Nothing to Do

It's rare that I swap day for night. Rarer still when I get up to an empty page in my datebook.

So with absolutely nothing planned for any part of the day or night, I punted, also known as trolling Facebook to see what I'd been invited to while I'd been out of town so much lately.

Barely over a week since my last live music show at a bakery, I returned to Sub Rosa for an afternoon of music by Yeni Nostalji Lite, which is to say vocalist Christina, guitarist Vlad and, on a few songs, Tim on acoustic guitar. It was such a casual performance that they were all seated in the big front window.

Vases of zinnia, marigolds and sunflowers sat on every table, all of which were occupied, in some cases with groups of strangers. I spotted the Italian speaker at the bar, a French food-loving teacher in the back and waited, knowing that the artist would make the effort to come over for a hug and to say hello.

He did.

Between Sub Rosa's usual Sunday business and patrons who came for music but also got seduced by the baked offerings, it was pretty much a constant line at the counter, breaking up my view from a stool butted up against the glass of that counter.

Not that I could blame anyone.

Despite having already eaten, I was unable to resist the siren song of roasted pepper quiche calling to me from behind the glass next to me. "Karen, eat me, eat me..." it wailed directly to me. The guy sitting next to me approved of my choice, noting, "I look forward to that quiche every week." Tellingly, his plate contained nothing but crumbs.

I'd gotten my quiche along with a Pentiman's rose lemonade because it was a hot day, never more obvious than when a woman walked outside and promptly fainted. The Turkish folk songs stopped mid-note and several people rushed outside to help her.

Turns out she'd gone for a long bike ride this morning but hadn't had anything to eat or drink. Foolish girl. She was packed off into her boyfriend's SUV and taken to an undisclosed location, presumably to fuel her body so it didn't give up on her again.

Yeni Nostalji returned to playing things such as 300-year old anti-war songs sung in obscure Turkish dialects (a guy in front of me leans over to his partner and wonders, "What language are they singing in?") with Christina shaking her armful of silver bangles when percussion was needed.

At the counter, the line continued with my favorite customer being the guy who began by asking what everything was and then ordering one of everything - seeded braids, almond croissants, shortbread cookies, chocolate croissants, beef borek - except quiche because I'd gotten the last one.

The attentive audience laughed when Christina announced, "I'm sorry, but this song is typically a duet so I'm going to have to sing a love song to myself." Never was baker (and fellow bandmate) Evrim so missed.

No woman should have to sing a love song to herself.

They ended their set with the same song with which they'd begun, making for perfect Turkish symmetry.

Leaving Church Hill for Jackson Ward, I'd decided to go see TheatreLab's production of "The Altruists" because I'd been hearing so much good about it and they were offering a great deal today. Patrons had only to roll a die and pay whatever the roll was plus five. I rolled a "6" so I paid $11 for my ticket.

The only problem was, I mistakenly assumed everyone had done the same until the woman next to me, a scientist who always enjoys the theater but too rarely makes the time to see it, shared that she'd paid full price ordering her ticket online earlier this afternoon.

Oops. This is why they say loose lips sink ships, Karen.

I spotted a few more familiar faces - an actor, a critic - before the lights went down and the audience was thrown into the back seat of a bus that was already hurtling down the road at breakneck speed.

McLean Jesse was chewing scenery and picking her teeth with the splinters as the actress Sydney (who plays a character named Montana Beach in a soap opera called, what else, "Montana Beach") who is telling off her unfaithful boyfriend Swallow as he sleeps the sleep of the drunk in bed.

"I see now I was just drunk with sex!" she shrieks at the unresponsive Swallow. "No man's perfect, but some are better."

This is the only thing that gives the straight females of the world a reason to keep trying.

In another bedroom, her brother Ronald is professing his love to Lance, a male prostitute, not that Ronald knew that when they hooked up. Already he's in love.

And in the third bedroom of the cleverly designed set, we see that Swallow (played at fever pitch as an unrepentant womanizer by Evan Nasteff, wearing a "F*ck SeaWorld" t-shirt) is just waking up after a drunken night of sex with Cybil, the purported lesbian.

So who was Sydney yelling at in that bed then?

Everyone but Sydney here is an aspiring activist (she doesn't like sweating or too much sun exposure), eager to attend protests and have a part in changing the big, bad world.

The problem is, they only want to do it if it's easy and convenient. Most of the time, none of them can even recall what this week's protest is about. Black lesbian rights or gay Latinos? School funding or government free cheese?

They all claim to want to do the right thing, but they all sponge off Sydney's money, using her house and car for "the cause" and with no acknowledgement of the bigger picture.

Sydney has done a bad thing, a criminal act, but they put their collective consciences on the back burner and protect her rather than losing their cash cow.

If, as John Mayer sang, "Numb is the new deep," these "altruists" are as deep as the ocean. It's tough not to sell your soul down the river when surrounded by nothing but people with no moral compass.

TheaterLAB has done it again, choosing a play with strong and thought-provoking dialog executed by a cast so strong it's impossible to shine a light on just one when all five shone in their roles. The set was brilliant, each room expressing its owner's life and place in the world. Lighting design played a starring role as the action shifted from one room to another at the drop of a hat.

I'd lucked into a fabulous afternoon of ensemble acting at its strongest.

Even after a walk to Cafe 821 for dinner set to a little thrash, I was home by 8:30. As in, before 9:00. Looks like I'll finish my beach read tonight, miles from the sound of the ocean.

Heard some beautiful live music, laughed and winced to a smart play and ate out twice. No days are perfect, but for one that began with an empty slate, I'd say I did pretty well.

Don't go getting any wild ideas about me, though. I still think nights are way better.