This past weekend was the Performance Weekend for Session 1 at StageDoor, a premiere performing arts training camp in the Catskills. I'm directing and choreographing a show for their second session and my dear students Gino and Liesl were in one of the shows. Well, let me tell ya! These shows were PHENOMENAL!
Gino and Liesl were both in Spring Awakening, which was perfromed with so much heart and honesty that it was incredibly moving. Spring Awakening has a beautiful score and these kids sang it amazingly.
I've seen Gino and Liesl grow from being kids with a flair for music and dance, into the beautiful, passionate performers they are today. I was watching with their parents and felt like a parent to them myself.
The other shows I saw were equally as amazing- a 13 year old ripping apart (that's a good thing) "Home" from The Wiz in a beautiful crystal belt; an 18 year old sing with the chops of a Broadway legend in the role of Queenie in The Wild Party; and a recently turned theater buff 16 year old boy play Lt. Cioffi in Curtains with the smarm and the charm that David Hyde Pierce originally brought to the role on Broadway. Another kid was so brilliant as a clown on the edge in The Wild Party that I bet he would be offered role in a touring company in no time.
I am now set to direct a show for the next session. Because of camp policy I am not allowed to disclose what show it is until Wednesday morning when we have a big "reveal". But I am excited to work with the talent and the passion that these kids already brought to the first day of camp. And who knows, maybe in my cast I have the next Natalie Portman, Bryce Howard, Robert Downey Jr., Jon Cryer, or someone like that, since they are all StageDoor alumni.
Till next time,
This is Tony...and StageDoor's what's going on.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
My Favorite Ghetto Girl's Son
Oh New York City! How I love thee!
Everyone knows I love a New York City-bred ethnic girl. Preferably a particular type of Latina (i.e. nasally, loud, and crass). Preferably very colorful (i.e. ghetto-as-hell). Preferably very hip (i.e. with some hoops the diameter of a basketball and half a bottle of gel holding those curls in place but bangs blow-dried as straight as an arrow). I love this girl, but yesterday I ran into her 8 year old son.
Three kids are walking out of the supermarket. The 8 year old was the oldest and the leader- a husky yet agile boy with cut-off sweats (which I'm obsessed with this summer) and a tank top which obviously belonged to his father, but which obviously he had been wearing to play in all day. I could only assume the other two were his siblings or cousins (you know how we latinos have 1001 cousins). There was a lanky boy of about 7 with the look of adventure in his eyes and an adorable little 5 or 6 year old girl with the cutest little "moñitos" (ponytails, but they tiny little curly ones you usually see on hair that will one day be relaxed).
As they're walking down the street with some delicious popsicles and potato chips enjoying the simplicity of their childhood summer in the city streets , the husky 8 year old turns to the adventurous wormy one and says; "You betta share that shit wid 'er or imma take it away! You best belief me." I nearly toppled over and fell. I have to give you a video:
I must say that I was impressed by this kid being so caring of the other two. Choice of words, phrasing, and delivery...not so much but the underlying message of community and sharing that this mother has instilled in this child was awesome to experience. And that's the thing about some of these women: we see them pushing strollers down the street in their tight-ass pants, speaking to these children in a way that makes you cringe, and we think they are too young to have three kids, but all in all, they have a set of values that might sometimes challenge ours; and even if the words and tones they use are not our favorite, they're saying the right thing.
Everyone knows I love a New York City-bred ethnic girl. Preferably a particular type of Latina (i.e. nasally, loud, and crass). Preferably very colorful (i.e. ghetto-as-hell). Preferably very hip (i.e. with some hoops the diameter of a basketball and half a bottle of gel holding those curls in place but bangs blow-dried as straight as an arrow). I love this girl, but yesterday I ran into her 8 year old son.
Three kids are walking out of the supermarket. The 8 year old was the oldest and the leader- a husky yet agile boy with cut-off sweats (which I'm obsessed with this summer) and a tank top which obviously belonged to his father, but which obviously he had been wearing to play in all day. I could only assume the other two were his siblings or cousins (you know how we latinos have 1001 cousins). There was a lanky boy of about 7 with the look of adventure in his eyes and an adorable little 5 or 6 year old girl with the cutest little "moñitos" (ponytails, but they tiny little curly ones you usually see on hair that will one day be relaxed).
As they're walking down the street with some delicious popsicles and potato chips enjoying the simplicity of their childhood summer in the city streets , the husky 8 year old turns to the adventurous wormy one and says; "You betta share that shit wid 'er or imma take it away! You best belief me." I nearly toppled over and fell. I have to give you a video:
I must say that I was impressed by this kid being so caring of the other two. Choice of words, phrasing, and delivery...not so much but the underlying message of community and sharing that this mother has instilled in this child was awesome to experience. And that's the thing about some of these women: we see them pushing strollers down the street in their tight-ass pants, speaking to these children in a way that makes you cringe, and we think they are too young to have three kids, but all in all, they have a set of values that might sometimes challenge ours; and even if the words and tones they use are not our favorite, they're saying the right thing.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Little Green Soldiers in a Pageant
When I was a little kid, of about oh 6 or 7, I used to love playing with those little green soldiers- you know the ones. Except that I've never enjoyed violence, so instead of having them fight, I would make pageant formations and parades with them.
Now settle down my gays and gay-friendlies! I didn't dress them in drag and make them win a crown, or anything of the kind. I just enjoyed switching them from straight lines into circles or feeding them in between diagonal lines into new formations. They were still soldiers but sometimes they were marching in a parade while other times they were in training and I was their commander ordering new positions.
A couple years later, when I discovered
my "leadership" skills, i.e. became a bossy child, I would do this with my neighbors and cousins. I would've done the same at school but that was Mr. Garcia's territory for Spring Festivals, and the HAM (Humanities, Art, and Music) department's for our seasonal assemblies. Around that same time I started loving beauty pageants, for the glamour, sure- but these girls got to strut around a stage from formation to formation with their only intention being getting to their next spot. I LOVED IT!! They were my own little army of little green soldiers, except prettier, and in standing without a rifle, and in fierce sparkly outfits with big hair and lots of rhinestones. (Okay gays and gay-friendlies- have that one.)
Soon enough I found a place that allowed for formations and formation changes...actually that encouraged them and existed because of them...THE MUSICAL! Besides the fact that I finally understood what singers were singing (yeah, I don't understand most pop/rock singers so I make up my own version of the lyrics), they actually broke into song and dance to express their feelings and, you guessed it, formation into formation into formation. It was my own little heaven; cause in heaven angels move about in perfectly choreographed routines!
Sitting at my desk today and working through the overall movement of a choreography (formation to formation), I found
myself wanting a set of little green soldiers so I could work it out. And I caught myself thinking: "gee, among all the stress and uncertainty of this career, the constant financial hiccups and the wondering how it's gonna work out, I get to do exactly what I always wanted to do."This is Tony...and gratefulness is what's going on!
Courage. Faith. Love.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
The New Harlem Rennaisance
The current post-Harlem-renaissance Harlem Rennaisance is having a big weekend. 100 years after the first renaissance redefined the cultural realities of 'Negroes' through literature and music movements, the neighborhood is now redefined for a new generation. This time it's not just black people, though, and it is certainly not through musical or written art forms.
After months of busy labor and weeks of anxious arrival of a liquor license, Harlem Tavern, SoHa's outdoor beer garden, is now open. The neighborhood has seen cafes, restaurants, and luxury buildings pop up in the past couple of years, but Harlem Tavern now shows off the variety of people in the neighborhood like mannequins in a storefront window, beer in hand and burgers in all their glory.
A local businesswoman (Ok, the gurl who gets my hair did) wondered the other day how they'd be able to keep the riff raff out. I suggested that maybe by keeping higher prices. Her response, "That don't keep the riff raff out. Riff raff always manage to have money in their pocket."
I guess that's the thing about change and embracing new people and things. You never know what you're gonna get. Throughout my life I've seen that every socio-economic class and every race has their share of riff raff.
The thing with Harlem is that in the two years I've been here, I can see the change on the faces of the people walking down the sidewalk- women of West African descent in traditional garb and matching turbans, twinks in Lady Gaga inspired outfits, preppy bankers with traditional families, young black men with sagging jeans and a dream. Now, though, with this big outdoor bar in a prominent location, you can see the change conglomerated into one street corner. It is no longer just the nice facade of a trendy new restaurant; it's a restaurant with the nice faces of a new trend.
Is this new Harlem Renaissance gonna give us the next string of artists and inspire generations of artist across the globe like the Caribbean and Western African communities that eventually settled here? Are there artists of the caliber of Fats Waller, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Langston Hughes, Louis Armstrong, and Billie Holiday emerging from this cross cultural intersection of differences? Here's to hoping.
Until then, this is Tony...and Harlem's what's going on.
After months of busy labor and weeks of anxious arrival of a liquor license, Harlem Tavern, SoHa's outdoor beer garden, is now open. The neighborhood has seen cafes, restaurants, and luxury buildings pop up in the past couple of years, but Harlem Tavern now shows off the variety of people in the neighborhood like mannequins in a storefront window, beer in hand and burgers in all their glory.
A local businesswoman (Ok, the gurl who gets my hair did) wondered the other day how they'd be able to keep the riff raff out. I suggested that maybe by keeping higher prices. Her response, "That don't keep the riff raff out. Riff raff always manage to have money in their pocket."
I guess that's the thing about change and embracing new people and things. You never know what you're gonna get. Throughout my life I've seen that every socio-economic class and every race has their share of riff raff.
The thing with Harlem is that in the two years I've been here, I can see the change on the faces of the people walking down the sidewalk- women of West African descent in traditional garb and matching turbans, twinks in Lady Gaga inspired outfits, preppy bankers with traditional families, young black men with sagging jeans and a dream. Now, though, with this big outdoor bar in a prominent location, you can see the change conglomerated into one street corner. It is no longer just the nice facade of a trendy new restaurant; it's a restaurant with the nice faces of a new trend.
Is this new Harlem Renaissance gonna give us the next string of artists and inspire generations of artist across the globe like the Caribbean and Western African communities that eventually settled here? Are there artists of the caliber of Fats Waller, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Langston Hughes, Louis Armstrong, and Billie Holiday emerging from this cross cultural intersection of differences? Here's to hoping.
Until then, this is Tony...and Harlem's what's going on.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Tennis Match Emotional
I'm totally team Federer! When he set the Grand Slam record last year I was as excited as I was disappointed this year when he lost early on at Wimbledon.
Ok...half of you (well 3/4...umm..99% of you) are actually surprised that my return to the blogoshere comes in the form of a sports entry but I do love me some tennis. Not as much as basketball, but I love tennis.
Anyway, my allegiances in the sport weren't too strong except when it came to disliking Novak Djokovic. There's just something about him that turns me off. It might be concentration or determination that comes off as arrogance or something. (Actors-actually everyone-please note- sometimes what we think we're projecting is not at all what the others are receiving.) I love Federer, I like Nadal, Tsonga and Murray are alright, but Djokovic I wanted to take down.
Emotional twist in the story- Winning today's match, Djokovic is guaranteed to be the number 1 player in the world come Monday morning. Win or lose the finals, he is number 1 on Monday. The pride and happiness this guy showed when he kissed the ground shook me to my core. His family jumping up in unison to celebrate tugged at my shortest heartsttrings and unwound them like a ball of yarn at a kitty's paws. (Wine with that cheese anyone?) When interviewed he acknowledged that even though it is an individual sport, a victory like this isn't possible without the support of those closest to you. He made no mention of being number 1 and just focused on the fact that he has another game to play on Sunday.Dear Novak: Thanks for reminding me what determination and focus and passion is all about. Thanks for reminding me that it takes a village. Thanks for relighting that light and making me see past my prejudices and share an emotional experience with you.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Push the Wheelchair. Get a Pickle.
This beautiful and sunny morning I was asked by a man in a wheelchair to please help him across the street. The man’s tone was not pleasant. It was somewhat demanding and aggressive, but underscored with frustration and desperation. The answer was obviously yes, but it took a second to figure out what to do with the bagel, coffee, and bags that were occupying my hands.
As I started pushing, he started telling me exactly how to handle the wheelchair. My first reaction was “Umm…. I know how to push a wheelchair.” Turns out, I don’t. The only times I have pushed a wheelchair were on after school moments in my dad’s office when I would push (actually shove) my brother and let the wheelchair wobble down the hallway until, by law of physics, something would stop it- most likely a wall or him falling to the floor. Other than this tweenage giggle-fest, I have never been in a position to push a wheelchair. So I quickly snapped out of my mental snippiness and carefully pushed him to the corner. I could feel this man’s weight on the chair and I could instantly feel his burden in my heart.
He let out a sigh and said, “Someone was helping me and then left me here in the sun. He said he wasn’t crossing that way and then he did.” His face glistened in sweat and sadness. My heart crumpled. “My name’s Tony. What’s yours?” “Will.” The light changed and he continued giving me instructions (I gratefully obliged) on how to get him up the ramp without tripping over and then to the corner where he wanted me to park him…I mean station him…I mean place him: in front of the deli, next to the Marlboro sign. As I was ready to leave, he asked me a last favor. “Can you go in there and get me a pickle?” “Excuse me?” “A pickle, can you get me a pickle?” The aggressive yet desperate tone was back.
Now, you’ve gottta understand something about me and pickles. I don’t like pickles. I have no sensibility for pickles. I don’t get why there needs to be pickles in my cheeseburger or next to sandwiches at diners. I usually don’t make a fuss about them, but I bring this up because we are generally more compassionate towards needs that we know and can identify with. If this man needed bacon, coffee, or wine, I wouldn’t have had to ask twice and just delivered. But pickles?!! Anyway…I get him his pickle, he gives me a last instruction. “See that bag behind me? Put the pickle in there.” I do. “That’s a turkey and cheese sandwich and now (pause) I have the pickle.” All the sadness, frustration and desperation in his face morphs into an impish Cheshire cat smile and he says. “Now I need to work somebody else for the soda.” (giggle) EXCUSE ME?! Did he just blatantly tell me that he “worked” me for his pickle? I tried to get mad but couldn’t. Although I felt used, the feeling of helping and giving to someone else, regardless of what I thought about his ‘need’ was far greater. Besides, next time I need to help someone in a wheelchair, it won’t be my first time.
This is Tony…And That’s What’s Going On.
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