A Rich, Little Plum Again

What good is sitting alone in your room when you can come hear the music play?

Life is a cabaret, old chum, and tonight's, called "You're Gonna Hear from Me," featured the considerable talents of Billy Christopher Maupin. Having seen BC in cabaret mode before, I knew to get my butt in gear, walk the mile to Firehouse Theatre and get my name on the waiting list for the sold-out show.

Arriving early, the woman at the ticket desk informed me that tickets wouldn't be available until 7:00. Just then Firehouse's producing artistic director showed up, so she inquired if she could start selling tickets then. "Can you?" he asked. "This is Karen! Of course you can sell her a ticket. She's a VIP."

And there's the proof that the requirements for being a VIP have never been lower, although I was very happy to have gained entry. I wiled away the time before the house officially opened talking to a woman waiting for four friends to show up and complaining because, despite the fact that they're all ushers at multiple theaters around town, her friends have a tendency to show up five minutes before curtain time.

They should know better, she asserted. Someone needs parental guidance.

Once seated, I saw plenty of familiar faces: Byrd manager Todd came over to discuss last night's screening of "Vertigo," a fellow theater alliance panel member and her husband, a longtime member of the theater community I hadn't seen in eons and loads of local actors and dancers.

Best line overheard: "Distinguished character actors never go out of style!" said to, who else, a distinguished character actor.

The woman in front of me returned from the loo to praise the brand new bathroom to her daughter, who decided to go solely because her mother insisted she needed to see it. Daughter came back just as wowed, effectively leaving me no choice but to go see what all the fuss was about. I'll admit, I was impressed with the clean lines, spacious design and proximity.

When Joel came out to welcome the crowd and exhort us to visit the bar often, he, too, jumped on the bathroom bandwagon, suggesting we check out the new loos and perhaps, for nostalgia's sake, make the trek upstairs to look at the old bathrooms.

I made do with two trips to the new and called it a night.

BC arrived onstage to start the show in front of a red curtain in tight black pants, a black shirt and a white tie and barefoot, as he always is for these performances. Nearby was his fellow Campbellsville alumni  Joshua Wortham on keyboard (and sly commentary) as they launched into "It's a Lovely Day."

"I feel like Norma Desmond!" he said dramatically when the song ended. Tonight or always, BC?

Since this wasn't my first rodeo, I knew that BC would make brilliant song choices, never more apparent than in the choice of "Nobody's Chasing Me" (which could have been my theme song from 2009 through 2018, but I digress) and his spirited delivery of it.

The breeze is chasing the zephyr
The moon is chasing the sea
The bull is chasing the heifer
But nobody's chasing me

The cook is chasing the chicken
The pea wakes up pee-wee-wee
The cat is taking a lickin'
But nobody's lickin' me

I mean, why go see a BC Maupin cabaret if you don't want to hear how he changes lyrics and chooses just the right songs to describe his life? We should all be so talented.

Between songs, he talked about moving back to Kentucky where he grew up and went to college ("I live in front of a farm now") and currently works a corporate job ("I don't fit in so well. Surprise!"). Then the guy whose favorite tag is #imakethingssometimes admitted, "I haven't made anything for a year and then this opportunity came up."

How's a boy supposed to resist that?

Alternating between standing in front of a mic stand and sitting on a stool, the evening unfolded as a series of songs interspersed with reminiscing about how he got to Richmond, his time in New York City (illustrated by singing Sondheim's "Another Hundred People"), his love life and his return to Richmond, always told with a healthy dose of self-deprecation and only occasionally, shaking hands.

Naturally, he managed to toss in a reference to having won an ARTSIE last year for having directed "Preludes" on the very stage on which he stood, hilariously following that with a casual mention of having previously won an ARTSIE for directing "Carrie."

"I may as well milk it while I'm in Richmond and people know what it means." Shout it to the rooftops, BC.

Calling dancer/choreographer Emily Berg-Poff Dandridge to the stage, the two of them became contestants on a game show with pianist Josh as the host. Using white boards to write their answers, they didn't manage to match even once, but their attempts were reliably funny. Asked if BC won the lottery what he would buy first, BC wrote "a theater." Emily wrote "booze, boys and Patti Lupone."

With enough lottery winnings, both seem achievable, they agreed.

After the game show portion ended, the two dueted on "Sisters" from "White Christmas," as unexpected a choice as it was charming. Their synchronized stool dancing was limited to leg crossing but the energy was high and the smiles were major wattage.

Explaining that everyone had told him that he couldn't put a cabaret together in two days, BC belted out Sondheim's "Everybody Says Don't" to refute that and then the  emotional "I Was Here" before instructing us to use intermission to get a drink because it would make everything better.

Judging by the line at the bar, it was an obedient audience. Well, that and theater people love to drink.

For the second act, BC returned in the same ensemble except with his top button unbuttoned and a black tie, this time to sit at the keyboards and plink out a song before Josh seamlessly sat down to really play.

"It's nice to be back in Richmond," BC said, beaming at all the old friends in the audience. "I know that Virginia Rep is doing 'Chicago' next year, so here's my audition!" and launched into "When You're Good to Mama" with all the passion of a man who wants a role.

Finishing, he smiled devilishly at us and suggested, "Somebody call Nathaniel Shaw right now!" Too bad there wasn't a hot line to Virginia Rep.

Calling up Katrinah Carol Lewis, the two took stools as BC told the story of them seeing Audra McDonald together at the Carpenter Stage, a major event for the uber-Audra fan Katrinah. They both marveled that Audra's glass of water stood untouched all evening as she sang her heart out. "She did not touch it," BC said, clearly amazed. "Just to mock us," Katrinah added.

During an audience singalong, Audra stopped to ask who the beautiful soprano voice belonged to, leading to a one on one conversation with Katrinah about what she sang. When she answered "Your songs," Audra told her that the world already had one of her and needed one of Katrinah, too.

"When I got home that night, I put that in my pipe and smoked it," Katrinah laughed.

The two went on to do a soul-stirring version of "C'mon Get Happy/Happy Days are Here Again" that could have gone on for another half hour without anyone in the room complaining. When Katrinah took a bow before leaving the stage, audience members begged for one more from the two strong voices.

Instead, BC did his third and final tribute as uber-fan to his idol, Patti Lupone.

Saying that he and Josh hadn't wanted to use too much from their last cabaret, BC admitted that they had "Frankensteined this song back together" and I could barely stay in my seat for what I was hoping was to come. That's right, he did "Wonderful Guy" from "South Pacific," which went seamlessly into "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered," which slid right into "I Wish I Were in Love Again" - modified to "The classic battle of him and him" - with a brief tangent for "My Funny Valentine" before ending up back with "Wonderful Guy."

Sigh. It was fabulous and brilliant, or, as BC himself would say, Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

While he said that he'd wanted to end the show with a Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney put-on-a-show-in-a-barn kind of vibe, he also admitted that it didn't feel right. "So I'm going to do a song by a tree," he announced, signaling the end was near.

Listening to BC sing us out into the night, I couldn't have been the only one struck by how fortunate we were that he'd made his way back to Richmond to make a thing for us again, like he does. Wouldn't it be wonderful to think that he's considering bringing his award-winning talent back to the city that's already acknowledged twice that we like him, we really like him?

If I had any recommendation for such a talented man, it would be to buy a lottery ticket. But only if he promises to schedule regular cabarets with boys, booze and Patti Lupone at his theater. A healthy does of Richard Rodgers would be nice, too.

It's only a cabaret, old chum
And I love a cabaret

Hey, if he can put a cabaret this wonderfully entertaining together in two days, the boy can do anything.

Bad is in the Eye of the Beholder

Park once and party twice? Check. Bluegrass music? Check. A senseless Dada comedy? Check.

Weeks ago, I'd gotten tickets for Dog Stuff's production at Firehouse Theater of "Wrong Chopped," which was billed as theater of the absurd based on a TV show - "Chopped" - that I'd never seen.

So naturally my curiosity was piqued. Sure, I avoid TV but not theater based on TV.

But then musician Alison Self came to town and was joining the Hot Seats for Beers and Banjos at the Camel and while I neither drink the former nor play the latter, neither was a requirement. Instead, I added in a musical component to the evening.

It didn't hurt that the Camel and the Firehouse are on the same block.

Yea, yea, I had just seen Alison perform the night before at Gallery 5, but this was her singing and playing as part of Sweet Fern, her duo with Josh Bearman, who also leads bluegrass pickers the Hot Seats. As a bonus, my former J-Ward neighbors showed up and joined the party, sharing their summer music festival plans and laughs.

Sweet Fern, for the record, holds a special place in my heart because they're the duo I'd chosen to open the Listening Room set the night I curated the event. Got all that? They're reliably entertaining, with both having talent to spare, meaning they coasted through songs by Conway Twitty, Johnny Cash and their bedrock, the Carter Family.

Let's just say there were songs about cheatin' hearts, jail and a tornado that killed thirteen children in a schoolhouse. You know, everyday life, albeit with Alison's comedic comments thrown in for good measure.

They closed with a classic I'd heard them do years ago, "When I Come Home the Other Night," a duet between a drunk husband and his unfaithful wife. Josh sang the man's part, questioning the things he saw - another man's horse in the stable, someone else's coat on the rack  and, most hilarious of all, a head on the pillow next to her - while Alison sang that it was just a cabbage.

Well, I've roamed the whole world over
A thousand times or more
But a mustache on a cabbage head
I never seen before

Leaning into the mic after they finished the song, Alison joked, "Don't you know that's how you check to see if a cabbage is ripe, by its mustache?"

After their set, the Hot Seats took the stage with two fiddle players for a change and a whole lot of fast-moving, hard-pickin' songs guaranteed to get toes tapping. I know because I was mid-tap when the clock struck 7:15 and it was time to head next door to see a twisted spoof on a cooking show.

"Wrong Chopped" was most definitely Fringe Fest-worthy, what with the playwright playing keyboard in his underwear and shoes throughout, a contestant who used bones for hands to make a dish using bones (don't ask), popcorn and rice pilaf flying everywhere and a host who liked to regularly kiss the bald head of one of the judges.

Plot? Not so much. Laughs? Erratic, age-dependent and, at times, unavoidable (like when one actor tells the audience, "This is a bad play!"). References? James Bond, Hamlet, Avengers. Weird? You have no idea. Hearing my name said by the host as an acknowledgement that I was there? What the...?

As for the appearance of a teddy bear mid-show, I don't know what to tell you.

But the cast's enthusiasm and the utter lack of a linear narrative definitely made for a unique theater experience unlike any this theater-goer had ever had.

Consider me fully fringed. And couldn't we all use a little more of that in our mundane lives?

When the play ended and everyone headed back to the sane world, the couple in front of me pushed open the Firehouse's front door only to reveal what may as well have been a monsoon: driving rain, sweeping wind, puddles already over the curb and ferocious thunder and lightening.

"Is this part of the play?" the woman mused, only half kidding.

You know, I wouldn't have put it past this bunch of theater mavericks. After all, some of them were part of the group who staged the most uproarious and, for a change, politically correct "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" known to man. I know I fell in love with it, even seeing it twice.

Bless their beautiful hides. Someone's gotta be our theatrical future.

Cast Your Fate to the Wind

It's shaping up to be a tragic weekend.

Meaning I went to see my second tragedy in two days, this time Sophocles' masterpiece of Greek tragedy, "Oedipus."

Except with a twist: Firehouse's production is "Oedipus, a Gospel Myth," which tells the Oedipus story within the framework of a black southern church service in the 1920s.

Praise the lord and pass the collection basket (yes, that really happened tonight).

But not any kind of church service this heathen has ever been to. When I first walked into the theater, the pianist, three-woman gospel choir and Jeremy V. Morris as the robe-clad preacher were all already onstage. But a minister's not going to let congregants come in without greeting them, so he called out a deep-voiced "hello!" and asked how I was doing this evening.

When I told him I was fine but expected to be better by the end of the evening, he smiled widely and said he hoped I would, too. From there, I found an unreserved seat in the second row, conveniently next to one my fellow theater panel members and his wife and in front of another, so with my people you might say.

Once the play began, the preacher made it clear that this was going to be a call and response kind of a service, with a fair amount of clapping in between. He went on to lay the groundwork for the story, explaining that the oracle had told Oedipus' father that he would die at his son's hands and marry his mother, a prospect so foul that it caused the preacher to let out a rousing, "Mercy!" in response.

For that matter, Morris was pitch perfect playing the holy man, the cadence and phrasing of everything he said pulling the listeners in. During one song by the gospel choir, he used his feet as percussion to punctuate the music, moving across the stage and finally behind the pulpit stepping in time.

At intermission, I heard a woman mention not only how incredibly talented the cast was, but how much obvious experience they had. And there is nothing like three strong soulful women's voices raised in gospel music.

Much the way I revel in seeing an all-female cast (say, "Alice" or any of the gender-reversed Shakespeare plays I've seen), it was positively life-affirming to see a production with an all-black cast, never more so than while the subject of blackface and minstrel shows continues to dominate the news feed, not just in Virginia but beyond.

New to me was R.O. Crews, who played Oedipus' uncle/brother-in-law Kreon, with a clarity of speech and a sensitive bent, but every time I looked at him, I saw Gerry, my best friend's ex-husband. It was a little eerie and I kept expecting him to start salsa dancing or something.

Of course, a play written in 429 B.C. is bound to have a few dated moments, never more so than when dl hopkins as the blinded Oedipus entreats Kreon to look after his daughters once he's exiled. "Don't let them live unmarried and helpless," he begs.

News flash, Sophocles, the two qualities are not one and the same, although it reminds me a little of my Mom who's always insisted she can't die because I'm not married.

What kind of insolent daughter would I be to give her her wish if it means she'll then be able to die? Hell, Oedipus and I could be cellmates, the father-killer and the mother-killer. No, thanks.

On the humorous side, during a discussion of the plagues - land and women being no longer fertile - affecting their city and how to address them, someone says the goal is to make Thebes great again.

Ba dum bum.

One of the most difficult monologues to hear was delivered by Keaton Hillman as the servant boy who explained how Oedipus' wife (and, technically, mother) Jocasta had hung herself and how Oedipus had then removed the two brooches from her gown and used the pins to repeatedly stab his eyes and blind himself.

It was a long, painful explanation, graphic in nature and told in the most heart-wrenching manner. Hearing it spoken like that was even more difficult than seeing Oedipus come out with a bloody bandage over his eyes and blood-stained shirt and pants.

And, just like last night's tragedy, things ended about as badly as they could.

Walking out of the Firehouse into the unpleasantly cold night air, a group of theater-goers walked behind me talking excitedly about the play. "I got confused at one part about what was going on," one of the women said. "Now, who was Kreon?"

Mercy, that's about all I can say to that.

It's a Gas, Gas, Gas

It wasn't my first Whiskey Rebellion rodeo.

But clearly that wasn't apparent on my face or the woman who sold me my ticket at Firehouse Theater wouldn't have asked if it was my first time there. When I laughed and said no, she smiled knowingly, saying, "You know what to do then."

Sure did. Go find the best possible seat and settle in to hear a top-notch bluegrass band pay tribute to the Rolling Stones. And unlike when I'd gone to the Dylan tribute, this time there was a container of earplugs on the counter for those fearing volume.

Are you kidding? My ears have been abused for so many years that there was no way a bluegrass band was going to offend them. Besides, I keep ear plugs in my bag for emergency punk shows, which this was not. Interestingly, the overhead music before the show was the Beatles, a foreshadowing, perhaps, of what's to come with Whiskey Rebellion's next tribute show.

Waiting for the show to begin, I cased the joint and did a mental Venn diagram of the sold-out crowd. Overlapping at the center were bluegrass fans, Baby Boomer couples, musicians and Stones fans. One of the few millennial couples was seated behind me and I overheard him tell her, "This is my Dad's kind of venue." But before she could draw the wrong conclusion (that his parents weren't hip), he added, "But they live in Church Hill and they're both psychologists."

Son, as long as they're still going to shows and have a venue type, I'd lay off the commentary and salute them instead. We'll just see if you keep going to shows once you've passed the half-century mark.

Let's just say it was the kind of crowd that, when artistic director Joel Bassin was mentioning Firehouse goings-on, murmured and reacted to such buzzwords as Chekov, Oedipus and gospel choir.

A literate, musical crowd.

"Feel free to dance, or go to the bar or stretch your legs during the show," he instructed the crowd, before introducing the "greatest band in the world."

Whiskey Rebellion was a five piece this time because their banjo player - the only one in the group who'd actually seen the Stones and that was in '94 - hadn't been able to make it, although a camera had been set up for him to watch the show (and for us to wave hello to him). That left acoustic guitar, bass, drums, fiddle and keys to carry on, with the banjo player instructed to practice along at home as they played.

From the first acoustic guitar strums, the crowd recognized the song, with one guy calling out, "Paint it Black, you devils!"

The only problem was that the singer's vocal mic wasn't turned on, so when the song ended, he asked, "Am I on?" and the audience roared back, "Nooooo!" followed by shouts of, "Play it again!" which they did, but only part of it. A couple of songs later, it was a ghost in the machine - aka feedback - that bedeviled one song before everything smoothed out for good.

Not going to lie, as a casual Stones fan, there were several songs I didn't recognize as well as plenty I did, like "Dead Flowers," "Under My Thumb" and "Wild Horses." Shaking his head between songs, the singer acknowledged, "These guys wrote some good songs."

Many of the songs required the fiddle player to play Keith Richard's lead guitar part, which worked to great effect, never more so than on "Gimmee Shelter," where his lead was nothing short of masterful.

Between songs, an audience member shouted out, "Hey, how about 'Waiting on a Friend?" and got no response from the band. "Hey, your friends are here," she tried again. "Waiting on a friend?"

No response from the band, although the singer did go on to observe, "Of all the bands we've paid tribute to - Grateful Dead, Tom Petty, Dylan - the Stones have more southern drawl than any of them. So a British man doing southern drawl, like 'drag me awa-aay.' It's hard to do!"

The sped-up fiddle solo on "Midnight Rambler" involved a whole lot of build-up and was matched by the speed of the guitarist strumming so fast his hand was a blur. Afterwards, the singer said, "Doing Mick is hard on the voice. That's alright, he loved PBR!" and took a swig from his own can.

What I'd discovered at the Dylan tribute was how much I'd liked hearing older music played through a bluegrass filter. That I wasn't particularly a Stones fan mattered not at all because, let's face it, at this point they're part of the 20th century songbook.

During intermission, I inserted myself into a conversation after hearing one guy telling another about a new building project in Manchester that involved a common room as part of the master plan. The catch was, all residents had to commit to having three meals a week with the other residents in that room. And while most of the pre-sold units had gone to millennials (including some with young children), an 80-year old couple had also bought one.

Sounds like a most interesting couple, we all agreed.

Guy #2 then shares that there's a planned community in Hanover County on ten acres with small houses scattered about, all within a 2-mile walking distance. "I could see doing that with a few other couples, but it was too close to Route 1." I got the impression he saw it as a middle-age built-in party.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Also overheard at intermission, 'Well, I did grow up in Mechanicsville." Whatever that proved and I was curious, I didn't get to find out.

When the second set began, the singer joked, "So we look pretty cool on this stage, don't we? It's super-different!" He was referring to the set for Firehouse's current production of "Gospel Oedipus," complete with bench, pulpit, fencing and a throne, which had been turned backwards for the performance. And it did frame them nicely.

Whiskey Rebellion's second set was all original material well executed and over in a flash, but the crowd wasn't having it.

"One more, one more!" many in the crowd called out and the band came back for one last Stones song, getting everybody thoroughly riled up by doing "Satisfaction." The cheering at the fiddle solo was almost louder than the song, but then again, so was the crowd's clapping along that accompanied the last half of it.

That's when you know this probably isn't anyone's first rodeo. Okay, except maybe the guy with the hip parents.

Blowin' in the Wind

Where was I when Dylan went electric? In elementary school.

By the time I was buying records and forging my own musical path, Dylan was passe, or at least in the junior high circles I moved in, he was. And while I could have circled back around at some point to acquaint myself with his  extensive catalog, I never did.

Which is not to say I didn't come around to appreciating his songs, even (especially?) when sung by others, But I was definitely out of the Dylan loop. Years ago, I recall an older friend and massive Dylan fan telling me about a recent Dylan concert, notable because he'd played "Masters of War," which apparently was highly unusual up to that point.

Only problem was I had to go home and look up "Masters of War."

Eventually, I tried to correct my musical inadequacy by reading books such as his chronologically-challenged "Chronicles, Volume I," as well as David Hajdu's "Positively Fourth Street." I made sure to see "I'm Not There" and the iconic documentary "Don't Look Back" in an effort to glean more of Dylan's back pages.

See what I did there? If not, you may be as Dylan-deprived as me.

Still looking to learn, I jumped at the chance to go to Firehouse Theater to see local Americana/bluegrass band Whiskey Rebellion celebrating the music of Dylan.

The producing artistic director expressed surprise to see me there  for something other than a play and a discussion of restaurants ensued.  Next to me was a woman who'd seen the band before when they were doing an evening of Grateful Dead music. Waiting for the show to start, the guy behind me sang along loudly to Stone Temple Pilots, assuring those around him, "I'll stop singing when the band starts."

Instead he stopped when the director came out and said, "Hi. Happy December and happy Hanukkah!" No candle was lit, however.

The show officially began when the singer/guitarist and upright bass player took the stage and launched into "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright," a song I knew from the Peter, Paul and Mary version.

Please don't judge.

As we applauded that, the remainder of the band came out: violinist, keyboard player, drummer and banjo player and began a song I didn't recognize. But I was okay with that because I went into this knowing that I likely wouldn't be able to identify every song.

Luckily, I immediately recognized "Forever Young," delivered after the singer explained how exciting it had been to select from so many Dylan songs and spend the Fall learning them. And even a Dylan neophyte like me knew "Like a Rolling Stone" from the first measure.

I mean, I'm not a complete idiot.

"Dylan was such an inspirational songwriter," the singer said, pointing out that with guitarists, later generations built on what guitarists accomplished in the '60s and '70s. "But it never got better than Dylan's songwriting. He was untouchable as a songwriter."

Even I knew this. After all, isn't that how he wound up with the Pulitzer prize?

He went on to posit on Dylan's inscrutability and how his songs could be taken literally or how a person could think he was somehow writing about their own life. He seemed to think the latter was the case with "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue."

After a swig of his Miller beer for his scratchy throat, the singer joked that he need it because, "Dylan had that clear crisp timbre, right?" and the audience (95% of whom could have told you where they were the day JFK was assassinated) laughed.

"Then you need a shot of bourbon for that!" a guy near me suggested.

His revived voice was for "Meet Me in the Morning," a song I didn't know, followed by the spot-on "Political World."

We live in a political world
Courage is a thing of the past
Houses are haunted
Children unwanted
The next day could be your last

After their powerful rendition of the song, the singer looked at the audience and said seriously, "True story," causing a guy down in front to holler out, "Good stuff!"

It was, too. All six musicians were strong players clearly enjoying the chance to get their Dylan on, although if I was in elementary school, they weren't even a gleam in their Daddy's eye when Dylan went electric.

"Knockin' on Heaven's Door" got the full-on treatment with a heartbreaking violin part and a reminder to the crowd that it had been written for the film "Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid." And while I may have known that at some point, it had long since slipped from my mental Rolodex.

No one should be surprised that I knew "It Ain't Me, Babe" from the Turtles' version, but who knew what a banjo and brushes on the drums could add to it?

Saying that the band needed to get "refilled and tuned up" meant that intermission was imminent and the singer used the opportunity to test our Dylan knowledge. "Everybody must take a break," he announced with an expectant look on his face.

Doesn't quite have the ring of the original lyric, now does it?

They closed the first set with "All Along the Watchtower," which turned out to be the ideal song for shredding on banjo, guitar, violin and keys while the rhythm section held it all down.

I can't even tell you how much more fully Dylan-qualified I felt during intermission.

Around me, I listened as two blond women discussed the benefits of Alexa and two middle-aged men discovered that they'd been at the same high school football game in 1974. I kid you not, they even recalled a short player who could run like hell, though neither remembered the guy's name.

"Ten minutes, that's all it takes in this town to find your connection," one said to the other. If not for the lights going down, I would have turned to him and challenged that theory. Sir, you could talk to me all night and I can guarantee you won't find a connection.

Whiskey Rebellion's second set was all original music and their stellar playing meant that even unfamiliar songs were a pleasure to hear, though as the singer reminded us, these were not Dylan songs because Dylan is at the top of the songwriting pyramid.

An evening of untouchable songs meant that I got a refresher course tonight and even a little inspiration to go deeper, maybe at my next record-listening party. It's never too late to up your Dylan quotient.

I may be late getting on the Dylan train, but only because I didn't know better.

Ah, but I was so much older then. I'm younger than that now.

And You Can Dance

High-brow, meet low-brow and let's call it a night.

The farting sounds were straight out of "Blazing Saddles," while the whinny came directly from "Young Frankenstein." Mel Brooks provided God's voice at the end.

Naturally, I'm talking about Firehouse Theatre's production of Moliere's 1673 comedy, "The Imaginary Invalid," shortened to "Invalid" for modern-day audiences.

It wasn't tough to get the manse gang on board for M & Ms: a meal at Metzger followed by a play combining Moliere and Mel Brooks. What fan of high and low could pass on that combo?

We started at the crack of evening, so Metzger was empty, with all the shades down against the heat of the western sky. But seated at the front table nearest the window, it was still a tad warm, a condition we battled with Seehof Rose and a discussion of how - gasp! - Pru is sometimes willing to leave the Loire Valley when it's for a Rose of Pinot Noir.

With vintage, obscure soul music playing, the three of us played pass-the-plate with a succession of scrumptious ddishes. Giving new life to late summer zucchini, the kitchen had charred it and added quark, chopped almonds, preserved lemon, chili and mint so everyone wanted a piece of it. Thick slices of golden beets under radicchio, roasted grapes and hazelnuts became sublime thanks to dollops of Gorgonzola's triple cream cousin, Cambozola.

With a nod to one of Pru's favorite drinks, cured steelhead trout was gussied up with gin, cucumber, wax beans, roe and the German version of salsa verde, gruene sosse. Beau's black bass was out of this world fresh tasting and I ate as much as I could without risking him giving me the stinkeye for bogarting his fish.

A dark chocolate torte with blueberry, cardamom and milk crumble accompanied Beau's No Regrets cocktail - cognac, dark and blackstrap rum, Falernum, pineapple - which Pru dubbed a dead ringer for Bermuda's national drink, the Rum Swizzle. She should know, having slurped through multiple pitchers of them during her extensive time in Bermuda over the years.

All I know is, I'd happily drink Rum Swizzles here or there. In a chair or in a lair. Anywhere, preferably from a pitcher so I'd be assured of more than just one. Now I have to question how I managed to vacation in Bermuda without discovering the Swizzle's seductive power.

Pleasantly replete, we returned to the manse to pick up Queen B, who'd skipped dinner to await the arrival of Sweetie Pie, a street dog she rescued in Mexico and who has since become her devoted canine companion, from the vet.

With our party complete, we settled in at Firehouse for "Invalid," which began with comedian Slash Coleman, dressed all in white, leading us through a series of laugh exercises to prepare us for what was to come: neuroses, nuptials and number two.

Let's just say I can assure you of more passing of gas than you've ever seen in a play before.

The rebooted version of Moliere - satisfyingly still spoken in couplets - featured much hilarious dialog about enemas (the invalid's preferred treatment method), an improvised opera and a pair of lusty young lovers, along with a serious helping of mispronounced names ("It's Cleante!") and a man playing the role of the invalid's wife for maximum comedic affect.

Adding to the play's charm was the set with a door set into a wall that leaned forward at a precipitous angle, sort of an Alice-in-Wonderland effect heightened when people came in and out of it. Tres cool.

Queen B, Pru and I laughed unabashedly throughout while Beau found less to tickle his fancy. Given that we'd just learned that he's never read or seen Ibsen's "A Doll's House," perhaps he's just not the literary fan the womenfolk are. Because I know he's the type to enjoy a good fart joke.

We closed out the night on Pru's screened porch, but only after admiring her latest DIY project, an eye-catching gold compass she'd hand painted after painting the bathroom floor black. The question had been whether or not to paint the compass so the markers were correct, but she'd opted for aligning the directionals with the walls in the petite bathroom, a choice that made perfect sense once I sat down on the toilet.

No one wants the north arrow pointing at her left thigh, after all. Better it points at the sink.

As we sat on the screened porch with the sounds of Church Hill at night all around us - train whistles, voices, cars creeping down the alley - the conversation inevitably turned to the upcoming beach week and the interesting crew who will populate Pru's beach house this year. Besides Beckham and the Beauty, one of the guests, Hotdog, is coming all the way from Arizona to amuse us with his droll and dire observations, so it looks to be a party.

"Hotdog loves to dance!" Pru reminded us again. And Beckham has offered to dazzle us with his masterful cooking skills. Personally, I'm going for Pru's surfside champagne happy hours as part of my beach farewell for the year.

And if there'll be pitchers of Rum Swizzles (insert sound of horse whinnying) to accompany that dance party, all the better.

Bump and Lick

It may be a new land speed record. Mac and I crammed dinner and a play into two hours and 20 minutes.

We'd chosen My Noodle & Bar for speed and proximity (to the Firehouse Theater), only to have them let us down with the former.

Oh, our steamed dumplings showed up promptly enough, but it took forever for our entrees to arrive and by the time they did, we had about ten minutes to eat what we could, stuff the rest into boxes, pay our tabs and walk briskly around the corner to the theater, where we stashed our leftovers under the seats.

For those who claim that the problem with eating Asian food is that you're hungry an hour later, I can recommend this method of dining because it conveniently provides for a second meal an hour later, just when you're craving it most.

We were at the Firehouse Theatre for Nu Puppis' production of "One in Four," a new work that the group had created and first staged at the Capital Fringe Festival in D.C.  That it involves aliens is no surprise for a group whose mission is to cultivate the kind of culture required for life in space using performances on Earth.

Both Mac and I had been huge fans of Nu Puppis' satirical production of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" a few years back, so we were eager to see what fresh madness they'd come up with this time. Simple answer: more hilarity. "One in Four" concerned four aliens sent to earth to accomplish various tasks and somehow, some way, all ending up sharing an apartment in Portland with a perpetually locked front door.

Naturally, they're each trying to hide the fact that they're aliens and of course they're completely unaware that their new roommates are aliens, too. But, let's face it, who else totes around a bag of raw meat for which they're not sure of the purpose? Or carries around a stand-up cutout of Robin Williams? Or gets nipple rings? Oh, wait, never mind.

Presented under the Firehouse Fringe banner, the four young actors adeptly massaged the audience's funny bone with unexpected lines, physical humor, outrageous interactions and their standard greeting: a bump with the head on the other person's hand and then a full lick up the arm.

There were also inside theater jokes ("Hmm, how do I start this thing? I'm really bad at exposition.") and cheesy TV references (After pouring a bottle of water on a passed out guy's head, "I saw that on Full House! It should have worked." When a second bottle does nothing, "Damn you, Bob Saget!").

One of the group's strengths is the infinitely flexible body of Dixon Cashwell, who seems to be able to fold himself into the smallest possible configuration and bend in ways humans can't.

The aliens made observations on the human condition ("You can't be the only emotionally stunted person on the planet!") and cracked wise with millennial humor about multiple piercings and pink hair ("I just made a bunch of poor, hasty decisions, okay?").

Like naughty children, they used the unlikeliest word for a straight and a gay alien playing charades (She: "I never thought you'd get "vagina!'" He: "I don't normally.") and more winking inside jokes, like after a lovely two-woman rendition of "Danny Boy" ("Such a beautiful song...and in the public domain!").

And with enough exposure to each other trying to act human, there was the standard existentialist musings ("If I were smarter, this would be commentary.") while another character lay face down on the floor for the second time tonight.

The audience ate it up, laughing loud and long at almost every interaction, even when an actor was doing no more than yelling "Fuuuuuuck!" Shoot, I can hear that any time I want by just opening up my windows to the sounds of Jackson Ward.

Mac and I reserved our chortling for the truly funny bits, of which there were plenty, many of them so casually tossed off by the capable young cast that they became even more hilarious.

Since this is Sunday, here's my commentary. A great big "Yaas, queen!" for Nu Puppis, with leftover Thai afterward.

Enjoyed in record time, I might add.

Doll, Not Guy

First it was a boxing fan at my side, then it was tonight's star.

When I took the only available stool at 821 Cafe, I had no clue I'd be sidling up to a girl eating a vegan crabcake sandwich (wtf?) and a guy sipping beer and shooting whiskey while extolling the fighting skills of Joseph Parker and Anthony Joshua and lamenting the pitfalls of bare knuckle boxing.

Somewhere in there, my black bean nachos arrived, except that instead of the half order I'd requested, I was staring at a full platter o' nachos without the faintest hope of finishing them. My server apologized for mis-hearing my order, even offering to box up the alarmingly large amount remaining, but we all know nachos don't reheat.

By the time I was leaving, the boxing fan was deep in discussion with another server about Muay Thai and I knew I needed more from any conversation I was going to eavesdrop on than that

Settling in at the Firehouse Theater, I was directly in front of three women disgusted with the widespread use of "you guys" when directed at a mixed or, even worse, all female audience. "How can they look at me and say "this guy here"?" one woman demanded to know. Truthfully, I feel the same way when "dude" is directed at me.

I stopped paying attention to them when a large man sat down next to me and it turned out he was the guest actor in tonight's two-man show, "An Oak Tree." Aaron Anderson explained that he'd just arrived an hour ago, only to have had some basic information relayed to him and an ear mic taped to the back of his neck.

What followed was a play about a hypnotist, played with dimples by Landon Nagel, with Aaron portraying Andy, the father of a young girl accidentally killed by the hypnotist's car. The hook was that while Landon knew his lines, all of Aaron's were either read from a script Landon handed him or repeated after Landon told him what to say or whispered them into Aaron's ear mic. He even told him when to sit, lay down and stand.

Translation: Aaron had no more idea what was going to happen than we did. He'd been expressly told not to research the play and he hadn't, but you don't get to be associate chair of VCU's department of theater without having considerable acting chops even without rehearsal.

His real life cred was also the source of a major laugh when Aaron's character asks the hypnotist what he was and is told, "You're a teacher."

He particularly excelled in a scene where he was hypnotized and told he was naked and that he'd just had diarrhea all over himself. Needless to say, there was a bit of improv involved as he sought to wipe the mess onto Landon.

In one sense, the play was about dealing with grief, with Aaron's character having convinced himself that his daughter was now an oak tree near where he went to sit and think of her. In another sense, it was about the illusion Landon creates, playing the hypnotist, effectively directing the action onstage and even instructing the audience on how we should react.

So we were being manipulated just like Aaron/Andy was.

At one point, Landon asks of Aaron about the action, "Don't you think it's a bit contrived?" and Aaron responds, "Hard to tell from here." While that got a big laugh, it was also an excellent talking point post-play.

Martial arts and faulty gender pronouns aside, the only thing I like as much as a good talking point is a worthy conversation partner. And then there's Pru's rule: don't bring up a topic unless you can go deep.

I wouldn't think of it. Where's the pleasure in that?

Ripe on the Bough

You just don't expect certain things.

Almost as unlikely as a guy rapping on a rock in the James - which I saw today - was having a friend volunteer to see a Eugene O'Neill play - and a near tragedy at that - with me.

Leave it to Pru to be attracted to the literate.

But even a literary type would be a fool to see a brooding play like "Desire Under the Elms" on an empty stomach, although deciding on a restaurant became the challenge of the morning given that it's Restaurant Week and we wanted nothing to do with any of that.

After extensive back and forth, geography determined our choice and we landed at Flora, mere blocks from Firehouse Theatre. She'd made a reservation, which had seemed unnecessary at the time, but proved to be prescient when the restaurant filled up around us during the course of our meal.

Perhaps we aren't the only ones bent on avoiding the amateur crowds.

Because it was happy hour, we had no excuse not to eat half price tacos, choosing three chicken tinga (her fave) and three fried catfish with radish slices, cabbage and chipotle mayo (mine), along with a ramekin of obscene queso fundido with chorizo and a side of the best guacamole in town, thanks to queso cojita and ancho.

If we were going to watch a modern American tragedy, we were going to be well fed Americans first.

We made it as far as three of the five blocks we needed to go before an SUV driven by a moron talking on his phone pulled out from an alley mere feet in front of us. My response was to scream at the top of my lungs, while Pru wisely slammed on the brakes in that way that makes you feel like a cartoon car standing on its front tires.

And don't you know, the idiot never so much as glanced at us as he continued yakking on his phone. I suppose it makes us bad people to hope he dies a lingering, unpleasant death?

Inside the Firehouse, each person was given a tiny bag of gravel ("You'll see why") and told to pass it on because if the recipient brought it back to Firehouse, they'd get a dollar. And while clearly the dollar was not the incentive, talking about the play was.

Brilliant enough that I give them an "A" for creativity.

Further in, I chatted with a theater critic friend about the latest local media misfire, agreeing that the public doesn't want to hear the excuse "human error" or how woefully understaffed print publications are these days.

On a more positive note, he also gave me a heads up about CAT Theater's upcoming production by David Lindsay-Abaire, the very same production that Pru had mentioned as recently as dinner, no doubt an indicator I need to score tickets.

Firehouse's producing artistic director Joel elaborated on the gravel, explaining how difficult it was for them to convince people how great this rarely-produced work by a heavy playwright is, not to mention how ineffectual it was for them, Firehouse, to try to convince people that their lives would be empty without seeing it (a line that got a big laugh and probably increased the number of people who'll pass on their bag o' gravel on to someone).

I hope it works because "Desire Under the Elms" was impressively staged, beautifully lit and managed to pack an incredible number of emotions into an hour and forty minutes.

Much of the appeal came from watching Landon Nagel effortlessly inhabit the character of Eben, the sensitive younger son of an overbearing father on a New England farm that was mostly rock. Sure, he hates Dad and misses his dead mother, but he does his work and only occasionally slips off to see a prostitute in town.

And he might have lived out his life like that if Dad - a blustery Alan Sader again playing the difficult old man role - hadn't brought home a new wife, a schemer who wanted a farm of her own.

But Dad did and next thing you know, we're embroiled in a saga of Greek proportions - adultery, lies, jealousy and, of course, infanticide. Eugene O'Neill, remember?

As the object of Eben's lust and eventually love, the actress who played Abbie didn't fully inhabit the character's emotions to the point that I ever felt her longing, lust or pain - much less the loss of her child - as deeply as should have been conveyed.

Pru was more succinct, summing up her performance as, "Willing, naked and able."

Even so, it was completely engrossing, not to mention utterly satisfying, to watch the words and story of a major playwright like O'Neill play out live. A a devoted theater-goer who'd only seen "Long Day's Journey Into Night," I'd been sadly deficient in O'Neill performances.

Dare I say that my life is no longer empty because I saw it? Well, it's still got a significant hole or two, but it's also infinitely better for having seen tonight's production.

Once I finish mulling it over, you can bet I'll be passing on my gravel to encourage someone else to witness this classic.

"It's a great game - the pursuit of happiness," O'Neill wrote. Not only great, but lifelong.

Personally, I think not pursuing would be the tragedy.

Feed Your Head

The math was off.

Three hours (of conversation) plus 20 minutes (intermission) divided by seven weeks (since we last saw each other) does not add up to nearly enough time to go deep with one of my oldest friends.

The nearly two months wasn't entirely my fault, though certainly my frequent gallivanting this summer played a part. Without divulging too much, sorry/not sorry.

But she'd also been busy, having just returned from a trip to New England where she was so eager for fall that she began needlessly wearing sweaters because she could. Even when they made her uncomfortably hot. Even when her friend mocked her.

So with one thing and another, tonight was out first chance to hang.

We began on my balcony, hydrating and watching twin moonflowers unfurl while trying to cover some of our recent trips. We'd both noticed how much the light has changed as September nears. Only I am sad about it.

From there, we moved on to Secco and tonight's cooler, drier weather meant that there were no seats on the patio, although once established at the end of the bar, the outdoors were forgotten anyway. Or maybe that was the German Rose.

We'd hit Secco during their happy hour, which attempts to aid customers in re-connecting with humanity by providing boxes in which to put your cell phone. That's right, if you box your phone, everything you eat and drink costs less, not to mention the thrill of real time conversation.

And while my friend did lock hers up, the owner pointed out that I was already ahead of the game by having no phone to lock up. Whether that should get me an even bigger deal or looks of scorn is up to the individual.

While dishing on family, friends and lovers, we also chowed down. A killer baba ganouch was taken over the top with the addition of sweet tomato relish and cotija, while the warm grilled flatbread more than did its part. I'd eat it again tomorrow.

It was an evening to discover (and correct) that my friend had never had fried squash blossoms, these arriving with crispy fried lemon, green beans and Romesco to seduce her. And what Rose drinker could be less than thrilled with a Spanish octopus and mussel escabeche with the thinnest of cucumber slices, basil and Thai chilis?

Certainly not this one.

We eavesdropped on a woman who claimed to look 28 (not even close), talked about the pleasures of a green Chartreuse party (not since the '90s for me) and questioned how some people define friendship. She asked for a beach replenishment update and I obliged.

And then we hightailed it to the Basement for TheatreLAB and Firehouse Theatre's production of "Alice."

You know, as in Wonderland and through the looking glass. Also as in, so full of youthful singing and acting talent that the effect was dazzling.

We were seated next to an older couple from Montross on the Northern Neck and it didn't take much prodding to get them talking. Big theater fans, both of them, they shared that they often went to Fredericksburg to see plays.

"In September, we're going to see 'Six Brides for Six Brothers," the woman told me excitedly. "It's seven brides and seven brothers," her husband informed her. "You're making up a play!"

When they asked if I was a native Richmonder, we found out that both the husband and I were Washingtonians and born in the same hospital. Small world.

I would have left it there, but then the husband starts quizzing me. What was the name of the bakery on Pennsylvania Avenue near 16th? What radio commercial went like this (and he began singing)?  I explained I had been gone 30 years and clearly didn't have the same memories he did.

The wife tells me she had 5 children, all at the same hospital, but by two different husbands. Then she giggles and said, "And none with him" and points to Mr. D.C.

Oh, they were colorful, alright. Things only went south when the subject of renaming his Arlington alma mater (coincidentally, also that of my companion) came up and we began to see that he couldn't understand why Confederate statues must come down.

But other than that, they were sweet and obviously dedicated theater fans to have driven an hour and 20 minutes for this play, so we had to like them.

They'd picked one worth the drive. The fresh-faced cast was all in, the amount of energy expended impressive and the story charmingly told with all the anticipated lack of logic expected of a tale written while on drugs.

For that matter, they'd also executed a play with as perfect a sound quality as I've heard at a play in Richmond. Granted, the Basement is small, but that's not always been a guarantee of fabulous sound and tonight every syllable and moan came across loud and clear (all the better to appreciate the cast's stellar voices) as they belted out songs (which did occasionally drift into Disney territory).

Can I just say that it is positively life-affirming to sit in a theater and see a play with an all-female cast? Casting women in all the roles - the Caterpillar, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, the Mad Hatter - ensured that every strong voice, every funny line, every dramatic moment was delivered with a healthy dose of estrogen.

Hallelujah and pass the chocolate. It's enough to make a woman giddy with the rarity of it.

And let me just say that Maggie Bavolack (in a blue bobbed haircut, sunglasses and smoking  a hookah) was so over-the-top hilarious as the caterpillar that some people couldn't take their eyes off of her. Charisma and attitude oozed from every blue pore on her body.

But she was only one of a strong ensemble cast who could toss off simple yet well-written lines ("Those muddy stockings, so joie de vivre!") and crack up the audience.

At intermission, a woman in line was all but swooning about the gorgeous harmonies we'd been hearing and although I agreed, I was just as taken with the clever dialog and its delivery. Someone had done a magnificent job of casting.

Of course, we all strive to cast our own lives just as ably. You find a good person like my friend and you offer them the role for life. You fit in a new person around the original cast.  You ensure the estrogen level stays up for sanity's sake.

And that hot pink bandana I had on tonight? So joie de vivre.

Celebrating Life and Happiness

I've apparently been mistaken for missing in action.

When I (finally after 3 years) posted a new profile photo on Facebook the other day, certain friends wasted no time in weighing in.

There you are! I've been looking for you.

Where have you been?

Well, let's see, just yesterday I was, as usual, all over the place.

In the morning I was down walking by the river, at least right up until I made a pit stop on the way home at Rapp Session for a lobster roll and an orgeat lemonade, quite possibly the most exquisite summer lunch known to woman.

In the afternoon, I was at Firehouse Theater with Mac for their collaboration with TheatreLab on "Heathers: The Musical," a riff on the late '80s black comedy classic about mean girl high school cliques.

As a card-carrying nerd in high school, I knew nothing of such popularity.

The play was a hoot, from a slo-mo fight scene to an ode to 7-11 and Slurpees ("Happiness comes when everything's numb"). Of course the '80s references were rampant: Bono at Live Aid, Air Supply, watching porn on Cinemax (or is that Skinemax?).

And when else but the '80s would a high school girl announce, "I'm, hot, pissed and on the pill?" On a fashion sidenote, in a play full of adorable '80s looks, it was the Heather played by Michaela Nicole who took top prize for most fabulous hair and cutest skirt (a split yellow skirt with a yoke that I'd love to own).

Easily the most hilarious scene concerned the fathers' reactions to the apparent suicide of their sons, two testosterone-fueled jocks.

I don't know what was funnier, the lyrics of "Dead Gay Son" sung by Billy Christopher Maupin and Eddie Webster as the fathers ("Well, I never cared for homos much until I reared me one") or Maupin's Dad shuffle dance in celebration of his new-found appreciation for the two stray rhinestones on the Lord's big purse.

Great stuff. It's no wonder the show's run has been extended.

In the evening, I was at Sub Rosa for the latest in their natural wine series of Sub Rosato pop-ups with the added bonus of Miramar playing.

Since it wasn't my first rodeo music show at Sub Rosa, I knew full well my date and I should arrive well in advance to score a good table and avail ourselves of the 8 groovy bio-dynamic wines being featured.

Rather than choose from a list created by a pro (the savvy Virginia), we opted to work our way across the list from sparkling through white, Rose and red, while noshing on every single thing on the pop-up menu: buttery tarts of goat cheese, dill and tomato, a charcuterie board, bread and olive oil and housemade chips.

Be still, my cholesterol.

Starting with Omero Moretti, an organic, unfiltered Umbrian and a classic Cremant du Jura, we moved through the wildly contrasting Sepp Moser Gruner Veltliner and Benito Santos "Pago de Xoan" Rias Baixas.

It was our loss to miss out on the Spanish Rose because it had already sold out, so we enjoyed a Virginian instead (Rosemont's unfiltered Rose) along with a faux Rose, a Kir Royale made with the Jura we'd already had.

It wasn't much of a sacrifice, I have to say.

Meanwhile, the trio of Miramar was effortlessly enchanting the room with boleros, Brazilian songs and original music, all set to the keyboard accompaniment of national treasure Marlyse Simmons, who managed to do it despite the setting sun through the window making things a tad warm for her.

Singer Laura Ann, looking fabulous in an orange sherbet-colored dress with orange pumps - because only she would have orange pumps - made sure to remind the crowded room that despite the happy sound to some songs, they were all basically unhappy.

"Here we are celebrating life and happiness through sadness, as we do," Laura said while Rei shook his maracas in agreement.

Late in the set, percussion arrived courtesy of Giustino and his bongos, making for a thrilling addition to an already sublime sound. It looked like hot work, though, and he'd pull out his handkerchief between songs to wipe sweat from his head.

That's a dedicated musician right there.

Lots of friends crowded into the bakery: the Turkish singer, her Russian guitarist and his Italian fashion blogger girlfriend, the jazz critic, the dance party enthusiast, practically the entire Dutch & Co. crew, the reporter.

It was a party for those in the know.

Back at our table, we sipped the lovely Te Mata Gamay Noir from Hawke's Bay, New Zealand, coincidentally also the home of the winemaker I'd squired around last month. I can't wait to tell him I'm still drinking his local juice.

What I can't do is provide prior notice to my Facebook friends of where I'm out and about on any given day or night.

That said, if you're looking for me, I can be found. Just ask in advance and I'll tell you where.

But MIA? Only if you don't know where to look.

Big Mistakes Now Dirt Cheap

Resolve and thou art free. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sitting next to me at Firehouse Theater tonight was a woman who'd resolved for 2017 to stop working so much and see a play a week and here she was on a Saturday night, taking in "Boatwright," a play about a man resolving to build a boat and sail the ocean despite no boat-building or sailing experience.

A friend resolved to be more spontaneous this year, acting on ideas when he has them instead of overthinking them into oblivion. Unfortunately for me, I'm still overthinking which is why I'm not in Cuba at the moment.

The friend who picked me up tonight has resolved to create more "me" time and tonight that meant a whole lot of "we" time.

It was the second time for me seeing the Virginia Historical Society's exhibit "The Original Art: Celebrating the Fine Art of Book Illustration," but the first for the tall person at my side. Compelling as it had been on first viewing, it was even more so with the ultimate geek guide: an artist to provide observations about materials, composition and technique.

We lingered so long the guard had to tell us twice they were closing and all but escort us out of the building before we turned our sites on dinner.

The action at Secco was barely getting started, making a couple of bar stools an easy grab for us to begin catching up and sipping on a bottle of Basque Rose with a light spritz, Ameztoi Txakolina Rubentis.

Accompanying our thirst-quenching pink was house-smoked fish salad made creamy with creme fraiche, but also getting a serious flavor jolt from mouth-filling cured lemon, which we slathered over toasted baguette slices with abandon.

Part of that abandon had to do with our multi-tangential discussion - how much communication is enough? where does one draw the line between an orderly life and OCD? what constitutes decent manners these days? - in which neither party held back much.

We were in solid agreement on going vegetarian from there on with Brussels sprouts swimming in a bath of shallots, Aleppo pepper, capers, candied pecans and more of that delightful cured lemon, along with fried acorn squash with Burrata, fermented honey and gingersnap crumbles, a dish I so adore I have now introduced it to no fewer than five of my favorite people.

You will know I like you if I suggest you eat this.

I know there are people out there giving up dessert and chocolate and such for Lent, but neither of us are among that hapless group, meaning we happily shared a non-traditional chocolate bread pudding, served as slices topped with the rich, complex flavors of morello cherries and hopped ice cream.

But what was really complex was the conversation because why would I want to spend hours with someone who isn't as into conversation as I am? I can dine all by myself, as I prove handily every week of my life, but for the best possible time, I need a quick mind and a forthcoming voice.

Check and check.

Tonight's play demonstrated what can happen when a middle-aged man loses a beloved wife to death and then has to figure out how to be happy in his new state. Coincidentally, I recently met just such a man and have since run into him on multiple occasions, so perhaps I have my own source for those answers now.

But in the play, the distraught Ben has his life interrupted when a neighborhood 19-year old (admirably played by Tyler Stevens) who's been kicked out of college and is looking for his own direction in life, drops by his garage with his camera.

And while the situation reads like a win/win for both - Ben will build the boat while listening to a cassette tape of waves crashing and film-making student Jaime will document it - it also brings to a head both their underlying issues.

And that Ben and I share certain opinions.

Ben is old school and can't stand the way every one of Jaime's statements sound like questions, so he calls him on it. Jaime's reasoning is that his generation speaks that way to check if anyone's listening. Most people aren't, he says.

Jaime mocks Ben as Amish for not having a cell phone (ahem) and Ben says, "I try not to let my appliances tell me what to do." This may be funnier to me than to most, but no one can argue with his dismay over rudeness when Jaime begins texting in the middle of their conversation.

Ben's point is summed up when he says, "Being alone in this world is not allowed anymore." Always connected, always available. Thank you, no.

But it's his concern with "being held hostage, and not by people, but by things" that resonated particularly because that's so many people I know and even some that I'm fond of. Held hostage by things, now there's a living hell.

During intermission, the drama continued when I tuned in to the conversation happening in the row behind us.

A guy whose career at McGuire Woods has gone very well (or so he claimed) admitted to a desultory end to his recent marriage.

I was trying to meet expectations and she wasn't trying to do anything.

When I came home, she was glad to have help with the kids but she wasn't happy to see me.

His date for the evening (and she was clearly a date) was lapping up his saga with empathy, trying to make a good impression while not judging him for his marital failing. For all I know, they were a Tinder date. Even without looking them in the face, I didn't hear a lot of potential in their verbal chemistry.

Or perhaps they don't need any because they're not actually listening to each other.

During the second act, young Jaime's inability to deal with life rationally results in being sent away for treatment, then daily meds, the combination eventually producing a more balanced young man who has learned some life lessons from the boat-builder over the months of their project.

And while Ben's impending journey seemed a bit far-fetched to him originally, Jaime comes around to the resolute older man's way of thinking.

When will a big mistake ever cost me less than right now?

Never. Like cassette tapes and statements that end in periods rather than question marks, that's just one more benefit to age.

It's all about crafting your own boat.

Digging My Scene

What do the simple folk do on a Saturday night?

They plan to eat and partake of some death-related culture, but they also leave the ending open...just in case.

Pru and Beau picked me up not long after the sun set and our long-established banter began the moment I slammed the car door shut to escape the blustery wind that had replaced afternoon sun and warmth.

As our trio drove the short distance to the fake "town center" at Libbie Mill, we assumed our usual roles mocking and teasing each other in greeting.

"This is a dysfunctional relationship," Beau observed to neither of us in particular. "And yet we all stay," I reminded him.

Our obscenely early dinner reservation at Shagbark was required given that we had an 8:00 curtain, but it also ensured that we'd sit down in a lightly populated dining room that morphed to completely full by the time we walked out two plus hours later.

My first challenge was convincing my couple date that we wanted to drink Gavi, but doing so took both informational and anecdotal evidence.

Our server made a fine case for Gavi's strengths, but I think I finally won Beau over on the "persistent finish" (he seems to like his women the same way) and Pru when I shared that a favorite Brazilian chef drinks only red wine or Gavi (she's prone to taking a red wine drinker's opinion about a white) and a bottle soon appeared.

I got a kick seeing Morattico Creek oysters on the menu (my parents have lived in Morattico for three decades), so I told our server I had to represent with a plate of them, Tangiers and Seaside Salts to start. The Seasides were so large I almost couldn't fit one in my mouth, while the Tangiers had such a deep cup it was like they arrived in bowls.

Brown-butter basted jumbo sea scallops followed while Beau lapped up duck breast he dubbed the best duck he'd ever eaten and Pru swooned over grilled Outer Banks swordfish (set on a plate that resembled nothing so much as "The Flying Nun's" hat), mentioning to our server that it reminded her of fish she ate during summers at her family house in Rodanthe.

"We like when a table represents our food," our server joked approvingly of our waterside connections. Carrot cake of sorts (their moniker, not mine) delivered spice cake, carrot curd, rum raisins, salted caramel, cheesecake puree and praline for one of my rare non-chocolate finishes.

Tonight's play was Quill's "Assassins," a Stephen Sondheim musical I'd never even heard of, but which the director found eerily relevant when a certain major party candidate suggested to his deplorable audience that they take matters in their own hands should the other candidate win.

Some of the evening's funniest moments came courtesy of Matt Shofner's portrayal of Charles Guiteau (James' Garfield's assassin) with wild eyes, an over-the-top French accent and a dapper yellow-piped suit jacket as he spewed his character's unbridled enthusiasm.

Another laugh out loud moment arrived during intermission when a guy in the lobby caught the eye of Kenneth Putnam (playing Samuel Byck - the nut case who tried to run a plane into the Nixon White House - in a Santa Claus suit with a protest sign) and gave him the peace sign and shook his jowls side to side.

Just as hilarious a moment came when the two guys sitting next to me tried to return to their seats during intermission. I stood leaning against my raised seat to let them come through, but between my velvet pants and the velveteen covering on the seat itself, I slipped down into the seat completely unintentionally with a thud.

Pru and Beau, busy standing themselves and looking away from me, saw nothing.

But as the duo came by me, one grinned and whispered, "Real graceful!" about my unceremonious sit down. I immediately looked at him with new respect. In no time, he brought up similar problems with satin sheets (apparently the sliding factor is high) and shiny pajamas.

I don't start these oddball conversations, I just jump headfirst when invited.

When the disjointed play ended, the three of us headed east with no clue where we wanted to go to discuss what we'd just seen. The happy couple wanted caffeine, so we paused at Saison Market long enough for them to score coffee and then headed to my house to listen to music.

Knowing my audience, we started with the "Camelot" soundtrack, but not the lame movie version, but the Broadway dream cast with the dreamy 35-year old Richard Burton (how did I ever think he was an old king?), 25-year old Julie Andrews and an impossibly young-looking (27) and devastatingly handsome Robert Goulet.

I don't want to say I know my audience, but there was something for everyone: I adore the young man bravado of Lancelot's "C'est Moi," while Pru excels at the kind of female manipulation Guenevere sings of in "Take Me to the Fair" and I have no doubt that Beau subscribes to Arthur's advice on "How to Handle a Woman" sung in Burton's gravely voice of experience.

A couple of hours in - after we'd listened to the Blow Monkeys but before Art of Noise resulted in Beau's pithy comments about their distinctive sound - Beau went all serious on us, bringing up the possibility that we're watching a Facist come to power and questioning what one individual might be able to do about it.

Our mellows were harshed, but not inappropriately given the strange times we're living in, and we were back to cracking each other up before long.

When they finally stood up to leave, it hit us. In three hours of listening to music while discussing relationships, middle age and past life gaffes (how is it neither Pru nor I have ever dated a Jewish man?), we'd yet to touch on the play we'd seen, ostensibly the reason for our post-theater get-together.

It was 1:30 and we were a solid nine hours into our date, but everyone sat back down, I put on some soothing Jackson Browne and we re-opened the conversation to dissect the play in depth. That we got off on a tangent about tufted walls and put Beau through a complementary colors learning session was gravy.

And that's what simple folk do. So I'm told.

Life Baked in a Beautiful Pie

Good vibrations must be emanating from the Supermoon.

To help beat the post-election funk some of us are experiencing, No BS Brass Band had scheduled an early show at Plan 9 Records. I made sure to arrive early enough to look for a CD I wanted and before most of the crowd wedged itself into the store.

"Hi, y'all," trombonist Reggie Pace said after the first rousing number. "We want the world to be a great place and this is how we do it."

The crowd steadily grew both inside and along the sidewalk outside as the band played through their set - Aha's "Take On Me" and the requisite "RVA All Day" - and people danced in place.

In between grooving, I wound up sharing my clementine with the toddler being held by her mother next to me. Once she saw what I had, she'd hold out a fat little hand so I could deposit a segment into it (and once in the pocket of her smock, much to her delight) until my fruit was no more.

Her Mom thanked me profusely, but if you can't share your citrus with a babe-in-arms, you're not really trying to make the world a great place, now are you?

The exuberant show ended with Reggie and a lot of us holding up peace signs in the air and hugging each other. Outside on the sidewalk, I paused to talk to friends, hearing the same refrain repeatedly: "I needed that. We needed that."

I was far from the only one at Plan 9 who was then headed down the block to the Byrd to see Jim Jarmusch's new documentary about Iggy Pop and the Stooges, "Gimme Danger" at its sole Richmond screening.

As I'd anticipated, there were scads of friends in the near-capacity crowd and, by some miracle, a favorite couple ended up right next to me shortly before Mike of the James River Film Society spoke.

He said that they'd been trying to get Jarmusch to speak at the James River Film Festival for years, first sending him Virginia peanuts and another year, Virginia bourbon. always with an invitation to come. So far he's only sent thank you postcards, but hope springs eternal.

"No luck yet, but we'll keep working on it," he shared.

I'm a sucker for a good documentary (much less one screened in Surround Sound with a roomful of music lovers) and tonight's delivered with fun facts, rare performance footage and lots of Iggy aka Jim talking about his memories of the past 50 years.

Fact: he was originally inspired by Clarabelle on "Howdy Doody" and Soupy Sales because both characters did anything they wanted to do and that appealed to him.

After starting his musical life as a drummer, he got tired of looking at butts and took over front man duties. When the band added a sax player, he told him he wanted him to sound like Maceo Parker on acid.

I learned we share a similarity when he mentioned his attraction to people who "are in their adulthood who haven't lost their childhood." The kind of person who invented the stage dive when they were opening for Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention ("The best band, in my opinion, we'd opened for at that point").

He spoke about their "big brother band," MC5 and how he remembers when they were just a cover band. There was a show poster with the Stooges and Bob Seeger on the same bill, a seemingly unlikely pairing except for their shared hometown.

What was truly amazing to see was the evolution of his stage performance, which is to say that somehow, he's still performing the acrobatic and contortionist moves he was at 20, still bare-chested (although not bleeding) and nimble as few 70-year olds could even imagine being.

Mostly, the fascinating documentary made a case for Iggy's statement to Dinah Shore on her '70s talk show when she asked about his main accomplishment.

"I helped wipe out the '60s," he said without irony and Jarmusch's film assembled all the vintage footage and interviews to prove it.

Leaving the Byrd, I couldn't help but thank the organizer who'd made sure this film came to Richmond, making for a stellar way to cap off this tumultuous week.

Things were even higher pitched when I arrived at intermission at the Firehouse Theater for the Glapcocks (hilarious anti-awards the theatrical community hands itself) and was greeted by the recent winner of  the "most animalistic" award, her glowing green trophy in hand.

More crazy awards followed and after "Most Ghost," co-host Matt (along with leggy co-host Maggie) acknowledged, "We really should sell tickets to the night we come up with all these crazy categories. It's an open bar event." That much was easy to believe and would undoubtedly be well worth the price of admission.

Once awards had been given out, we moved on to a theater kid's favorite event: the theater mannequin challenge. The entire room was instructed to form tableaux with others so that a 360-degree video could be shot of all of us frozen into a mid-action pose.

Don't ask me why. I'm not and never was a theater kid.

"This side of the room looks kind of dead," Annie, the videographer announced, pointing at my side of the room, so, with no shame at all, I turned around and engaged the guy behind me.

I'm here to tell you it was challenging for this non-actor to stare into someone's eyes for the minute-plus it takes to shoot a roomful of people and finally get to me.

The rest of the evening was devoted to singing, at least in the style of the Ghostlight After Parties of old, when actors get up and sing a favorite show tune to a pianist sight-reading the music.

Turns out Ian, whose eyes I'd stared into, had a fabulous voice, while co-host Matt proclaimed another Matt "dreamy" (and simulated oral sex with his microphone to demonstrate just how dreamy) while he sang "I'd Rather Be Sailing."

Kelsey accompanied herself on ukulele to "She Used to Be Mine" from "Waitress, the Musical," crushing the room with her talent.

She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone but she used to be mine

A few people attempted a group version of "One Day More," but there were a lot of forgotten lyrics and tepid singing (except for the impressive Ian behind me, who asked rhetorically, "How does no one know these words?") when our host Matt walked back in, saying, "What happened? I leave for five minutes!"

For the traditional singalong finale, we tried Toto's "Africa," but that didn't go so well (and why should millennials know a 40-year old pop song word for word?), so the evening closed out with the always reliable "Season of Love" instead.

525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
In 525,600 minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?

Gorgeous voices knew every nuance of this tune and they were singing in the aisle before it ended with a sustained note. There was no way not to feel the love at the Glapcocks tonight.

As far as this whole Sunday night went, I needed that. We needed that.

Hold It, My Strumpet

Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as understood. ~ George Orwell, 1984

We'll start with my walk, which reliably delivers a defense for what is good in the world.

A pretty woman walking leisurely down Marshall Street in a tight blue dress and 4" blue heels on a sunny afternoon. Seeing a bug-eyed man admiring her, I comment that she looks so good, how could he possibly not look, to which he responds, "I know, right?" never taking his eyes off her.

At the John Marshall House, a crew of Hands On Richmond volunteers are painting the white picket fence outside the 19th century house, only occasionally dropping globules of paint on the brick wall, sort of a t-shirt clad group of Tom Sawyers.

On 11th Street, I hear the sounds of symphonic instruments before I see the musicians playing on the gracious patio of the Wickham House. A woman pushing a man in a wheelchair stops and puts the brakes on, saying to her husband, "Why don't we listen for a bit?"

It's such a lovely Fall day that I sweep leaves and pull weeds to make myself feel better about sleeping through Jackson Ward's clean-up day this morning.

For a refresher on the darker side, I need only turn to my daily culture.

First there's the documentary,"The Lovers and the Despot," the Bijou's offering this weekend and while I arrived a few minutes late for the afternoon screening, I didn't miss any of the film.

Good thing, too, because the story was so far-fetched, you had to keep reminding yourself that this was all based on real life to buy into it.

Still, it was jaw dropping to learn about North Korean leader and film fanatic Kim Jong-Il ordering a big name South Korean actress and her director ex-husband kidnapped in 1978 and brought to North Korea to (what else?) make films.

Seems he found North Korean films boring and burdened with too much crying, so he wanted some fresh creative blood in his country, the better to outdo South Korea's movie industry and put the North on the international film map.

All Kim Jong-Il wanted in return was complete obedience. No big deal, right?

Wait, what?

Wrong as the spoiled ruler's actions were, he gave director Shin not only complete artistic control but state-of-the-art filmmaking equipment and facilities and, realistically, what filmmaker wouldn't be seduced into not betraying a tyrant for all that?

That the kidnapping resulted in him being reunited with his ex-wife Choi was just gravy on top. Some people are just meant to be lovers.

What impressed me about the documentary was the amount of footage beyond talking heads - some of it taken during Choi's time in the company of the North Korean leader, some from films the couple made there and in South Korea over the years and some that was just audio recorded on a portable tape recorder by Choi when they met with the dictator.

What surprised me most was not that people questioned Shin's honesty - the issue of whether he'd defected or been kidnapped was only kind of resolved, although what artist chooses to go to a Communist country?  - but that I had never even heard of this couple or how they showed up at the U.S. embassy in Vienna in 1986 seeking asylum.

Granted, we didn't have all the media sources then that we do now, but I feel like defections were always well publicized. I leave the Bijou eager to discuss the movie with anyone who'll have me.

Carrying forward with that theme - abdication of self to the collective good - I met Mac at Firehouse to see their production of "UBU 84" from the very last row, a place I've never had the chance to sit at Firehouse before.

Mashing up Orwell's "1984" with an absurdist comedy called "King Ubu," resulted in simultaneous exposure to two scenarios proving that there will always be more than one face to evil and it may not always be a recognizable one.

Because there's definitely something inherently evil about the paring down of language, the limiting of self-expression and the erasing of history to better explain the present.

Foster Solomon owned the stage as Pere Ubu, clad in quilt-patterned leggings with striped socks. He also got topical running after Kimberly Jones Clark as Ma Ubu, chasing and calling to her, "I got a big sausage for you. I'm gonna grab your pussy!"

Betrayal again reared its ugly head with Charlie Raintree as Winston, a man who dares to explores human connection, and ultimately love, in a room he thinks is outside of Big Brother's purview (except nothing is ever outside of Big Brother's purview), yet ultimately betrays her.

Pay attention, kids, this is eerily relevant to today's chaotic political scene.

As for the paring down of language, I can conceive of no good reason why we'd ever want to eliminate words. As a long time word nerd, one of my pet peeves is when people say, "I could care less" when what they actually mean is "I couldn't care less."

For those who can't remember the difference, "UBU 84" reminded us that what we mean is, "I couldn't care any less."

And when most of the citizenry couldn't care any less, we're probably already well on our way to the dark side.

Which is exactly why I need a life-affirming, bird-chirping,  picket-painting walk every single day.

Better Still, Change It to Karen

I went from zero to cocky in the space of a doctor's appointment.

Since it had been a few years since I'd had blood work done, I was in for that and a prescription refill, but my doctor had come to praise: my blood pressure, my activity level, my weight, my water intake and especially my sleep sufficiency. Profusely.

So much so that he asked if he could use me as an example to other patients - of course, using only my first name and age, he assured me - of good habits paying off despite advancing age.

Use away, doc, but people will hate to hear it.

Just so you know, here's what a mature woman with good habits does when a nurse tells her she's lost five pounds and a doctor asks to make an example of her: immediately seeks out a way to celebrate with food. Duh.

Conveniently, the Jackdaw pop-up was setting up residence at Millie's tonight (its first outing since abandoning the brief go as Antler & Fin) and while Facebook nattered about whether to make reservations or not, I did the smart thing and just showed up shortly after they opened, claiming the least popular bar stool at Millie's (at least during summer).

Sitting diagonally across from the stove of an open kitchen while air conditioning runs is only a sacrifice for those accustomed to A/C.

Fact: my perch stove-side was not only cooler but less humid than my apartment.

After hearing my reply about what order I'd like my food to arrive (any), the server not only accepted me but complimented my dress for its summery turquoise color, then shared that it had been a no-brainer to work tonight's pop-up so she could taste one of everything.

I was not quite that ambitious.

An observation of mine led us off on a discussion about changing server/bartender roles since cell phones have become the new normal.

"When I see everyone at a table has taken out their cell phone, it's either because the food just arrived and they all need to take pictures or they're done eating and I can collect plates," she explains.

No slacker this one, she cited studies about the changes in restaurant ordering habits and how it now takes 17 minutes longer once people sit down to get food because of customer delays in ordering due to cell phone priority.

I know it's useless to rail, but will we ever, as a people, climb out of this uncivilized hole we've dug ourselves into since the advent of devices?

Starting with golden crispy eggrolls, er, lumpia of camerones al pastor with a sweet and sour sauce, I moved on to Border Springs tea-soaked lamb ribs with spicy potato salad (guy at bar: "best potato salad I ever had") and pickled peaches (I limited myself to two slices so my tongue wouldn't swell), but it was the nutty, salty soy, texture-rich fried farro with vegetables that hit the most pleasure points for me.

The couple nearby told me to help myself to a taste of anything they ordered that I didn't, but the sad truth was that I couldn't even finish all I'd ordered, not that I didn't break habit and get it boxed up to go.

Plain and simple, it'll be fine leftovers like any good Chinese food is.

Stop number two had been on my to-do list for some time now.

Given the often relative paucity of Monday night happenings, I'd been intending to get over to the Camel for Motown Mondays (Spinning all your favorite Motown classics, covers, close relatives and remixes) to see how Mad Skillz and DJ Lonnie B interpreted Motown to a 2016 crowd, as it turned out, with a 40-year age range.

Well, they did it by playing Barry White's "You're the First, My Last, My Everything" for a couple celebrating an anniversary, a white couple who got up and danced every note of the song (without completely embarrassing white people everywhere), matching each other step for step as they've undoubtedly been doing since disco-dating in the '70s.

The couple didn't request it, but the DJ followed that with "Let's Get It On," a selection that got cheers.

A young trio formed in front of the stage to watch the DJ spin and scratch, but they also danced in place and filmed not the dancers but the DJ.

One of the group looked like nothing so much as a character on an '80s sitcom (at least, a non-TV watcher's notion of an '80s sitcom character) with a fabulous high fade and big nerdy-looking glasses.

I listened through snippets of classic songs like "Ain't That Peculiar?" and "Eve of Destruction," impressed with both the music and the crowd it had attracted, both less typical than the usual Camel fare.

Yea, I could do this again.

Proximity made my next stop effortless. A few doors down, Firehouse Fringe was hosting Cabaret: A Night of Contemporary Musical Theater sung by some of the younger members of the Richmond theater community.

My interest was doubly piqued, partly for the exposure to newer music from plays I hadn't yet seen or heard and partly because I'd been so impressed with the young theater collective who'd recently staged "Seven Brides" there and blown my socks off with their youthful exuberance and creativity, that I was curious how much more of that energy and talent was out there.

It wasn't hard to get a glimpse of the musicals that have captured young millennial drama kids' hearts - "Waitress," "Edges," recent Tony winner "Funhome" - but just as engaging were their choices of some "older" material from "The Full Monty" (complete with pelvic thrusts and hip swiveling), the Disney-sounding "Finding Neverland" and perhaps most surprisingly, "Pippin," a veritable dinosaur to these kids

Songs choices were clearly based on youthful angst issues, meaning lots of tunes about first-time experiences, loving yourself before you can love others, the drawn-out pain of heartbreak, yada yada.

Charlemagne was even touched on, but probably my favorite was "Changing My Major to Joan" from "Funhome."

I'm changing my major to sex with Joan
With a minor in kissing Joan
Foreign studies to Joan's inner thighs
A seminar on Joan's ass in her Levis

Besides exposure to new material, there was lots of talent, too, including several people I recognized from Firehouse's current production of Green Day's "American Idiot," like Denver and Kelsey, but all of them satisfying their musical comedy jones by emoting madly through each of their songs.

"I love how comedy is making its way back into musical theater instead of just songs as patter," is how one actor put it.

I love how I can have no plans at 4:00 - Holmes turned me down after a "rough" weekend out of fear for his own weaknesses - yet manage to find a one-day only menu and two very different kinds of music by 5.

Now that's why I should be an example to other patients.

Last of the American Girls/She's a Rebel

That's refreshing.

The comment yesterday from a music impresario when I mentioned I didn't have a cell phone could also apply to today's 96 degree weather, a veritable cold front after yesterday's triple digits.

Even more refreshing, though, is that there's a theater in town where I can see a rollicking millennial deconstruction of a theatrical dinosaur such as "Seven Bride for Seven Brothers," and then just two nights later, a 21st century rock opera like Green Day's "American Idiot.

On the very same stage.

Yo, Firehouse, you are nailing this whole "breaking through" thing magnificently with that kind of variety in programming. Color me impressed.

The show began a tad on the tardy side because they were trying to seat those on the waiting list, which they managed to do, a fact that, when announced, garnered clapping.

"Applause for the waiting list?" artistic director Joel Bassin mused. "Good Friday night crowd!" He explained that they had chosen to cast the play with people who could play their instruments, sing and act rather than use a band and actors (I ask you, does it get any more DIY/punk than that?), which turned out to be far easier to do in this talent-filled town than anyone anticipated.

Like the other night's production of "Seven Brides," a surprisingly large number of people in attendance were first-timers, testament, perhaps, to the appeal of mixing things up.

My fellow Green Day fan and I were not among the Firehouse virgins.

Bassin then warned us things were going to get loud, as if a pop-punk rock opera about disaffected youth during the Bush administration and early stages of Iraqi involvement could have been anything else.

And it was very much a rock opera, and in true operatic form, there was almost no dialog beyond a video screen of Johnny's occasional messages home to his Mom, with a recurring theme: "I forgot to shower. Again."

Hey, it happens.

Although the only Green Day album I own is 1994's "Dookie," so many of the songs from 2004's "American Idiot" were familiar and the record unfolded in a clear-cut story line about dreams deferred and lessons learned with bad experiences.

Growing up, in other words, and I actually recall just how mature Green Day seemed all at once when they stopped complaining about how boring suburban life was and dove into addressing the ills of the larger world.

They all have to grow up someday, don't they?

It was an energetic production and from our seats in the front row, we could see well-earned sweat glistening off every face. There's nothing like watching youthful exuberance explode off furniture or spring up on a platform as tall as they are, but props also go to lone Baby Boomer Starlet Knight for holding her own among the flannel set.

Being so close to the action also meant that when a member of the ensemble was showing off his sweaty bicep mid-song, I was one of the people he offered it to.

Squeeze 'em if you get offered 'em, I always say.

Everything about the production worked, from the rock solid casting to the actors trading off instruments - including drums and violins - to the pure emotion they were putting out to the audience.

We couldn't have been the only ones wowed by the synergy of it all.

Central to the story was how the events of September 11th defined a young generation (the production's director was then in 7th grade...ouch) and when video screens showed footage of the twin towers being hit, I couldn't look. My younger seatmate, though, couldn't look away, especially when angles were being shown that he'd never seen before.

Some things you (okay, I) never need to see again.

Regardless of where a person falls on the Green Day spectrum, the production sucks you back to teenage universality, when life is either flippin' fantastic or absolutely as crappy as it can be and nothing matters.

Because that's how teen-aged minds and hormones work, at least until they get a little seasoning.

And, speaking of such things, entering the ladies' room during intermission, I found myself behind two chatty young women. One was relating a story about her actions that mystified her friend. "Who are you?" she asked incredulously.

Walking toward a newly-vacant stall, the young woman said over her shoulder, "I'm still trying to figure that out."

It takes years, I interjected, as if I were part of the conversation and they both smiled at me with what looked like gratitude.

And if you can turn that experience into a work of art, say an album or a rock opera (maybe a book?), nobody will care whether or not you shower. Really.

I feel certain Green Day will back me up on this one.