it was over.

If the creators of this musical had spent half the time making a good story that they spent perfecting outlandish graphic-novel inspired sets and circus-worthy acrobatics, this may have come together as a piece of musical theater.  As it is, what we have is a mess. 

Another Re-Write: The Name of the Game

Citi Pond, the free-admission ice-skating rink in Bryant Park

My latest assignment for TONY was another blog post about things to do in the City if you're making last-minute plans.  I'm getting closer to what they're after, i think.  I threw in a little humor, since the events we were suggesting both had 1980's themes.  I referred to it as "that bygone era of perms and mullets" and later suggested that attendees "dig out those acid-wash jeans and slide on those leg warmers" .... well the powers that be liked my theme so much they chose to tack on "feel free to describe fellow gliders' (ice skaters') moves as totally tubular and bodacious"  Ummm--I think they're beating a dead horse by taking it another step further.  Where's the rhythm?  But what do I know? I'm happy to have some published by-lines!


Have a great weekend, Reader!

I Got Re-Written!

My first assignment for Time Out: New York magazine was simple enough: write a blurb for the "Own This City" blog to accompany some photographs of an event that had happened the previous weekend.

So I took it very seriously. I spent thirty minutes composing a grammatically sophisticated, positively informative pair of sentences that--I thought--had an arc of rhythmic flow and whose ending tied a verbal bow around the whole damn thing.  Reading it aloud seemed to echo, "and they all lived happily ever after..."  Here's my original text:

For all the grown-up decisions and sober dealings being made there Monday through Friday, Freeze Tag on Wall Street was organized to add innocent amusement and juvenile jubilation to the Financial District one weekend a year.  The sixth-annual event happened on Saturday January 21 and included freeze tag among other playground games that, for these adults, hearkened back to simpler times when negotiations and mergers were scarcely more complex than whom it was Red Rover would be asked to send over.


Well I got re-written.  I'm new to publishing, so I suppose this happens to everyone.  It doesn't offend me, and I realize I am not Ernest Hemingway.  And certainly the Copy Editors (or whoever changed some of my key words) know the voice of TONY better than I.  And I have yet to learn the varying tones and styles for the magazine's different media: blog, listings, reviews, recommendations, features.  But, I was very proud of my little couplet and the Associate Editor who gave me the assignment said it was "perfect" ... So imagine my shock when I read later on the blog the following posting:


Despite all the grown-up decisions and sober dealings being made there Monday through Friday, for one weekend a year the Financial District is the site of juvenile jubilation. During the sixth annual Freeze Tag on Wall Street, on January 21, adults taking part in playground games were transported back to simpler times, when negotiations and mergers were scarcely more complex than whom Red Rover would send over.


Though the general meaning has been retained, the music in my opening rhythm has been halted with the replacement of "for" with "despite."  Also they are not synonymous. 


My use of the (perhaps) sentimental phrase "hearken back" suggests a Norman Rockwell portrait.  Nixing it and inserting "transport back," (in addition being redundant) changes my idea to metaphor, and suggests not nostalgia, but time travel.  


And finally, I will admit that my closing phrase was wordy and winding.  Reaching the end of that sentence was like reaching the end of a maze.  But reaching the end of a maze is a triumphant moment!  With the simplified text, that moment of triumph retains all the glory of reaching the bottom of an escalator.  Sure, you're at your destination.  But so what?

WAIT A MINUTE...I have just dissected 2 silly sentences and addressed my grievances with professional opinions of my amateur attempts!  God, how self-indulgent can I get?  


My work has been streamlined, not simplified.  My re-write was not reductive.  It has been taken off its high horse and rinsed of its gaudy esoteric sheen.  I should be glad.  


This writing business is a learning process.  And I'm happy you've chosen to follow me on the journey.  

Theater Review: Coffee House, Greenwich Village

published 16 January 2012... and by the way, the first time I ever panned an actor's performance.  At first I was racked with guilt. But I'm a performer's critic: I not only criticized her performance, I offered her a suggestion (and remarked on her beauty).  

The Manhattan Repertory Theatre’s Winter One-Act Competition continues this weekend featuring, among others, “Coffee House, Greenwich Village” written by John Doble and directed by Olivia Harris. 

Two nervous strangers are set to meet for a blind date, premeditated via internet dating site, those modern matchmaking means now ubiquitous as Greenwich Village coffee houses.  Jack, played with anxious appeal by the likeable Nicholas J. Pearson, arrives first, with flowers and sweaty brow, hopeful he will soon find a soul mate.  Enter Pamela, played by Elizabeth Dilley, radiant as a young Bette Davis, but tentative here in her role as temptress. 

The playwright has woven a web of dialogue in which the characters appear by turns to fiercely dominate and then submit to one another through light, impersonal small-talk.  Pamela, in what at first seems like a bad joke by a jumpy girl on a first date, notes that women are like cats.  “We’re feline,” she says.  But as the story unfolds, we realize that men are not, in turn, canine: in Pamela’s world, they’re the mice.

Mr. Doble has constructed a story of Hitchcockian scope that in the one-act format feels rushed.  He has endowed the role of Jack with a range of comedic and emotional depth for the actor, which Mr. Pearson takes full advantage of.  However the role of Pamela still seems to be a mystery to both Mr. Doble and Ms. Dilley.  To be fair, she’s a mysterious character.  Still, I wish the actress had grounded herself more emphatically in Pamela’s sexual energy, since the only concrete thing we know of her is that sex is, quite literally, her weapon.

Alex Engquist (handsome, underused) plays the small but pivotal role of waiter in the coffee house who inexplicably never delivers the second round of espressos the couple asks for. 

What’s exciting about the transaction between Jack and Pamela is how quickly fantasy can turn to cold, cruel reality.  Also, the way their internet hook-up plays out like so many others in the Village everyday: foreplay, climax, followed by a hurried goodbye.

“Coffee House, Greenwich Village” by John Doble plays at 2pm today at the Manhattan Repertory Theatre located at 303 W. 42^nd St on the 6^th floor.  For more info visit www.manhattanrep.com