Sans Comment

Culture Clash

Actually, more like a ballet brawl.


Gene Kim's animation thesis Fighting Spirits puts a new, tech spin on the battling Odette and Odile from Swan Lake.


Maybe if we had more cyborg ballerinas, more young people would come to watch the ballet.


Well, we can always dream.

On a side note, I'm sure nothing of this sort will happen tonight at the Stars of Philippine Ballet gala.

I'll keep you posted.

Prayer For The Dying

On the last day of February, 19 people lost their lives in a hot-air balloon accident while floating high above Luxor, the burial grounds of Egypt's Pharaohs.

A tourist on another balloon managed to catch the doomed balloon's final moments, as it rose closer to the sun before bursting into flames and plummeting to the ground below.

This isn't an exercise in morbidity or gawking. If you care to watch the video, you can hear a woman in the other balloon weeping softly. More importantly, you can hear men calmly reciting prayers in Arabic.


A helpful translation I found online:


Bismillah : By the name of God
La Ilaha Illah Lah : There is no god but God
La hawla wa la qoata illa billah : There is no power nor ability except from God


What's the point of all this?


It's the strange and curious thing that I, an avowed agnostic, without understanding the words of the man's prayer for the dying, was nonetheless moved by it. That compassion for our fellow human beings, especially as we helplessly watch them meet their fates, transcends language, creed, and race.

As should all important things in life.

Protect Me From What I Want

Not usually a huge fan of gay indies - especially what passes for them in these parts - but this little gem of a 13-minute short resonated with me.

Maybe because at one point in my life - and not too long ago - I knew exactly how Saleem felt. About what he wanted. And the shame and confusion and longing and desire and everything that's part and parcel of coming to terms with who we are.

     

Enjoy.

Trés Misérables

Burn, bitches.

Like my good friend Maleficent and, probably, you, I was not invited to Resorts Worlds Manila's formal-attire only gala premiere of Tom Hooper's Les Misérables.

But fear not. There was no need to cast curses involving spindles and eighteen-year olds falling asleep for a hundred years.

Because schadenfreude is my middle name, I simply wonder - with much concern and sadness, to be sure - how tres misérable the chi-chi crowd felt at last night's disastrous non-showing of that famous film. 

Lame Misérables, as a pundit acquaintance of mine put it.

Technical difficulties, indeed. I understand Wilson Tieng looked ready to burst several blood vessels after this major major social snafu, the poor dear. All those VIPs dressed to the nines, with Christian Bautista, Karylle, Audie Gemora and other singers performing live numbers from the musical (accompanied on piano by no less than Ryan Cayabyab!) as a front act to a gala that was not to be.

Alors, alors, c'est-la vie, oui?

Et parce que plus de choses changent, plus ils restent le méme, regardez-vous cette nouvelle caravane pour Les Misérables: la nouvelle adaptation cinematographique de Tom Hooper. Avec Hugh Jackman étoile comme Jean Valjean, Russell Crowe étoile comme Javert, Anne Hathaway comme Fantine, et Amanda Seyfried comme Cosette.

Je ne connais pas la fille que joue Eponine ( Samantha Barks, en remplancement de Taylor Swift et Scarlett Johansson), mais n'en faire pas.

Oui, oui, j'adore, j'adore!

Family

We just wrapped up our annual family Kris Kringle revelations - a goofy, rambunctious family tradition that we've managed to observe over the years despite the extended family wrangling and the general drifting apart  of once-close relatives.

I don't think of myself as an overly-sentimental man, but maybe because I'm getting on, I suppose I'm beginning to see family in a different light.

It's easy to take them for granted, especially when one is busy chasing one's ambitions.

But at the end of the day, being surrounded by material possessions - the trophies of success - one finds oneself still empty and unsatisfied.

And yet, one funny, laughter-filled day with my parents, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, and my favorite dog somehow makes me happier than any flashy sports car or new addition to my various hoards of beautiful things.

I don't spend a whole lot of time with the folks nor my siblings, for various reasons. And I realize my reasons, at the end of the day, have little value.


Work is important. But family even more so.


I think that shall be my first resolution and epiphany for this new year.


I wonder what yours will be.


While you think about it, a good and prosperous 2013 to you and yours.

And may you cherish things of real value.

Like family.

Scrooge

Yeah, so this is Christmas.

And where there's Christmas, there's namamasko.


I know it's been said that Christmas has become commercialized. Well, color me red and call me Rudolph's nose.

I'm not here to discuss how Santa has upstaged Jesus in this year-end celebration. Nor how Christmas has become less a religious holiday celebrating the birth of the Christian savior, and more of a secular bacchanal: an excuse for merriment and gift-giving.

And before we speak of gifts and the merriment they bring, watch the video below:

Coming off from the video's basic premise, I ask you now: can money - and the material goods it can bring - spread happiness, then?

On one of the message boards I frequent, I got called an asshole for posting that the reason I never gave my multi-millionaire business colleague/frenemy anything for the holidays - ever - is because I came up with my First Equation of Holiday Gift-Giving, as follows:


What do you give the man who has everything?

Give him the one thing he doesn't have.

Which is: nothing.


The berater's point was that gift-giving was not a matter of things; rather, it was the thought behind those things.

I countered with my Second Equation of Holiday Gift-Giving:



They say it's the thought that counts.

So I thought of giving you a present.

That's what counts, right?


Of course, things quickly went south from there, but my innate orneriness aside, the social chastisement I got gave me room for pause.



Am I really a Scrooge?


But no, said the Gollum to my Smeagol. We's helps so many peoples every year, precious. We's gives them loans they never pay back, yesss. They's always asssksss uss for help, precious, allllwaysssss usssss. And they always says the same things, always the same problems, even if it isn't Christmas, all-year round they askssss, precious, they asksss and askssss and askkksssss ussssss.

Aherm. Aherm.


So what really counts? I give even if it's against my good will. Is that worse than not giving at all?


I also don't like to think I'm Smaug hoarding gold, but I've definitely put the kibosh on the many subtle and not-so-subtle requests for Yuletide "assistance" thus far.



Maybe I am a Scrooge.


Or just bah, humbugging.

Happy holigays, anyway.

Rendezvous With Rama

And Sita, of course.


Having been locked out of good seats before, I learned my lesson well and made a point of purchasing gala night tickets months in advance to the classic Rama Hari, currently being re-staged on a limited run by Ballet Philippines at the CCP. 

I'd never seen the original with Kuh Ledesma and the two powerhouse Valdezes, Basil and Leo. But because I love Asian Civ and have an especially soft spot for "Magbalik Ka Na, Mahal," this was a must-see.


I was supposed to watch with Mara, one of my TV Girls and most-frequent Arts & Culture consort. But because history - like reincarnation - repeats itself, I wasn't too surprised when she had to cancel the night before the show. I contacted Brandon, who - déja vu - couldn't make it either due to scheduling conflicts, thanks to my super-duper short notice. And Ayen, not one to buck the trend, also proved unavailable. 

And so it was that I quickly went through a roster of possible dates including citybuoy, who never texted me back. Maybe he changed his number, I dunno.

But each and every person I chose, for various reasons, was not destined for the Rama rendezvous.

There were seven possible candidates total, in an epic tale of frantic texting and anticipating - and receiving - regrets. In the end, the only one who confirmed availability on such short notice was the seventh candidate: Miguel. 

My friend, whipping boy, and moocher-of-record.


Coincidentally, Rama is supposed to be the seventh avatar of the Hindu god Vishnu.


So there's that.

Transkrit

1:40 PM

"Are you in Manila? Answer quickly."

"I'm in Caylabne. 
Why, anything wrong?'

"I have an extra ticket to Rama Hari 

tonight, 8 pm, CCP. Do you want 

to watch and if so, can you 

make it to Manila in time?"

"Yes. It's a holiday. Walang traffic. 

It should just take me an hour."

"K."

"Is this a black-tie event or 
can I get away with a suit?"

"It's Rama Hari, not the Queen's Jubilee.

A suit is fine."

"Ok, suit it is."

"Basta we have to leave 

the house by 7 or so, ok?"

"Ok, I'm leaving for Manila now."

5:21 PM

"I hope you're in Manila already."

"I'm in Alabang, SLEX."

"Cutting it a little close, hm? 

We have to be at CCP by 7:30, 

which means we have 
to leave here 7-ish."

"Yes, I'm aware of the call time, dear."

6:41 PM

"Tell me you're home 

and getting dressed."

"The maid ruined my suit. 

I'm looking for another."

"How could you ruin a suit?"

"I dunno, she ironed it and it burned."

"What's that fucking suit made of? 

Chiffon?!?"

"Screw the suit, I'm rummaging

for a replacement that'll fit me."

"We have to leave 7-ish, Miguel. 

There is traffic galore."

"I know, Ruddie. Mom's looking to see 

if any of Dad's suits will fit me."

"Just put on a long-sleeved shirt 

and trousers and get here asap. 

I'll just lend you a sports coat. 

Now hurry up."

7:01 PM

"Miko, kapag inabutan tayo ng 

7:30 dito, we are screwed."

"Why don't I meet you there na lang? 

It's CCP Main Theater, di ba? 

The maid is still dusting the suit."

"For what? Fingerprints?"

7:17 PM

"Meet me at CCP lobby. But still don't be late 

bec I have your ticket. I can't leave it with 

anyone there and they won't let 

you in once the show starts."

"Dad's driving me, on the way na."

"Fine but don't make me 

wait in the lobby till 8."

"No I won't"

"Be sure coz once the line 
starts I'm going in."

7:36 PM

"Already here at Vito Cruz."

"K I'm at the Main Lobby 

near the stairs."

"Ok dad's driving me up 

the main entrance."

"Aight just in time."

7:46 PM


"WHERE ARE YOU?! They're letting people in na."

Prologue

"They said we were  going to have aisle seats!" complained a perfumed matron loudly as she hovered near my elbow.

"What's this? Why don't we have aisle seats?" chimed in one of her amigas, clearly flustered at this outrage.

"But CCP said we were going to be in aisle seats! Can you talk to someone and find out what happened?" sniffed yet a third as her eyes darted sideways at us, who were already seated in the aforementioned aisle seats, as per our ticket assignments.


I leaned back in my seat and smirked at the unfolding scenario.


"Come, come," admonished a mature gentleman as he motioned for the women - apparently his companions - to be seated. "Mamaya na yan, the show's about to start," he barked, a rooster scarcely concealing his impatience and irritation at his hens.

The trio huffed and puffed but reluctantly, disdainfully took their seats further down orchestra left.


I turned to Miko.


"I wish they had the temerity to ask if we would be kind enough to swap seats with them," I whispered. "Just so I could have had the satisfaction of saying 'No.'"

Reprise 

My mind flashed back to Ayen's irritation at a similar occurrence at the start of Lisa Macuja's Carmen last month. It was a free seating affair, but several seats had "Reserved" signs nylon-strapped on them, for VIPs and other special guests of the house. Despite this, a fussy gaggle of matrons ever-so-nonchalantly removed said signs and either randomly placed them elsewhere or worse, hid them under the seats.

Ayen and I watched this boorish display with the disapproval reserved for creationists, holocaust deniers, and opponents of the RH bill. Ayen is the sweetest, gentlest, kindest thing, and in all the years we've worked together I had never seen her lose her temper. She was a soft-spoken epitome of gentility and poise. But the panic and helplessness of the ushers as they tried unsuccessfully to plead with the haughty mesdames to vacate their seats for the real VIPs provided an unwelcome prelude to the main feature that was not entertaining in any way.

My own simmering anger at the switcheroo was fueled not only by the blatant disregard for rules displayed by people who you think should know better. That was bad enough, but their shenanigans resulted in Sen. Miriam Santiago's reserved seat to be moved two seats away from ours, instead of three rows down and, more importantly, away.

Far away.



"Parang mga walang pinag-aralan," Ayen hissed, visibly annoyed.


It was then that our nostrils were assailed by the unmistakable scent - not of Diorella - but mothballs.

Ayen and I spun our heads around looking for the offending party so swiftly you'd think we were channeling Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but guffaw as the odor started blanketing the rows like, well, a moldy pashmina.



Which is probably what it was.


"Ano ba yun!" Ayen exclaimed, trying to stifle a smirk. "Amoy-baul!"

"Okay lang yan," I whispered. "Amoy-lupa na naman yung nagsusuot."


She then finally broke down laughing as she demurely covered her face with a quick krrrrriiiik! of her abaniko.


Matrons.

Prelude

The PA system came on, with the usual pre-recorded, pre-show messages.


"May we request everyone to turn off their mobile phones, as these may interfere with the signal..."

"...of this aircraft," I segued.


Miguel grinned.


"In case of emergency, please do not panic," the voiceover went on.

"Life jackets are located under your seats or in your armrests," I continued.


Miguel started giggling like a schoolgirl.


"In the unlikely event of a water landing or liquefaction, please do not exit until the CCP has some to a complete stop, or has started sinking into Manila Bay. Do not inflate your egos while still inside the CCP."


Miguel lost it and started shaking in his seat like he was having an epileptic seizure.


"Your life jackets are equipped with a mouth tube. Blow into the tube to massage your ego, or release tube for humility. At night, switch on the lamp in order to see your impending doom. Thank you for choosing the Cultural Center of the Philippines. Mabuhay!"

Interlude

"There will be a 15-minute intermission," went the voice on the PA system after Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana glissaded their way into the woods and destiny.


"Do you need to pee?" I asked Miguel.

He made an agonized face. "I'm hungry," he moaned.

"You can't go for two hours without stuffing your face?" I scolded him. I stood in the aisle, making way for the three matrons who had been cluck-clucking about the indignity of non-aisle seats. They had gotten up and were waddling out of the row they had been cruelly forced to occupy.

"I'm going to take a leak," I announced. "You stay here and guard our seats."



When I returned, Miguel was grinning like an idiot.

"What?"

He motioned for me to lean closer.

"The matrons behind us are so stupid," he giggled.

"Why?"

"Because," he went on. "I overheard them complaining why Christian Bautista and Karylle weren't dancing."


Images of Christian Bautista performing arabesques with ZsaZsa Padilla's kid suddenly gave me a migraine.


In a rare fit of understanding, I looked at Miguel, sighed, and said "Well, I'm willing to give those matrons a pass. One, because they weren't after our seats. And two, not everyone is familiar with this particular kind of pop musical/ballet staging."

"But why don't they know that the singers are the vocal avatars of the dancers?"

"Miko, I have no idea," I answered. "But I for one am grateful I don't have to see Christian Bautista in a codpiece doing jetés."

Act 2

The lights started to dim as the orchestra played the overture.

Miguel kept turning his head and looking around.

"What?!" I spat.

He grinned. "I think our matrons got to sit in their aisle seats after all."


Indeed, the Tres Marias had not returned to our row. Perhaps they had banished themselves into the forest, as well, I thought hopefully.

Still...

"Miko," I hissed through clenched teeth. "I don't care if they sit in the orchestra pit, as long as they sit far away from us."



Presently, I became vaguely aware of a glimmer of light out of the corner of my eye. I thought for a moment that it was the residual flash of the golden deer that led Rama away.


Then I realized the horrifying, annoying truth.


That white aura wasn't emanating from any Hindu enlightenment; it was Miguel's fucking cell phone.


"What. 

The. 

FUCK!" I snarled.


"It's your messages," he whispered helpfully. "They're only coming in now."


I always think people who text, or, Krishna forbid, answer calls on their cell phones during movies and theater performances deserve to be beaten to death on the spot. It is our dharma, our service to humanity, our duty to all that is right and decent in the universe.

And at that moment, I had half a mind to send Miguel into his next incarnation right there.


For major good karma.

Finale

Even without the weight of its historical significance and its artistic pedigree (the trinity of composer Ryan Cayabyab, BP's legendary Alice Reyes, and National Artist for Literature Bienvenido Lumbera, all present and on stage receiving a standing ovation that night), Rama Hari was sublime. 

And certain sequences were magical, if not divine.

It was a wondrous union of music and motion, a mystical celebration of song and dance.

And like any good adapted work, it made me want to revisit and experience the beauty and scope of the original epic source: the Ramayana.


Watch it if you can.

Encore

But in case you can't, here's an animated version that encapsulates the epic tale. It's nowhere near the balletic stage version, but it fleshes out the story well enough :

Namaste.





-----------------------------------------------
Rama Hari will run at the CCP from November 30 to December 9, 2012. For inquiries, call Ballet Philippines at 551-1003 and 551-0221 or Ticketworld at 891-9999.

This is a recording.

Culture Vulture

Music soothes the savage beast.

Or does it?

Misquoting William Congreve's famous line* like the rest of us, so begins a particularly memorable episode of The Electric Company's "The Adventures of Letterman." Attending a classical concert, the villainous Spellbinder - no doubt entranced by the music - turns a bassoon into a...a baboon! Hilarity, of course, ensues, until Letterman saves the day by taking a double "L" from his chest and transforms the non-music loving simian into a less-disruptive balloon - which floats quietly out of sight.

Early evidence that I was a young troll.

What's this piece of childhood trivia got to do with anything, you ask?

Nothing, except that I've been going on an Arts & Culture bender of late, and I know deep down inside I'm just Spellbinder hoping to either create chaos or soothe the savage beast within.

Hopefully both.

Because I am given to obsessions - not all of them magnificent - I could not rest until I kept my promise to Brendan, my ex-protége. And thanks to the constrictions of his indentured servitude and the ensuing resetting of our momentous date, I ended up seeing Phantom of the Opera twice as a result.

Satisfying that sophomore - and sophomoric - craving for attention ironically did not slake my thirst for the limelight. Instead, it reawakened an ancient lusting so much so that as naturally as Claudia wanted to suck blood in Interview With A Vampire, I, too, wanted more.

Encore, encore, s'il vous plait, encore.

Soooooooooo.......


I ended up watching King and I twice, as well, this time escorting Mara - yet another "lady friend" - laden with faux bijoux up and down Newport's casinos, causing the eyes of the tai tais to narrow even further. Had I been more of a gambling man, I'd have played baccarat like Bond and she'd have moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo while waiting for the house to open. 

But alas, I have other ways of losing money - like watching musicals at least twice with different transvestite dates on my arm.

And because musicals are but a gateway drug, thanks to Gibbs Cadiz' helpfully-informative blog, we just barely managed to catch the tail end of Lisa Macuja's Swan Song Series performances : Giselle once with Mara, and in an encore reminiscent of Brendan's original failure to keep a date, I ended up watching Carmen twice: the first night with Mara, the next with Ayen. But a happy occasion, that, because we were privileged to witness a bonus dance from the prima ballerina as well as a song from her sister, in celebration of their parents' Golden Anniversary that last night. 

In between those, there's the ongoing National Theater Festival at the CCP. Mara and I had a grand old time watching Nonie and Shamaine Buencamino, Mae Bayot, Jenine Desiderio, and the rest of the spirited cast of Mario O'Hara's Stageshow - both as a gesture of support for the theater couple as well as my own nostalgic interest in bodabil.

Annoying Orange's mom was a more cultured kind of citrus.

Next stop : mighty Europe! The rainbow's gonna tour, dressed up, somewhere to go! We'll put on a show!

Oh, wait - I channeled Señora Peron there for a nanosecond.

Must've been all the jewels.

At any rate, our cultural calendar will take us to a whole new world on November 16th at the Meralco Theater, which, unfortunately, means I would be missing Joey Reyes' Sayaw nf mga SENIORita  in its debut run at the CCP that very same night. I'd love to see how closely it hews to its inspiration The Boys In The Band, but I'm not too keen on battling EDSA traffic to catch its succeeding performances at the AFP Theater. 

Nevertheless, should we fail to catch it at all, we are ready to console ourselves with Ballet Philippines' Dragon Song/Rama Hari back at the CCP on the 30th.

I always need a Statler to my Waldorf.

Lest I come off as a braggart and a snob, let me confess that these cultural excursions are hugely an elaborate - and expensive - exercise in social trolling born out of boredom. Be that as it may, I do have a genuine - if selective - interest in watching live performances, aside from those given by myself and my lovely accomplices. I still lament learning too late that Wicked had a short run in Singapore earlier this year, and would watch Evita every week if they ever bother re-staging it here. 



But why the trolling, you might ask? Isn't attending artistic performances sufficient in and of itself? 



Well, for better or worse, every gay man craves some drama in his life. And no drama is larger than life than when it is within the context of an opera, soap or musical. Speaking of which, the last musical opera I remember watching locally was a tragicomic staging of the already-tragic La Traviata. A theatrical - if well-meaning - travesty held at either the CCP or the Met, such was the trauma that I can't recall exactly. But I do remember its come-on was that it was an "experimental" version that "enhanced" the music of Verdi by altering the libretto with a smattering of Tagalog lyrics by none other than Rolando Tinio, if memory serves. 

Mal canto Tinio?

Opera is already inherently given to caricature as it is, but hearing Violetta singing that she was repairing to fucking NOVALICHES for her health could only send even the most solicitous of Filipino audiences into uncontrollable tittering. 

Be that as it may, I would still gladly sleep through Wagner at the Met - if we ever manage to convince any touring opera companies to grace our karaoke-infested shores.

(EDIT: In between the time I wrote this and the time I published it, I have learned that the Manila Symphony Orchestra, in celebration of Richard Wagner's birth bicentennial, is featuring Australian Wagnerian soprano Claire Primrose and Filipino tenor Randy Gilongo this Saturday, November 10th at the Philamlife Auditorium.)


So now it turns out I can sleep through Wagner at the...Philamlife.

It ain't over even after the Fat Lady sings.

It's a new addiction, this conspicuous cultural consumption - one I haven't really had since I was a child and the official escort to my grandmothers. There was always a sense of excitement in the air on those special nights when the women of the house transformed from lola, tita, and mama into these elegant perfumed ladies. And there was that thrill of anticipation before the show, and the grown-up feeling of mingling with the adults during intermission beneath the CCP's majestic capiz chandeliers.

I guess I miss all that...theatricality ? Or maybe I just miss the dressing-up part.

At any rate, unlike the Phantom's sequel Love Never Dies, this current infatuation of mine with the performing arts shall most certainly not last. But while I am caught in its entrancing embrace, I guess I've no choice but to enjoy the ride.

And with that, I shall leave you with this - my first lasting impression of Caro Nome from Verdi's Rigoletto - as interpreted by a dog.

Enjoy!

=======================

*The actual line is "Music has charms to soothe a savage breast." Which, if you ask me, is far FAR more interesting than the more popular misquote.

Glory Be

This being a Sunday, here's a Missouri pastor thundering on about gay rights going 


"...against the plain truth of the word of God. As one preacher warns, Man, in overstepping the boundary lines God has drawn by making special rights for gays and lesbians, has taken another step in the direction of inviting the judgment of God upon our land. This step of gay rights is but another stepping-stone toward the immorality and lawlessness that'll be characteristic of the last days. This ordinance represents a denial of all that we believe in and no one should force it on us.

It's not that we don't care about homosexuals, but it's that our rights will be taken away, and un-Christian views will be forced on us and our children, for we'll be forced to go against our personal morals. Outside government agents are endeavoring to disturb God's established order; it is not in line with the Bible. Do not let people lead you astray. The liberals leading this movement do not believe the Bible any longer but every good, substantial, Bible-believing intelligent Orthodox Christian can read the word of God and know what is happening is not of God. 

When you run into conflict with God's established order, you have trouble. You do not produce harmony. You produce destruction and trouble, and our city is in the greatest danger that it has ever been in in its history. The reason is that we have gotten away from the Bible of our forefathers."




And now that you're frothing at the mouth, be sure to watch until the end of the speech for the surprising twist.

Cats Vs. Dogs

A short intermission between Broadway, death, and general annoyance posts.



Despite the recent, irritating trend of long-term bloggers shuttering or, even more vexingly, simply neglecting their online homes without at least the decency of burning them to the ground, there remain some encouraging developments. Renowned and veteran blogger gillboard, for instance, recently created a new blog called  The Puppy Diarist , that aims to chronicle undoubtedly-amusing and heartwarming* tales of how he plays father to two new dogs.

A comment expressing sympathies for his self-imposed calvary shortly appeared in his Comments Section.



Not mine, unfortunately.




While I am, as my About Me section has stated for the past three years, a "harassed father to (a fluctuating number of) psychotic dogs" and now, two kittens, I tend to share the common opinion that cats are indeed smarter than dogs.

As the following video so scientifically, definitively, and hilariously points out.

If you love either smart cats or stupid dogs, do give the video a chance and watch it. I almost died at "...while here a cat who has just enjoyed an amuse-bouche and a snow pea gratin is fascinated by the dinner conversation about Habermas' Dialectic of Enlightenment."

Alas, the video doesn't go into why they're so smug and snooty. 



Aside from evil.



Which, I suppose, is just as well.




-------------------------

*Update : Make that "heartbreak" as well. As of this writing, his latest entry is about the loss of his famous parrot - the one in his avatar and the one I threatened to pluck alive years ago.

For more details, go to his blog and read on.

Double-Header

Who do I have to kill to get tickets around here?

In yet another example of the best-laid plans of mice and men, I was able to drag my lazy depressed ass out of bed long enough to actually watch Phantom of the Opera with a date - by actually not planning to.

My sister had wanted to watch The King and I and, giving her FB profile a cursory glance, saw that Ayen, our genteel and venerable head make-up artist, friend, and colleague (who happened to be on my sister's  Friends List) expressed a longing to watch the musical this weekend, too. I knew, however, given how frugal he was, that the play would be a bit of a guilty luxury for him. 

Dammit, who do we have to kill to get tickets around here?

In a rare fit of largesse, I asked my sister to inquire about tickets so that she could watch said musical with Ayen, as a surprise treat for them both.

So off she skipped and hopped to Ticketworld, my good little Red Riding Hood. And since she was already there, I figured I may as well have her inquire about tickets to Phantom, as well. Mainly because I remembered a promise I made to Brandon, my old ex-employee and protégé, that I'd take him to see that musical as my date - on the proviso that he attend dressed as a woman, complete with evening gown and jewels. (Brandon is a drag show performer by trade, but one whose bone structure makes him pretty enough, to the uninitiated, to actually pass for female.)

Go big or go home, bitch.

In the ensuing flurry of text messages between my sister, Brandon, Ayen, and myself, availabilities were hastily laid on the table and I basically let fate decide where the chips fell. To no one's surprise, Phantom was pretty much fully-booked except for two adjacent VIP seats, which, as fate would have it, were being offered at a substantial discount because the original reservations had been cancelled. 


There was just one catch, though: the tickets were for the following night. 


Short notice is short.


Brandon, whose theatrical, potentially-eyebrow raising entrance into the unctuous halls of the CCP had been a minor on-off side project of mine for months, unfortunately was not permitted by his new bosses to take the evening off on that night. Having already given the go-ahead to my sister/emissary to purchase said pair of tickets  - and with her already possessing her own tickets to a later Phantom playdate - I was left with an extra seat and no drag queen to drag along and show off to the culturati.

Grand guignol calls for grand entrances.

One text later and Ayen was, in his own words, on Cloud Nine.

And because sometimes real-life plots thicken like Broadway story lines, my sister - whose desire to watch The King and I set all these wheels in motion - suddenly ups and declares that due to a work emergency, she cannot make it to her weekend with Ayen.

Which makes me Ayen's musical date this weekend.

The Queen and I.

Two for the road. Shall we dance?

And so it will pass that Ayen will not only get his wish to watch The King and I this weekend, as my date, gratis et amore, but thanks to a series of unfortunate (for Brandon) events, he also became my unexpected date for Phantom last night. 

Better luck next time, Brandon, my angel of music.

A case of a girl making a wish to the FB gods and seeing it come true.

Or just being in the right place at the right time.

However, despite my edict that he arrive in nothing less than a fussy, spangled Bob Mackie rip-off, Ayen showed up in a smart, tasteful pantsuit. Not exactly La Carlotta sniffing at the riffraff in the nosebleeds, but at least he was in heels. 

And because the sparkling vision of bugle-beaded serpentina-tottering fabulousness that I had pre-prodded Brandon to be was stuck in my brain like a glittering splinter, I festooned Ayen with enough Swarovski to rival the Phantom's legendary chandelier - to much side-eyeing and eyebrow-raising all around.

I just wanted my date to upstage the lighting fixture. 

It's not too much to ask.

And I was a happy little camper in a three-piece suit.





Oh.





And the show was great, too.

Here's Chuckles with Andrew Lloyd Webber. Thinking of me.

And the much, much-better studio version. With lyrics.

Because this goddamn song makes me cry every time.