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.
Showing posts with label firehouse fringe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label firehouse fringe. Show all posts
Monday, August 1, 2016
Saturday, July 16, 2016
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.
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.
Monday, September 21, 2015
How You Get the Girl
Interpretation was the name of today's game.
For music lovers, the big event this Monday was the digital release of Ryan Adams' cover of Taylor Swift's entire "1989" album.
I'm not going to lie, I have a copy of "1989," not because I'm a devoted T Swift fan but because it was gifted to me last Christmas and I was curious. After months of listening to it, there are still songs I can't stand (see: "Bad Blood" and "I Know Things") but there are also practically perfect pop gems that I still enjoy even after months of listening.
But the thought of Ryan Adams - let's be clear here: Ryan flippin' Adams - covering the entire album in his distinctive style called to me like a ganache-filled chocolate cake with white icing.
So, seeing that it had been released today, I sat down to listen to it. Don't judge, but at the moment, I'm on my fourth or fifth listen. Part of that is that he's done exactly what he did when he covered Oasis' "Wonderwall" a few years back: made someone else's songs completely his own.
He's replaced her synths and young woman angst with typical Ryan Adams shimmering guitars and reverb, both like catnip to me. Even the songs I couldn't stand on the original appeal to me in his voice, with his arrangements.
One of my many Facebook friends who was also listening to the album today commented that the Ryan Adams version gave him and other men permission to admit they like Taylor Swift's songs. At my venerable age, I need no one's permission to like what I like, but I get what he means.
Ryan's "1989" takes the bones of what is indisputably a 21st century pop masterpiece (even if I find some phrases overused and far too much emphasis on looks in her lyrics for my taste) dressed up in the earnest, guitar-based clothing of one of my favorite dysfunctional singer-songwriters.
I can already tell that it's going to be a stellar road trip CD. Damn, Ryan, couldn't you have released this in time for my beach trip last week?
By the time I tore myself away from "1989" to walk, it was already 4:00, possibly a record for late walking for me. But it was also lightly raining and a beautiful time to get out there and take in the moist air.
Six blocks from home on my way back, I saw a front door open and out came a familiar face: a member of Richmond Comedy Coalition and easily one of the funniest improv comedians in Richmond. We fell into easy conversation as he joined me walking west on Marshall Street.
Since it's impossible right now not to discuss the bike race, we got right into it and I was thrilled when he said what I was thinking: that I'm already sick of the Debbie Downers complaining that (take your pick) there aren't as many visitors here yet as the city said there would be, that the small businesses are having a hard time this week because the media has scared people off from coming downtown, that the bike race is a bust.
What surprises me most about these negative comments are that some of them are coming from people I wouldn't have expected it from. Come on, people, the actual races haven't even begun. So far, it's just been time trials.
Can we give this thing a chance before we whine and complain?
It was gratifying to hear someone else as excited about the race and all the international visitors as I am. I saw that the Australian racing team had stopped at Lamplighter for espressos, chatting with locals as they sat outside. Another Jackson Ward friend said that in walking eight blocks, she'd heard eight languages spoken along Broad Street. It's all exciting to me.
Probably hoping to draw in some of those visitors, Firehouse Theater is doing a Firehouse Fringe Festival all week, so after another listen to "1989," that's where I headed.
Tonight's offering was a monologue-based short work by Joseph Chaikin and Sam Shepard called "The War in Heaven" starring John Porter with Drew Perkins providing the music and directed by Joel Bassin.
It was Joel who gathered the small but mighty crowd together in the lobby to give us some background on Chaikin and the play. After a stroke and partial aphasia, Shepard wrote the play for him to perform.
Warning us that it was not a traditional play (well, it wouldn't be fringe if it were, now would it?), we were led into the theater.
The stage was strewn with straw, Porter sat in a stool, barefoot and open-shirted, while Drew was at the back of the stage with multiple instruments - guitar, violin, harmonica, percussion - at the ready.
It was a meandering, disjointed monologue Porter gave, rambling at times, ranting at others, trying to deal with grief, feeling diminished, birth and death. Sometimes he'd stand and walk deliberately across the stage to a music stand and speak from there, only to return to his stool.
I have no life without your thought of me.
His character was an empty soul looking for a body, waiting for other bodies to release their souls (some don't), ruminating on becoming an angel as of day he'd been born. Perkins beautifully matched his moods with instrumental interludes and sudden bursts of percussion to punctuate some of Porter's musings.
There was a time when music surrounded me on all sides. Now, listen. Nothing. No sound but the sound of my voice.
It was a moving meditation on life and death, told in jagged phrases with occasional anger about the need to sometimes look for an angel in the midst of hate and war and it was over before we knew it.
I only wish one of the biking teams had been there to see Richmond's fringe side.
Oh, wait, they're probably back at their hotels listening to the newest interpretation of "1989." Today was a time when music surrounded us on all sides. Now, listen.
No sound but the sound of Ryan Adams' voice. It's hard to shake it off.
For music lovers, the big event this Monday was the digital release of Ryan Adams' cover of Taylor Swift's entire "1989" album.
I'm not going to lie, I have a copy of "1989," not because I'm a devoted T Swift fan but because it was gifted to me last Christmas and I was curious. After months of listening to it, there are still songs I can't stand (see: "Bad Blood" and "I Know Things") but there are also practically perfect pop gems that I still enjoy even after months of listening.
But the thought of Ryan Adams - let's be clear here: Ryan flippin' Adams - covering the entire album in his distinctive style called to me like a ganache-filled chocolate cake with white icing.
So, seeing that it had been released today, I sat down to listen to it. Don't judge, but at the moment, I'm on my fourth or fifth listen. Part of that is that he's done exactly what he did when he covered Oasis' "Wonderwall" a few years back: made someone else's songs completely his own.
He's replaced her synths and young woman angst with typical Ryan Adams shimmering guitars and reverb, both like catnip to me. Even the songs I couldn't stand on the original appeal to me in his voice, with his arrangements.
One of my many Facebook friends who was also listening to the album today commented that the Ryan Adams version gave him and other men permission to admit they like Taylor Swift's songs. At my venerable age, I need no one's permission to like what I like, but I get what he means.
Ryan's "1989" takes the bones of what is indisputably a 21st century pop masterpiece (even if I find some phrases overused and far too much emphasis on looks in her lyrics for my taste) dressed up in the earnest, guitar-based clothing of one of my favorite dysfunctional singer-songwriters.
I can already tell that it's going to be a stellar road trip CD. Damn, Ryan, couldn't you have released this in time for my beach trip last week?
By the time I tore myself away from "1989" to walk, it was already 4:00, possibly a record for late walking for me. But it was also lightly raining and a beautiful time to get out there and take in the moist air.
Six blocks from home on my way back, I saw a front door open and out came a familiar face: a member of Richmond Comedy Coalition and easily one of the funniest improv comedians in Richmond. We fell into easy conversation as he joined me walking west on Marshall Street.
Since it's impossible right now not to discuss the bike race, we got right into it and I was thrilled when he said what I was thinking: that I'm already sick of the Debbie Downers complaining that (take your pick) there aren't as many visitors here yet as the city said there would be, that the small businesses are having a hard time this week because the media has scared people off from coming downtown, that the bike race is a bust.
What surprises me most about these negative comments are that some of them are coming from people I wouldn't have expected it from. Come on, people, the actual races haven't even begun. So far, it's just been time trials.
Can we give this thing a chance before we whine and complain?
It was gratifying to hear someone else as excited about the race and all the international visitors as I am. I saw that the Australian racing team had stopped at Lamplighter for espressos, chatting with locals as they sat outside. Another Jackson Ward friend said that in walking eight blocks, she'd heard eight languages spoken along Broad Street. It's all exciting to me.
Probably hoping to draw in some of those visitors, Firehouse Theater is doing a Firehouse Fringe Festival all week, so after another listen to "1989," that's where I headed.
Tonight's offering was a monologue-based short work by Joseph Chaikin and Sam Shepard called "The War in Heaven" starring John Porter with Drew Perkins providing the music and directed by Joel Bassin.
It was Joel who gathered the small but mighty crowd together in the lobby to give us some background on Chaikin and the play. After a stroke and partial aphasia, Shepard wrote the play for him to perform.
Warning us that it was not a traditional play (well, it wouldn't be fringe if it were, now would it?), we were led into the theater.
The stage was strewn with straw, Porter sat in a stool, barefoot and open-shirted, while Drew was at the back of the stage with multiple instruments - guitar, violin, harmonica, percussion - at the ready.
It was a meandering, disjointed monologue Porter gave, rambling at times, ranting at others, trying to deal with grief, feeling diminished, birth and death. Sometimes he'd stand and walk deliberately across the stage to a music stand and speak from there, only to return to his stool.
I have no life without your thought of me.
His character was an empty soul looking for a body, waiting for other bodies to release their souls (some don't), ruminating on becoming an angel as of day he'd been born. Perkins beautifully matched his moods with instrumental interludes and sudden bursts of percussion to punctuate some of Porter's musings.
There was a time when music surrounded me on all sides. Now, listen. Nothing. No sound but the sound of my voice.
It was a moving meditation on life and death, told in jagged phrases with occasional anger about the need to sometimes look for an angel in the midst of hate and war and it was over before we knew it.
I only wish one of the biking teams had been there to see Richmond's fringe side.
Oh, wait, they're probably back at their hotels listening to the newest interpretation of "1989." Today was a time when music surrounded us on all sides. Now, listen.
No sound but the sound of Ryan Adams' voice. It's hard to shake it off.
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