Fever to Burn

A tree ate the programs, but that didn't make the vintage TV scripts any less funny.

After thoroughly enjoying the first round of M*A*S*H* staged readings two years ago, I wasn't about to miss round two. There are few television shows that capture my word nerd heart like the well-written episodes of M*A*S*H* do. I'm not saying I could quote lines from it, but I am saying that many lines are instantly recognizable the moment they come out of the actors' mouths and land in my eager ears.

But only after checking out Swan Dive for the first time. The little restaurant that's come a long way from its days as a biker bar on Davis Avenue got my attention with a Shells of the Light salad of lump crab, shrimp, avocado, grapefruit, mango, pineapple and greens lightly dressed in a papaya dressing. When I'd ordered it, the server had said it was her favorite for how refreshing it was and she was right, but I was just as impressed with how generous the amounts of each ingredient were.

My only regret was not being able to savor all of the mango, an impossibility given my stone fruit allergy. After 3 or 4 bites, I could feel my tongue tingling, warning me to knock it off. When I apologized for leaving so much mango, the server was empathetic. She has an apple allergy, although she eats them anyway and deals with the discomfort.

Clearly her tongue has never begun to swell like mine has after eating forbidden fruit.

My dessert was called Under the Cherry Spoon and consisted of a brick of frozen chocolate mousse with chocolate ganache and brandied cherries. And, yes, cherries are also a stone fruit, so I kept mostly to the mousse and ganache for fear of landing in the ER instead of at Richmond Triangle Players.

Like last time, tonight's performance featured a boatload of local acting talent and was a benefit for the Mighty Pen Project, which offers university level writing classes for veterans so their service memories can be archived. Lady G's husband is just one of the countless veterans - albeit the only one I know - who have been changed by putting their experiences to paper.

Founded by local author David L. Robbins (who also directed tonight's readings), the project's performance this year featured three episodes from the second season, episodes that included Corporal Klinger in his usual dress and boa, Hawkeye and Hot Lips making nice with each other out of necessity and the bat-sh*t crazy Colonel Flag, easily one of the show's funniest recurring characters.

If I talk about them like they're old friends, it's because they may as well be. I watched old episodes of M*A*S*H* on VHS for more years than I care to admit and still found them hilarious on repeated viewings.

Before the performance began, Robbins explained that a tree had fallen on the power lines near his house this afternoon, robbing him of his ability to print programs for us tonight. Some might question why he hadn't printed up programs for the three week-run sooner, but not me. Given how many of the actors' faces I recognized - Alexander Sapp as Hawkeye, John Mincks as Trapper, Harry Kollatz as Colonel Blake, Thomas Nowlin as Father Mulcahey and Dean Knight as Frank Burns - it's not like I needed a souvenir to remind me.

What I loved was seeing these familiar faces transformed into the smart-mouthed characters I first met in college.

Immediately following mass this Sunday, Yom Kippur services will be held for Jewish personnel of the Hebrew faith.

The second season's first episode, "Divided We Stand," had barely begun when I started cracking up watching the dysfunctional men and women of the 4077th try to stay on their best behavior while being observed by a psychiatrist. And by being on their best behavior, I mean Hawkeye and Trapper putting an appendix in Frank's boot because the other boot was full of tonsils.

I've got enough nausea to light up the city of Toledo, okay? First I'm hot, then I'm cold and my knees are in business for themselves. My tongue has gone cashmere and I'd like to find an all-night latrine that takes servicemen. Now, have I got the flu or am I just in love?

If ever an episode showed off the monumental talent of Alexander Sapp (and, really, what role he takes on doesn't?) it was "Carry On, Hawkeye," as the rest of the 4077th is felled by flu. It's also the one where Harry Kollatz as Henry Blake (wearing the requisite fishing hat) hilariously tells his unit to kindly refrain from kissing anyone unless absolutely necessary.

All I know is I'll volunteer to be on the committee that decides when kissing is absolutely necessary.

It was during this episode that director Robbins took the seat nearest me, next to the two veterans who'd spoken before the performance. From then on, every time I had a laugh attack - like when Hot Lips gleefully jabs Hawkeye in the butt with a syringe full of flu vaccine - he looked over at me laughing hysterically.

I'm sure he doesn't recall, but at the performance two years ago, he actually thanked me for all my "loud laughter," as he called it. Tonight he just looked on proudly and, after the final bow, said to tell all my friends to come see it.

We've got files on people who haven't been born yet.

It was during the final episode,"A Smattering of Intelligence," that Sapp tripped up his line and John Mincks as Trapper quickly ad-libbed, "Easy for you to say," causing the cast to laugh as much as we were.

As Robbins had pointed out, the cast hadn't had a great deal of rehearsal, so they were reading from scripts, but the actors had taken the time to block scenes on their own. The result was that script notebooks became doors to knock on, operating tables when casualties arrived and Radar's omnipresent clipboard.

My practically non-stop laughter at exchanges like, "Colonel, what's your clearance?" followed by "Oh, I go through the door with about an inch of clearance" made the three episodes fly by.

Radar, get another order of Yankee Doodle Dandy. Count me in when it comes to supporting veterans putting pen to paper to save their military memories.

That it involves one of the very few TV shows this non-TV person ever watched is just ganache on the chocolate mousse.

They're Giving Away Men

It's all in how you finesse.

Rule #1
When picking up your date, before you even pull away, christen the evening with a handshake - or even a pinky swear - that nothing that gets said tonight will ever go beyond the other's memory.

This is key for maximum pleasure.

Rule #2
When determining a restaurant for dinner, choose wisely and, if possible, try to hit on at least one of these reasons for the choice: someplace your date has never been or someplace with a cuisine from a place your date once lived or, occasionally when possible, someplace to which your date has a sentimental attachment.

Not bragging (well, perhaps a bit), but I accomplished a hat trick.

My date had never been to Maya Mexican Grill in the former Berry Burke building, my date had lived for 8 years in Mexico and - wait for it - my date had for years maintained her advertising office on the third floor of the Berry Burke building facing Grace Street with a view of the State Capital.

If anyone could have somehow topped that choice, please tell me how.

From the perspective of a Mexican come-there, I got an insider's assessment of Maya's menu. The lamb sliders elicited the surprising comment, "That's spot on. Every Mexican place has lamb." The fish tacos I ordered? Also authentic ("They were everywhere"). The beans and rice with cilantro and tomato were declared superb, each element of the combination working in harmony to create a greater whole. I couldn't recall when I'd had such well executed black beans myself. Carnitas, duh.

All of which was washed down with matching passionfruit/peach/lime libations sporting a multi-color sugar rim while we watched the evening parade of millennial dog walkers, including a (gulp) three-legged beagle that melted my heart with his determined hop-a-long gait. To a canine, they were all smaller breeds and our server shared that almost all of them lived in the apartments above the restaurant, so they were familiar dog faces.

From downtown, we set out for points north, dodging clumps of amateurs in green clothing already making bad walking choices in a light rain. It was not even 7:30 yet.

Rule #3
Accept that sometimes things turn out even better than you could possibly plan for. Our sights were set on Hanover Tavern to see Virginia Repertory's production of "Dancing Lessons," about which I'd already heard raves.

My date hadn't been to Hanover Tavern in eons (although she recalled that the place once had a movable ceiling), but recalled her beloved brother auditioning (and getting five callbacks!) for a role there back when Barksdale called the tavern home.

What were the chances we'd be back on Memory Lane?

Settling into our third row seats, my green-haired date was immediately hit on by the man sitting behind her in a green blazer, who announced, "Sit right down. You were meant to sit in front of me." His wife piped up, saying, "After the show, take him. He's all yours."

I suggested we discuss it further during intermission, but my date dismissed him out of hand.

Our guess was that they'd been married a while, but we never got the chance to ask because an usher appeared to inform them they were in the wrong seats. Even as they moved away, he was still tossing out innuendo to her.

Part of the reason I'd wanted to see the play was because of Dean Knight, a long-time favorite and a man who can convey more with a glance or downturn of his mouth than some actors can with entire monologues. For a long time, I'd only known his acting through Shakespearean roles, so I'm still getting used to him not always speaking in iambic pentameter.

That he was tonight playing a socially awkward autistic man who excelled as a science professor provided just the opportunity for him to show the earnestness and dignity of a man who knows he can't be normal, but would like to present that way sometimes.

Although it's unlikely that anyone's going to cry normal when a man takes a flashlight under the covers to look for a woman's second tattoo. That said, how many times is an autistic sex scene even part of a play?

Helping him learn to dance for a work function where he'll receive an award is Kylie Clark, a dancer with a busted leg from a freak accident and a whole lot of baggage from life. When he offers her a week of pay to give him a one-hour dance lesson, it first involves him dealing with some of his big issues.

Like he can't stand to be touched and he needs an alert when humor is coming so he'll know to laugh.

On a set that beautifully evoked the dancer's boho apartment, the duo get to know each other's weaknesses ("Some people thrive on challenging relationships") while getting in a little dancing instruction as well. Watching Dean try to fast dance recalled the spasms of Elaine dancing on "Seinfeld," except in a cardigan or sweater vest.

Dialog bounced back and forth smartly and before the play ended, some of us teared up, only to have the final resolution rendering us satisfied and happy to leave the theater. A patron asked of an usher if the sex scene had been problematic for theater goers so far and, sure enough, 14 churchwomen had marched out recently when it began.

Which is exactly why I'd never want to ask a churchwoman out on a date with me. They just don't have the style - and stories - of a woman with green hair and a colorful past.

She's excited!
No doubt. I'm a fabulous date, as you can attest.
I can!

Family Feud

I missed the mini-series but caught the lecture.

Author Dean King was at the Library of Virginia talking about his book, "The Feud: The Hatfields and the McCoys."

Of all the unlikely things to come away with, my favorite was about trees.

King showed a wealth of compelling old photographs, including one of a Hatfield patriarch in front of the most massive tree you can imagine.

I'm talking California redwood massive, a tree so enormous (the diameter was 13') I couldn't imagine it was a Virginia photograph.

Wrong.

As King told us, that part of the country used to be covered in massive, old-growth trees, all of which were cut down, floated downstream and used to rebuild the south after the Civil War.

Who knew?

Unlike me, most of the crowd had seen the inaccuracy-filled mini-series, so King set about correcting some fallacies.

With no misinformation, I was just curious about the story, one I knew about only on a surface level.

Like, I hadn't known how politically powerful the families were.

I certainly hadn't known that the Hatfields were one of the first families of Virginia, having fought in the Revolutionary War.

Then there was the media component.

The period when the feud was in full flower was the same as when Jack the Ripper was terrorizing London, so the feud story was the American equivalent, headline-wise.

The New York Times even sent a reporter to cover the story, for crying out loud.

And here I thought they were just a bunch of redneck moonshiners.

Well, they were (with the 20th century addition of ATVs), only now they have a museum in what looked like a double wide trailer and which King described as " a really sad place."

Here's the kicker: after September 11th, the families made peace and now they have a yearly reunion, which King attends.

There's always a tug-of-war at the reunion, and the Hatfields have won the past few years.

How can I miss a noon lecture when I'm all but guaranteed to learn the most arcane stuff?

Can't.

All Life is Dancing

This geek was at the Firehouse Theater tonight because of Edward Albee.

That's right, the playwright of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf?" and the man who once said,"What could be worse than getting to the end of your life and realizing you hadn't lived it?" (answer: nothing) was at the root of it.

Apparently back in 1999 at a Firehouse Theater fundraiser, he'd challenged them to hold playwriting contests to encourage new works.

They'd taken him up on it and the result was the annual Festival of New American Plays, which began tonight.

On the bill was "Nureyev's Eyes" by David Rush about the friendship that developed between painter Jamie Wyeth and dancer Rudolph Nureyev back in the '70s.

It wasn't an historical drama but an imagining of what might have happened during their many encounters.

After all, it wasn't like reality TV was around to document it back then.

The premise was deceptively simple; Wyeth wanted to paint Nureyev, who didn't think a dancer could be captured on canvas.

Over years of male bickering, vodka, apple pie and endless sketching, an eventual friendship developed.

The title comes from the artist's belief that "The truth of the man sits in the eyes."

As it does for the woman. Just look.

Because it was a staged reading, the two-actor play required a narrator tonight to provide locations and actions.

Matt Bloch played Nureyev with a believable Russian accent and the wariness of a man who'd defected and couldn't stop watching his back.

One of my favorite local actors, Dean Knight, played Wyeth with the understated persistence of a young artist who came from a family of very well-known artists and had a lot to prove.

Despite it being a reading and not a fully staged production, the interplay between the two worked beautifully

Salty language abounded ("Ballet for the mind is always better than ballet for the dick").

Artistic truths came out ("I don't do the painting. The painting does me").

So did laugh-out-loud humor ("It's not a sin to be straight. Only limiting").

It was even possible to learn about ballet ("All dance begins with the belly").

With a passion for both art and dance, I found it difficult to decide which character appealed to me more.

True, Nureyev was egotistical and guarded, but when asked when the happiest day of his life was, he answered, "Tomorrow."

That's a beautiful kind of optimism. And he could dance.

But I also  found Wyeth's character irresistible.

His frequent references to his beloved wife Phyllis made it clear that he saw her as the center of his life and the reason for not only his happiness, but everything he was.

That's a fascinating man, in my opinion.

At the talkback after the play, I was intrigued to learn that some people hadn't known who Wyeth or Nureyev were.

Not that we don't all have holes in our cultural history knowledge, but Nureyev had been considered "the Beatles of ballet," so I was a little surprised.

I'm sure I wasn't the only one eager to go home and look up the picture Wyeth eventually painted of Nureyev in 1977, who'd complained that the artist hadn't gotten the eyes right.

Because of course he had to complain about something. He was Russian.

The audience was pretty unanimous in thinking that this was a strong play (and it plays again Saturday night) which would make a worthy offering to produce at a future date.

And since past Festival of New American Plays winners have gone on to be produced in New York, Los Angeles and Chicago, I'd say Firehouse should jump on it before someone else does it first.

The way I see it, Nureyev said it best.

"What good is potential if it's never made concrete?"

Merry and Tragical

Park once, party twice. Sadly, though, I paid the price.

Nay, faith, let me not play a woman, for I have a  beard coming.

And that's the beauty of a gender-reversed play. Those actors playing women do have beard potential.

Firehouse Theater was doing "A Midsummer Night's Dream" with fifteen women playing the male parts.

As if the pleasure of men playing women wasn't sufficient, there were also actors of a tender age playing believable love-besotted youths (Hermia and Lysander).

There was anachronistic humor, like when the bumbling troupe needed moonlight for their play and decided to check the calendar to see if the moon would be bright for them.

In this version, that calendar was on a smartphone, around which they all gathered to determine that the moon would indeed be shining for their performance.

There was innuendo, like when Bottom (played to perfection by Molly Hood) said, "I could munch your good dry oats."

So that's what the kids were calling it in Shakespeare's time. Munching.

There was physical humor, as when Demetrius says, "Let's follow him and, by the way, let, whoa, us recount our dream."

The "whoa" occurred when she nearly ran into a pole.

Or when Bottom says, "And, most dear actors, eat no onion nor garlic for we are to utter sweet breath," as one of her fellow actors takes a bite of sandwich, leaving onion hanging from her mouth.

There was the most plaintive and unloved Helena imaginable in the always hysterically dour Dean Knight.

There was mad doting by multiple couples not to mention lovers making moan.

The performance was especially timely since I'd just seen Richmond Shakespeare do the very same play at Maymont not three weeks ago.

Of course, in that version Hermia didn't stand up to pee and Theseus didn't have breasts.

Call me a mortal fool, but all shall be well when Firehouse does a gender exploration of anything by the Bard.

In other words, count me in.

From the forest of the fairies to a blog's birthday party we went. Luckily it was on the same block.

RVAPlaylist was celebrating its second birthday, and as I explained to a fellow music lover, it wasn't that I wanted to go, I had to go.

Of course I wanted to as well.

And why not? The show was free, there was a band I'd never seen and was eager to, one of my long-time favorite bands was playing and there would be birthday cake.

Oh, yes, and literally dozens of people I knew would be there.

Happily, I walked into the Camel to a clutch of familiar faces right up front.

Greeting people, hugging friends and hearing my name called, I turned to see a friend with outstretched arms.

"Is this the Karen receiving line?" he asked only half mocking.

Why, yes, it was.

Against Grace were already playing their brand of pop punk (think Jimmy Eat World) to a crowd of rapturous fans exactly like my friend had described them.

Devoted.

Once their set ended, I set out to finish saying hello to everyone I knew, a never-ending attempt, since inevitably I'd see someone else I hadn't yet seen.

Dead Fame played second and brought their 21st-century take on Joy Division (and a different crowd) to life under minimal lighting and a crowd that moved incessantly with the beat of the music.

As a pal noted, the band had done their 80s homework and lead singer Michael was a study of Ian Curtis as he delivered post-punk and staccato dance moves.

Marionette was last and they too had their own fan base, allowing them to take their music in some new directions instead of playing only familiar material.

We die hards love that kind of fan-centric set list.

Guitarist Adam began their set by thanking Andrew, RVAPlaylist's author, for his long-time interest in the band.

The only thing Adam forgot to mention was who had originally introduced Andrew to Marionette's music.

I don't want to name names, but it was the same woman (not played by a man tonight) who was assured that if she came to the birthday party tonight, not only would there be cake, but she was free to lick the icing off the edge of the plate.

That's a pretty sweet enticement.

All in all, the birthday party had been great fun and it's hard to beat free music.

Well, not exactly free.

I walked out to find a $60 ticket on my car. Really? This is what our cops are doing with their time at night?

Although I'd parked in the same space I've parked for years to go to the Firehouse and the Camel, apparently now it's off limits after 11 p.m.

Ah, well. The course of true fun never did run smooth.