One for the Road

BACK...

2011-09-14T00:05:00.004-07:00

No, no- how is it possible that so much time has passed without a post? Madness. Unforgivable madness. But that ends now~ There are just too many adventures to be had, too many places to explore, and too many cocktails to be shaken to stop now. Regardless of the political climate and economic turmoil of our present days we will persevere, with a hey nonny nonny, and hot cha-cha (and plenty of ice.)

FISH CREEK, WI - PENINSULA PLAYERS

2009-09-27T19:54:00.002-07:00

Peninsula Players is the oldest residential Theatre in the country. It is Special. It is lovely. It is the place where every actor would like to spend their summer working and every one of their friends would like to visit. It's very much like an actor's summer camp; we eat together (well), work together (hard), and yes, occasionally sleep together (it happens). It's quite simply a great place to work, to live, and to "love and be loved" (a saying painted on the back of the old theatre and the unofficial motto of the players).

Set in the bucolic north woods of Wisconsin on the Door County Peninsula, the theatre sits on the shores of Green Bay. There is a large picnic area by the water (where we generally eat our buffet lunches and dinners together) and an "Actor's Lodge" where we eat during inclement weather, receive our mail, or watch a movie by the fire after a show. There is also a fire-pit for bonfires at intermission and for Saturday night "Bar Nights". Theatre patrons can get a cocktail or a glass of wine before the show, watch an amazing sunset over the bay, and then head into the theatre to watch some of Chicago's finest actors and directors at work.

The theatre, up until just a few years ago, was absolutely charming but light on the amenities. It was built in the 1940's and a permanent roof over the audience added in 1957. The audience sat in folding director's chairs placed on gravel, and the dusty and crowded backstage, while nostalgically alluring, was hot, dirty, and a bit heavy on the bats and bugs. There was virtually no fly or wing space, and the sides of the theatre bowed under the weight of the lights.

In 2006, however, a new multi-million dollar theatre was constructed, and I'm glad to say they did it right. It has all the rustic charm and allure of the old theatre while boasting air-conditioned dressing rooms, ample fly and wing space, a new lighting and sound system, and comfortable seats for the patrons. If you have the chance to visit, do it, you will not regret it.

Up the hill from the theatre are five four-unit cabins where the actors, directors, and designers live. The rooms are clean and actually quite charming. Most nights, after a show, the cast and crew can be found gathered on the deck of one of the units for a contemplative cocktail or three. There is also an outdoor 'Living Room' area for larger gatherings.

The most enchanting facet of working at Pen Players is the almost intangible and undefinable feel of the place. It's rustic and relaxing, yet the quality of work is exceptional. The management likes to hire people that they've worked with before, especially ones that are good and happy campers; ones that play well with others (both on stage and off). Eating, working, and living together creates a real feeling of family for cast and crew alike, and the memories, friendships, and loves forged there are the stuff of legend. Well, at least for we few, we happy few, lucky enough to have trod the boards of Peninsula Players.

SALEM, OREGON - PASS

2008-11-07T18:14:00.000-08:00

Most State Capitals into two categories: the great ones (Austin, Juneau, Madison) and the truly godawful ones (Sacramento, Lansing, Trenton). Salem, Oregon is solidly in the latter. Even the State Capitol (above) is bland and unattractive. I was placed in Salem at the start of the general election as the Chief Field Organizer for several surrounding counties. It was a tremendous amount of work, which resulted in very, very little tippling for yours truly- but when I did find a moment for a reflective cocktail, I was sorely disappointed at every turn. There is a ubiquity about Salem bars- neon signs, televisions, smoke, mediocre food, and a stunned vacant expression in every bartender's face when you don't say "I'll have a pint of...". I have nothing more to tell you about this city, except that it should be avoided at all costs if you're thinking of having a pensive cocktail. It is a complete loss and should be given a polite pass by the likes of us as we drive on along the road in search of that restoring cocktail we so richly deserve.

ASTORIA, OREGON - AND A NEEDLE

2008-05-03T18:36:00.000-07:00

On the shores of the mighty Columbia River, just a little down river from the Pacific Coast, is Astoria; the oldest American city west of the Mississippi. A former fishing village, it is now just a small river town- but one that is not without its charms or even a tippling needle in the haystack. Astoria was featured prominently in the film, or rather, the movie "Goonies". I can't say that I've seen this particular 'entertainment', but from what I've heard it featured prominently in the upbringing of adults of a certain age, and thus the mention. I just thought you might be like to know.

The Astoria-Megler Bridge straddles the mighty Columbia and provides access to lower Washington state. I came to Astoria with the Obama Campaign, working as the field organizer for Clatsop County (which also includes the more popular Seaside and Canon Beach, Astoria being the county seat). Above you'll see my modest office/HQ, just a stones throw from the river and also the view in the top pic. This being my first time in Oregon (outside of Portland) I was amazed how similar one bar is to the next: lots of neon, lots of smoking, always a few video poker machines (legal in OR), a few rough looking regulars, at least two televisions, and plenty of micro-brew beers. This model as described held little allure for me, as you can imagine, so I struck out to find the exceptions to the rule.

Under the support arches of the imposing and oddly beautiful bridge is the Workers Bar and Grill- an excellent dive in the blue collar vein. Lots of plaid and denim on the clientèle, and at least forty years of news articles and fishing gear on the walls. Avoid the tap beer and stick to the bottles, your health may depend on it. But the bartenders are capable enough and the regulars friendly, so it's worth a visit.

Down at the other end of town, is the Rogue Ale Public House. Situated on the rather rickety pilings of pier 39, this somewhat generic seeming new pub does provide wonderful views of ships meandering under the bridge and pushing down the Columbia, which makes it worthwhile despite the service. I had a terrible martini here, owing, no doubt, to an absence of the Tippler spirit and soul in the lugubrious bar staff. Probably wise to stick to the beer here as well, though a nice view I have to say. There were some other establishments about town worth visiting that I have not mentioned here; the Ft. George Brewpub (no cocktails and thus omitted), the Schooner (rather good food but too many TVs), and the Triangle (too smokey most nights) just to name a few.

But as I mentioned, there is a needle in this haystack; and that needle is Fulio's Pastaria. Fulio's is quite simply the best Italian Restaurant I found in Oregon, or the entire west coast for that matter. I could go on and on about the food (the seared Caesar Salad, for instance, and the Spedini are two of the very few reasons I would plan a return visit to Astoria) but I was most pleasantly surprised by the care and attention they paid to cocktail preparation. Being able to find a perfectly shaken Hendrick's Martini (by no means a ubiquitous brand) in this cocktail wasteland was akin to some of history's greatest geographic discoveries. Surely just as Lewis and Clark (who's trek ended at the shore in Seaside just down the road) stumbled upon a few unexpected miracles along their journey, it's nice to know that should you ever find yourself in the wilds of Northwest Oregon, there is a miracle waiting just for you...

PORTLAND - HUBER'S

2008-04-19T18:44:00.000-07:00

Situated inconspicuously inside the old Railway Exchange Building on 3rd Avenue, Huber's is an incomparable gem; as well as an absolute must-visit for all of our tippling ilk who happen to visit Portland, Oregon. Upon entering this shrine to cocktails of another age, I felt the rush and thrill that I'm certain every intrepid explorer has experienced at the climax of an arduous quest. Granted I didn't have to cut through brush, tunnel limestone, or interpret hieroglyphs to find this treasure- yet the euphoria of discovery coursed through every molecule. In order to reach the bar area, one has simply to either walk along an old hallway past the Tonsorial Parlor, or meander through the diner portion of the restaurant. At first you'll ask yourself “is this it”? But then you enter the main room and you know. You just know.

Huber's celebrated its 100th anniversary of continuous operation in 1979. It has been designated a historic landmark in Portland and is listed in the National Registry of Historic Places. The arched stained-glass skylight (above), the solid Philippine mahogany paneling, and the terrazzo floor are original fixtures from 1911. So are the brass cash register behind the bar, the brass ship's clock above the door, as well as the pewter wine bucket and its silver wine stand. It is of another time indeed.

I first stumbled across Huber's one chilly afternoon, having been pointed in its general direction by a helpful barkeep at the Locust Club just down the street. There is a diaphanous glow in the late afternoon hour at the bar, the result of prisms redirecting the sunlight from the street to the skylights in the ceiling. The bartenders are dressed impeccably, the rich mahogany bar is warm and immaculate, and when you reverently take your seat to the dulcetly intoned “Good afternoon sir, may I start you off with a cocktail?”, you know in your heart that you are in good and capable hands. I ordered an extra dry Bombay Martini up with a twist. A nod of the head, and the barman went about his work slowly but deliberately before serving up one of those martinis that restore your faith in our culture. “Surely” you say to yourself, “Any age that can produce such a wonder as this can't be altogether unsound.”

During my second martini (and by no means my last) I found that Huber's had endured prohibition by prospering as a restaurant and speakeasy (serving Manhattans in coffee cups). Freshly carved roast turkey was the most popular staple, and is still featured today. They have a remarkable happy hour and late night menu featuring fresh turkey sandwiches, seared Ahi Tuna, Steamed Mussels and a variety of remarkably inexpensive and delicious meals; several of which I enjoyed that very afternoon. The evening passed peacefully and pleasantly, and if I could have stayed longer, I would have. I sauntered out to the cold, indifferent, Portland street, confident that I would return to my latest cocktail haven just as soon as possible- and I did, the very next day. By all means go, and let me know when you do, so that I might live vicariously through your every sip.

EDITOR'S NOTE

2008-03-29T13:03:00.007-07:00

Gentle reader, an eventful year has passed since I last wrote of my Tippling peregrinations. Fear not, I wasn't committed to an alcoholic sanatorium. Nor did I join one of those programs no doubt helpful to some of our brethren who, through no fault of their own, quite simply can't maintain a civil air when taking of a cocktail or seven at the appointed hour. No, no, not me. Rest assured I toured and tippled as is my wont, but only in delicate moderation and alas, never at that violet hour.

A call to duty compelled me to dive even deeper into the political waters and devote my all to the election of our current President. There were some highlights along the way, of course, which I would be remiss in not bringing to your attention. The following posts should bring you up to speed nicely on those not-to-be-missed places that I've encountered over the course of the last year. I'll also backdate the posts in order to maintain a certain chronological integrity.

AUSTIN - THE HEART OF TEXAS

2008-03-25T13:24:00.010-07:00

Oh do I like Austin. Now granted, I was there in March and April when the weather was clement and lovely as opposed to the steamy nightmare that I'm sure it is now, but Austin has climbed quickly into the pantheon of tippler favorites- settling comfortably on the bar stool next to established regulars Chicago, New York, and San Francisco and ordering the sort of cocktail that lets us know we're in the company of a kindred spirit. I know, I know, you can't quite believe it. “Texas?” you say incredulously, are there really imbibers of our ilk in that vast, muggy, rodeo-lovin', oil-profiteering, stolen-from-Mexico wasteland? Honestly, not really, (and certainly not in Dallas or Houston), but Austin is still a great, great town.

The Senator likes it too- pictured here at a rally in front of the Texas Capital. I was working in the Obama HQ just a few blocks away and we stole out on a Friday night around ten to hear him give the speech that we knew well but still enjoyed. The Capital building, a wonderfully impressive structure, was built with the assistance of stonecutters from Scotland. I'm not saying, I'm just saying. I've often wondered what became of those Scotsman, someone should write a book...

One blissfully sunny afternoon I sauntered down from the office and grabbed a stool at the Texas Chili Parlor. The interior of the bar was very much in the 'roadhouse' vein, with old Austin posters, memorabilia, and news clippings. The old plank floors and worn furniture were comfortable though not shabby. I noticed that they had Don Julio Reposado and had a gimlet rocks (so as to fit in). In no time at all I struck up a conversation with the bartender, who introduced me to a couple sitting next to me, who introduced me to another bartender who was ending her shift. She wanted a shot, so she bought a round for the other bartender, the couple, and I. Then the couple took a turn. Then the other bartender. The owner. Then me. It was madness, but you couldn't ask for a friendlier crew. I sauntered out into the still bright early evening and strolled down to South Congress as on a cloud.

And then... the Continental Club; one of those mystical places where everything (the music, the décor, the vibe) seems to come together seamlessly- the 'perfect storm' of taverns. Now granted, it is a live music venue, and as such, ineligible for true cocktail hour greatness. This is not the place where one relaxes in violet hour solitude with a contemplative cocktail, but it is a great bar. There are two main drags in Austin. The first, stirring up echoes of Peach Tree St. and Bourbon St. is 6th street (more on that next post). The second is South Congress, where it's more about quality than quantity.

On the last Sunday of every month one can enjoy “Heybale”, an excellent country swing band with an impressive array of musicians including an amazing fiddle player, a stoic stand-up bass player, and an oddly charming and effusive mandolin player who just seems so damn happy to making music that you can't help but go along for the ride. I decided to stay with the one that brought me and alternated between Cazadores Gimlets and Tecates, while occasionally dancing with the friendly Texas regulars. Such a great night, I found myself longing to return with my old Chicago pals to share this amazing city, its bars, and its people.

LAS VEGAS - R.I.P.

2008-03-25T13:15:00.018-07:00

Las Vegas is dead- and much like the stars who once crooned and capered for nattily dressed gentlemen and ladies, it will always be remembered for the younger years; before the embarrassment and bloated vulgarity of the post-prime golden years (yes, I refer to the King). I rolled into town from LA, making the same trek as generations before me, in order to help with the Nevada Caucuses. Granted the working hours were long, but there's always time for a gentleman to tipple. One makes time, after all.

Sauntering along the strip on a Saturday in Las Vegas, one can almost sense what it must have been like back in the day- the lights, the excitement, a impeccably dressed gentleman strolling with a beautiful blonde. She took hours to get ready, and she looks fantastic. He enjoyed a martini and a cigarette while he waited for her, and never felt so relaxed in his life. They were going to make a proper night of it, and they looked the part.

"Man I really like Vegas"

-Elvis Presley

Granted, the lights of the strip are still there (and improved), but these romantic visions come to a crashing halt once you enter the present day casino lobby to the cheesy cacophony of dinging slot machines. I stopped at the Circus Circus, due in no small part to Dr. Thompson's description of it in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". It was appalling. The dress code could only be described as 'power boat chic'. For the gentlemen: tank tops or t-shirts with the sleeves cut off with knee length basketball shorts. Please do not feel compelled to suck in the gut. For the well appointed lady: sweatpants and a spaghetti strap tank top with "Bitch" emblazoned across the chest. Likewise with the gut. I ordered a Cazadores gimlet. The bartender looked hesitant, and I watched as he went back to consult with several of the other bartenders. The drink would have been merely passable if he hadn't misjudged the pour at the end of the bottle and poured me twice the amount needed. I had him put the whole thing on the rocks in a pint glass and retired to the slots.

After covering the price of my gimlet (which I was never able to sip contemplatively in that environment, as is my wont), I walked down to the newer casinos: Luxor, New York, New York, the Bellagio... but a casino is a casino; same clanging, consuming din, same crowd, same avarice. Some people love it... but it's just not for me I guess.

I drove out towards North Las Vegas to where I was staying, and stopped for a taco. The Taqueria El Palenque is the needle in the haystack of taco stands. The Friendly crew didn't mind that I was the only gringo customer, or that I was fantastically overdressed, or even the fact that I didn't speak Spanish. The food was as remarkably fresh and natural as the Tecate was refreshingly cold, and I was finally enjoying Las Vegas. I could have stayed there all night, basking in the hot desert air, sipping an ice cold beer, chatting with the regulars, and the lights of Vegas twinkling at a safe distance.

DUBUQUE – THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL

2008-02-14T15:14:00.006-08:00

After a lovely, quite rushed, and admittedly intoxicated Christmas in my beloved Chicago, I met up with another Obama Staffer for the drive out to Dubuque for the final week of campaigning before the Iowa Caucuses. Dubuque's a nice little town, charming even, though every bit as cold as what you might imagine for Iowa in January. I worked fourteen hour days; mostly knocking on doors, making phone calls, entering data, and cutting turf. But that doesn't mean I didn't find time at the end of the long day to repair to a local tavern for a restorative cocktail.

When in Rome... the old saw goes, and in the taverns of Dubuque beer and whiskey reign supreme. My local in the 14th Precinct was the Copper Kettle, where a shot of Jamieson and a Sam Adams sets you back a modest six bucks. By the end of my stay I would be greeted with a “Hey there tippler!” and my drinks would hit the bar before I hit the stool. What they lack in cocktail acumen they more than make up for with quick service. And they're absolutely right when they talk about how friendly Iowans are- I couldn't sit in a bar for more than five minutes without starting a conversation with one of the regulars. Granted, we weren't discussing New York Times op/ed pieces, but it being Rome...

At the other end of the precinct was Buddy's Supper Club- a cozy but somewhat bland neighborhood restaurant with a friendly dog, radish trays, and an old model train circling the room. Buddy, the owner, works the bar, while his wife works the kitchen. I never saw Buddy without a drink, and I was there for lunches and dinners. He also rewarded deep thirsts. I would normally have Stoli on the rocks, and marveled happily as his pours got heavier and heavier with each round, with each visit. With the bitter cold outside, and the Russian vodka inside, it seemed rather “to each according to his need...”, and I was fine with that.

New Year's Eve, and we were working at the HQ. Hoping to achieve a little respite, I grabbed the cutest intern I could find and stole her away for a cocktail. We ended up around the corner at Yen Chings Szechuan Restaurant, which featured the tiniest bar I've ever visited. Two stools, a five foot counter, and three shelves that were surprisingly well stocked. The bartender (Sam) seemed unsure about the notion of making a martini, so I walked him through the process literally step by step. He was an apt pupil who laughed loudly at the precise Vermouth measure before serving up a pair of remarkably well made Bombay martinis. Luckily he was eager and able to repeat the process, and we lolled in the New Year's bonhomie with the bored, giggly, English-challenged staff. Not how I usually ring in the New Year- but it did have a certain je ne sais quoi.

HONG KONG - EXPATRIOTISM

2007-12-16T20:35:00.000-08:00

Everyone in Hong Kong is in a hurry. They're making deals, selling, buying, building, buzzing around at a dizzying pace. The city itself is made up of impossibly tall, skinny and densely packed buildings, like swizzle sticks jammed in a pint glass. Yet people here appear to know how to deal with the stress. Seems after a hard day's haggling you either take a few fish from the goldfish market in Kowloon home and sit and watch them, or you go out for a drink or three. On assignment from the Traveling Tippler, sidekick the Intrepid Imbiber (me) has put together a sampler of cocktailing dens in HK on which to report, because, let's face it, goldfish just aren't very interesting.

First stop is Club 71 in Mid-Levels. Hidden in an alleyway off of another alleyway off Hollywood Road, one suspects this would be a good place to go to hammer out illicit deals. One also suspects that one is not the first to think of this possibility. There's a bar inside the place, but everyone sits outside at the plastic tables.

The buzz of air conditioner units in the apartments above make conversations private. No matter, the pairs of middle-aged fellas playing DongGuang know better than to eavesdrop.

The Peak Bar is in a plum location, but it's not at the peak. In fact, it's only half way up the hill. The front of the bar opens onto the mid-levels escalator, which is an odd but very useful mode of commutation for thousands of apartment-dwellers perched high on the hill overlooking the central business district.

Given its location it doesn't seem the Peak Bar would have to try very hard to lure in drinkers, yet the bar manages its task with aplomb. Decorative tile floor, gleaming wooden bar, tasteful wrought iron chandeliers and ice cold wheat beer make it a rather congenial place to sit and watch fellow expats escalate past.

Wan Chai has more than its share of seedy bars, many featuring heavily made-up gals who make their livelihoods entertaining businessmen in cheap suits and American navy men on ship leave. An exception (though not totally lacking seediness) is the Horse and Groom (inexplicably, signs all over the place read "Horse and Carriage"). The place was totally redecorated in 1973 and I for one hope it's a long time before the owner again succumbs to the urge to spruce things up.

I ordered a Harvey Wallbanger, because that's the sort of drink you order at a place like the Horse and Groom. Despite the British-sounding name the crowd is mostly Hong Kong Chinese, mostly regulars, sitting in small groups around small round formica tables engaging in boisterous drinking games or quietly catching up. It's the perfect sort of place to empty a bucket of longneck Tsing Taos or sample cocktails from a bygone era with an old chum.

JUNEAU- COLD DRINKS

2007-12-04T22:48:00.000-08:00

The Great White North. I've been lucky enough to spend a good deal of time in Alaska, but only during the summer months (with the exception of two weeks in Barrow, AK, the farthest northern tip of Alaska, where the sun never rose during my stay). The grandeur and majesty of this beautiful piece of land is only augmented by the realities of winter. The snow capping of the mountains on either side of Gastineau Channel, the air clarity sharpened by the cold, crisp air, and the absolute lack of tourists (no cruise ships in the winter) only adds to the allure of this still frontier town. True to form, I did a lot of drinking in the comfort of home. But when you can make an ideal martini and enjoy the kind of view my brother enjoys from his living room (above), it makes a powerful argument for drinking at home. But, to the bars...

The Alaska Hotel Bar is a great tavern. Located in the heart of downtown, right across the street from such local nightmares as “The Lucky Lady”, the “Rendezvous”, and “The Triangle Bar”, each replete with local drunks, neon signs, choking smoke, and the ever present threat of an altercation, this great bar belongs in the pantheon of great bars. (Well, in Alaska at least, because everything is scored on a different scale here; the fish, the game, the women...)

The inside, (seasonally decorated above) is a classic frontier, wild west, style saloon. There's a small stage for local bands, and a single TV that is generally tuned to a camera focused to look east along the channel (for tides and sunsets). Alaska Brewery products monopolize the taps, and that's a good thing; summer ale, amber, pale ale, winter ale, porter, they're all there, and all fantastic. Beer is the drink here- they don't go in for anything fancy, and neither should you. It's wonderfully easy to strike up a conversation in this bar, everybody is there to be social and they generally welcome a good story- call it an offshoot of those cold Alaskan winters. It does get smoky later in the evening, especially on weekends, but early on, this is a great place for a restorative pint.

The Hangar is just a sports bar, but its location makes it one of the finest sports bars you'll ever visit (if you should visit a sports bar...). It's situated right on the Gastineau Channel, with a wall of windows looking out at the mountains, fishing boats, and float planes that define this part of the world.

You sit at the bar with a thoughtful pint, looking out at this beautiful and wonderful vista, and you know that you are in no other part of the world. You are in the very heart of nature, a tiny nook chiseled out of an unforgiving landscape- you are an adventurer and a conqueror. (And all you had to do was fly up here and come to this bar.) The food is mediocre, and it may get crowded and smoky, but sometimes a good view is worth a few minor inconveniences.

CHICAGO - HEAVEN

2007-11-13T23:08:00.000-08:00

I recently enjoyed a completely undeserved but necessary sojourn back to my beloved Chicago. I landed on a cold, drizzly, miserable night, and smiled uncontrollably for the duration of the cab ride from the airport. The rest of the week showcased the romantic ideal of a Chicago fall; Brisk, sunlit days, burnt pastel leaves on trees and crisply underfoot, as well as scarved and bundled cuties coyly smiling with some unnamed inner secret. I strolled North Clark near Halsted past all my favorite haunts, and visited old friends. I stopped into the Duke of Perth (the Duke) for a pint of Belhaven, one of the finest pours in the city. The sun flooded in through the windows as I struck up one of those easy mid-afternoon bar conversations- you know the ones; you're drinking in the middle of the day, and so are they, you're not drunkards, just enjoying a beautiful day- what could be finer?

I sauntered up Clark to the El Jardin Cafe for a few margarita's and several of their amazing steak tacos. The Cafe, it should be noted, is different animal altogether from the El Jardin Restaurant just down the block. Back in the day the restaurant was a family operation, and they did a fine business. But then they cleverly started to put a bit of grain alcohol into the margarita's (confided to me by a busboy who recognized me as a regular) and business went through the roof. The cuisine became an afterthought and the boys decided to drop mom's recipe's in favor of easier and quicker versions of popular Mexican staples. One of the boys (Gus) decided that he wanted to keep mom's recipe's alive, and opened the El Jardin cafe. It's much smaller, but one of the most charming, sun-drenched, and clean corner Taquerias you're liable to discover. The margarita's are great (though not quite as hallucinogenic as the restaurant version) and the Tecate ice cold. Stop in, say hi to Gus, and have the steak tacos.

From the noble lineage of New York's “Milk and Honey” and “The Pegu Club” is born, without question, one of the finest lounges in Chicago. “The Violet Hour”, on Damen in Wicker Park, takes its name from a T.S. Eliot poem via Bernard Devoto's classic cocktail guide “The Hour”, and lives up to the romantic ideal of both titles. The exterior is straight up speakeasy- there are no signs and no windows, just a simple wooden facade with a few spray painted “Post No Bills”. I'm told there are lines later in the evening, but why would you go there late in the evening?

Upon entering, one is met with a few signs gently requesting that cell phones be turned off, and informing the clientèle that capacity was limited to the number of seats in the bar. The interior is spacious, with lush curtains, candles, chandeliers, and modern high backed chairs. It's an interesting mix of modern and classic- think Kubrick meets Art Deco. The cocktail list features classic concoctions from the 20's and 30's , and are $11 each. They are worth every penny. The masterful bartenders, led by Toby Maloney (who worked with Sasha at Milk and Honey in NY), are fastidious in their preparation, to the point of using five different kinds of ice in order to achieve the perfect consistency and temperature.

I enjoyed an evening with several friends here, tucked away at the end of the bar enjoying many a quaint and curious relics from our illustrious cocktail history and marveling at the wonderful 'old and new' musical accompaniment. We basked in the candle cocktail glow and let the warmth of friendship and well made cocktails wash over us. It was a night, a bar, and a time to remember.

LOS ANGELES - SOME GEMS

2007-11-11T21:59:00.000-08:00

There are a few decent places in Los Angeles, though far between as I've mentioned. The Reel Inn on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu is one such gem. I stopped in with my brother after a family reunion cruise to Mexico in August. It was the afternoon and we were headed up to San Francisco to see the Cubs play at ATT. We had both been hit with a brutal stomach bug and we're just getting rid of the green around our gills when we stopped in for a light meal and a cold one. There are just some places where all the factors come together perfectly and this is one of them. It's an old sunbleached wood shack where the locals and surfers have been getting their fresh seafood fix for decades. The drinks here are always beer; fresh and cold, and there are many to choose from. When the saltwater breeze comes off the Pacific and the sun slowly sets on the horizon, you know you're in the right place.

I've spent many a long day in the California Obama HQ lately, serving as Border State Director for Southern California. (Vote for him, seriously). Anyway when the clock hit eight one fine night I was pleasantly surprised to be with a few folks from the office at the H.M.S. Bounty: an old school, nautically themed dive bar a block away. We had a few drinks, shared some good stories, and enjoyed that unforced bonhomie of trenchmates. But I wasn't sated. On the way home I stopped off at a hole in the wall in Koreatown whose name has no english equivalent. It was a tiny Karaoke bar that offered two kinds of beer, one kind of So Joo, and some Korean wines. I was, of course, the only english speaker in the place. The menu, the Karoake machine, and the restroom signs were all in Korean. I had a Hite beer (a Korean beer) and a bowl of peanuts as an elderly Korean man groped his wife while his daughter sang a Korean pop song. The gentleman next to me offered, without a word of English mind you, a shot of his So Joo, which is a sort of Korean Sake. I really could of stayed all night. But this being L.A., and I with a forty minute drive home, had to call it a night. Shame, it could have been quite a night.

The 901 Bar. Terrible bar, good story. I was at USC one night working on a grad student's film and stopped by to have a restorative for the drive home (oh, don't look at me that way). It's a great looking bar from the outside, and at one time was probably a looker on the inside. Currently it serves as a buckets-of-beer style sports bar for the undergrads with wall to wall flat screens and drinks served in plastic cups.

I rolled the dice and ordered a martini. The very cute, pixie-like barmaid smiled, nodded, and started about her business. She placed a plastic martini glass on the rail and I stopped her immediately. "I'm sorry" quoth I, "Really... I just couldn't..." She nodded, then started suddenly. "I'll be right back!" She returned moments later from the manager's office and triumphantly placed a glass version on the rail. The cherry on this sundae of a story was the amount of sheer effort she put into this martini- a full five minutes of prep, shaking, pouring, and garnishing. I think she enjoyed it too; like a fine French chef who's allowed to take a break from the hot dog stand to prepare his favorite four star dish. I sat in this loud, obnoxious, beer-soaked hole, and enjoyed one of the finest martinis I've enjoyed on this coast.

LOS ANGELES - ROAD RAGE

2007-08-07T14:58:00.000-07:00

So I landed in all too consistently sunny Los Angeles and stumbled into a series of wonderful house/dog sitting jobs that have kept a roof over my head for about six months now. Nice. Good. If only it would storm, or cloud over, or do...something, meteorologically. And while I have been enjoying a well-earned cocktail at the appointed hour, it has usually been in the comfort of my temporary lodging, with a friend or two and a smiling canine face resting on my foot. So...apologies for the lack of tippling related adventures; another victim of the absurd car culture that is L.A.

This is what I see more than anything else, more often than anything else. I'm fortunate enough to have a good number of friends out here on the coast, but everybody is spread out and at least a twenty minute drive away. And that's when there's no traffic. It's hard enough to spend time with friends when their down the street, it's nigh impossible when they're across town. So, yes, I stay in a lot.

This is Malibu Lake. I shot a scene from Lonesome West with a graduate student film-maker here. It's lovely, like so many things out here, though it has the bonus of being natural. Also, it's a thirty five minute drive from Hollywood. An hour and a half during rush hour. Yes, I have road rage and I'm not even driving.

CEDAR CITY, UT– NO TIPPLING

2007-06-19T11:42:00.001-07:00

I set off from Denver in the early morning, buffeted by gale force winds which moved my boat of a car around alarmingly. Denver weather: Sunny and 80 degrees. An hour or so later the outside temp hovered at 30 degrees and I was driving through a snow storm in the upper reaches of the beautiful Rocky Mountains. A short while after that I had descended into the Desert heat and grandeur. I passed a gas station, my computer readout stating that I had “One hundred and Twenty Miles to Empty”, and decided I would stop at the next gas station.

Eagle Canyon. A roughly one hundred and sixteen mile stretch of the loveliest and most barren landscape you can imagine. The longest miles of my life. I coasted down hills, I drove slowly to improve gas mileage, I stayed in the right lane in case I ran out of gas. When I finally found a gas station my readout stated “4 Miles to Empty”. It was six-ish, so I made a little margarita, pulled off at a scenic overlook, and basked in my small victory (read 'narrowly missed disaster).

Several hundred miles later I stopped in Cedar City, Utah; home of the Utah Shakespearean Festival. It's a lovely little town, actually, with wide, wide, streets, endless blue skies, and looming red-orange bluffs. The streets are deliberately wide to accommodate the oxcarts which will help collect souls when the rapture happens. I kid you not. The festival was in rehearsals, but I was able to watch a run-through of a splendid “Candida”, an oddly serious “Twelfth Night”, and a not at all ready for consumption “King Lear”. I had a lovely hostess though, and a wonderful group of talented actors that I now call friends.

Other enjoyable amenities include hiking in nearby Zion (above), horse back riding in Bryce Canyon, and playing golf at the prairie dog infested but striking Cedar Ridge golf course. Have you noticed how little tippling there has been? We mostly just visited peoples homes for drinking, as there are only two bars in the entire city.

Club 900 and The Playhouse, located at either end of the town, are both “private clubs” that charge for membership and then overcharge you for drinks. They are your basic pool table, video game, dance floor for the weekend band sort of places that have absolutely no charm or allure. Utah is simply not a place for tipplers.

DENVER- THE ROAD WEST

2007-06-13T23:40:00.000-07:00

Lincoln doesn't like breakfast. I spent the morning walking downtown for a simple breakfast sandwich and found none- no deli's, no coffee shops, no Einstein's. So I settled for a Starbuck's latte and decided to hold out for lunch. The Road: long and uninteresting Nebraska miles (above) ticked by tediously as I glided westward to the one spot in western NE that nearly everyone in Lincoln recommended.

Ole's Big Game Lodge, in the tiny town of Paxson, is a rare, selcouth oasis in the middle of nowhere- no wonder every serious western Nebraska traveler knows it well. Rosser O. Herstedt (“Ole” to anyone that knew him) was a gregarious character who loved the lifestyle of this tiny western Nebraska small town and opened his tavern at 12:01 a.m. on August 9th, 1933, one minute after the abomination of prohibition came to an end. The bar quickly became a local watering hole, with much talk of Ole's main passion: hunting. Eventually, he prospered in both his business venture and his hunting, and over a period of 35 years traveled to every continent. Trophies of his safaris became part of the more than 200 mounts now showcased throughout this renowned steak house. A great steak and plenty of beer, so great.

A few miles down the road, as Rte 76 breaks off towards the southwest and crosses the Colorado border, the land changes immediately. The flatlands of Nebraska give way quickly to the sparse dessert mesas of Colorado, and it becomes quite clear how state lines were drawn. Before too long, I was rolling through the outskirts of Denver. They really crowd those houses together in the suburbs of this old town- and it doesn't seem to make sense with all those miles of prairie left undeveloped between the overcrowded, too similar, dens of suburbia. One of these dens was my destination, in fact, as I spent slightly less than a week with my brother and his family in Lone Tree, CO.

Once you leave downtown you have to resign yourself to only the largest of chain restaurants, at which point cocktailing becomes pretty mainstream. Anything that I could say would only be a reiteration of what we all know of these places, so I'll let it be. Denver itself isn't the Denver of Kerouac days either, the rough and tumble replaced by the warm and fuzzy, but what can you do? It was wonderful to see my brother, sister-in-law, and remarkably charming nieces and nephew though- including a night of virgin margarita's for my four year old niece and I while we watched baseball (her idea). You say contributing to the delinquency of a minor, I say lovely memories. Potato/ potato.

LINCOLN, NE - ANOTHER ROAD

2007-06-13T12:01:00.000-07:00

L.A. To Chicago via a 1995 Mercury Grand Marquis (deep breath...). I left Chicago with a heavy sigh and more than a little trepidation, though also excited by the any moment adventures ahead. I raced through a hazy Illinois morning and then cruised through the verdant, rolling crop-heavy hills of Iowa. Not particularly interesting side note: the rest stops in Iowa have wireless Internet and touch screen monitors for the traffic, weather, and road conditions- fancy (that). After a while, Nebraska; the hills becoming flatter, crops giving way to pastures for grazing livestock, and the rest stops more along the lines of what you'd expect. I decided to stop in Lincoln for the night, home of the University of Nebraska. There are two main areas for dining and drinking in Lincoln. The Haymarket (above, oh those wide western streets), a historic district that caters to a professional and slightly older clientèle; and O street, a long strip of cheap watering holes for the college crowd. By the time I had checked in the hotel it was past the six o'clock standard cocktail hour, so I hurried out into the fading day with only modest expectations.

Imagine my surprise to find the Starlight Lounge; a great martini bar in the Haymarket. The music was old standards, the staff wore black vests and bow ties, and the furniture was all period (circa 1950). There was also a number of wonderful old beer ads and knick knacks around the bar, as if an over eager set designer had thrown in everything he could find. I had an excellent Plymouth Martini, made with tremendous care and respect- just as we like it. I struck a conversation with a couple enjoying a few Bombay Gibsons and received a few recommendations for tippling (though why anyone would ever leave the Starlight they could not say).

I strolled around the corner to Vincenzo's, a great Italian restaurant with some of the best veal I've had since Brooklyn- and that's saying something. Then O street. Every bar is pretty much the same on O street, with a multitude of TV's, remarkably cheap drinks, and less than current music. I don't know what it is about Nebraska, but they don't really go in for the modern music scene. I was enjoying a few Corona's (a buck a throw!) and watching the LeBron James show (Cavs beat the Pistons), and noting the odd soundtrack: Van Halen, Peter Frampton, the Eagles, John Cougar Mellencamp, Creedance, etc... I asked the bartender if this was retro-music night to which he responded “What do you mean dude? It's just good music night, like every night!" Sure enough, several other stops along the strip offered similar time warp twilight zone soundtracks. Odd.

KEY WEST – PARADISE

2007-06-02T23:02:00.000-07:00

It's a long drive (3+ hours) from Miami to Key West, but with each mile, the troubles and trappings of the more hectic north melt away, replaced with an easy going island vibe that is difficult to abandon when you make your oh-too-soon departure. I had heard a bit about Key West, and entertained a plethora of romantic visions of Hemingway fishing for Marlin in the Gulf and boozing on Duval Street, Tennessee Williams penning the first draft of 'Streetcar” in the “La Concha Hotel”, and even tequila soaked Jimmy Buffet nights at Captain Tony's, I only hoped that it came close to its reputation. It surpassed it.

On the way down, we took a little detour as I left mainland Florida. A left turn on Card Sound Rd towards Key Largo leads you onto a long barren stretch of road. There, in the middle of a Mangrove Swamp, is Alabama Jacks (above); a great little open sided bar resting on two floating barges that serves up ice cold beers and fantastic conch fritters. Sitting there among an eclectic group of locals (bikers, fishermen, boaters, etc..) with a cold Corona in the early afternoon, it was easy to imagine spending the rest of the day there- hell, why not longer? But they close at around seven anyway (when the bugs come out to reclaim the swamp) and the Key West siren was calling, so I continued my way south and settled in at the Westwinds Inn in plenty of time to be sipping a Patron Gimlet on the pier at Mallory Square as the sun slowly descended in the west. There's a celebratory atmosphere at sunset, with loads of people, street performers, and some local artists hawking their wares. But there is also a wonderful ease about the crowd, (who seemed older than your average resort town) and everyone seemed content and determined to just have a laid back good time.

A few beers later and I had found my way to Sloppy Joe's on Duval St. Once a regular haunt of papa Hemingway, it is now one of the more crowded spots in town, with live music, dancing, and pictures of his fishing exploits on the walls. Between both cover bands and the DJ who played around them, I don't think I heard a single song recorded past 1990, which was a little odd, but proved to be the status quo of the island. I had to stop in at Captain Tony's for a nightcap, and wiled away a few hours reading the articles on the walls and chatting up the locals.

The next day we tooled around the island on rented scooters checking out the East side beaches (sandier and nicer), the 'southernmost point' marker, the national park beach to the south, and some smaller locals bars like Don's and the Green Parrot. Had great beach side dinner at Salute (above). Really wonderful food (Scallops with a mango curry sauce, fresh sushimi grade tuna, fresh bread- delightful) though sadly, anything but the simplest of drinks proved beyond their ken.

I ran into an old bartending buddy who I knew from the years just after college and who now lives in Key West. He works for a sailing charter company and put me out on a 65 foot schooner for a sunset wine tasting. The winds were steady at 27 knots and gusting up to 35, so we were really moving, therefore I stuck with the white wines and drank quickly. It was a gorgeous sunset and a remarkable experience. Afterwards I met up with him at the Mosquito Coast wine bar. We sat on the porch with a few of his friends and a few bottles of wine, kicked off our shoes, and talked until the wee hours of the morning. Island living- I sure could get used to it, if only given the chance...

MIAMI – SOUTH BEACH

2007-05-30T14:55:00.000-07:00

So we found our way to Miami for the last week of the tour, staying in one of those deco-cool on the outside, run down on the inside hotels that you probably imagine when you hear South Beach. It was right on the ocean though, and while the weather was passing stormy with moments of sun, we certainly enjoyed ocean swims, laying in the sand, and the many aesthetically pleasing sights one sees in the land of skimpy bikinis and tanned, tone goodness me.

There are two main “strips” in South Beach: Lincoln Ave and Ocean Drive. Lincoln Ave (above) is a pedestrian mall offering an array of bars, shops, and restaurants. Now I say “Array” but that is actually misleading. Despite a multitude of options, each bar, shop, and restaurant is very much like the other in style and vibe, each apparently tuned to the same Latin-techno radio station. Ocean Drive isn't much better, I hate to say, though you might find a lame rock and roll “Irish” bar along the way which makes for a change, but not necessarily a welcome one.

At one time, I am sure, South Beach was a lovely place to be. Sadly, that was some time ago, though promise still lingers in the air. There are a few cool joints; I popped into Van Dyke's jazz bar (above) one night for a surprisingly well made Hendrick's martini followed by several ice cold tap Moretti's. Live jazz floated down the stairs attempting, with only moderate success, to drown out the salsa rhythms pulsing from across the street. It's a moss covered, dark wood paneled, ceiling fan swirling, New Orleans sort of place that I enjoyed quite a bit. On the other end of the spectrum is Max Club Deuce, a real neon hell hole with absolutely no pretense and an eclectic clutch of patrons. But at least it had a personality.

One amazing meal that I had was at Emeril's in the lobby of the St. Moritz. Now, say what you like about the "Bam" man (obnoxious, perhaps), but every dish was fantastic. The gumbo was a bit spicy (as you might expect) but the crab cakes, duck quesadillas, barbecue shrimp, and even the spring salad were all exceptional. The bartender did a fine job with the Patron Reposado gimlets, God was in his heaven, and all was right with the world.

MIAMI – CARNIVAL CENTER

2007-05-25T08:07:00.000-07:00

Two mammoth edifices (one above) house a Concert Hall, an Opera House, and a smaller blackbox theatre. We were in the Opera House, which was unfortunate as our play is simply not operatic in scope or presentation. There was a solid thirty foot gap between the lip of the stage and the first row of the audience for the audience pit, and three tiers of balconies seemed miles away.

It's quite an attractive house, though, true to it's name, a bit like a cruise ship. Our audiences in the early part of the week were almost completely unresponsive, but adjustments were made and by the weekend we were getting the show across the gap and to the back of the balconies and enjoying the customary responses.

The backstage area is immense to facilitate several different shows running in rep. The stage is motorized so that a set on stage may be moved to a bay stage right and an entire different set may be moved to the front. That set can then be moved back to the rear of the stagehouse, and an entirely new set moved on. Pretty spectacular, and made our wee set that much tinier seeming.

LOS ANGELES - SPRAWLING DOWN

2007-05-11T23:35:00.000-07:00

“The City of Angels” (the city of angles) is not a great city. It's so vast, in fact, that any attempt to describe it as a whole would be a generalization. That being said, it's too sprawling, too superficial, too soulless, and too hip for its own good (or mine for that matter). Granted, the weather is lovely, and there's no shortage of lovely people, but all that surface beauty can be so...distracting. It's easy to see why they're so obsessed with it. I did enjoy this trip more than any previous, but I wasn't working steadily then, and I have more friends here now. Perhaps it's my tippling nature, but the dependence on driving everywhere is one of the most significant negative facets of this immense city.

“The automobile has not merely taken over the street, it has dissolved the living tissue of the city. Its appetite for space is absolutely insatiable; moving and parked, it devours urban land, leaving the buildings as mere islands of habitable space in a sea of dangerous and ugly traffic. -James Marston Fitch, historic preservationist.

Now to the tippling (I noticed that anxious gleam in your eye). I was extremely fortunate to find a wonderful living situation near the Los Feliz end of Hollywood. Near the subway, which allowed me to take the train to and from the theatre (a real luxury in L.A.) and also very near a strip of excellent restaurants and bars which I could favor with my patronage with only a short walk home (an even great luxury). Of a Monday evening a gentleman could, as I did, start out his evening on the back deck of his home watching the sun set between the palm trees, a contemplative cocktail in hand. Perhaps it was the heat, but I generally opted for the Tequila Gimlet at these times- not strictly an acceptable cocktail for the hour, but change, every now and then, is a good thing. A few Chicago pals, birds of my feather, live nearby and joined me on more than one occasion. A few gimlets to our credit (debit?), and with the sun beyond the horizon, we would head out into the warm L.A. Night.

Our first stop; Bird's ,(above) a great little bar. The menu is primarily chicken dishes (ergo: the name) but the bartenders mix an excellent and generous cocktail. It is a bit of a scene, but the crowd here is better than most in this town about not looking up to check out and assess the celebrity level of the latest arrivals. We had a few gimlets and watched a bachelorette party get slowly out of hand. When they started to dance on the bar, we headed to the door. Even good bars get out of hand on occasion.

A few doors down is Prizzi's; an Italian restaurant with excellent food and terrible service. Amazing carpaccio (sirloin or tuna), great calamari, and good pasta dishes but more attitude than you'd find in Paris. We sat outside and watched the parade of L.A.'s hipsters and shakers and eavesdropped on some remarkably banal conversations. It's true: everyone in L.A. fancies themselves in 'the business', and talks about it. Loudly.

Perhaps the best bar of this little strip is a few more doors down. La Poubelle is a dimly lit, romantic, French brasserie that really does everything right. It's a bit pricey, but the Belgian and French beers are fresh and cold and the cocktails prepared with care. The music is a mixture of French and old jazz, and the vibe is just, well, cool. I'm not putting it in the pantheon of great bars like Nye's in Minneapolis, Milk and Honey in New York, or the Green Mill in Chicago, but for L.A., it's a great stop.

LOS ANGELES – THE AHMANSON

2007-05-10T14:58:00.000-07:00

The Ahmanson Theatre, like the Kennedy Center (see blog entry from October), is part of an impressive complex that includes an Opera House and another theatre (the Mark Taper Forum). Located in downtown Los Angeles, with lovely views of the Hollywood Hills (when it's clear), palm trees, and an attractive series of fountains, the Civic Center is one of the nicer elements of downtown.

The House is a little nondescript, a little lacking in personality and grandeur, but still quite nice. The acoustics weren't nearly as awful as we had been told, this perhaps owing to some of the barn-like houses we've played along the way. They have a great staff at the A.T. and the audiences were fine- though not, perhaps, the most savvy.

The Jury Box, the nickname for the bar in my dressing room, really expanded in L.A. This due to the fact that we were there for six weeks, as well as the lack of decent pubs nearby for after show drinks. Outside of the normal supply of liquor, I also had beer, wine, and an amazing 100 year old port donated by a gentleman in the cast. Of course, this being L.A., there were not a few backstage celebrity tipplers over the course of the run, and I would be remiss not to mention them. Here they are, in no particular order: Allison Janney, Danny Devito, Rhea Perlman, Woody Harrelson, Josh Molina, John Ratzenberger, Jim Belushi, Greg Kinnear, Carl Reiner, Jason Sudakis, Shelley Long and Mark McKinney among many others that would have you saying “I know that guy...how do I know that guy?” Very Hollywood n'est ce pas?

SEATTLE - NW NOOKS

2007-04-18T00:05:00.000-07:00

Seattle is another great town, though the populace occasionally exhibits the timidity of the tiny woodland creatures that one sees so frequently in the Pacific Northwest (an annoying little quirk). Maybe it's the rain, which was daily in evidence during our week run. Excited to get back to a seafood heavy coastal town, I decided to eat only fish whilst in the Emerald City. Each day in the late morning I would saunter down Pike St to the Pike Place Market (above) and visit the Market Grill, Lowell's, or The Athenian for fresh Salmon or Halibut sandwiches while sipping a local microbrew and looking out into the sound. Heaven. Then a quick stop for a few of those remarkable fresh baked mini-donuts from the Donut Company and a latte... enough said.

Capital Hill was where we did most of our carousing, near the Paramount and the hotel. Straight up Pike Street is the Comet Tavern; a real rock and roll dive bar with large street facing windows and a ceiling plastered with single dollar bills. It's a rough looking clientèle, but very friendly. It offers excellent affordable pints (Alaska Amber, Red Hook, Fat Tire, oh my) which is your best bet (no mixologists here). It's actually a bit of a hole, but it has so much character that you end up not minding it.

Just down the street is the Bleu Bistro (above). A great find. It's a tiny storefront restaurant of labyrinthine nooks and curtained booths (for privacy). It is lighted solely by Christmas lights. It is romantic. Have the macaroni and cheese. There is also a tiny bar of six stools, which I saddled up to one evening for a relaxing cocktail. The bartender handed me a menu that was easily ten pages long. But this wasn't one of those 'everything under the sun' Golden Nugget menus. Every drink, and every food item, had a full paragraph description. So tempted was I by the power of suggestion, I opted for the Gin Rickey. I had several. I had several more. The bar staff were fastidious in their preparation and consistent. This is a 'must visit'.

Historical Note: In one of the great tomes of mixology & mixological history, Old Waldorf Bar Days (1931), Albert Stevens Crockett credits the origins of the Gin Rickey to a bartender at a place called Shoemakers, in Washington, D.C. Shoemakers, Crockett writes, was a favorite watering hole for lobbyists and members of Congress back in the day, and one of these lobbyists was known as Colonel Joe Rickey. During an exceptionally hot spell, one of the bartenders made a new drink by simply squeezing lime juice into a glass containing gin, then hosing it down with the soda siphon. Rickey just happened to be the first patron to try the new drink–says Crockett, “Colonel Rickey was ‘agreeable.’ He quickly tossed off the offering, smacked his lips, announced that it ‘hit the spot,’ and demanded another. Whereupon the barman denominated the drink the ‘Gin Rickey.”

On another evening, post show, I found myself and another cast mate at an excellent Tiki bar on Pine Street known as the Cha Cha Lounge. The central bar has a large faux thatched-roof ceiling, the drinks are inexpensive, the crowd is hipster/cool, and everyone seems intent on having a low-key good time, which we had. They had Cazadores Tequila in quantity (for gimlets), and $2 Tecates. We made a night of it, as you might imagine.

SEATTLE - THE PARAMOUNT

2007-04-18T00:04:00.000-07:00

The gem of Seattle theatre community is the Paramount Theatre. Designed by noted Scottish movie palace architect Benjamin Marcus “Uncle Benny” Priteca, it opened in 1928 to very enthusiastic reviews:

“Never has such a magnificent cathedral of entertainment been given over to the pubic. Indescribable beauty! Incomparable art! -The Seattle Times

And it's true, despite the hyperbole. A magnificent Beaux Arts, four tiered lobby leads into a well proportioned and grand house. The Paramount's history is similar to that of all the other great theatres we have played; initially a vaudeville house, then movies and plays, then rock shows and decline, and finally revival, but it did better than most- only closing for a few years in the late 80's. It's renovation included a neat trick; the first floor seats can be removed entirely to make a grand ballroom of the theatre.

And there are wonderful stories. An audience member recalled watching the actor Topol perform the title role of “Fiddler on the Roof,” with her husband, tears of joy in their eyes as they remembered going into labor with their child years before – as they watched the movie version of Fiddler in the same auditorium. Another audience member recalled being in the audience in 1991 at a performance of “Bye Bye Birdie” when they stopped the show so that Tommy Tune could accept his Tony Award (live via satellite) for “The Will Rogers Follies”. Yet another recalled attending a screening of “To Have and Have Not” in 1945 that was stopped by the House Manager who announced that the Japanese had surrendered. They were all given passes to return so that they could join the crowds rejoicing the end of WWII in the Seattle streets.

For our part, we greatly enjoyed our too-short one week jaunt at the Paramount. Great houses- enthusiastic and attentive. There was plenty of room for our little set (above) in the roomy stage-house, and the dressing rooms (new construction) had windows, a rare treat. The star dressing rooms had jacuzzi bathtubs, an even rarer luxury. There was a wonderful mix of the past and present at the Paramount, I wish we could have stayed longer.

THE COAST STARLIGHT

2007-04-15T12:11:00.000-07:00

Next stop: Seattle. One of the more exciting moments on tour for me is the post show announcement when we close a city; “Thank you gentlemen, great show, great week. Our next call is sound check at the (for example) lovely Paramount Theatre in Seattle at 6:30 Tuesday for a 7:30 curtain. See you then.” Now, normally we would all fly to Seattle, but as our sponsor airline has no direct flight, we were given a stipend which six of us in the cast decided to use towards the Coast Starlight train departing Sacramento at midnight Sunday and arriving in Seattle at 8:30 pm Monday. We had a lovely dinner at Lucca on J street (great food, atmosphere, and cocktails) after our closing matinee and then went our separate ways for packing. I arrived at the terminal quite early, checked my bags, and toddled off to the nearest for a last pint in old Sacramento. I made it back just before we boarded at midnight.

We splurged for sleepers, of course, and were shown to our berths by a gentleman by the name of “Big Cat”- I'm sure there's a story there but I never asked. We roamed the train for a bit, exploring the club car (above), the observation car, the dining car- all available to those with sleepers, but not to those with second class regular fares. A holdover from the old days.

I hit the sack and gave into the unending rhythm of the rails. I got up early to take advantage of last call for the breakfast service (all our meals were included) and sat with some of my bleary eyed compatriots. We idled away the morning as the miles swept by. The only time we had to mix with the public was when we deigned to visit the observation car. Not to be a snob, but there was, literally, a man holding a can of Budweiser while clipping his toenails and waxing nostalgic about 'bagging that squirrel'. These are the moments that one expects from Amtrak.

So for the most part we stuck to the seclusion of our club car; enjoying a wine tasting at 3:00 pm while drinking in the scenery as the train chugged up into the Cascades, and then picked up speed through Oregon and into Washington. As the cocktail hour neared, I procured some ice from 'Big Cat', my shaker, some glasses, bottles of Bombay and Vermouth, and went about 'the ritual' as the setting sun illuminated the passing countryside and the words of Bernard DeVoto echoed to the constant accompaniment of the wheels of the train;

“When evening quickens in the street, comes a pause in the day’s occupation that is known as the cocktail hour. It marks the life-ward turn. The heart wakens from its coma and the soul roused to believe that the world has not been altogether lost or, if lost, then not altogether in vain.”

Cheers.

SAN FRANCISCO – KICKS

2007-04-15T11:37:00.000-07:00

"San Francisco itself is art, above all literary art. Every block is a short story, every hill a novel. Every home a poem, every dweller within immortal. That's the whole truth." -William Saroyan

San Francisco is a great, great city. We drove into town on a Monday morning, and quietly thrilled when it loomed from its ever changing shroud of mist- a gorgeous bastion of form, style, and romance. I took the train to Berkeley and spent a few relaxing hours with a former love and her husband and child. She is nine months pregnant as well. It wasn't awkward, honestly, as we still have so much affection for each other- but it was odd, I have to say, to see her in full bloom of pregnancy and think of what might have been. One has to think these thoughts, I suppose, it was just interesting and caused a little ennui from which I'm afraid the day didn't quite recover.

I went back to my room in the Hotel Whitcomb on Market street. Rough streets to a lovely old lobby, and clean but too oft-frequented rooms. I showered, put on a blazer and sauntered back down Market towards Union Square. The homeless of San Francisco (numerous, aggressive, and oddly well-fed looking) lined the streets as the orange glow of another setting sun suffused the cooling afternoon. A large line of tourists stood waiting for the cable car at Powell St., but having been here before I knew to walk a few blocks up and swing on to one of its outside spots they always leave available as it headed uphill. I like to stand on the left side of the car for the thrill of passing within inches of oncoming cable cars as we grind uphill and they free fall down. Simple pleasures. The setting sun created absurdly pink clouds in the azure sky as we tumbled up and over the hill into Chinatown. I jumped off the cable car and ambled down to North Beach to cavort with the eccentrics.

Vesuvio, a legendary haunt for Kerouac, Ginsberg, Moriarity ("Ah man, what kicks!"), and the whole Beat Generation gang, is somehow able to maintain its edginess, despite the occasional gape jawed yokel holding on tightly to his “Tour of San Francisco” booklet. The bartender mixed my first Cazadores Gimlet with ease and assuredness, and I relaxed a little. I always relax a little when I realize that I'm in good hands and don't have to advise every step of the way. Or worse, I have to switch to beer out of sheer trepidation of what might pass for a cocktail in a particular establishment. I had a few more gimlets and chatted with some barflies rather eclectically about earthquakes, Cormac McCarthy, and Barry Bonds.

The bartender turned off the music and let the jazz from Pearl's across the street blare through the open windows (above). I took my drink to the doorway and marveled as the swinging sound of an 18 piece big band flooded out into the streets. I stood with an on-break waiter and two homeless guys taking turns with the occasional “yeah, yeah”, or “man!”, or “whooo”. The set ended to rapturous applause and I headed across the street to Spec Adler's Museum and Bar.

Spec's is one of the best bars in America. It's a nautical/ hippie/ East Asian/ Inuit/ popular and boat culture museum and pub without peer. The address is 12 William Saroyan Place; named for the author of “The Time of Your Life” that I toured with several years ago.

“In the time of your life, live- so that in that wondrous time you shall not add to the misery and sorrow of the world, but shall smile to the infinite variety and mystery of it." -Saroyan

It being Monday there weren't many too many people out and about, but there were enough drunks, dreamers, loners, writers, and yahoos drifting in and out to keep it interesting. There's a restless spirit here in North Beach, and a good deal of roaming, of jumping from one place to the next. Johnny Cash was playing in the background as a young couple stumbled in and up to the bar. She ordered a Red Bull and vodka. The bartender, clearly annoyed, thumped her fist on the bar, lowered her head, and said “No Red Bull, no Yaeger, and no pineapple juice. Get out.” The young couple looked dazed for a moment then left without acrimony- clearly this was not the place for them.

I drifted back to Vesuvio to meet a couple of friends. We sat in the window and talked enthusiastically and quickly, caught up in the Beat vibe and energy of the city. I took them back to Spec's for one last one before they headed home. After a few more I strolled out into the dying night, hands in pockets and head bowed- I'm sure there were more kicks to be had somewhere in this town, but not for me. I was headed back to the Hotel Whitcomb and dreams of the ones that got away.

SACRAMENTO – LITTLE BIG TOWN

2007-04-15T00:38:00.000-07:00

It's one of those city names that is usually said with a foul taste expression. Like Akron. Or Peoria. Or Gary, Indiana. Sacramento is, however, quite a good town with a real mix of the positive and negative attributes of big and little towns.

Big city positive: a thriving urban center with good restaurants and bars.

Big city negative: an large homeless population and some very dicey areas.
Little city positive: friendly people and accessible, bustle-free streets and shops.

Little city negative: said shops close at four in the afternoon.
You get the idea. Should I mention that it's the state capital? I didn't think so.

The Torch Club is a great little dive blues bar not far from the theatre. Fat Tire on tap and tequila shots all around for the friendly and boozy clientèle. The wall opposite the bar features a series of sad clown paintings below a chronological display of champion boxers, left to right. A small stage with a few inexpensive lights sits forlornly in the back of the room. Behind the bar are old bumper stickers: “Work: The Curse of the Drinking Class”, “See A Play”, “My Bartender Can Beat Up Your Therapist”, etc... We had a mild but well attended and much enjoyed night here in celebration of yet another birthday for yours truly. Quoth Buddy Guy: “You're damn right I got the blues”.

Old Sacramento is a theme park like stretch of several blocks of fudge and souvenir shops at the west end of town. The buildings are authentic though, and you do get a feel for how it was back in the day. It is also the home of O'Mally's Irish Pub (above). I had the opportunity to while away a few hours and found that after the tourist-rushed afternoon, at night (and particularly on a Sunday) old sac is a fun local hang out. (Hal: 'made dim witted with the drinking in old sack')

SACRAMENTO – S.C.C.

2007-04-14T23:21:00.000-07:00

The Sacramento Community Center is part of the Sacramento Convention Center complex, and it is another sad product of the architecturally misguided 70's. Large, windowless, beige, and boxy, there is nothing even remotely pleasing in its construction, although they do have a good number of trees surrounding it, an effective arboreal concealer.

The house is nice, though it features continental seating which makes the room seem like a large lecture hall. God help the person who needs to get out during a show- it would be impossible to do without causing a tremendous disruption. The audiences, however, have been fantastic. Our best to date in terms of attentiveness, presence, savvy, and enthusiasm.

The weather in Sacramento was truly lovely, and we took full advantage of the small lounging area outside of the stage door. Before every show, almost right up to our half-hour call, we sipped coffee and basked in the 'high 70's with a slight breeze' California standard.

DALLAS – BIG L

2007-03-13T23:24:00.000-07:00

L for loser. Sorry, but this city known locally as the Big D is the most utilitarian and unappealing urban center that we've encountered; a clutter of massive monolithic office buildings with basement food courts offering only the fastest of foods. The streets have only the occasional shop or restaurant (none worth mentioning), and they all close early- and not at all on the weekends. There is a touristy little area known as the West End, but the restaurants are chains (Spaghetti Factory, Hooters), and the whole affair just uninviting and forced.

The one “attraction” in Dallas worth noting, sadly, is Dealey Plaza. This is, of course, the still chilling confluence of streets at the west end of Dallas where John Fitzgerald Kennedy was assassinated on Nov. 22nd, 1963. A rather awful bit of graffiti on the back of the grassy knoll fence above.

It's remarkably accessible, you can stand where Zapruder stood, walk the grass on either side of Elm, or stand behind the fence on the Grassy Knoll (above). There are well versed conspiracy theorists on hand; espousing theories (both well known and more fantastical), hawking books and documentaries, as well as pointing out various features of the area. They have even placed two X's on the pavement of Elm where the known shots occurred, which unfortunately prompted several different sets of tourists to run out during breaks in the traffic for smiley photo ops- rather disrespectful.

The sixth floor of the Book Depository (above, second from top), where shots are known to have come from, is now a museum which is extremely thorough, respectful, and quite moving.

Fifteen minutes away (by cab mind you) is an area known as uptown which features, at least the night that I visited, a vast array of stunningly beautiful women. Evidently this area is part historic district, part yuppie haven, and part of the SMU campus. The bars weren't particularly interesting (the above located in a mini-mall, forsooth), and any order outside of a shot and a beer resulted in confusion and bemused stares, but the women... truly astounding. So that's something.

DALLAS – THE MAJESTIC

2007-03-01T19:23:00.000-08:00

The Majestic is one of the few architecturally interesting buildings in downtown Dallas, and it is a beautiful theatre. It opened its doors in 1921, and dutifully followed the path of almost every beautiful theatre we have visited by showcasing the best of vaudeville in its early years (Bob Hope, Mae West, Houdini), and then enjoying success through Hollywood as a movie showcase (With premieres attended by Jimmy Stewart, Gregory Peck, and John Wayne), followed by hard times in the seventies and the magical restoration at the end of the century.

It's a beautiful house; very intimate and while not as ornate as some of the East coast shrines we have played, it's still intricate and gilded enough to intimate grandeur. The stage is odd in that there is an extremely large apron downstage of the proscenium, which pushes the audience back from the action considerably- especially with a show such as ours, where everything transpires upstage of the proscenium. The Dallas audiences were generous and welcoming though, both during our performances as well as after- no complaints there.

Backstage was a little tight. There was barely enough room between the back end of our set and the back wall of the stage house for a person to walk through (above), and load in/load out, I'm told, was quite a chore- despite a capable and friendly crew. The dressing rooms were quite small indeed, and up flights of stairs a la the oldest of East coast classics. No palpable sense of history here, though this gem has certainly seen its share of our rich tradition.

HOUSTON – BAYOU CITY

2007-02-23T19:34:00.000-08:00

And by Bayou, they mean swamp. Not that it's messy, or particularly marshy, but the humidity, even in winter time, is palpable. It was, however, a pleasure, after the arid, static-cling infused bone-chill frost of Chicago, to walk out into the pleasant balm of early evening unencumbered by pounds of layers and in a just a simple shirt. Liberation. Each city block of downtown Houston is filled with uninteresting and monolithic office buildings. Local Bars and restaurants occupy the first floors of these steel and glass, fortress of solicitation stalagmites, and are quite surprisingly capable, on occasion, of carving out interesting and unique interiors.

Due to a debilitating bronchial infection, I spent the vast majority of my time in Houston chilling and sweating away my idled hours in the confines of my rather posh room in the hotel Magnolia. I was able, however, early and late in the two week visit, to find a few haunts worthy of mention. It's interesting to find touches of southern gentility in Houston, both in the presence of New Orleans like, wrought iron galleries (above), and in the local hospitality. A good pint of Guiness can be found in the small but charming, (and directly across the street from each other) Slainte and Shay's, though they do their best (read 'obnoxiously busy') business during baseball season. The Market Square Pub has a great feel and a tremendous Kobe burger, and Cabo is a nice stop for some late night Mexican food with a cold Saint Arnold (a local brew).

The beer lover would be remiss, however, if he did not stop in to the Flying Saucer. Despite their penchant for playing their music at near deafening levels, they have a vast array of tap beers (above) as well as many more rare bottled beers from points near and far. All of the continents are represented as well as some of their remotest corners. They offer tastings specific to region, or you can design your own.

“Fill with mingled cream and amber,
I will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
through the chamber of my brain.
Quaintest thoughts, queerest fancies
come to life and fade away.
What care I how time advances;
I am drinking ale today.

-Edgar Allan Poe

HOUSTON – HOBBY CENTER

2007-02-14T21:56:00.000-08:00

The Hobby Center opened just five years ago in 2002, and has been dubbed 'hobby 2' by the locals in reference to the likeness of the lobby to the Houston airport of the same name. I'm not sure it's all that bad; another odd angle facade of glass and light, with high traffic carpeting and large gaudy “objets d'art”, but it is also clean, functional and welcoming.

The house is actually quite nice- a mixture of modern lines and classical columns with a luxurious deep blue and cream color scheme. The sight lines are excellent and from the stage it seems a very intimate house. The audiences were very receptive and appeared very excited to have us there- outside of the Alley Theatre I don't think there's too much going on theatrically.

The crew was excellent; one of our fastest load-ins and load-outs to date, and we were given two remarkable BBQ lunches by the wardrobe department (which is not standard operating procedure by any means.) The stage door, above, was pretty fancy, I have to say, but located between the theatre and the parking garage- which made for a little too much traffic when you're just hanging out after the show. One doesn't want to appear needy.

CHICAGO - SWEET HOME

2007-02-13T11:51:00.000-08:00

It can not be said too frequently, nor too vehemently, Chicago is a great city... Even "in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of her charms", (not mine, the poet Auden’s) Chicago still charms, amuses, and impresses. Days are well spent idling in the art museum, the planetarium, the field museum, the shops on State or Michigan Ave, and the nights relished in the cozy confines of a plethora of fantastic bars, theatres, and restaurants. When, on my first night back in town, I took my stool at the well worn but fantastically deco-beautiful bar at Shaw’s Crabhouse and ordered up my first extra-dry Bombay martini straight up with a twist, I knew I was indeed home.

I spent no less than three nights of our too short two week stop in Chi at the Old Town Ale House (above). A dark, smokey, run down, creaky little dive where young yuppies lean quite happily against the bar next to grizzled barflies. The jukebox is one of the best in the country- mostly an eclectic mix of old jazz, soul, and blues, with a little classic rock thrown in good measure. This was, and is, the after show bar for Second City comedians (Belushi, Akroyd, Close, Farley, Fey, etc..) and actors from A Red Orchid theatre, which showcases some of the best acting in the city. I was able to see no less than twenty old acting buddies by chance over those nights, one forgets how small a world the acting community is in Chicago. The martinis were excellent and a bargain at $6 a throw.

Another three nights were spent at simply the best bar/jazz club in Chicago: The Green Mill. ‘The Mill’ has been around since the twenties, when Al Capone was a regular. It may be a little dingy in places, but still beautiful in it’s old age. On Wednesday we stopped in to hear Alfonso Ponticelli and Swing Gitan, a gypsy swing band that plays weekly and is immensely enjoyable. On Saturday I stopped in for the after hours set by Sabertooth- a talented group of veterans anchored by a mighty Hammond B-3 Organ. They start after midnight and play ‘till five in the morning. Believe it or not, they are so enthralling that "last orders!" comes before you know it. The bartenders are old school here, and generally stir their martinis as opposed to shaking. They do so vigorously, however, and you won’t find a better martini anywhere. This is the one bar that anyone visiting Chicago must, must, experience. You won’t be sorry.

The architecture of Chicago is so alluring and well designed. Mayor Daley has endeavored to make it the American Paris, and I think he’s gone a long way towards achieving just that. Other glimpses my nightly peregrinations: excellent pints of Guiness during a traditional Irish session at Celtic Crossing, wine under the stars upstairs at the Italian Village, Hendrick’s martini’s at the tiny but meticulous Marty’s in Andersonville, show tune night at Sidetrax, acid jazz with Atomic, and tequila gimlets at Zapatista’s. Family and friends in attendance, and a wonderful stop in a wonderful city.

CHICAGO - LASALLE BANK THEATRE

2007-02-06T22:01:00.000-08:00

The unfortunately monikered LaSalle Bank theatre opened as the Majestic Theatre in 1906 and was a lively and popular vaudeville stop for many years. It closed for fifteen years during the great depression before being purchased by, and named after, the Schubert Organization in 1945. In fact, a picture of Sam Schubert still hangs in the lobby. It was then sold to the Nederlander Organization in 1991 and renovated and renamed corporately in 2005. The exterior isn’t particularly impressive but the marble lobby, while small, is elegant and very attractive.

The house, which seats about 2000, is surprisingly intimate and quite exquisitely beautiful. There are four tiers, which is a little unusual, but they are all fairly close to the stage with excellent sightlines. The audiences have been quite good, though a little staid. It's understandable, I guess, with the cold snap, the Bears' loss, and the general February ennui. They still stand though, (somewhat begrudgingly it seems,) so all is well.

Backstage is positively ship like (above); narrow hallways with low pipe-covered ceilings, steep stairways, and a uniform cream color all about you. The stage house itself is actually quite cramped as well, and it’s surprising that other larger shows can fit in to this space. It's nice though, and has a very ''old theatre' feel.

CINCINNATI - DECO-DELIGHTS

2007-01-30T13:22:00.000-08:00

Cincinnati is a great little city. We stayed at the beautiful Hilton Netherlands Plaza , a French art deco masterpiece which opened in 1931. The trim and detailing in the hallways, even the elevators, are works of art.

The lobby bar (above) is fantastic with the one exception of their bizarrely modern and unattractive martini glasses. Sad really. Cincinnati is also home to one of the finest art deco train stations in the country. Union Terminal is no longer a station, however, and has been converted into a Museum Center, holding the Cincinnati History, Natural History, and Children’s Museums, as well as an OMNIMAX theatre. They’ve incorporated these museums flawlessly with period font and detail, it’s a beautiful and well executed design.

Most of our post-show hours were wiled away at Nicholson’s, a large Scottish bar right across from the theatre. Excellent food with a vast array of scotches and imported beers including some real ales like Old Speckled Hen and the peerless Belhaven Scottish Ale. In honor of the birthday of the immortal Scottish poet Robert Burns, they fortuitously held a traditional Burns’ Night supper on our night off. We were welcomed in by a piper and seated with a wee dram of scotch made by a local distillery (not bad actually, though not the real thing.)

Later a Haggis ("Oh what a glorious sight, warm-reekin, rich!") was paraded around the bar by the piper and several attendants bearing scotch, followed by a reading of the poet Burns’ "Ode to a Haggis" by a thickly burred Scotsman. (Thickly burred, not blurred, that would come later) After the toast, everyone had a taste of this sausage like delicacy (it was a bit too dry to be honest), and then more rounds of scotch over dinner. It was a nice tribute, though a bit shy on ceremony, as normally there are recitations of other Burns’ poems and songs. Still, a great night in honor of a great man.

"Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a’ that)
That Sense and Worth o’er a’ the earth
Shall bear the gree an’ a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s comin yet for a’ that,
That man to man the world o’er
Shall brithers be for a’ that"
-Robert Burns

Just across the river, in Newport, Kentucky (a fifteen minute walk) is the Hofbrauhouse- the first and only authentic beer hall owned by HB in the states (below). It is well fashioned after the Hofbrau beer hall in Munich and a joy. They serve only four beers, all of which are brewed on premises, and serve them in half liter or liter steins. A large group of us visited on a sedate Sunday evening and watched the Colts beat the Patriots while eating and drinking our fill of Germany’s finest-a highlight.

A quick cab ride away from downtown is Mt. Adams, another charming neighborhood featuring the Cityview Tavern (with a lovely view of Cinci and a great burger), The Blind Lemon Café (run down but fun), and Crowley’s Highland House (the local Irish pub). Another great night out and worthy of a visit.

CINCINNATI - THE ARANOFF

2007-01-19T21:58:00.000-08:00

The Aranoff Center for the Arts is one of those slick, new, modern theatre complexes with tall glass walls around the lobby and little ornamentation or character in the house. Don’t get me wrong, it’s very nice, but not even in the same neighborhood as the classic theatres we’ve recently visited like the Fox or the Palace. It is named after Stanley J. Aranoff, former President of the Ohio Senate, who helped provide State support for its construction (well done). It is comprised of three theatre spaces and a contemporary art gallery. We’re in the largest space which seats about 2700 patrons with excellent sight lines and sound.

The colors chosen for the rather plain house, are...unfortunate: a sickly spawning salmon pink on the walls and drab green chairs. The lights in the ceiling at the back of the house are a rather nice touch, but honestly, that’s about all one can say- it's nice. Our opening night audience was very bright, very engaged, and quite lively, but since then the audiences have seemed stoic right up to the curtain call, at which point they come alive. It's interesting how audiences differ from city to city, I wonder if it's an accurate measure of the town?

Backstage is likewise characterless, with no presence of the companies such as the Cincinnati Ballet and Symphony (which both call this their home), or of other traveling shows. The bar in my dressing room, however, has quite a nice selection these days, bolstered by some Kentucky Bourbons from our stay in Louisville. Those small mason jars are moonshine, donated by a local businessman in Louisville- can't say I'm a big fan, but when in Rome...

LOUISVILLE - MID-LIFE CRISIS?

2007-01-15T19:06:00.000-08:00

Louisville (pronounced loo-uh-ville in two syllables) is a gritty little town on the banks of the mighty Ohio river that is surprisingly short on character. Not that they haven’t tried. The downtown is very clean and safe (despite a persistent but innocuous homeless population), and they’ve created an neon-drenched artificial social hub known as "Fourth Street Live" (below); a one block concentration of chain restaurant/bars like Hard Rock, TGI Fridays, Lucky Strike, and the Red Star Tavern that I’m sure are very popular with the ‘Oh, I know that place’ convention crowd. The architecture and decor here, and all around Louisville for that matter, is self-consciously neo/modern despite the city’s age, and only superficially attractive- it pales considerably upon second look. It's almost as if the city has eschewed its wonderful old buildings and tried to fashion itself as a viable hotspot for twenty somethings. Sadly, it's about as effective as a bad toupee (or a good one for that matter).

There are two popular museums here: the Louisville Slugger Museum, and the Muhammad Ali Museum. Missed the first, (I mean really), but the second was quite moving and well done - a great tribute to a great man; and quite motivational for everyone regardless of their path.

"I run on the road long before I dance under the lights." Muhammad Ali.

Downtown, there are only a few bars worth a visit. We spent an amazing evening tasting bourbons in the Thoroughbred Lounge (below) located in the Brown Hotel- home of the Hot Brown, the most unfortunately named sandwiches in the states. We started with the Jefferson Reserve, an excellent starting point, and moved up to the 23 year old Pappy Van Winkle, the Cristal of Bourbons that retails for several hundred dollars a bottle. It’s a very small hotel bar (below) but a great place to relax with a plethora of bourbons and a lovely atmosphere.

Most of the other downtown restaurants/bars are either pretentiously gaudy or generic, Denny’s-like, dining rooms (Jeff Ruby's Steak House, Kuntz's). The only other bar that deserves mention is the Old Seelbach Bar -"One of the finest stretches of Mahogany in the country", located in the Seelbach Hotel. Although restored to its early 1900's decor there is still something too hotel bar-ish about this very attractive bar- I can’t explain it, maybe it was just too clean.

The old strip, as it is known, is a quick cab ride from downtown, to where Baxter St. meets Bardstown Rd. Here you’ll find no less than three really great Irish pubs (Flanagan’s, O’Shea’s, and Molly Malone’s) and several great restaurants. A wonderful, old school restaurant with a fantastic feel and wonderful food, Jack Fry’s (above) is worth the trip. I was in day four of a wicked cold, and yet I couldn’t say no a very well made martini.

"When I have one martini, I feel bigger, wiser, taller. When I have the second, I feel superlative. When I have more, there's no holding me." William Faulkner

Jack Fry's has a quiet, dimly lit dining room with a fantastic bar and small lamp-lit tables. It's very popular, but bustles without annoying. I sat with a book in a little booth and had the Escargot as an appetizer, delicious, and then on the Crimson Snapper (a Hawaiian fish) with a citrus beurre blanc and diced Butternut Squash paired with a glass of Conundrum chardonney, marvelous. Everyone was so friendly, and the food so fine, that I could have danced all night, but instead I shuffled out into the cold Louisville night, fearing that the spell would be broken if I overstayed my welcome. It is clearly the best that Louisville has to offer.

LOUISVILLE - THE PALACE

2007-01-14T22:21:00.000-08:00

The Palace is a surprisingly beautiful theatre, and the last remaining relic in what was once a thriving theatre district. The other theatres have either been demolished or stand as dilapidated shells of their former selves. In a sense, the Palace is a smaller scale model of the Fox in Atlanta in that the lobby is fantastically ornate, the house is fashioned to give the appearance of an outdoor courtyard, they thrived as movie houses from the 30's through the 60's, survived close calls with the wrecking ball in the 70's, and have found a new lease on life (so to speak) in the new millennium.

This historic landmark opened in 1928 and was designed by architect John Eberson. It operated as part of the Loew’s chain, and did very well in its day. The lobby is tremendously ornate and beautiful, in a Spanish Baroque design. The resplendent, white, arched ceiling features busts of prominent writers, composers, politicians etc... including Beethoven, Shakespeare, Abe Lincoln, Andrew Jackson, and the Mr. Eberson himself.

The house, as I mentioned, is meant to resemble a courtyard, though the sky isn’t nearly as blue as the fox, and there are no stars or clouds. The many turrets, balconies, and glowing grottos, however, create a very luxurious almost breathtakingly beautiful room. It seats a cozy 2700 people, with very good sight lines.

The backstage is nice enough, though a bit run down. They don’t do a lot of theatre at the Palace- it’s mostly a music venue for pop/rock bands. Thus it’s a bit lacking in that intangible magic that I’ve found in other theatre’s with a history in American theatre, but it’s still a classic.

PALL MALL - A ROAD LESS TAKEN

2007-01-12T21:39:00.000-08:00

Another wonderfully meandering road trip, this one from Atlanta to Louisville. The flights for the cast were routed through Chicago, (our sponsor airline had no direct flight) and would have been about seven hours anyway, so the same road trip buddy from the Stockbridge trip and I loaded up a rented SUV and hit the road. Once again, we eschewed the interstates as much as possible, opting for the small and winding US 127 all the way through Tennessee. It was a beautiful sunny day and there was very little traffic as we switchbacked up and over Signal Mountain and down between the ridges into the heart of farm country.

Expecting some "Come listen to the story of a man named Jed...", we were surprised by the number of affluent houses and barns. The land and the animals seemed uniformly well tended (#380 above), and the even the generations-old shacks looked postcard perfect. As we entered Pall Mall, TN, we spotted a sign for the burial place of Sgt. Alvin C. York and decided to check it out.

Sgt. York’s story was told in the classic 1941 film "Sergeant York" starring Gary Cooper, Walter Brennan, and Joan Leslie. He was a typical trouble-making Tennessee youth, who, after coming to terms with his pacifist leanings, went on to become one of the most well known WWI heroes. Although some say that his accomplishments have been exaggerated, there can be little question that he went behind enemy lines and was directly involved in turning the tide of the battle of Argonne with the capture of over 130 Germans. He received the Distinguished Service Cross, the French Croix de Guerre, the French Legion of Honor, the Croce di Guerra of Italy, and the War Medal of Montenegro. He then went back to Tennessee to marry his sweetheart and dedicate his life to improving education in Tennessee. The details of his exploits are best detailed in his own diary, a great read.

ATLANTA - POCKETS

2007-01-11T15:11:00.000-08:00

We were all so very excited to get to Atlanta after the barren desolation of Birmingham, perhaps too much so. We arrived Tuesday afternoon and had a show that evening. After a short reception at the hotel following the show, I headed out into the night to explore midtown Atlanta. Not a good idea. Have you ever seen "Omega Man"? That Charlton Heston pic that plays on late night television where he is the last man living in a post nuclear world except for mutants who come out at night and attack him? It was something like that. Within two blocks of the hotel I had been assailed by so many (literally one every 15 yards) aggressive panhandlers ("You too good to stand and talk to me?") that I turned immediately around and retreated to the safety of my hotel room and the quiet respite of a tequila gimlet (have goods, will travel). Lesson learned. As it turns out, panhandlers a real problem in the downtown, mid-town, and uptown strip near and along Peachtree street and muggings are frequent. We found a few pubs quite close to the theatre for subsequent evenings, and traveled in packs. I was, however, able to find two very safe and quite wonderful pockets just a short cab ride from the Fox, both of which I highly recommend.

The Virginia Highland neighborhood is located along, appropriately enough, Highland Ave. Between Virginia and Ponce to Leon (Pronounced in Atlanta not as the french "Lyon" but rather like the first name "Leon", as in the boxer Leon Spinx.) It’s a charming neighborhood, and offers an eclectic mix of neighborhood bars each filling a particular need, somewhat akin to Appleton Wisconsin. I was out on this particular evening with an old Chicago buddy who currently lives in Georgia, a gentleman who enjoys a cocktail of an evening as I do, so God was in his heaven and all was right with the world. We started at the Highland Tap (above), where we could easily have stayed for the duration. A Grotto-like, basement restaurant and bar, it had stone walls, a friendly staff, and a classic Rat Pack vibe. We had a couple of very good martinis over Escargot en Croute and Asiago Risotto Fritters, and everything was so perfect that I barely took notice of Notre Dame getting pummeled by LSU in the Sugar Bowl.

We sauntered down the street for a few beers at Blind Willie’s (above), a very moderately priced blues club that does a fine job of straddling the line between gritty Chicago blues club and New Orleans juke joint. Tommy Brown and the Shadows were the featured act, and they were great. "Weeping Tommy" is a short, 76 year-old black man with a big round belly, one of those white captain hats with the black brim, and he is a fantastic performer. I bought a CD that he recorded between ‘47 and ‘52, and it’s great. The next stop was an Irish Pub called Limerick Junction, a small but perfectly acceptable Pub with live music. It seems quite popular with the locals though their disposition towards arbitrary closing times would drive me a little crazy. A few other pubs received a firm nolle prosequi: Moe’s and Joe’s (too smokey), Atkins Park (too generic despite it’s age), and the Dark Horse (couldn’t make a martini to save their lives, or mine for that matter).

We ended the night at Manuel’s Tavern, a sprawling neighborhood bar that could be a truly amazing dive bar with only a few adjustments. The prices are more than reasonable, but the lights are a little too bright, there’s a completely unnecessary game room, and the staff could be a little less depressing. Other than that, it has everything going for it, and is worth a visit.

The other pocket is a small area called "Little Five Points" located just south of Virginia Highland. Atlanta natives are fond of saying it’s their Greenwhich Village, but I thought it was a little more Haight Ashbury meets pacific northwest. It’s only a few blocks in length, but said blocks are chock-a-block with funky coffee shops, second hand stores, record stores, an old deco movie theatre, and a few great bars. I stopped in to El Myr one night after a show and had a great margarita and one of the best and freshest tacos I've ever enjoyed. There was a DJ spinning old 50's rockabilly tunes, and the locals were exceedingly friendly in a hippy kind of way. They took me down the street to the Euclid Avenue Yacht Club (above), an ironically named dive bar of the first order. Clearly the local favorite, it was packed and smokey, but friendly and cheap. I tried the only other bar of note, the Five Points Tavern, but with pints going for $5.50, I couldn’t possibly recommend it.

ATLANTA - THE FOX

2007-01-09T11:36:00.000-08:00

The fabulous Fox Theatre (and it is fabulous) was originally intended to be a Shriners’ temple, but cost overruns placed the building in the hands of movie mogul William Fox, who made the Fox the jewel in his crown of magnificent movie houses . It opened December 25, 1929, just two months after the stock market crashed. The local newspaper described it as having:

"A picturesque and almost disturbing grandeur
beyond imagination."

It is, to this day, immensely impressive. After opening, it remained open for only 125 weeks before declaring bankruptcy. It wasn’t until the 1940's that the Fox found new management and slowly but surely became one of the premier movie houses in the country. It was almost demolished in the late 70's to make room for a new headquarters for ATT/ BellSouth, but public outcry, as well as a grass roots fund-raising campaign saved this amazing theatre, and it currently operates in the black.

The front of house is an amazingly beautiful time capsule from the 30's. The tastefully extravagant lobby has an inviting warmth and elegance (above). Grand staircases lead to ornate lounges with striking lamps, sconces, and artwork- echoing either the Egyptian theme so popular in the 20's (after the discovery of King Tut’s tomb), or an Islamic theme that reflects the Shriners’ influence.

Impeccably maintained, (and pictured above) the main second floor lobby, the mantle over the fireplace in the ladies lounge, and the ladies lounge are impressive. Ornate fixtures, period furniture, and delicate deco Bakelite lamps can be found throughout in their original glory. It all seems like a practical, hands-on museum (or movie set), and it’s remarkable that everything is so well maintained. (Note: when rock shows play here, which they occasionally do at great profit to the Fox, everything and anything that could be taken or broken is removed and stored in the basement. Smart thinking.)

The stunning house, above, holds up to 5000 people, and is made to resemble an Arabian courtyard. Rugs hang from the proscenium arch, turreted stone walls loom on each side, and a large striped canopy rises over the balcony. The ceiling is a vast azure sky with twinkling stars and soft white clouds that meander slowly across in ever changing patterns. The sky remains illuminated throughout the show to maintain the illusion of outdoor entertainment. Before each show there is a half hour organ concert featuring Larry Douglas Embury and the mighty moller organ, ("The Mighty Mo"), a 4000 pipe theatre organ and the fourth largest in the country. It rises from the orchestra pit down stage right, and lowers before the show. V. charming.

Backstage is well used, but very clean and oozing history. There are five floors of dressing rooms, but the third floor star dressing rooms are the most incredible. Each has a huge carved wood vanity, soft couches, and a receiving area. V. posh indeed. The basement and sub-basement are a labyrinth of offices, storage rooms, lounges, boilers, a kitchen and a screening room. They are still discovering hidden rooms and treasures in this magical theatre, I wish we could have stayed longer.

The Egyptian Ballroom is also located in the Fox (the original neon sign above). A popular dance hall back in the day, it is now banquet and event space though an impressive one at that. It is designed to resemble a temple for Ramses II at Karnak, and while not as spectacular as the theatre, it is a beautiful room. One can almost hear the big bands, taste the martini’s (gin of course), and see the swirling, dancing couples.

BIRMINGHAM - MAGIC?

2007-01-04T13:44:00.000-08:00

The only thing magical about the "Magic City" is that such a large city can be so utterly devoid of amenities. Birmingham is a desolate expanse of warehouses, shuttered businesses, and furniture stores- If I were you, I'd give it a miss completely. There are only two ‘neighborhoods’ of note; Five Points South and Lakeview, each only a few blocks long and located on the outskirts of the city. Five Points South is the better known of the two, and offer’s a few great restaurants (they do know their BBQ) as well as a Starbuck’s. The local brew here is SweetWater, a microbrew from Atlanta, and it’s ubiquitous despite its mediocrity. The India Pale Ale finishes a little too hoppy, the Georgia Brown Ale is a little too sweet, and the Blue is blueberry flavored and an abomination.

On a more positive note- I was enjoying a pint of Smithwyck’s in the Five Points Grill of an afternoon, with generous sunlight streaming through the tall corner-front windows, when "I Write Sins not Tragedies" by Panic at the Disco started playing. The bartender, a cute blonde belle in too tight jeans and loose southern vowels, hurried around the bar to the radio and changed channels. As she sauntered back, I commented that she had ‘moved with the quickness of someone who really didn’t like that song’. She stopped, leaned in, and answered in a delicate hush: "No it’s just that they were saying some words that I didn’t think were appropriate for some of the people here." The south can be so very charming at times.

Also in Five Points is the Highlands Café. This is the one spot that simply can not be missed if you have to visit Birmingham. They stayed open late for eight of us one night after the show which was v. nice as they normally close at ten. The service and setting were impeccable and the repast among the finest we’ve enjoyed on the road. Generously overlooking their ill-advised list of candy-like ‘cocktails’, I started with a Hendrick’s Martini and it was prepared so meticulously that the cares of the day washed away with every sip. My mind and palate thus cleansed, I was able to tuck in to the French/ Southern Cooking influenced menu with a crisp Chablis. We ate family style, and I was able to have a taste of some remarkable creations: Stone Ground Baked Grits (the specialty of the house), Seared Foie Gras (amazing), Gulf Red Snapper with avocado, cilantro, and mango vinaigrette on a bed of lentils (inspired), and Kobe Beef Carpaccio (peerless). For desert we all had a bite of an incredible Warm Cream Cheese Tart with a mango coulis as well as a Sambucca and an espresso for a digestif. Lovely.

Lakeview is Birmingham’s equivalent to Chicago’s Rush Street. A one and a half block stretch of a half dozen bars that, due to scarcity, are well populated most of the time. There’s the Rare Martini, a martini bar in name only that more closely resembles a coffee house, and Innisfree, a cramped Irish pub that caters a little too self-conscientiously to the college crowd. Also the Golden Rule BBQ, which is actually not a bad little place, and the Corner Sports Bar, which offers a dizzying number of televisions and a very spare, cramped, dive-like tables. It’s probably a great place to watch an Alabama football game, but a little too claustrophobic for a casual meal.

BIRMINGHAM, AL - CIVIC CENTER

2006-12-30T19:55:00.000-08:00

The Birmingham Jefferson Civic Center (BJCC) is a very large complex with a Coliseum, a Theatre, a Concert Hall, and two convention spaces. In appearance, it's looks very much like what people in the 70's thought the future would look like (think "Logan's Run" or "Planet of the Apes). It’s located on the north end of town, right next to a large highway, and there is nothing else of note nearby (except our hotel). It is not a particularly safe place to be, as evidenced by a large security detail inside the complex, and bike cops zipping around the perimeter vigilantly. The interior guards sit along the long hallways at intervals of about twenty yards or so. It's really quite odd.

We are, curiously enough, performing in the Concert Hall; a similarly futuristic looking and expansive room with great acoustics but little charm (above). The mezzanine is set back a good ways, while the balcony wraps down around the sides at almost Escher-like angles. It seats over 2600, which seems impossibly optimistic here in Birmingham, where the arts scene is hardly thriving. There are six plays currently in production in the city, and four of them are holiday shows that close this week. The audiences are quite receptive, enthusiastic even, but v. small in number.

The dressing rooms are quite nice actually, many of which have cushy couches and armchairs for entertaining. The backstage area is immense (above). Our set looks positively lilliputian in this hangar-like edifice. You could fit five more of our entire set here. You could play an arena football game here. Our stage manager rides a bike from his office to the stage right microphone to make his calls ("half hour", "fifteen minutes", "five minutes", and "places" for those of you not in the business). It’s a large space.

APPLETON, WI - BRIGADOON

2006-12-29T11:58:00.000-08:00

There is a legend (and a musical) of a mysterious and utopian village in Scotland that appears for only one day every hundred years. According to the tale, the people of the village are not allowed to leave the village, or the spell would be broken, and the village would disappear into the mists forever. I’ve run across just such a place. In the misty highlands of Wisconsin, on the shores of the Fox River, is a charming little everything-on-main-street village with one perfect example of everything you need from a city, and a populace that I’m convinced never leaves.
Along a three block stretch you’ll find a Starbucks (V. important), a rustic German Restaurant, a family run Italian restaurant, a swanky Japanese Restaurant/ Sushi Bar, a great steak house, a terrific performing arts center, a funky little diner, an expansive wine and liquor store, a Walgreen’s, and several bars, each perfect in its own way. Granted, my visit lasted a week and not the mythical one day, but to honest, it is likely my only visit for the next hundred years.

The Deja Vu Martini Bar (above) should not exist in such a small town. It’s dark, richly appointed, and well designed. It avoids the many traps that other so called 'Martini Bars' fall into, and does so with style. It avoids celebrating such abominations as the oxymoronic "chocolate martini", it plays great jazz and old school standards, there are no televisions, the artwork on the wall consists of paintings (and a few ads) from the 30's/40's, and they make a fine martini. What more could you ask for? We were here almost every night, our between-sip smiles hinting of a bewildered amusement.

Cleo’s Brown Beam, where ‘everyday is a holiday’ is an ideal dive bar. It’s primarily lit by Christmas lights, Halloween lanterns, and glowing fake candles , which stay up year round along with decorations for pretty much every holiday. The staff is exceedingly friendly and their featured drink is an old fashioned, which, while not my cup of tea, is very well made.

There are other bars who play character roles in Appleton; Houdini’s as the gritty dive bar, Speakeasy as the clubby cocktail lounge, the Wooden Nickel as a true sports bar, and Spats as the locals bar away from the ‘madness’ of downtown. I was v. pleasantly surprised by these great bars. I was well aware that they knew how drink in Wisconsin, but I never knew they had such a passion for definition and variety in their local haunts.

APPLETON, WI - F.C.P.A.C.

2006-12-25T22:26:00.000-08:00

The Fox Cities Performing Arts Center is located on the main street of the tiny and unassuming hamlet of Appleton, Wisconsin. It is large, attractive, state of the art; and the last thing you would expect here in Cheese and Packer country. The theatre can accommodate the largest of shows, and most national tours do stop here. In all, 14 cities in the Fox River Valley donated eight million in hotel taxes to make this dream a reality, then chose a central city (Appleton), in which to build this somewhat incongruous wonder. This same all-together-now spirit is evident in many aspects of Wisconsin culture; the people of Green Bay owning the Packers, for example, and its 62 year waiting list for season tickets. It’s the old Lutheran work ethic; that ‘everybody helps out’ mentality, that makes Wisconsin such a great and interesting place.

I would be remiss, however, if I didn’t comment, at least a little, on the design of the house. The balconies are set very far back from the stage in an almost bowl like configuration, with the long main floor rising quickly in the rear. A very eighties looking gold bar trellis swoops up the sides of house, meeting at either side of an white oval dome in the center of the ceiling, and the balconies have nautical round edges. Nice enough, and maybe it’s me, but I think it looks very much like the main lounge of cruise ship. I should say, having never actually been on a cruise ship, that it brings to mind how cruise ships look in movies, but my point is the same: It’s a little cheesy. Appropriate, Wisconsin and all, but still...

The backstage, while large and clean, is also quite welcoming. Banners from past productions adorn the walls of the loading dock, the green room is comfortable and warm with wood paneling, and the hallway walls are covered in tidy white panels signed by artists who have performed there. (Above) The staff is terrific; friendly, skilled, and welcoming. We were told by others that we would love working here, and we surely did.

MINNEAPOLIS - A BARFLY'S MECCA

2006-12-11T21:55:00.000-08:00

Nye’s Polonaise Room. Named for Al Nye, of Polish descent, who opened his bar in 1949 in a building that used to be an Italian restaurant. Polonaise is the French word for Polish, as well as being a well known composition by Frederic Chopin. From this confused international lineage emerges the distinctly and quintessentially American bastard that Esquire Magazine insightfully deemed the "Best Bar in America (But don’t go there, you’ll ruin it.)" Though in Minnesota for only a week, three of those precious seven nights found yours truly pensively sipping cocktails while the locals struggled through show and pop tunes at the piano bar. Which isn’t nearly as painful as it sounds, the volume being generally hushed except for the occasional crowd favorite (Sweet Caroline, Hey Jude, etc...)

Nye’s is great because it knows exactly what it is, and it’s comfortable in its own skin. The windowless main room has dark paneled walls, carpet throughout, funky period lighting fixtures, sparkly gold vinyl booths in the middle, red vinyl booths against the wall, and no televisions. My favorite waitress was Frannie, a charming dotager who sported a Nye’s bowling shirt, comfortable black slacks, a large gray, well, afro, and large slightly tinted glasses with a chain attached to the legs. The glasses that is. She seemed to relish my affinity for conical confections, which they do a find job of preparing, though initially a bit overzealous with the vermouth. The fare is also worthwhile, featuring several Polish dishes as well as old standards like Prime Rib served on marble rye, short ribs, burgers, etc... On the weekends it can be quite crowded, as attractive young nordic types pack in to hear the World’s Most Dangerous Polka Band; a few geriatric gentlemen who play their polka music with a particularly rock and roll disposition. The tone or ‘vibe’ of Nye’s, the je ne sais quois that distinguishes it from other bars of its ilk, is elusive to pat description. It’s retro without being theme park, dingy without being dirty, and hip without being overeager. It’s the best.

Two other bars deserve a quick mention. (Two bars that I explored on my last evening in town in a fevered panic, worried that I had been slacking in my nightly peregrinations.) The first is "Brit’s Pub", a British (natch) sports pub with tall glass windows, televisions throughout, and wonderful tap beers (Tenant’s, Fuller’s, Double Diamond, etc...) It’s very large, and remarkable in that they have comfortable couches and chairs available and also in the fact that they obviously take great pains to keep the place clean (pictured above). On the second floor is an outdoor bar area and a large well manicured lawn where they have lawn bowling during the summer months. Really very charming.

The second is an Irish pub called "The Local". Its just a few blocks down from Brit’s, and while similar in sophistication, it has a little different feel; it’s cozy. There are very few televisions, and the interior is exceedingly comfortable. Huge, well-worn leather club chairs nestle in frequent intimate nooks, a few even complimented with a fireplace (above). The entire bar has very detailed wood work, and is divided by stained glass windows a la local pubs in Ireland. There is also a small snug with swinging doors titled the "Kissing Room" which looks quite up to its moniker. A pint will set you back $6, but you, like me, would happily call "The Local" your local nevertheless.

MINNEAPOLIS - THE STATE

2006-12-08T15:20:00.000-08:00

The State Theater, remodeled in 1989 is very...nice. And by that I mean to say better than anything you’re likely to find built recently, but underwhelming when compared to the wonderful old theatres we’ve recently visited. It’s design does boast an unobstructed view of the entire stage from every seat in the house- not too shabby when you consider other theatres of yore. The balcony, however, is remarkably recessed, so that while the view from up there may be unobstructed, the stage is also off aways. In the distance. (On the horizon.)

The house and most of the lobby remain unchanged from their original construction in 1921, including the wall murals, six lovely chandeliers, and a fairly spectacular proscenium arch featuring a mural titled "Bountiful Nudes". This wonderfully intricate, gilded arch spans almost the entire width of the theatre and towers 100 feet above the stage. Impressive.

The stagehouse and backstage areas were built in the ‘89 remodeling and still seem rather new, but in the worst sense of the word. Characterless beige walls abound, and while quite roomy, the dressings rooms in the basement are cold and ordinary. Function over form seemingly the overriding principle. The entire edifice is also devoid of any show posters, graffiti, or other signs of past productions which steals the sense of history one would expect to find here. As I said, underwhelming. But I can't gush about every theatre, you might start to question my objective integrity.

COLUMBUS - THE PLAIN

2006-12-05T22:00:00.000-08:00

Columbus is flat, clean, safe, and quite congenial. It is also rather uninteresting, mostly barren, and closed on Sunday. The streets are very wide (think Indianapolis) and the downtown seems like one big financial district. It bustles during the lunch hour, and closes early as everyone heads home to the suburbs. (Above is the Capital, as viewed from my hotel room). There is one tiny and well hidden pub located at the intersection of two alleys that is worth a mention. It was built in 1890 as the "Chamber of Commerce Café & Rathskeller." and the owner had the name attractively cut in stone over the front doors (pictured below). Sadly he hadn’t checked with the Chamber of Commerce who took issue with the name association. He was forced to bring the stone cutter back who replaced the offending words with an ornate ivy pattern. Later it was renamed the Ringside due to its proximity to a boxing gym, and the interior remains decorated with old boxing gloves, grainy black and white boxing pictures, and posters promoting fights. It’s very old, very small, and very cool.

There is nothing of real interest to the east or west, but to the north and the south there are two interesting neighborhoods, both quite different in nature. On the north side of the city, a twenty minute walk from downtown, is the Short North District. It has one main drag (High Street) which offers restaurants, bars, and galleries in equal measure. Positioned as it is between downtown and the campus of Ohio State, it attracts a pleasant mix of older college students, younger professionals, and locals. On my first night in town I toddled north on a balmy late autumn evening (some 50 degrees warmer than it is now, four days later) to explore ‘Short North’.

My first stop was "Mac’s", a purported Scots/Irish Bar. The sign outside boasted a proud highland piper, so I couldn’t possibly pass it by. The walls were decorated with Scottish and Irish posters, but that’s about the only S. or I. thing about the place. No imported beers, one I. food item, and one too hip for his own good bartender. I ordered a martini out of spite. Not bad actually. My next stop was Betty’s (pictured above). A great bar. Cozy and dimly-lit, its walls covered in ‘50's pin-up prints and Vargas posters; a gentleman could spend some time here (and did). The friendly and capable bartender shook a fine martini (Hendrick’s Gin this time, extra dry, v. good) and I joined a few folks at the bar watching the Packers playing football in the snow on Monday Night Football. I know what you’re thinking gentle reader; "Watching television? In a bar? What the..?" But it was a very small and very old black and white television which only added to the charm. My next stop was just a few doors down the street: the Short North Tavern. I was drawn in by the sounds of the New Basics Brass Band. An excellent group of musicians even though in appearance as ragtag a group of ne’er-do-wells as you’re likely to run across (pictured below). They played funk and R&B numbers with drums, guitar, a sousaphone playing the base line, two trombones, a sax, and a trumpet. The link above will take you to their website, which offers downloadable MP3's if your interested. They were a lot of fun.

On another evening I drifted south to the German Village; a quaint, sleepy little neighborhood of cobblestone streets and attractive, charmingly diminutive houses. I quickly found the local, the Sycamore Café, and while nothing to brag about in appearance, they poured a sound drink . I had a Stoli Rocks served in a vat of a rocks glass ($3.75!) by Gene, the owner. Gene had to be pushing eighty, had a Marlboro permanently attached to her lower lip in defiance of the statewide ban, and called me "hon". I liked her despite her monosyllabic grunts. There was a very touristy looking place called Schmidt’s up the street which was closed by the time I passed (11-ish), so I made my way to the Old Mohawk. I sat at the bar next to newly elected Ohio Governor Ted Strickland (D). Had some Great Lakes Christmas Ale (lovely but rich) and watched the end of Ohio State basketball game. The place has a great energy, and the food is excellent though I must admit the decor was a little too contemporary, too effortfully arty. Shame.

On the way home I stopped in at Elevator (above), a wonderful old building built as "Bott Bros. Billiard Hall". The back of the bar won the craftsmanship award at the 1893 Columbian Exposition in Chicago before being shipped to Ohio. (Book recommendation: "Devil in the White City", an excellent book about a serial killer who stalked the exposition). Elevator is a gorgeous bar, though their liberal use of blue neon is an abomination. Luckily they mix a fine martini, and the food is delicious. So there are a few gems in Columbus (roughly a half dozen or so) but that's about all that this city has to offer. And I looked.

COLUMBUS - THE PALACE

2006-11-29T22:54:00.000-08:00

The "Fabulous Palace Theatre" was designed by our old friend (and fellow Scotsman) Thomas Lamb (previously lauded in the blog post "Baltimore - The Hippodrome") in 1926, specifically as a vaudeville house. As such, particular attention was paid to acoustics, though it must be said that this cavernous theatre requires significant amplification. Our first sound check elicited visions of Himalayan tourists as we tested the echoes in the empty vastness.

As you can see, it’s quite a lovely house: just two tiers, but quite deep indeed. It would have to be to accommodate its 2,827 seats. Back in the day, said seats were filled by audiences thrilling at the work of vaudeville tours featuring artists such as Burns and Allen, Eddie Cantor, Jack Benny, Bill Robinson, Jackie Gleason, Gypsy Rose Lee, Mae West, Harpo and Chico Marx, and later the music of Bing Crosby, Nat "King" Cole, Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington, Tommy & Jimmy Dorsey, and Glenn Miller.

Another interesting fact is that the backstage area was designed with the traveling actor’s needs in mind. The dressing room tower (six floors again, similar to Boston’s Colonial Theatre) was organized like a small hotel; complete with a ‘front desk’ (now the backstage security check-in, above) where the performers picked up their room keys and mail, and offering habitable dressing rooms. Although the Palace has been refurbished recently (new fly system and dressing rooms), many of the original fixtures remain. Behind the ‘front desk’, for example, are the original lockboxes that held the valuables of the stars of yesteryear.

The backstage entryway is lined with marble, and the original marble staircase leading up to the dressing rooms (more exercise for those of us on the fifth and sixth floors) remains intact. Because it was vaudeville there were also animals to consider, and just off stage right I discovered how they were managed. A small doorway in the backstage corner leads to a steep circular ramp leading down to the basement.

There I discovered a tiled room which I later learned was the dressing room for the touring animal performers (horses, seals, baby elephants). Here (see below) they would be hosed down and groomed for the performance (please refrain from comparisons to the cast). They would be hooked to small hooks in the floor (still intact), before being led up the ramp to the stage for their performance. The ramp being necessary because while many animals may be led up stairs, most refuse the reverse direction.

There are other wonderful relics to be discovered backstage such as the fantastically monikered "Superior Automatic Stage Ventilator":

And the beautiful "Fire Hose" boxes both backstage and in the house:

The spirit of so many performers past and present is very much alive backstage in this gem of a theatre. It is a treasure.

BOSTON - OLD CHARMER

2006-11-20T22:26:00.000-08:00

Boston is a great town. But everyone seems to know that. In fact, the one thing that’s not so great about Boston is that it’s rather crowded with people who have already figured that out. The pubs, the Starbuck’s, the restaurants, the stores- it’s rare not to wait in a line pretty much anywhere you go. But I still like it. We had poor weather for a good deal of the visit, but it was clement on my day off so I started from Boston Common (beautiful and littered with Autumn refuse) and walked the Freedom Trail on a crisp but mostly clear November afternoon. The Freedom Trail is a path of red bricks that takes you past notable points of interest and historical landmarks (Site of the Boston Massacre, Paul Revere’s House, the Old North Church, the USS Constitution, Bunker Hill, etc...)

Luckily it also takes you past notable pubs and restaurants. I started by grabbing some oysters at the Union Oyster House (above) which has been serving oysters at their U-shaped Mahogany bar since 1826. Evidently Daniel Webster was a regular customer and would regularly down four or five dozen oysters, accompanying each round with a brandy and water. Good man. I stopped briefly at the Green Dragon Pub, which was called the "Headquarters of the Revolution" by Sam Adams and had a pint of his boston lager. This is the pub where a young boy overheard the British plans for Lexington and Concorde and passed them along to the owner, setting up Paul Revere’s ride. Just across the street is the Bell in Hand, which claims to be the "Oldest Tavern in America". A nice pint, but crazy on the weekends as are most of the pubs. ("It's O.K., it's not really a college town")

Afternoon was slowly becoming evening, and I crossed over to Hanover Street and into Little Italy. I think I could live here quite happily- it’s charming and quite beautiful. I stopped by a little café and had an amazing cappuccino and a biscotti (above) at a small table on the sidewalk. I sat and mused idly as the locals went about their day, which seemed to primarily involve standing around and visiting with their neighbors (below). V. Sopranos. Everyone seemed to know everyone, and actually to like everyone. I popped into several restaurant bars and had a few Morettis (when in Roma) and listened to the thick Boston dialects talk about local politics, football, the weather, etc... It’s a bit odd that someone with Irish blood would feel so at home in the Italian neighborhood of Boston, but I did.

BOSTON - LA DOLCE VITA

2006-11-18T20:57:00.000-08:00

A Fine Romance. I had arranged, with an attractive Boston actress I had met at a pub near the theatre, to enjoy a night in the north end (little Italy) and it did not disappoint. After searching on-line I had decided on a small restaurant named Il Villagio. When I arrived, however, I found that "cozy and quaint" really translated into "small and dingy", which really would not do for my one ‘big night out’ in Boston. So I called the young lady (in a cab en route) and switched the venue to the more modern restaurant next door (Lucca’s) where I had already enjoyed a lovely pre-dinner martini. As I stood in the doorway, looking out into the cold, dark, and rainy evening and awaiting her arrival, my attention was drawn to a small, charming, rustic looking restaurant across the street. Normally not one for indecision, I changed restaurants for a second time. The first- too small. The second- too modern. The third- just right. Upon alighting from the cab, she graciously accepted the change of venue, and we ducked briskly across the street to La Dolce Vita. Stepping in from the inhospitable outdoors, we were greeted from across the room by the very cliche of the warm and welcoming Italian host, Franco, who turned out to be the owner.

"Welcome, my friends, you joining us for dinner? Look how pretty she is, why she with you? I'm kidding- you very handsome man, come with me".

He led us to a quiet table in the back of the restaurant. The lighting and the atmosphere were enticing and elegantly homey (not as oxymoronic as it sounds) and the entire place exuded an old neighborhood, old world charm. The food was terrific, and made more enjoyable when a quite elderly man visited with his accordion (he had been playing since we arrived) and crooned an old Italian song for us. It was so perfect that we were unable to do anything but listen. I asked him to sing "Al Di La", and he graciously indulged me. I invited him to stop by after his shift for a drink and a while later he did indeed sit down for a visit.

Antonio Navarro, a small, well dressed, vibrant man in his early eighties, is delightful (pictured above.) He sat with us, over Sambucca and espresso, and told us his story. He was from Sicily, with three brothers and two sisters, and the only one to come to America (at age 28) and like it enough to stay. This was, he said, due entirely to having met the girl of his dreams in New York City. After they were married he worked off and on as a steam engineer on Cunard Line ships (going around the world eight times), and on other jobs around and in the city. He had also worked as an actor, due mostly to the fact that he is so Italian looking and sounding, not to mention charming. He had small roles in the George Raft film "Follow The Girls"and "Ciao America", as well as some smaller films, and has been playing his accordion in the north end for decades. He currently plays seven nights a week singing everything from classic Italian songs to Opera to Louis Prima standards.

As we were sitting talking to him two young Italian men (direct from central casting) came in and approached the table. The darker of the two leaned in and kissed Antonio on his cheeks. "How is he?" asked Antonio. The young man stood tall and hesitated. "He’s gone Antonio. He died. It was a stroke." Antonio looked over at us, shrugged, and shook his hand (his fingers touching and pointing upward). "They’re all going- my friends." One by one the waiters came over: "Aye yie yie / He would come in every morning for coffee/ Aye Madrone / It was a good life". They expressed their condolences, as did we, and the staff slipped back to work. Antonio, though surely upset, always maintained the wry, knowing smile you sometimes see in the elderly. He went on to explain that his wife had passed away eleven years ago from Cancer, and he "missed her every day". After telling us a little about her, and showing us her picture, and after a small period of silence, he stood and somberly lifted the accordion to his chest before easing into song:

"I ruled the world/ I owned moon
I told the stars when to shine.
I ruled the world/ but now all I have
Is the loneliness of life without you"

It was beautiful. It was moving. It was perfect.

It was a great night.

BOSTON - THE COLONIAL

2006-11-14T23:58:00.000-08:00

The oldest Boston theater to survive intact, the Colonial Theatre opened on December 20, 1900. The facade on Boyleston street (above) is as unassuming as a small Chicago storefront theatre, but the Colonial's interior is Amazing. Designed in the Rococo style, with Victorian-era flourishes, it features lavishly carved details and paintings in the style of Francois Boucher.

The best story, among many others that this renowned theatre offers, is the one which details how the popular musical "Oklahoma!" became "Oklahoma!". This was the first musical written together by Rodgers and Hammerstein, and many would argue that it revolutionized the genre by introducing a degree of emotional and psychological depth previously unknown to musicals. The show opened here in a pre-Broadway engagement as "Away We Go!" in the early 1940's. It didn’t quite work, and Richard Rodgers, working diligently to find cohesiveness, penned the new title song on a large marble table. A table that now stands in the ladies room of the Colonial’s lobby. The show then moved to the Schubert in New Haven (please refer to our previous tour stop "New Haven - The Schubert"), before opening at the St. James on Broadway where it had the longest run of a musical at that time.

It’s a great old house and the audiences are overwhelmingly enthusiastic. The stage door shares a small alley with the Magestic Theatre, and the worn red-brick walls exude history. More old and well worn bricks adorn the backstage walls, and each door and cramped office has the appropriate look of over a century of use. Every actor has his own quaint dressing room here, and we only take up one floor of the three dressing room floors. (My dressing room pictured below.)

This theatre hasn’t been refurbished and it’s wonderful to walk around backstage in this relic. It’s completely old school, no elevators, with the stage on the first floor, the green room on the second floor , and the dressing rooms above. It’s a lot of stairs night after night, but we love it here.

STOCKBRIDGE - THE BERKSHIRES

2006-11-09T14:58:00.000-08:00

In a daring gambit to avoid the stress of group travel to Boston and take in some scenery, I rented a car with another gentleman in the cast and we set out from Baltimore with our bearing northerly. Armed only with a vague idea of the general direction of Boston (and an atlas), we avoided the interstates and meandered our way through small town after small town (above). The day was slightly overcast, and the colors of autumn a little past their prime, but the scenes and vistas as we drove along, combined frequently with the nostalgic smell of burning leaves, were immensely interesting and enjoyable. As the daylight faded we decided to ‘go to the whip’ and put some miles behind us, the village of Stockbridge in the Berkshires our target destination.

At around ten of the clock we pulled up to the Red Lion Inn (www.redlioninn.com), my now favorite place in the world. Established as a stagecoach stop in 1773 and rebuilt in 1897, this is one of the few remaining American inns in continuous use since the 18th century. It’s charm is overwhelming. The main lobby, when we entered, had the familiar feel of a country cottage, with the roaring fire filling the room with a welcoming, homey glow. We took the elevator (one of those ornate cages that slowly glide up the middle of a winding staircase) to our rooms, small but clean and cozy. We then went down to the basement to the pub. Evidently this is the social center of the town, and the locals were quietly enjoying pints and quiet conversation in the style of a village pub in Ireland. The smell of spiced cider suffused the air, two musicians played softly and well, and we had fresh turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sandwiches that would compete with any Thanksgiving leftovers. Wonderful. The pints were quite nice as well. And numerous.

The next morning I visited the Norman Rockwell Museum (www.nrm.org). His studio pictured above. I’ve always liked his illustrations, but found a new respect for his abilities as a painter and a story teller. One painting, familiar to my family for years, was particularly poignant. It’s called "The Marriage License" and shows a young couple signing their marriage license as an elderly town clerk looks on. The relevance comes from the calender in the background, which shows the date to be June 11th, the date of my parents anniversary. I learned from the exhibition that the model for the elderly clerk in the painting had lost his wife just weeks before sitting for the painting. It added a little sadness to the obvious optimism of the painting, and augmented the pleasant wistfullness that I have attached to the painting since my father’s passing several years ago.

BALTIMORE - SHABBY CHARM

2006-11-07T22:14:00.001-08:00

Here It is: I like Baltimore. I haven’t (yet) met such an outgoing and friendly band of charming misfits in all my travels. The bars are old, well visited, warm, and alluring. The cast’s appointed clubhouse was Burke’s, pictured above. In 1934 two down-on-their-luck men placed their little all on a long shot named "Burke’s flyer". He came through. They purchased a package liquor store at Lombard and Light St. and, after several years, expanded it to include a kitchen and bar. It became our nightly ritual (primarily due to proximity), and they were nice enough to reserve us a secluded section in the back every night- which we gladly enjoyed. It must be said that service in Baltimore (alacrity, pride, the-customer-is-always-right) was uniformly lacking, but I was able to find a few nooks where environment meshed with service and friendliness rather nicely.

My first night in Fell’s Point (just east of the city center) was surprisingly charming. I started at the first pub I encountered, a small, darkish place named Friends. There I met two service folk named Sue and Joe. We talked local politics (O’Malley vs. Ehrlich for Governor, Democrat vs. Republican, good guy vs. bad), and I learned, in addition to what I had read, that a good deal of progress was being made in Baltimore as far revitalizing the city center. Eager to show their neighborhood, S. and J. then took me along to Lulu’s, along with several other locals we had picked up along the way, where we met yet more locals who were as friendly and open as can be.

This initiated a "let’s show the new guy our finest" pub crawl that went back to Friends, along to One Eyed Mike’s (the bar with the peculiar honor of having sold the most Grand Marnier in the USA consistently for several years), and finally to Duda’s on Thames St. (Oddly pronounced th-ame-s, not tems) on the waterfront. Fantastic. The inexpensive beer of choice here is National Bohemian (or "Natty Bo" for those in the know). Another evening foray into Fell’s point revealed a few familiar faces from the previous debauch and some new ones at Kooper’s, a bar that celebrates the owners over-the-top fixation with his lab Kooper. I offer, as exhibit A, the stained glass portrait over the front door:

Then it was on to the oldest pub (or so it is claimed) in America. "The Horse You Came in On" is a wonderful bar, though occasionally overcrowded, and its clientele a bit cheesy and overserved. But these are minor points when compared to the warped floors, the crowded shelves, and the general feeling of bonhomie that this relic exudes. ‘The Horse’ was founded (in the same space but by a different name) in 1775 and it has been well frequented ever since. Frequently even by Baltimore’s own Edgar Allen Poe, who’s last known sighting, before dying in a drunken stupor in a gutter on Lombard St., is held to be on the well trodden boards of 'the horse'.

Believe it or not there were a few more bars worth noting (Bertha’s, Slainge, the Waterfront Hotel) but mostly it was the cobble-stone toddle from small, well inhabited, pub to well inhabited pub that made Fell’s point one of the best drinking neighborhoods I have yet to visit.

BALTIMORE - DETROIT DOPPLEGANGER?

2006-11-05T22:44:00.001-08:00

Well, it’s actually much prettier here than Detroit, but the similarities are numerous; an older city built on a blue collar economy (Steel and docks here, Automobiles and docks there) that experienced significant 'hard times' in the 70's which led to urban flight, increased murder and crime rates, and decay. Both are also, apropos of nothing, largely African-American. What you find in Baltimore today are beautiful turn of the century buildings (pictured above and below and, clearly, not the most recent turn of the century, the one before), that are either abandoned, undeveloped, homes to McDonald’s, or banks. There is a McDonald’s every two blocks. Seriously. Most every other business in the downtown area (Rainbow, ValuPlus, Payless Shoes, Beauty Shops, Subways, Wig Shops, and Dollar Stores) closes quite early, as the workers flee the coming darkness. After dark falls, foot traffic quickly recedes to a trickle, and as you walk along your pace quickens, your defenses strengthen, and every darkened , doorway and alley becomes a potential "How I Got Rolled in Baltimore" anecdote.

Where Baltimore has succeeded, and Detroit has failed, is in developing and fortifying safe and charming areas for entertainment (Hopefully the powers that be will also, the most crucial step, succeed in connnecting these areas in order to create a viable, safe, and thriving downtown.) Yes, Detroit has a fantastic new ballpark and Greektown; our one-block five restaurant mecca for flaming Opa and overpriced drinks. But Baltimore has the inner-harbor area and Fell’s Point- both very safe, multi-block, enclaves of shops, bars, restaurants and museums that are as charming as anything you’d find in any major American city (see below).

It also has Camden Yards, a great ballpark of their own. Lexington Market, though isolated, is also a wonderful experience. It’s a large indoor market, caution: not for the claustrophobic, replete with every food item of most every ethnicity (pictured, but not captured, below).

Now if the powers that be (there’s an election on Tuesday) can only find a way to expand and connect these areas, and invigorate the downtown area, they might truly have a chance at a renaissance. An idea and a word that will have particular irony to those of us from the Detroit area who equate renaissance with the Renaissance Center and the gutting of Detroit by Mayor Coleman Young and his cronies.

BALTIMORE - THE HIPPODROME

2006-10-27T12:48:00.000-07:00

The Hippodrome. From the Greek Hippos, or horse, and Dromos, or race/ course. I’m not sure why there are so many theatres today named after Greek race tracks, I can only guess that some theatrical entrepreneur somewhere along the line thought it sounded fancy and might attract crowds and others agreed. This particular Hippodrome opened in 1915, and was the creation of the noted theatre designer Thomas Lamb. A Scotsman, I’ll have you know.

This magnificent house opened originally as a movie theatre, then became a popular vaudeville stage in the 30's featuring the likes of Bob Hope, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, Benny Goodman and his Orchestra, Dinah Shore, Milton Berle and the Andrews Sisters. At the end of the decade, as the age of vaudeville came to a close, Frank Sinatra made his debut as a big band singer here on July 13, 1939 with the Harry James’ band. Coincidentally, he also made his debut with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra here in 1940. The stage was much smaller then, and there were no dressing rooms or other amenities. The theatre started to lose money and interest over the years as the fortunes of Baltimore took a turn for the worse, and it limped along as Baltimore’s only downtown movie house until finally closing in 1990. After a decade of idle decay, the Hippodrome, as well as a bank building on either side of it, was purchased and the block of buildings was refurbished, and made more glorious than ever. The buildings on either side, now joined, now serve as lobby, rehearsal space, administrative space, and dressing rooms. It’s large, roomy, and quite comfortable both front and back of house. And every dressing room has cable, which is great for catching the end of a game while sipping a well-deserved cocktail at the end of a show. (Our humble dressing room bar pictured below.)

The Baltimore Audiences are the most well behaved and subdued houses to date. No trouble with cell phones, candy wrappers, coughing, or other annoyances, but conversely they seem hesitant to respond- erring perhaps on the side of being overly respectful. But they cheer like mad at the end, so who’s complaining? The best house we've had (and will have, we're told) was a matinee for public school students last Thursday. The show has no intermission and really moves along, and really captured their attention. It was v. gratifying and exciting.

WASHINGTON D.C. - ALL GROWNS UP

2006-10-22T21:23:00.000-07:00

"When you’re growns up, you’re growns up...
Our baby’s all growns up."
-Trent, in "Swingers"

I have no idea why this quote came into my head, but it’s relevant, if only tangentially. First of all, the character who speaks the line is in his cups so right there; appropriate. Also, the last time I was in Washington D.C., I was in high school and representing Singapore in the Georgetown sponsored North American Invitational Model United Nations. Due to a grandfather clause in the law, the drinking age was still 18, and that was close enough for us. I was walking along with a girl, couldn’t tell you her name, but she was a senior at Sacred Heart Academy and, I admit, there was a crush involved. We stopped to use the restroom at a restaurant called "Au Pied du Cochon" (‘At the Foot of the Pig’ for those of you who don’t parlez, pictured above but no longer around, and, apropos of nothing, where Soviet defector Vitaly Yurchenko had his last meal before redefecting). When I came out of the men’s room, she was sitting at the bar with two Heinekens and an impish grin. The bartender blithely accepted our slightly tampered high school I.D.’s (obviously a stickler for the rule of law) and left us alone. My first beer. Romantic n’est ce pas? Here’s an irrelevant but nice sunset (as seen from the Kennedy Center) to complete the romantic tableau:

Anyway, my point. Georgetown at the time, and Washington D.C. for that matter, was rough and tumble, and we liked it that way. Great bars, great music, cobblestone streets; it had character and elan. These days it’s ‘all growns up’, and it hasn’t aged well. Affluence has bleached every fiber of this once colorful garment, and emblazoned an icon on the front left pocket. M street, the main thoroughfare near the Georgetown campus, has been widened, paved, and invaded by every posh chain you can imagine (Jo S. Bank, Benetton, Ralph Lauren, and other faaaancy clothiers) and the bars of my nostalgic youth, alas, replaced with Starbucks and shoe stores. Refusing to be beaten by "the man", I sallied forth into the enticing night anyway in my quixotic search for a worthy drinking establishment.

After a recent show we went to Old Ebbet’s Grill near the White House. It’s the oldest saloon in Washington, founded in 1856, though it has moved several times. It has a beautiful big mahogany bar (above), decorated with carved mirrors, antique gas chandeliers, and stuffed animal heads reputedly bagged by Teddy Roosevelt. We had martinis and waited until 11:00pm when the raw bar selections are nightly reduced to half price. We had dozens of oysters (Wellfleet, Thatch Island, Raspberry Point, all delicious) with some clams, shrimp, and lobster in what they modestly call "the Orca Platter". At the end of the feast there were some fine cigars (Fuente Opus) to round out the fantastically opulent evening. Sometimes a little affluence can be a good thing. We would have looked very much the part of lobbyists or beltway politicos, except that we were surrounded by the real deal, and we weren’t on an expense account. Ouch. It is, however, the finest bar/restaurant in the district.

We then took a whirlwind tour of some recommended bars in Georgetown (The Guards, Clyde’s, Mr. Smith’s) but they were a disappointment; overpriced, overcrowded, and under stimulating. Not to be discouraged, I ventured out on another evening and I did enjoy a visit to the Saloun, with it’s great house blues/soul band and dark interior, though a pint of Boddington’s was $7 (a bit dear). I then toddled over to, and then up, the long, steep, stairway featured in the movie "The Exorcist" to "The Tombs" a great little basement bar- very "St. Elmo’s Fire" and comfortable, though the crowd was young enough to raise the question of their actually being old enough to drink. And there it is. Full circle.

WASHINGTON D.C. - THE KENNEDY CENTER

2006-10-15T13:18:00.000-07:00

The Kennedy Center, located on the banks of the Potomac River, opened to the public in September 1971. But its roots date back to 1958, when President Eisenhower signed legislation creating a National Cultural Center. To honor Eisenhower's vision, one of the Kennedy Center's three theaters (the other two being a Concert Hall and an Opera House) is named for him, and that's where we perform. It's unlike any other theatre complex in the country in that the government pays for the rent and upkeep of the building, while the Center artistic staff takes care of the programming- the way it should be if you ask me, there should be similar centers in Chicago and Los Angeles, but I digress...

President Kennedy was a strong advocate of the arts, and took the lead in raising funds for the complex while in office. Two months after his assassination, the national cultural center was dedicated as a living memorial to his memory and the outside walls bear several of his quotes regarding the importance of the arts. For example:

"There is a connection, hard to explain logically but easy to feel, between achievement in public life and progress in the arts. The age of Pericles was also the age of Phidias. The age of Lorenzo de Medici was also the age of Leonardo da Vinci. The age of Elizabeth also the age of Shakespeare. And the New Frontier for which I campaign in public life, can also be a New Frontier for American art."

Exhilarating, but sad. Exhilarating in his felicity of expression as well as the in notion that our President could actually feel this way, and sad when put in the perspective of our current leader's grammar and general outlook.

It is a thrill to perform at the Kennedy Center, and you can sense it every night when we arrive at the theatre. I don't know how to express it, but it's evident in how early the cast arrives and how late they stay, in the green room banter and the backstage preshow whispers. It's fun, and it doesn't hurt that we sold out almost the entire three weeks here. V. good.

I have to say, however, that while the outside of the Kennedy Center is monumentally inspiring, the interior is rather firmly entrenched in the 70's. The red carpet is nice, but the chandeliers and lighting fixtures are awkward and unappealing. I imagine it was lovely at the time, but that was an unfortunate decade for, well, most things, and it's a shame that this treasure reflects as much. Not that they should change it, mind you, it's just a shame. If you look at the picture below (though it's small) you'll see what I mean. You'll say "Oh that's pretty", then you'll look again and say "but I kind of see what he means, though the lighting is nice", and finally "Those lights are pretty dreadful."

WASHINGTON D.C. - MONUMENTAL ECHOES OF 1776

2006-10-10T20:40:00.000-07:00

It was a gorgeous Monday afternoon, temps in the seventies and not a cloud in the sky. After a quick bite to eat in the highly recommended cafeteria of the American Indian Museum (Buffalo, maize, etc...), I strapped on the Ipod and started my walking tour of the National Mall. Touristy, yes, but you can’t visit the capital and not take her for a quick spin. I had the Ipod on shuffle (the big shuffle of all the songs) and "Cool, Cool, Considerate Men" from the musical 1776 started to play as I rounded the pool in front of the Capitol Building. This is the song by conservative members of the continental congress when left on their own:

"But don’t forget that most men with nothing would rather fight for the idea of being rich than face the reality of being poor, and that is why they will follow us to the right, ever to the right, never to the left, forever to the right..."

Interesting. Our current Congress was in session so I couldn't visit the rotunda, and the capitol was made all the more unaccessible due to the post 9/11 security changes which have closed the steps up to the main entrance and barricaded all roads leading to it. We, the winners of the war on terror. And next on the play list, this song from John Adams:

"A second flood, a simple famine, plagues of locusts everywhere, Or a cataclysmic earthquake
I'd accept with some despair. But, no, you sent us Congress. Good God, sir, was that fair?"

These songs made for a perfect soundtrack and gave me the idea of listening to the whole album as I meandered along. I know, I know, show tunes and all that, sounds a bit...but still, it seemed like a good idea. Continuing along, the Washington Monument loomed before me, the Jefferson Memorial was off to my left and the White House to my right as "The Egg", sung by Adams, Franklin, and Jefferson, stirred some conflicted patriotism (where we’ve been, where we are now.)

"America, the birth of a new nation:
We’re waiting for the chirp, chirp, chirp, of an eaglet being born...
And just as Tom here has written, though the shell may belong to Great Britain, The eagle inside, belongs to us, and just as Tom here has written, we say to hell with Great Britain, the eagle inside, belongs to us"

I then passed through the World War II memorial, which provided the most emotional moment of the day. I was standing on one of the parapets, watching the sun infused fountains dancing happily, joyously, and without abandon in the afternoon calm, as a fairly small crowd milled around taking pictures and reading the carved quotations. Just then I noticed a young woman who was trying to cajole an elderly man in a wheelchair (father/daughter I’m thinking) into a picture. He didn’t want any part of it, but after a few more moments he waved her back and started to stand. His wife sidled up to him, but allowed him to stand on his own. Just before the picture was taken he snapped to attention- shoulders back, legs together, arms at side, and both hands in fists. In his right hand he clutched a Veteran’s Cap (the long square hat that you wear off the side of your head). His face became a mask of grim determination, the kind you sometimes imagine when you consider the soldiers of WWII and the integrity of their mission. The flash snapped, and instantly the man relaxed, sat back down in his wheelchair, and allowed his head to slump forward as if the whole thing had taken a good deal out of him. It was an extraordinary moment- false pride can ring hollow but that generation has a lot to be proud of.

I strolled down past the reflection pool and towards the Lincoln Memorial as "Molasses to Rum to Slaves", sung by the delegate from North Carolina, detailed the lurid details of the slave trade:

"Faces at the auctions gentlemen, white faces, African wharves,
put them in the ships, stuff them in the ships, cram them in the ships..."

Awful. Nightmarish. But a good reminder of the importance of Lincoln’s role in freeing the slaves and preserving the union. After reading his inaugural speeches, and noting sadly the underwhelming square tile memorial to Martin Luther King (so subtle that it was frequently trod upon and seldom noticed) I ambled along.

Located off to the side of the mall, as if we needed reminding of the embarrassing nature of this blemish on our international record, is the Vietnam Memorial. Its black granite panels cut into the earth like a scar, contrasted by the healthy green grass and gleaming white facade of all the other monuments. For this the 1776 soundtrack offered "Momma Look Sharp" in which a young and dying soldier waits for his mother to find him on the field of battle. It feels (and moves) like an Irish Ballad:

"My eyes are wide open, my face to the sky
Is that you I’m hearin’ in the tall grass nearby?
Momma come find me, before I do die
Hey, hey, momma look sharp"

So, now, fairly depressed (as you might imagine) and coming back up into the light of day from the Vietnam Memorial, I (de)press on.. There is just one last stop, and that is the visit to the Memorial to the Signers of the Declaration of Independence. Here is a perfect end to the tour and the soundtrack. It’s a small courtyard circled by granite stones into which have been carved the treasonous signatures of the D. of I. for all time. The finale of the soundtrack has the secretary calling the role as each representative rises to sign the Declaration. The bell of Independence Hall tolls in the background, the music swells, and we hear: (West Wing fans take note of the first name)

"New Hampshire: Dr. Josiah Bartlett, Massachusetts: Mr. John Adams, Rhode Island: Mr. Stephen Hopkins, Pennsylvania: Dr. Benjamin Franklin, Virginia: Mr. Thomas Jefferson..."

It was V. patriotic, hopeful, and a welcome/well overdue positive note. I walked back to the Potomac and then along past our temporary home in the Kennedy Center. It was now a lovely late afternoon and I stopped for a few drinks at an outdoor bar along the water. The sun was going down and Georgetown crew teams were practicing in eight man, two man, and single shells on the river. The boardwalk was well populated with friendly, lovely ladies and gentlemen. The beer was ice cold. God was in his heaven and all seemed right with the world.

PHILADELPHIA - ON THE TOWN

2006-10-03T12:40:00.000-07:00

I'll play first, third, left. I'll play anywhere - except Philadelphia.
(Richie Allen, oft quoted ball player)

Attended the Phillies vs. Astros baseball game at Citizens Bank Park. The Phillies lost, but a truly great ballpark fashioned in the intimate and classic mold of PacBell in San Francisco (Now AT&T) and Jacob’s Field in Cleveland. Early in the game the "Fan-Cam" came across an unfortunately comical looking fellow with a huge bushy mustache, a large main of curly hair, and a loud yellow blazer. The crowd laughed a good deal, even to the point of booing all the other fans shown until the huge video screen showcased the goof again, which elicited tremendous applause. This happened over a dozen times. Each time he was featured, the man would stand and raise his arms over his head like Mussolini acknowledging the throngs. When the Phillies were rallying in the seventh, they again went back to an extended shot of the crowd-appointed favorite to fire up the faithful- they've a good sense of humor. At another point in the game there was a 'wave', started by the gentlemen and ladies in the section to our left, going around and around, growing, and eventually involving all four levels. Later, after a Philly home run, the large neon liberty bell in right field lit up and swung back and forth, tolling in celebration. It was baseball as it should be, I haven’t had as much fun at the park in years, but then again, I’m a Cubs fan.

After our opening night party at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse (so near the theatre that the smell of butter-steaks occasionally wafts through the stage right wing.) I ambled over to Fado to watch a tape of the Celtic Champions League Match and enjoy a Smithwyck’s or two (Celtic won). I started talking to a Russian Graphic designer named Yana who was on her third glass of wine or so and celebrating the end of a project. She was beautiful but crazy (I’m serious about both, I wouldn’t lie to you). We ended up at an after hours private club called Pens and Pencils. The good thing about being an after hours bar, evidently, is that you don’t have to worry about the amenities that would entice you to a normal bar; the decor can be neglected-basement chic, the beer doesn’t have to be cold, and if the cigarette smoke is as thick as fiberglass insulation, no worries- you serve drinks after closing and that’s all that matters. It was fun, but mostly because her dialect was so thick, and the surrounding so foreign, that the whole night seemed surreal. For the record, there has never been a good translation of Chekhov, Nabakov’s translations of Pushkin’s poetry is the closest to capturing the beauty of the writing, and America is stupids. Thought you’d like to know.

On another evening we went to the City Tavern for beers brewed from the original recipes of Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin, and George Washington. Although rebuilt after a few fires in the 1800's, the building is an exact replica of how it looked in 1776 (the staff wears period costumes and actually seem to enjoy it), and the floor is the original brick.

"The most genteel tavern in America"
(John Adams, 1776, regarding the City Tavern)

After our not too brief visit there, and as the soft late-afternoon glow faded into a moody early evening gloaming, we strolled (tripped? careened?) across the cobblestone alley for an outstanding dinner at Old Original Bookbinder’s which has been serving fresh oysters, chowder, lobster, etc... since the late 1800's.

There was also a great night in south Philly watching the Bears victory at Tony Luke’s sports bar (he enjoyed seeing our show and invited a few of us down, the whole night on him; v. generous). He personally made our cheesesteaks (his being third in popularity to Pat’s and Geno’s, but first in quality I think), proffered some Philly microbrews , and introduced us to his friends who manage strip clubs and "do a little bit of this and that". They were very nice, but we were still very careful and only occasionally did we steal sidelong glances when they muttered particularly Soprano-like euphemisms.

All in all, there were some great nights on the town in this friendly, clean, charming city. The show continues to be received well, although there was one night that the audience didn’t stand - I can’t imagine why not, the philistines. The week flew by, and our time here seemed way too short. But we’re on the bus now and headed to D.C. for our opening at the Kennedy Center tonight, and everyone’s pretty excited.

PHILADELPHIA - THE MERRIAM

2006-09-28T18:03:00.000-07:00

The Merriam opened in 1918 (as seen from the stage, above) as the Sam S Schubert theatre. John Barrymore gave his Hamlet here in the the 1920's, it was a burlesque house for the better part of the 1930's, and it has also boasted such theatre illuminaries as Helen Hayes, Sir Lawrence Olivier, Sammy Davis, Jr., and Angela Lansbury. It’s a lovely large house, almost 1900 seats, and well preserved (4 Mil. restoration in 1986), but the backstage is a little cold and sanitary - there are no posters, signatures, or any other sign of previous tenants. The walls are institution-white and the dressing rooms are spread over three floors which separates the cast and discourages interaction and communication. Though running up and down three flights of stairs several times a night is good exercise (if you insist on looking for a half-full glass.)

The show got off to a rough start last night. I was waiting outside the door I enter to start the show (I enter in black, and lights come up discovering me on stage) and staring at my cue light (the blue bulbs pictured above; when they go off, I go on). I stood, listening to the first music cue until it went past the point where I usually enter, and then it went further, and further, but the lights weren’t going down on stage. I started nervously looking back at the stage manager (they call the show from the wings) and commenced to stage-whispering (with a little panic I must admit) "Hello? Cue light? Cue light? Psssst" but the stage manager was busy stage-screaming into her headset "Go cue 7!, Go cue 7!" My cue light finally went off, and I entered as the lights were still fading out- exactly what the whole cue light business is supposed to prevent. Not our proudest moment. Evidently the board operator in the house was in error, he went a cue past where he was supposed to be, and couldn’t go back. We experienced a few other gremlins wreaking small moments of terror during the night, but the show didn’t suffer too much and the audience still stood - so that’s something. It’s really the first rocky night we’ve experienced, and those’ll happen I suppose. We’ll get it back tonight (he said, furiously knocking wood).

NEW HAVEN - PLEASURES RIFE

2006-09-26T18:29:00.000-07:00

There is something exhilarating about being on a college campus, especially in autumn. The excitement of a new year, the abundance of fresh faces, the pride evident in the shops that offer every little thing you can imagine emblazoned with the school crest; all lift the spirit and quicken one's pace as you stroll across the old New Haven Green for a well deserved cold one.

"Bright College years, with pleasure rife,
The shortest, gladdest years of life"
(Yale Alma Mater)

I set out after a couple of shows recently, as a gentleman will, to see what the local taverns had to offer. The first thing that you have to know is that Thursday - Saturday are not nights for a reflective cocktail in any of New Haven's drinking establishments. Great nights for watching provocatively dressed, club hopping, hormone-charged ladies (bright college girls with hormones rife?) but not for drinking.

"If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end,
I wouldn't be a bit surprised."
(Ms. Parker)

I decided to start at Rudy's, farthest from the hotel, and work my way home (nice work if you can get it.) Rudy's has been around since the thirties, but has squandered the charm of its age with too many TVs, too loud current top 40, and a too obnoxious clientele. I only stayed for one. I then meandered my way past the castle gates to the Anchor, a fine bar across the street from the Schubert. The Anchor has the appearance of a dimly lit diner from the fifties or sixties, and is the bar of choice for casts and crews of shows past. For a bit of local color I opted for the Harpoon Octoberfest - good beer and all, but there weren't many folks about so I toddled.

Walking through the doors of Richter's transports you immediately to a wee nook of a pub in Oxford circa 1920: ornate woodwork, tin ceiling, yards of beer, and walls sporting oars that testify to the prowess of the Yale Crew team's finest years. I liked it. It's a beautiful place, with the notable exception of the rather unfortunate video quiz game on the bar. I sat at the bar, had a half yard of Smithycks, and breathed in the pleasantly musty air with the same satisfaction as other respiratorially nostalgic haunts I've encountered such as the bedroom in Hollyrood where Rizzio was murdered, or St. Paul's Church in NYC, where George Washington knelt to pray for the union after his inauguration. I went into the back room and settled in to a corner with a yard of Sea Hag Ale (another local brew and delicious) and watched the evening slide away. Some bars you can drink alone in, but I have to confess that I was a little lonely that night. It was all too cozy, too suggestive of the bonhomie and camaraderie of those college years of yore. Ah well.

NEW HAVEN - THE SCHUBERT

2006-09-24T18:09:00.000-07:00

We opened this week in New Haven to good notices and standing ovations- v. nice. We’re performing at the historic Schubert Theatre, which, for anyone who loves tradition and history as much as I do, is a true pleasure. The theatre opened in 1914, closed for a few years in the late seventies/ early-eighties for an overhaul and to change the fly system from the labor intensive hemp system to the industry standard counterweight system , and has been opened ever since.

Just a few of the actors who have trod these hallowed boards:
Lunt and Fontaine, the Marx Brothers, Jimmy Durante, Rex Harrison, Julie Andrews, Marlon Brando, Katherine Hepburn, Tallulah Bankhead, Lillian Gish, Burt Lahr, Fred Allen, Fred Astaire, Marcel Marceau, Bob Hope, Celest Holm, Jason Robards, Al Jolson, and more recently, Nathan Lane, Mary Louise Parker, Jerry Lewis, Cherry Jones, Robert Goulet, and the national touring companies of most Broadway shows including Cats, A Chorus Line, Les Miserables, Chicago, Grand Hotel, Evita, 42nd St., and many, many others.

Back in the day this theatre was used as a pre-Broadway tryout run ("Streetcar Named Desire" with Marlon Brando and Jessica Tandy had its world premiere here). These days it is used as such, but is also the first stop for most tours heading out of New York. The walls of the basement of the theatre (where the dressing rooms and green room are located) are covered with murals from each show that has passed through, and signed by each cast. Each day I dress in the same dressing rooms as countless known (I refer to the aforementioned legends) and unknown actors, walk up the same stairs, stand in the same wings, and act on the same stage. It’s staggering and incredible.

NEW HAVEN - THE CASTLE DYNAMIC

2006-09-22T14:24:00.000-07:00

The campus of Yale is beautiful, and rises from the town center like the "old town" of a European city surrounded by more modern (and less aesthetically pleasing) shops and hotels. A castle for young royalty surrounded by the homes of, in keeping with the metaphor, peasants who keep themselves busy with the day to day business of living. At least the poor saps back then could have used the castle as a haven in case of attack. These days there is a palpable and even tense cohabitation of ‘haves’ and ‘have nots’ in New Haven, and a stroll through the old campus green offers up derelicts drinking forties and young students with Starbucks in equal measure.

From what I’ve been able to gather from the locals that I’ve encountered muggings happen fairly regularly here; the preferred method being one or two young men on bicycles riding up, pulling out a gun or a knife, and demanding cash- simple and effective. I think a primary source of the friction here, (the ubiquitous racial and economic disparity aside) is the isolationism of Yale as an institution, both socially and financially. Almost all of the campus greens and buildings have locks or key card entry, and no money or effort has been put into the surrounding community outside of providing business for coffee shops and greasy spoons (of which, on a lighter note, the Yankee Doodle Diner is easily the finest and most cardiologically challenging.)

The institution and its students clearly have wealth; every third shop boasts hound’s tooth blazers, tweed coats, and ascotted mannequins and J. Crew, Ann Taylor, and L.L. Bean consider this crowd their bread and butter. The neighborhoods which surround the campus watch from without the gilded cage with little to show for their proximity to this prestigious institution. A police officer riding his bicycle beat informed me that things get sketchy (his words actually "go down hill quickly") within two blocks in every direction from campus. It seems a shame to me, New Haven could be a lovely little town. As it stands, the historic walls and castle gates of Yale stand in cold divisiveness.

NEW YORK - 9/11/06

2006-09-20T09:25:00.000-07:00

Yes, September 11th. The 5th anniversary of that awful day. The 5th anniversary of the day that I sat glued to CNN for 20 hours in my robe, mouth slightly agape, head occasionally shaking in disbelief. There were a few moments when I left the CNN crew: the bathroom, the kitchen for ice (my girlfriend had torn her ACL dancing at the Opening Night party of a show I had opened the night before, a show that did almost no box office in those first weeks-people understandably didn’t turn to entertainment for a while), and also a few moments to talk to my brother who was in midtown and fine. Five years later and here I was, sitting in my temporary home in midtown Manhattan watching the rebroadcast of that morning's telecast. I then stumbled out to the streets of the same city that years before was a cloud of dust, and into an eerily similar crisp, blue-skied, and beautiful Monday morning. I took the subway downtown and headed for ground zero.

My first impression were the bells. Four 6 ft tall bells on trucks, each attended by a single guard who would allow people to toll the bell once. It was an odd mix of ‘let’s take turns doing this’ in a touristy, experience-N.Y. kind of way, combined with the solemnity and beauty of the differently pitched bells. This, I would later figure out, was also an extremely apt harbinger of the odd mix that would characterize the morning. There was so much emotion in the air around ground zero, but manifested in many, many, unexpected ways. Easily a quarter of the people were wearing conspiracy t-shirts (Investigate 9/11, Bush knew, It was a conspiracy, etc...), there was arguing, yelling, crying, and a large gaggle of tourists just taking pictures. I found myself running the gamut of emotions as well; anger at the screaming idiots, sadness as I read the names and notes from loved ones, pride (unexpected) in seeing those in uniform, and frustration that ground zero is still just a gaping hole in the ground. I couldn’t stay long, it was all just too much. I walked along through the court buildings just to the north and felt comforted by the solemn, solid, and sturdy architecture; the columns, the weathered but still gleaming stone, the security of the perpetuating business of law and the state. Soon after I sat at a sidewalk table in little (almost tiny these days) Italy, drank a Peroni and read the New York Times. Life going on.

It was Five o’clock and a cocktail was definitely in order (I would have started earlier but the fancy bars around Soho don’t open ‘til then.) I had been told to visit the Temple Bar on Lafayette a few blocks north of Houston and it did not disappoint. The lighting verges on cave-like in the nightclub vein, but the woodwork is beautiful and the fixtures from the classic Art Deco mold (always pleasing.) Small but strong lights shot down to the bar creating little pools of light, which when occupied by a martini, created a romanticized glow about the drink that normally only exists in my fevered mind when I’ve a thirst. I did, in fact, order just such a martini (stoli, dry, up, twist.) I was the only patron at the time, and so started a conversation with the capable bartender and cocktail waitress about the current Broadway shows. We all agreed that "Drowsy Chaperone" was wonderful, and only half a martini in, I confessed my crush on Sutton Foster. We also agreed that "History Boys" was fantastically over-rated, that the set was clumsy, the videos obtrusive, the direction uneven, and the story morally questionable (though it was well acted throughout.) I was just getting ready to move on to the next stop of my downtown pub crawl when the bartender informed me that it was two-for-one Happy Hour and that another martini was on the way. What was there for a gentleman to do?

I do so like a martini,
Two at the very most,
After three I’m under the table
At four, I’m under the host
(Ms. Parker)

So after the second delightful shaken-with-a-twist, I strolled out into far too bright sunlight (as the evening was still quite a toddler, and I an early tippler.) I walked along Houston to the Pegu Club, which is fashioned after a bar of yore in old Rangoon. A simple glass door with the club logo leads you up a flight of stairs to a lovely India plantation-like atmosphere that elicits the Raj, jolly old England, "Pip, pip", "What, what?", and "All that rot" (with a hey nonny, nonny, and a hot cha-cha.) The drink list consists of cocktails from the original era as well. I settled for a Pegu Club cocktail- v. refreshing. So smitten was I with it that, roughly three quarters into the cocktail, I started to discuss its ingredients with the bartender. We discovered that he had mistakenly made me a gin-gin fizz, and he set about making the Pegu Club. So you see, despite my best intentions, I’m now four cocktails in, when I had planned for only two. And its early. Once again I strayed out into the only slightly diminished sunlight, and made for the village. As I neared the once oft-frequented and now dearly departed "Dew Drop Inn" I came across a small gaggle of tourists gathered around the still breathing remains of an iconic punk form: mohawk, sleeveless t-shirt blazoned with skulls, curse words, and anarchic phrases, also torn jeans, and tall black boots. He was basically passed out in the middle of the sidewalk, and the tourists were taking pictures. This is what New York has become. Disneyland for the spectacular or the weird.

"But it never got weird enough for me"
(Dr. Thompson, you have no idea)

So I grabbed a bite to eat, and then toddled along to the White Horse Tavern, the nostalgic high temple of alcoholic artists. Dylan Thomas passed out there after declaring "I’ve just had my sixteenth martini" and died shortly thereafter. Perhaps morbidly, I had a martini.

After night had fallen mercifully and gently upon the city, I made my way through Washington Square Park, stopping briefly to look again at the stirring Memorial of Light; two strong shafts of light thrusting upward wonderfully and (oddly even) defiantly into what passes for darkness in New York City. An ethereal reminder of the concrete and steel that once cast an immutable shadow in this city of extremes. There were many local denizens about that night, just looking to unwind and, I can only imagine, hoping to share some sense of community as the day came to a close. And then we watched as a plane, a large plane, flew low over the city. It roared along, oblivious, and flew right through the memorial of light. The beams of bluish white from the scarred ground illuminated the underside of the plane in an explosion of light that was both absurdly reminiscent of the earlier tragedy as well as frightening in the present, as if the shafts of light were somehow susceptible to damage. The women that were present screamed. The men cursed in disbelief: "What the ----", ‘How could this have happened?’, "What were they ----ing thinking?". I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t abandon this random community that I had instantly joined. We had to talk about it. We had to do...something...right? But there was nothing to be done. We all assumed that the papers would mention it the next day- surely everyone else who had seen this were as upset as we were, right? The next day there was nothing in the papers except how the morning of 9/11 was peaceful and somber, and how the evening was respectfully serene. You can’t always believe what you read I guess. That’s the news for you.

AND SO IT BEGINS...

2006-09-20T09:24:00.000-07:00

And so it begins... most of my little-all stowed tidily in a 10 ft. by 10 ft. storage unit in Chicago, and the remaining odds and ends stuffed awkwardly into three bags and a trunk which will serve as my wardrobe, office, and every other little thing for the next nine months on the road. Rehearsals for the national tour of a Broadway show (my job and reason for all of the aforementioned packing details) started in mid-August in midtown Manhattan, also the location of my lovely furnished one bedroom apartment on 48th st. -a place I could never even think of renting on my own. Rehearsals: fun, exciting, not too taxing, and replete with the comradery of our impending travels, though slightly lacking in the company bonhomie that takes members of the cast out after rehearsals for a quick one or two. I blame two things: the lack of women in the cast (an important social ingredient) and the advanced median age of the cast. There were a few quiet nights for me (literally one or two) and some lost nights; I blame the bartender (Manon) at Paddy O’Reilly’s on 29th st. for the absurd amount of Guinness and the bottomless glass of Jameson. Mondays, our day off, provided (and will provide) the best opportunity for exploring and drinking in the sights (intended) of the twenty cities on our itinerary, and I will here endeavor to chronicle life on tour and the inevitable lost Mondays.