You Live, You Learn

And we pause from today's hefty dose of testosterone for something completely different.

The evening may have begun with the stench of hops, but before long, estrogen was the overwhelming scent in the room. And it's a big room.

Mac and I arrived as the DJ was inundating the growing crowd with songs from the era: Smashing Pumpkins, Goo Goo Dolls, Bush.

Hardywood was hosting the latest in the Cover to Cover series, cherry picking a '90s gem sure to pull every woman who was in ninth grade or above in 1995: Alanis Morrissette's "Jagged Little Pill," a prominent feminist musical screed of the grunge era.

And let's not forget it was written and sung by a 19 year old. Nineteen!

When I commented on what a seminal album it was, Mac said she knew every word. What I recalled was that the record had boasted a ridiculous number of hits.

Wearing an off-the-shoulder black knit dress, torn black tights and boots, Kelsey kicked things off with "All I Really Want," sounding eerily like Alanis while Matt played the harmonica.

All I need now is intellectual intercourse
A soul to dig the hole much deeper

The thing about the harmonica is that I'd just seen Matt at the Elbys Sunday and mentioned my excitement at this show coming up. "Yea, I gotta learn the harmonica by then. I haven't started trying yet," he'd said, shrugging. "But I have a feeling they stuck it in front of Alanis and she just breathed, so I'll be okay."

The boy had come a long way in 6 days.

You could barely hear Morgan doing "You Oughta Know" because the mostly female crowd sang every syllable at the top of their lungs, fists pumping, especially on the "But you're still alive!" part.

"Does anyone have a bra I could burn?" Morgan asked after finishing the song. Wrong era.

Well, that was cathartic, I said to Mac, who shared that her friend had reminisced that the album had gotten her through her divorce. Her and every woman who got divorced for the next decade, I'd bet.

I spotted my photographer friend making his way toward the stage, the massive lens on his camera giving him easy access to a front row position while his honey happily danced and sang nearby.

There was the angst of "Perfect," a solid reminder of how dark grunge got, followed by Maggie in a plaid flannel shirt doing "Hand in My Pocket" while the crowd not only sang along but did the hand gestures - peace sign, playing piano, hailing a taxi.

I'm broke, but I'm happy
I'm poor, but I'm kind
I'm short but I'm healthy, yeah

With Kelsey singing "Right Through You," guitarist Oliver did double duty, alternately playing the electric guitar around his neck and the acoustic guitar on a stand in front of him, the electric wedged between them.

So it wasn't only major singing talent onstage, the band was superb, too.

Debra came out to sing "Forgiven" to find the mic set about two feet over her short stature, but, as always, used her force of nature voice to command the room.

You know how us Catholic girls can be
We make up for so much time a little too late

The angelic-faced Georgia not only killed "You Learn," but managed a high legged kick (in Chuck Taylors with green shoelaces, no less) during the ai-yi portion of the song.

I recommend getting your heart trampled on to anyone, yeah
I recommend walking around naked in your living room, yeah

Maggie was back for "Head Over Feet" (would the radio hits never end?) and by now, the crowd was nearly orgasmic with memories of their youth.

You're the best listener that I've ever met
You're my best friend, best friend with benefits
What took me so long?

When it was time for "Mary Jane," Matt said that Debra had told him years ago that if Cover to Cover ever did "Jagged Little Pill," she had dibs on "Mary Jane" because, according to her, it's her car jam. When she finished belting it out, Mac looked at me in awe. "She has an amazing voice."

And speaking of amazing voices, around the time the crowd was beginning to wonder if an Alanis album meant we weren't going to get to hear Matt sing, he appeared to do "Ironic," promising that it was going to get weird.

Matt playing a girl's part is hardly headlines for him and we got a terrific cover of "Ironic," never more heartfelt than when he sang about "meeting the man of my dreams."

Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
And life has a funny way of helping you out

When he concluded, he observed that there was something timely about the album to him. Mac said she'd just been thinking the same thing.

"That's the year I was born!" Kelsey piped up while sporting a shit-eating grin and getting grief for her youth before doing "Not the Doctor" and pushing the young women behind us into ecstasies.

I don't want to be the sweeper of the egg shells that you walk upon
And I don't want to be your other half, I believe that 1 and 1 make 2

"I want this album," one announced. "I'm going to Spotify it."

Kelsey and Morgan's harmonies on "Wake Up" were goosebump-inducing, almost as magnificent as their manes of hair.

And, in what seemed like no time, "Jagged Little Pill" was over, except no female in the room was ready to accept that. Matt announced a five-minute intermission to re-hydrate with beer before the show carried on.

Afraid of losing our prime floor space in the second row, Mac and I stayed rooted for the duration and Matt began the second half with an a capella version of "Your House" before Kelsey took the reins with "21 Things I Want in a Lover" and we moved into Alanis' subsequent music.

I'm in no hurry, I could wait forever
I'm in no rush because I like being solo
There are no worries and certainly no pressure in the meantime
I'll live like there's no tomorrow

It only got better with Debra singing "Thank U" while Matt played a small keyboard on a shoulder strap ("What I'm doing is so not impressive," he assured the audience) and one of the trio of blond sisters behind us (none of whom could have been as old as this album) sighed, "I looooove this song."

The moment I let go of it
Was the moment I touched down

When Debra sang, "How 'bout no longer being masochistic," she also said in an aside just afterwards, "Unless that's your thing..."

But what struck me about the song was the difference in the words from the angry female lyrics of "Jagged Little Pill" three years earlier. Clearly our little girl had done some growing in those years.

"It's about to get real meta, y'all," Maggie warned as Georgia told the crowd to take a deep breath in and launched into a slow burn version of the Black Eyed Peas' "My Humps" set to acoustic guitar and sung by a woman who looked like Doris Day and who, for a change, was not throwing snack-sized Ziplock bags of bacon at the crowd as she has been known to do.

She was doing such a fabulous cover of the song that half the room never even recognized what she was singing or the fiercely clever arrangement she was using.

Morgan got up to sing "Hands Clean," saying, "This song has more lyrics than a George R.R. Martin novel," while being accompanied by Matt on bass, playing it for the first time in his life. It was quite a combination.

Ooh, this could get messy
But you don't seem to mind
Ooh, don't go telling everybody
And overlook this supposed crime

"You have to really live in 1995 tonight!" Matt exhorted the crowd.

By that point, they'd covered the highlights of Alanis' post-"Jagged Little Pill" period but the crowd still screamed for more, which netted us an encore of four songs we'd already heard - "All I Really Want," "Hand In My Pocket" and "You Learn."

It would have been plenty to send us out into the night except for one song.

To close out the night, Kelsey did "You Oughta Know," sounding every bit as angry as Alanis had circa 1995 and with a crowd hoarse from singing yet still trying and determined to dance in place until the last.

And the stench of estrogen so thick in the air you could have cut it with a knife.

I recommend biting off more than you can chew to anyone
I certainly do
I recommend sticking your foot in your mouth at any time
Feel free

After living and learning from Alanis, I recommend letting go, walking around your living room naked and living like there's no tomorrow.

And as for the pursuit of a soul to dig the hole of intellectual intercourse deeper, I'd also recommend whittling that list from 21 to something more realistic. I certainly do.

Far greater likelihood of touching down that way.

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.

Love Is Careless in its Choosing

It's a swell life I have.

As I'm sitting on Hermitage Road en route to Hardywood, the evening sun inching toward setting on my left, a ridiculously long freight train crossing in front of me and Chakha Khan belting out "Through the Fire" at all-windows-open top volume, I am reminded of that fact yet again.

At the last minute I'd found out that tonight was Cover to Cover and that the Trunk Show band was doing "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars" and decided it would be just disrespectful not to give the Thin White Duke my attention.

In no time, I made the acquaintance of a young women originally from Michigan after complimenting her gorgeous blond curly hair. "Yea, it's the best part of genetics," she said, both of us glowing from the warmth of the tap room.

Currently on a four-year post as a political scheduler in Richmond, she admitted to still getting to know the city, which made it all the more surprising that she'd found out about C2C.

"I was in Halcyon this afternoon and overheard someone talking about it and decided I definitely needed to come," she said. Turns out she'd done theater back in Michigan, leading to a comparison of which shows we'd both seen.

When Trunk Show took the stage, I pointed at guitarist Grant in a white short and vest and asked her if he was cute. "Well, he's got a guitar in front of him," she said rhetorically. "But, yes, he's definitely cute."

Then it was showtime. Matt, clad in synthetics with a blazer on top, yelled, "I'm really hot...in more ways than one!" and the show was off and running. When he got to the "I'm a space invader" lyric during "Moonage Daydream," the blazer was thrown off to reveal a symphony in Spandex: a backless, deep-cut purple top and silver skin-tight pants.

A few notes into "Starman," my young Michigan friend turns and grins, saying, "This is one of my very favorite Bowie songs!" Nearby, practically every middle-aged guy was singing along to every word.

Matt, on the other hand, only once forgot the lyrics all evening.

"This backless thing is great in a building that's 90,000 degrees, but the fabric just doesn't breathe!" Matt lamented from stage before going on to explain to the room (and especially newbies like Michigan) that the whole idea of Cover to Cover is to "bring back the idea of the album as a story meant to be heard start to finish, as opposed to his generation's habit of hearing one song out of context and never exploring the rest of the album at all.

Hey, he said it, I'm just seconding that notion.

But it wasn't just the Matt show and stellar vocalists Ali and Maggie (she's the brilliant one who came up with the C2C idea - it's always a woman, isn't it, with the best ideas?) were welcomed to the stage to sing lead in their appropriately glammy ensembles while the rest of us danced in the sweaty tap room to every song.

In the spirit of Matt's admonition, I followed Bowie with an evening of record-listening at Holmes' man cave, drinking "good swill," as he puts it (Graham Beck Brut Rose and French champagne Beloved had planned to save for her birthday) while grooving to "Ricky Nelson Live at the Troubadour," Joni Mitchell's "For the Roses" (after the third time Beloved and I replaced the needle on the start of "You Turn Me On, I'm a Radio," Holmes cut off our needle privileges) and "Court and Spark" and "The Best of Spirit," which reeked of the late 1960s.

But it was Holmes' extensive Neil Young collection that yielded the new-to-me "This Note's for You," a 1988 record by Neil Young and the Bluenotes (which couldn't have pleased Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes) that not only had a horn section, but pulled from the same influences as Stray Cats.

Who knew Neil ever went in this direction? Certainly not me.

Throughout the night, Holmes would spontaneously announce, "Everybody dance!" and everybody did. We were having such a great time that the only reason I left at 1 a.m. was because I knew I had to be up early.

When I got home, my downstairs neighbor was on his porch, contemplating the thunderstorm rolling in, smoking a cigarette and curious about where I'd been. When I told him I'd gone to a show followed by a friend's house to listen to records and talk, he sat up in attention.

"That's so cool that you do that kind of stuff!" he enthused. Do what, have a life? "No, that's more than a life. That you intentionally listen to music with friends and talk about it. I feel like the people I know never do that. No one I know actively listens to music."

To be clear, he graduated from VCU two weeks ago and is a practicing musician and this is his reality, that people can't be bothered to really listen to music, much less discuss it.

Being a millennial must suck in so many ways.

After five minutes of shared storm watching and lifestyle discussion, I bid him goodnight, intent on getting to bed so I'd be up early enough to catch the first hour of Broad Appetit. And, unlike Holmes who cracked me up earlier by deadpanning, "I like to have secure premises when I retire," I closed not a single window before sliding between the sheets

I was not only up, I met my date on the street, so eager was I to eat and escape quickly.

Even at 11:02, Broad Street was alive with people pushing strollers, walking dogs and making the loop in search of the best small plates. Unfortunately, this year's event had a far greater amount of fair-type vendors shoulder to shoulder with local restaurants, but really just taking up valuable space, in my opinion.

In one hour, we ate the equivalent of brunch: Lucy's meatloaf over cornbread and bacon-wrapped chicken with ranch dressing, Amour's duck crepes, potato pancake with applesauce and chocolate crepes with fleur de sel, Maple and Pine's short rib shortcake with mushroom ragout and quinoa salad with avocado mousse over an heirloom tomato, Castanea's paella and Lehja's butter chicken over rice and my favorite, an edamame and avocado chaat.

Just as good as the food I ate was the weather, which maintained a mostly comfortable cloudy overhang the whole hour we strolled the circuit. Only once we headed away from the increasing crowds did the sun make a concerted effort to come out.

It's only 12:03 and the whole day and evening is still ahead of me. Yep, my life is truly swell.

Time to Play B-sides.

As my favorite man who wears high heels says, "The time is now. That's all you need to know."

The pre-game at Rogue Gentlemen involved J. Mourat Rose, a lamb Philly steak, fried chicken skins and three luscious cheddar chive biscuits with apple butter that my companion had professed to be uninterested in until I ordered them.

Three warm, seductive biscuits later, I was given my due for ordering such deliciousness while a couple at the other end of the bar acttually lifted off of their stools to ogle our repast, eventually ordering the same.

The main event was TheatreLAB's performance of "Venus in Fur," easily one of the most fascinating two-person plays I've ever seen and not because it's about sado-masochism, either.

What, doesn't everyone have a dog collar?

All the cool kids were there for opening night, and it's always pleasant to begin by hearing my name called and then, "Hey, gorgeous" to get my attention. It was the walker/play-lover I'd not seen recently, finally getting out of his house.

He'd picked an outstanding choice for his return to play-going.

Watching Maggie Roop as Vanda and James Ricks as Thomas was an exquisite 90 minutes of thrust and parry with the two actors playing an actor and director ("Young women can't even play feminine anymore!") who are bringing to life a play about a masochist looking for his dominatrix.

You know, that old chestnut.

If it sounds like a hall of mirrors, that''s exactly what playwright David Ives seems to have been going for and it's brilliant stuff onstage.

I'm not convinced that all women want to control men, as the play's Thomas insists, but where I did agree was that nobody has out-sized emotions anymore (and we're the worse for it, I might add).

We're all explicable. What we're not is extricable.

Assured direction by Matt Shofner and terrific performances by both actors ensured that everyone who walked out of there knew they'd seen something they wouldn't soon forget.

Just as I was finding Maggie's Vanda character simplistic and a bit too broad with the comedic bits ("Remind me...?" when the Austro-Hungarian empire is mentioned), she slid seamlessly into the role of the woman being groomed to be Thomas' dominatrix, totally commanding the stage and showing what she was made of, both challenging him and seducing him.

And what man doesn't like that? She even arrived with period costumes for both of them, showing a  level of planning that speaks to those of us who tend to overthink everything.

James - still memorable as a blond Hamlet in the 2012 Bootleg Shakespeare production - "To be or...Line!" - was born to play the role of Thomas, the smugly arrogant director whose life has already settled into mediocrity without him noticing, but who can't help but be affected by the crass and sometimes contemptuous actress who's showed up in his office to read for the part in his play.

TheatreLAB never disappoints, but the combination of the brilliance in choosing this steamy play and casting and directing it to perfection already has me emailing friends to nudge them to get tickets.

Don't say I didn't tell you so, kids. You wouldn't want to miss the sound of zippering when a roomful of people hold their collective breath in complete silence as a pair of thigh-high black patent leather boots are zipped up two fabulous legs. Truth.

We barely made it to Comfort before the intricacies of the post-play discussion began, followed by long-delayed girl talk ("That old chestnut?" she asks, cracking me up with her dismissive take on my life) until we are the final customers and only the bartender is left to say goodnight.

Cue next day.

Talk about unlikely, I have been to Lowe's three times in 24 hours and that's a lifetime achievement record. Also, I was spending someone else's money, which makes it a whole lot more fun.

Over the course of the day together, I am mistaken repeatedly for my companion's wife, a highly unlikely occurrence given that he pitches for the other team, but he's more delighted with the mistaken identity every time it happens. Meanwhile, he digs, plants, spreads and sweeps as if I'd given him a Honey-Do list.

I only hope my garden represents me as well as the painting the jazz drummer created for me does. It certainly smells wonderful (the garden, not eh painting).

Tonight's Leap of Faith party for the upcoming Bijou Film Center was a thank-you to all of us who'd donated to get the arthouse theater off the ground (and hopefully in my neighborhood) as founding members.

Number 178, right here, folks.

After a full day outside working, even a hoppy-smelling brewery was a welcome change, as were the sounds of DJ Carlito spinning records, along with plenty of familiar faces and music lovers.

It was especially delightful to run into one half of the Blood Brothers, visiting from NYC and, I was happy to hear, cobbling together a satisfying life producing bands, delivering his wife's food to movie sets and playing music.

Hey, whatever combination works, that's my life philosophy.

Grass Panther - two guys who sound like a whole lot more- rocked everybody's faces off (a pink-clad five year old danced like a punk veteran, unable to stop herself), addressing the song "Stinky Pants" to the men in the room ("We'll have a group session later about that," singer/guitarist Michael says) and closing by saying, "Thanks for taking the journey with us."

No, thank you for a killer post-punk set. Just what I needed.

During the break, all the founding members were gathered for a group photo complete with Groucho Marx glasses/noses on each of us, destined to be come a classic...or Facebook blackmail

The highlight of the evening may have been when one of the Bijou's founders, James, got up to explain about the Bijou and what it will be. A 100-seat art house. A cafe and bar, with beers such as Hardywood on tap.

"We'll also serve wine for people like Karen who don't like beer," James announces from the stage, a stage in a brewery.

A guy near me leans over and whispers, "Did you see people step away from you when he said that?" Um, no, but I don't doubt it.

Despite that, when he'd said it, a DJ's wife had given me a thumbs up of support from across the floor. Later, a woman stopped me to tell me she didn't drink beer either.

The difference? She didn't get called out for it in front of a roomful of beer lovers.

But isn't that almost the point? Why does a non-beer drinker go to Hardywood? Because she gets to see terrific bands and support an artsy cause that's near and dear to her heart. Even better, the Bijou not only met its goal of 360 founding members, it beat it.

Turns out we are the movie town some of us thought we were.

Call it one of those perfect synchronicity moments when the Green Hearts took the stage, because off to the side was a guy I hadn't seen in years, but whose restaurant was the first place I ever saw the Green Hearts.

It's practically poetic, right?

The band got bonus points for doing several covers of songs used in movies, including a Cheap Trick song and Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' for You," a song I probably haven't heard this millennium.

I totally dug it, not gonna lie.

With their dark suits and energetic pop, they were well-suited to reminding the crowd that this was a party and at parties, people dance. Dancing in place, I was completely caught off guard when a founder and all-around great guy asked me to dance, inadvertently saying no out of sheer surprise instead of just jumping in.

What, a woman who loves to dance declining an invitation?

Perhaps we should have a group session about that later. The time is now and that should be enough.

Warm Sun and a Kind Air

One flashback was from two years ago, the other from 25.

Not being a southside denizen, I'm not often in O'Toole's. In fact, the last time had been June 2013 when I'd gone to see O'Theater at O'Toole's and that's exactly why I was back there again tonight.

Being half O'Donnell, I'm constitutionally unable to resist an evening of Irish theater in a pub. But unlike that solo trip, tonight I had three partners in crime, theater-lovers all.

Remembering my last visit - the shortage of seats, the lack of servers to keep up with the crowd - I'd suggested we get an early start to ensure time to eat and score good seats before "The Tinker's Wedding" began.

It wasn't long after we staked out a fine table that live music began with Wayne Ruotolo kicking things off with a true classic from my younger days: Todd Rundgren's "We Gotta Get You a Woman." Listening to him play covers by artists as varied as David Gray and Roger Miller, there was something familiar about his well-executed set.

But eating was the priority because of the play. It was while we were scanning the menu that someone spotted that relic of the '90s, Jello shots, on the menu. Unlikely as that seemed, I was even more surprised to hear that one of our quartet had never had one.

Full disclosure: I'd had Jello shots as recently as February. Five, in fact: three red, two blue.

Knowing I had a duty to his social education, I immediately agreed to join him in his first one, although I did stipulate it would be after I ate dinner, a meal that began with shared nachos and moved through a black and blue salad, also known as Cesar salad with steak and bleu cheese.

Why? There's always room for Jello, not that we should believe everything a sexual predator told us in our youth.

As we were were finishing eating, I asked our server for two Jello shots and she couldn't have looked more surprised. We couldn't decide if it was that people her parents' age were ordering them or that only two of us were in need of shots.

Before they arrived, I schooled the Jello shot virgin on the proper way to do a shot, all of which went out the window when the shots arrived. Not only were they easily twice the size of a typical Jello shot (as in, way too much to fit in a mouth at one time) but they also contained an alcohol-soaked cherry in each.

Pro tip: you don't shoot fruit.

But we did manage to shoot the massive shooters in multiple gulps, saving the boozy cherry for the big finish. In the worst kind of mixed metaphor, my friend's Jello shot cherry had been popped.

From there, we moved into the back room, second row, for a staged reading of a 1909 Irish play by John Millington Synge about marriage during a time when Catholic priests were forbidden to perform marriage ceremonies in Britain. Of course, this didn't stop Irish girls form wanting to get married in the church.

Because it was a staged reading, we were warned that, "You get good actors, you do a couple rehearsals and you hope for the best. That's why we got you liquored up first."

One Jello shot had hardly done me in, so first up for me was a vocabulary lesson. Had I known that a tinker was a person who moved from place to place making and fixing things like cans? I had not.

Tonight's tinker Micheal Byrne was played by none other than Matt Shofner boasting a fine Irish accent, as did the rest of the cast.

It's not that he wants to marry Sarah Casey, but she's threatened to run off with another man if he doesn't. Who'd have thought such a strategy would work on a man?

As the object of this strong-willed woman's attention, Micheal's busy fashioning a wedding ring for her because she wants to get married in the church like a good Catholic girl. I may have been raised Catholic, but I never qualified for that status.

Along comes a priest, because that's what happens on Irish country roads at night, whom she badgers to marry them, promising in return money and a gallon can. Next comes Michael's mother Mary, drunk, cantankerous and eventually hitting on both Sarah and the priest, which I consider very progressive for 1909.

As the pipe-smoking, beer-drinking Mary - referred to as "an old, flagrant heathen" (a descriptor I embrace), actress Bridget Gethins cracked the audience up when after misreading a line, she said, "Let me just say this again because I'm a bit tipsy."

After stealing the can and trading it for beer, she awakens the next morning, not because of the noise of hammering but because she hears her son washing up, "a rare thing." Suspicious she asks, "Is it you marrying her, Michael Byrne?" to which he replies haplessly, "It is, god spare us." That's the Matt I know.

Of course without the can as part of the payment, the priest refuses to marry them, which royally pisses off Sarah. 'She's vexed now!" Michael warns.

The couple tie up the priest, leaving only a small face flap for him to breathe and talk and thus are finally married. It's not exactly the traditional rehearsal dinner, but close.

And they probably didn't live happily ever after, but oh, well.

After intermission, we reconvened for "Tying the Knot," a new play written by Keri Wormald and Bridget Gethins, for which the jumping off point was a priest in a hood.

This time, it's 2015 and Ireland has made civil unions legal but Megan wants a holy sacrament, She wants to be married in the church with her father walking her down the aisle. This time, Matt plays the put-upon priest (not sure which role I enjoyed more, Matt as a straight man or as a priest) who, while he admits, "I voted yes meself," isn't allowed to perform the ceremony by order of the Catholic church.

He suggests that the couple check with the Unitarians or the Quakers. "The Unitarians have people lined up around their odd looking churches to get married." How often have I thought the same at the sight of one of them?

It's not that he doesn't want to, but the bishops have given them their orders. "If we see a couple with the look of homosexuality about them, we're to turn on our heel and walk away to avoid conversation," he says. The look?

Happily, this big Irish Catholic same sex under-duress wedding eventually takes place and the lesbian couple lives happily ever after and since it's now the 21st century, presumably bathes regularly.

It was as fine a night of o'theater as any half Irish could have hoped for.

Walking out, I paused to talk to the musician Wayne, no longer vexed because by then I'd figured out that I used to see him play back in the '90s. He always used to include "Under the Milky Way Tonight" and that's what I'd finally remembered.

"Probably at Castle Thunder," he said with a smile.

Castle Thunder, of course! Coincidentally, where I'd also had my first Jello shots. Under the milky way, cherries were optional.

Nothin' Like a Dame

Where better to go after a positively exhausting week than Bali Ha'i?

Despite the fact that my train wasn't getting in until almost 6:30 and despite that it was late and arrived closer to 7, I managed to get home, unpack, get cleaned up and present myself at the November Theater to meet my date for Virginia Repertory's opening night performance of "South Pacific."

Only a cock-eyed optimist would even attempt such a thing.

On the way over, I ran into a favorite server and his adorable beagle, both recently moved to Jackson Ward. He shared the newcomer's perspective (loves the vibe and touch of grit) and I the more long time resident's (nine years) view, all while scratching those velvet ears (the beagle's, not Michael's).

Opening night meant not only a gold medallion on our programs, but lots of familiar faces - the gallerist and his perky wife, the dancer I hadn't seen in years, and more actors, directors and theater people than should probably be in one place at any given time (you know, in case something happens).

My date was the perfect one because, somehow, some way, he'd never once in his middle-aged life seen "South Pacific." I shouldn't be surprised; I took him to see "Mame" last year and he'd mentioned then it was his first live musical.

Yes, I had myself an enchanted evening virgin.

The last time I'd seen this play live, it had been at the Landmark and no less a magnificent voice than Robert Goulet had played Emile, the handsome French planter. Fabulous as that touring production had been (just hearing him live had been a thrill), it wasn't like seeing talent I knew in classic roles.

I can't convey how satisfying it was to see the multi-talented Matt Shofner as one of the seabees singing "Nothin' Like a Dame." Now that's acting. Just as impressive was Audra Honaker with her impish demeanor and beautiful voice as one of the nurses. Nicole Oberleitner oozed sass and sex whether she was front and center or off to the side striking a pose.

And speaking of the nurses, during the "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair" number, the women wore fabulous '40s-style bathing suits that were the talk of the ladies' room during intermission.

My only observation was that there weren't many '40s-era bodies with hips and curves to go along with those era-appropriate costumes. Let's face it, women's figures just aren't what they used to be.

Ditto wardrobes. In the remember when category, one of the nurse's lines alluded to the fact that the Navy only allowed them to bring two evening gowns overseas with them. How many women today even own one? I do have one long dress but I'm not certain it would qualify as an evening gown.

Waiting in line for the ladies room gave me a chance to check out the framed newspaper articles from the Richmond Times Dispatch, Chicago Tribune and Honolulu State Bulletin hanging in the hallway, all of them actual copies from the war years. Overheard in line: "My nephew is in Wilco. Have you heard of them?" and soon after, "Well, yes, but Paul McCartney's still playing live and he's in his '70s."

So he's not younger than Springtime. Still, I heard it was a terrific show.

As my companion pointed out, it would have also been nice to have some maps hanging there, too, for a geography lesson to go along with the history lesson to clarify all these islands' locations in the play.

I was happy to hear that my date was very much enjoying the play, although still adjusting somewhat to the notion of a musical and actors singing so much of the plot. "It's such a great story!" he raved, admitting he was completely engrossed in the saga as it unfolded.

He was lucky to be seeing such a fine production. Both leads, Branch Fields and Stacey Cabel, were spot-on as the lovers from different sides of the world. Her Arkansas accent came and went occasionally but his French one never wavered and his bass voice was the kind that does things to a woman. It didn't hurt the appeal that the sets were so evocative of the South Seas with bamboo screens, palm trees and the illusion of water and sand on the island.

Because he's recently out of a relationship, my date admitted that half the time lately, he's been trying to avoid romantic entertainment. The other half, he's been seeking it out. "I'm just too much of a romantic," he said with a shrug, explaining why he was enjoying this so much.

Join the club, honey bun. From "A Wonderful Guy" to "This Nearly Was Mine," a person inclined to romance could pretty much melt into her seat the entire time.

Let's just say it was some enchanted evening.

It Was Worth All the While

Kerplunk, just like that it was 1994 again, except thankfully without Celine Dion and "The Lion King."

For the second night in a row, I was at Hardywood, this time for the Cover to Cover series where they play an entire album live start to finish. Somehow when I wasn't looking, 21 years have passed since Green Day's "Dookie" was released, so that was to be the featured album tonight.

Like every teen-aged boy in the country, I'd bought "Dookie" when it came out in '94 because even with estrogen, I couldn't resist their pop punk hooks and whiny, stoner lyrics. But even then I understood who that album belonged to.

Walking in, I ran into Brian, tonight's bass player, whom I'd just seen play bass last night with Snowy Owls. Even better, he's playing tomorrow at Hardywood with yet another band, that one a jazz group. Versatile guy doing shoegaze, punk and jazz in a matter of 48 hours.

Hardywood had a big crowd for the show tonight, whether for beer or a trip down middle school memory lane, I couldn't say. A couple of (male) friends joined me near the front, no doubt there because they were 12 and 14 years old when it came out.

Although the show was supposed to start at 7:30, it didn't, so the crowd kept growing until finally ringleader Matt Shofner (in a short-sleeved black shirt and bow tie) took the stage with the crack Cover to Cover band, saying, "Punctuality isn't punk." You know, he had a point.

Matt wasn't the only one looking the part. When I'd seen bassist Brian earlier, his long hair had been up, but now he'd released his waist-length locks, looking ready to rock.

Explaining that "Dookie" had been released on February 1, 1994, he reminded us that it had arrived in an era of chain wallets (the chain on his pants could have secured a bank vault) and burgeoning eye liner usage. As they launched into "Burnout," the crowd began "clinking" beer cups together as the familiar strains washed over them.

Matt and his fellow vocalists - Maggie (who did triple duty also dancing and playing tambourine), Evan (black shirt, skinny tie) and occasionally the other Maggie (hilariously insisting on applause to make it worth her while)- even had the rowdy crowd sing "Happy Birthday" to the album in Green Day style ("not dirge-like").

The night really got rolling when they did "Basket Case." As Matt sang, "I am one of those melodramatic fools," a melodramatic bearded fool in the crowd exploded in front of the stage, singing along, pumping his fist, briefly jumping on stage and generally unleashing his inner 14-year old. It was a beautiful thing to see.

One thing the crowd picked up on quickly was how well the band - Brian, Bentley and Grant - were executing the songs, nailing every lick and drum fill. A girl in front of me kept yelling, "You're amazing!" at them.

Of course everyone went berserk singling along and jumping around to "When I Come Around," causing Evan to observe, "It's great to see so many of you singing along. It means you listened to this music when you were kids."

I wheeled around to raise an eyebrow at my friend, the former 12-year old Green Day lover, and he looked sheepish. "Kids!" he repeated.

Someone shouted out a toast to Tres Cool, Green Day's drummer, only appropriate.

After the last song, "F.O.D.," Matt held up his phone set to a timer and told us to be patient. He reminded the crowd that it was last call. Only when a minute and 17 seconds had passed did they launch into the hidden track, "All by Myself" accompanied only by acoustic guitar.

It's now standard procedure at the end of every Cover to Cover show for the band to encore with a few greatest hits and they did. My friends didn't bother waiting around so I told them good-night and stayed put.

"American Idiot" made everyone go crazy, even more so when Matt sang the line, "Well, maybe I'm the faggot America," pointing at himself and the crowd roared. After all, who wants to be part of  the redneck agenda?

"Brain Stew" only fed the fire and after that, he announced, "Okay, get out your lighters," which for this age group means cell phones with the flashlight feature on and sang "Time of Your Life." The room sang along at the top of our voices.

So take the photographs and still frames in your mind
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time

After one last full-throttle rocking, the band was introduced and we were thanked by Matt, but the band had other ideas. They began playing "Welcome to Paradise" for the second time tonight and the space in front of the stage, sloppy with spilled beer, finally turned into a mosh pit with bodies flying as they sang along.

It was very 1994. Like then, I stayed out of the fray but enjoyed watching every minute of it. Green Day calls that "Having a Blast." Me, too.

Wig in a Box

One day you meet a witty bartender and the next thing you know, he's a transgender woman. Or, playing one anyway.

Once upon a time in Richmond, back in the days before Heritage's world domination, I was a regular at Six Burner, the restaurant that preceded it. It was there that I met a new bartender, hit it off with him and spent the evening gabbing about life, theater and music.

He made sure I knew about the new event he'd started, the monthly Ghost Light afterparty at Richmond Triangle Players. I went a few weeks later and got to see my new bartender friend in his rightful place, a stage. Matt Shofner played host and frequent performer that night and I became his unabashed fan.

Only years of those Sunday nights listening to Matt's incredible voice and watching his non-stop showmanship could have prepared me for TheatreLab's production of "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" that I saw tonight.

I'd been dying to see the inside of TheaterLab's new space, dubbed The Basement because it is, conveniently for me located in Jackson Ward.

Down the stairs I've passed so many times I went, only to find the subterranean DIY space that is evolving into their permanent performance home, learning that it was formerly a shoe store and a speakeasy, somehow appropriate both of them.

As further proof that we weren't in Kansas anymore, this was not your granny's program. It warned us to pee beforehand (no intermission), that strobe lights would be used because they're awesome and that the band was going to be l-o-u-d. I was okay with all of that.

Saying hello to artistic director Deejay Gray - looking very '70s in his desert boots - he welcomed me warmly and instructed me to "sit close so Hedwig can see you." As someone who likes to see the actors spit, he didn't have to tell me twice.

I found a single seat in the second row center, only to have a tall guy sit down in front of me. Fortunately, he was a sloucher.

"Ladies and gentlemen, whether you like it or not...Hedwig!" was a cue for the incredibly tight four piece band (appropriately bedazzled in makeup and glitter) to begin playing "America the Beautiful" as Matt strutted out in a cape, denim dress, torn fishnets and high-heeled boots.

He had some pretty impressive moves considering his heel height, that's all I'm going to say. Meanwhile, Hedwig said things like, "I do love a warm hand on my entrance."

Using song and monologue, he told the story of his life growing up in East Berlin, listening to the American music of the time  - Tony Tennille, Anne Murray - on Armed Forces Radio. At one point, he stood with his leg on either side of the guy in front of me, gyrating his hips and grinding his leopard-print shorts into his face.

You see, beneath that leopard print was Hedwig's greatest disappointment: the inch of flesh left after a botched sex change operation. Hence the band name, the Angry Inch.

The play has a great score and "Origin of Love" is the best musical explanation of predestined soul mates as any I've heard. The rousing "Sugar Daddy" was instantly familiar since Matt and crew always sing that at GLAP when the hat gets passed for the pianist, although I hadn't known it was from this.

Local references abounded in the script - Hedwig was supposedly starting her tour at The Basement, her ex-lover was playing that night at Richmond Coliseum - but the best one came after a raucous number.

"I think we finally found our single," Hedwig says of the kick ass song they'd just done.

Meanwhile, he's got a Hardywood Singel in the palm of his hand and is counting 1, 2,3, 4 under his breath as he displays it. "These things don't pay for themselves," he cracked, referring to Hardywood Craft Brewery's sponsorship of "Hedwig."

As if that wasn't funny enough, Hedwig also explained what he was doing for a living in his trailer. "I lost my job at the PX and lost my gag reflex, You do the math." Done.

Because of when the play took place, namely before and after the Berlin Wall came down, there were tons of '70s and '80s references and several times, I found myself one of the very few who laughed out loud at them, no doubt a result of a young Friday night audience.

"His face might have been a Yes cover, it was so still," he deadpanned and my laugh was the only one in the room. Come on, that's hilarious...if you knew the band Yes.

The only other actor in the show was Bianca Bryan and there were times I was riveted by her performance, usually over on the far side of the stage, no matter what Matt was doing. She was an ideal foil for him, both musically and in terms of her character.

Director Maggie Roop - Matt's longtime friend and original fan - deserves a round of applause herself for putting together a top-notch production theater lovers will be talking about for some time to come.

By the time we got to the climax, it had been 90 non-stop minutes of rock and roll, Matt Shofner's mega-talent and a story that reminds us that sometimes you don't realize who your soul mate is.

Best of all, it played out in a basement in my neighborhood, christening the new space in the most impressive and irreverent way. Six Burner, I owe you.

There's a lesson here: don't stop going to bars. Look at the talent I meet. You do the math.

Time Makes You Bolder

Fleetwood Mac and summer just go together.

My best friend and I saw them play two nights at the Capital Center in 1977 on the "Rumours" tour. Even know what I wore both nights (we won't talk about the mauve and lavender tube top and cut-offs).

Fast forward 37 Augusts and tonight I was right up front at Hardywood for the latest in the Cover to Cover series to see "Rumours" played start to finish by a bunch of theater people I have seen both onstage and at the ghost light afterparty many times.

But his time, it was personal. These songs are the soundtrack of my misspent youth.

With terrific songs to work with and a crack band, including for the first time, Brian Cruse, a bass player I first met when he was in Marionette and have since seen in many guises (tonight he oozed the '70s in a white leisure suit and shades, his waist-length hair down for the first time I'd ever seen), each song was a testament to its immortality.

Audra doing "Dreams"? Everyone sang along. Nick killing it on "Never Going Back"? Lindsey would be proud.

Before "Go Your Own Way," Hedwig (no Angry Inch), aka Matt, came out in full regalia sipping a beer and spitting it out on my right sandal.

I couldn't have been more honored.

It was hotter than hell in Hardywood, the crowd was huge and boasted all ages and the smell of sweat permeated the room by the time we heard Katrinah do the sublime "Songbird."

Someone handed me a cluster of miniature pink roses, apropos of nothing.

Maggie sang "Gold Dust Woman," directing the line, "Rock on ancient queen" directly at Hedwig, who returned it with a hip cock and look of his own.

The encore necessarily had to feature earlier and later stuff. Rhiannon set the Stevie fanatics (easy to spot in their stylized version of '70s dress) on fire and while I was happy to hear "Landslide," I'd have preferred "Silver Springs."

An '80s song followed but since I'd long since abandoned the Mac by then, I barely recognized it. But I did get both the first Stevie Nicks solo albums when they came out.

So while Stevie's "Edge of Seventeen" wasn't what I would have chosen to play as the closer for "Cover to Cover: Rumours," it was a crowd-pleasing, rabble rousing finish to a very hot, sweaty Fleetwood Mac kind of a night and I sang and danced along to every note.

Just not in a mauve and lavender tube top and cut-offs...although they might have been cooler.

I've Got Soul but I'm Not a Soldier

I smiled like I meant it because I did.

When I heard that the second installment of up and coming new production company Spin, Spit and Swear's Cover to Cover series was going to be the Killer's stellar debut album "Hot Fuss," I cleared the decks for tonight.

When that album came out in 2004, it was the antithesis of everything I was then listening to, a lot of which was post-punk revival, so the likes of Interpol, Editors, Franz Ferdinand and the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs.

Then along comes this glammy sounding band with an album full of distinctive guitar, which I loved, but also synths and soaring anthemic songs that made you want to shake your ass.

Not ashamed to say I fell hard for it but I was hardly the only one since it's since ended up on all kinds of "best debut albums" and "best albums of the aughts" lists before long.

All of that is a roundabout way of saying that I was not going to miss hearing "Hot Fuss" performed live tonight by some major talent from the local theater community.

Passing a guy in a t-shirt that read, "You can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning," and giving him credit for his honesty, I claimed a spot near the stage to wait for the show.

Almost immediately I found myself next to a guitarist I know with a beer in his hand. I had to know. Was he there for the beer or the music?

"I love this album," he admitted. Join the club, friend. "And I never saw them."

Well, there I had a leg up because I saw them back in 2006 at Merriweather Post Pavilion and while I was happy to hear them live, we were so far back on the lawn that they looked like miniatures on stage.

At least tonight I'd be able to see the band sweat.

Not long after, I overheard the trio next to me begin talking about "Hot Fuss" and not one of them knew it. They said they'd started listening to the Killers with the second album, where the band shed the glam for a Springsteen-like earnestness that didn't speak to me.

They were busy trying to recall if they knew even one song from "Hot Fuss." I couldn't not join their conversation.

"Mr. Brightside"? "Somebody Told Me"? "Smile Like You Mean It"? Come on, guys, work with me here. One of them thought maybe he knew "Somebody Told Me." Maybe.

I gave them a brief Killers history lesson and they were fascinated. To be fair, they didn't appear to be much beyond legal drinking age, which means they would have been in middle school when the record came out.

As if that wasn't discouraging enough, I overheard a girl who had obviously come for the beer telling a guy, "I mean, I like the Killers, but why are they doing the whole album?"

It wasn't worth my time and effort, so I just walked away.

Since the last "Cover to Cover" show, Hardywood had invested in a new sound system and I could tell a huge difference in sound quality during the sound check. This was going to rock.

I ran into the music teacher and as a kindred vertically-challenged person, we found spots right up front where no Paul Bunyan could spoil our view.

Keyboard/synth player Dave Robbins had transposed the whole album by ear and along with Bentley Cobb on drums and Grant Oliver on guitar, the band was note perfect.

Matt Shofner, he of the big voice and even larger stage presence, took the stage and with the initial spaceship-sounding synth notes of "Jenny Was a Friend of Mine," dove into 2004.

Trading off lead vocals with Russel Lacy, Sera Stavroula and Kelsey Cordrey, the cover to cover band soon had some of us dancing in place to the oh-so recognizable songs.

When Bentley went to use the drum pad nothing happened, causing Matt to joke, "It wouldn't be one of our shows without technical difficulties," but that was quickly corrected.

We only got as far as the fourth song, "Somebody Told Me" and sweat was dripping down my legs, so I can only imagine how hot the band must have been. Guitarist Grant had begun the set in a blazer, but that soon bit the dust.

Matt had the smartest idea. He went over and rolled up the garage door to the side of the stage and within moments, it was noticeably cooler inside.

Meanwhile, back on stage before the next song, he holds up a bloody finger before saying, "This is how you put on a band-aid," and demonstrating.

Co-host Maggie Roop, his long-time partner in crime and theater, looked at him and said, "That was almost hardcore until you put the band-aid on."

No surprise, my favorite, "All These Things That I Have Done," got a lot more people almost dancing and nearly everyone singing along.

Another head aches, another heart breaks
I am so much older than I can take
and my affection, well it comes and goes
I need direction to perfection, no, no, no, no

One of the things I adore about that song is how the Killers used a gospel choir for backing vocals, so I was tickled when five more people came onstage to do choir duty and testify to the rafters.

Afterwards, Matt asked if anyone knew the next song and I called out "Andy, You're a Star," but he didn't hear me. It was enough to know I was correct before Kelsey began singing it.

When Matt introduced Russell to sing lead, he told the crowd, "This is Russell Lacy. Ladies, I want you to take your panties off," before he sang.

I saw no panties thrown onstage, but I can't vouch as to whether any were removed other than Matt's and I know that only because he later came onstage and told us so.

There seemed to be less recognition on some of the later songs, but as a big fan of "On Top" and "Change Your Mind," that was other people's problem, not mine.

We're all the same and love is blind
The sun is gone before it shines
And if the answer is no
Can I change your mind?

Once they got to the end of the album, "Everything Will Be Alright," Russell soloed with his guitar on a bonus track, "Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll," which I learned was on the UK version of "Hot Fuss."

See, kids, it's not just entertaining, it's educational.

Part of a Cover to Cover evening involves four local artists creating works while the rest of us listen to music. They're supposed to be inspired by what's going on around them and then the finished products are raffled off at the end with the proceeds going to Spin, Spit and Swear. I bought a ticket (anything for S,S & S) and kept my fingers crossed.

Problem was that at this point, one of the artists wasn't quite finished even though the album was, but the band just happened to have one more song waiting in the wings and as Matt put it, "If any Killers song is a dance song, this is it."

It's tough to argue with "Human" (or, as my friend Jym once hilariously put it, "Are we human or are we dancer? Discuss.") as a perfect excuse to shake your tail feathers, but I also love the poetry of the lyrics.

Pay my respects to grace and virtue
Send my condolences to good
Hear my regards to soul and romance
They always did the best they could

That song did get a few more asses in gear before the raffle winners' names were pulled and the art, some still wet, was awarded to four lucky people.

But Matt had one last trick up his sleeve.

"In Style Weekly's Best of Issue, one of the critic's picks was the Cover to Cover series," he said grinning and went on to thank me - using my initials - for the nod. "But she practically double dared us to do "All These Things That I Have Done" twice. What do you guys think of that? Should we do it?"

A smattering of applause wasn't enough (god knows, I was screaming and clapping as loudly as I could but I'm only one woman) and he was about to leave when he asked again and a thunderous reaction had the band kicking in with the first line, "When there's nowhere else to run" and it became a giant singalong, clap-along and dance-a-thon.

Help me out
Yeah, you gotta help me out
Yeah, oh don't you put me on the back burner
You know you gotta help me out

Helluva hot fuss of an evening, sweaty legs and all. Correct answer: we are dancer.

Don't Stop Believing

Theater is my temple and my religion and my act of faith. Strangers sit in a room together and believe together~ Harvey Fierstein

And sometimes that believing gives you a sense of history retold...or foreshadowed.

The Jewish Community Center was the venue for guest director Carol Piersol's production of Israel Horovitz' "Lebensraum," an incredibly powerful piece that had three strong actors plating 50+ roles using a wooden wall of props over 90 minutes.

The premise was both simple and far-fetched: what if a future German chancellor invited six million Jews to come to Germany with the promise of citizenship and full benefits as a way to assuage their sea of guilt for the Jews killed during the Holocaust?

The actors - Stephen Ryan, Matt Shofner, Sara Heifetz- were mesmerizing, shape-shifting from character to character to narrator and back again, sometimes in the course of two sentences.

Simple props, voice inflections and accents helped define characters as the story unfolded.

The chancellor's "project homecoming" is shown eliciting very different reactions. A concentration camp survivor wants to go back for revenge. An out of work Massachusetts dockworker wants to move his wife and son to Germany. Israelis fear for the safety of their people.

In one brilliant scene, Stephen portrayed two men having a conversation, putting on different hats, voices and demeanors to convey the decidedly different essence of each.

There weren't a lot of lighter scenes, but one involved the arrival of a Jewish, married, gay French couple (played to limp-wristed perfection by Matt and Stephen in berets) who want to claim their citizenship. Needless to say, they are not what the Germans had been expecting.

Sara managed to play both the non-Jewish wife of the dockworker as well as the teen-aged Jewish girl with whom her 15-year old son soon falls for and made both believable.

Their blossoming romance was the sweetest part of the film as the two learned that great loves are made not of similarities but of differences.

Him: You think I'm funny?
Her: You are funny!
Him: Then we most definitely need to kiss if you laugh at my jokes.

Piersol's direction was fast-paced so something was happening every moment, from the Boston couple becoming local celebrities to the German workers organizing to protest the jobs being taken from them for the new Jewish arrivals to Israeli activists arriving to become citizens in hopes of protecting their people.

Always someone was speaking, either in character or as narrator explaining the action. After a while, it felt eerily like a live action newsreel unfolding upsetting events even while intellectually, we knew we were watching fiction.

Hands down, it was some of the most powerful theater I've seen due in equal measures to Horovitz's story and completely compelling performances by the trio bringing it to life.

With the added weight of so much of tonight's audience being Jewish, it felt like we were watching something visceral and unforgettable.

My only regret was that I went alone so I didn't have anyone to discuss it with afterwards.

I was meeting a friend for a late dinner and conversation, though, just not about the play. I got to the Roosevelt just as the dinner rush was winding down and ordered a glass of Pollack Rose while bartender T. made sure I'd be at the next DJ night.

A DJ from my neighborhood record store playing late night tunes? Hell, yes.

With soul music uncharacteristically playing, the vibe tonight was slow and mellow, a terrific backdrop to meet up with my friend and find out what she'd been up to.

When the subject of my upcoming birthday arose, she posed a question. "How much technology can you stand?"

I think we all know the answer to that. I use a computer daily and won't own a cell phone until they pry the land line from my cold, dead hands.

"Have you heard of pagers?" she joked because she's so hilarious.

She had skirt steak for dinner while I chose pork belly, little neck clams and potatoes in kimchee broth, a spicy and satisfying bowlful that carried me through our discussion of mothers and daughters, double dragon and conspiracy theories.

Meanwhile I heard my name - first and last- called and there sat a recording engineer I know from the neighborhood, enjoying a cocktail with friends and are clearly surprised to see me somewhere other than Jackson Ward.

Which just goes to prove that he doesn't get out much or he'd know better.

The Only Bee in Your Bonnet

Ignoring my disdain for beer, I went to a brewery.

It's not like I hadn't been to Hardywood before; I had and between the crowd of hat boy types and young parents, had decided it just wasn't my thing.

I overlooked that tonight for the sake of bringing back geek chic.

Some theater friends were hosting an evening of music, but not just some band I could see elsewhere. Good bands, even friends' bands, play there all the time and I don't go.

No, tonight they were presenting their first "Cover to Cover" concert featuring a live band doing every song in order off They Might Be Giants' seminal 1990 album, "Flood."

Needless to say, I had to be there.

Luckily, in addition to hordes of moderately drunk people, I also found a few friends in the crowd, including a lot of actors and musicians.

The handsome bass player, inexplicably wearing a red clown nose, found me first and we commiserated about the distasteful smell of a brewery, an odor that had him gagging the first time he'd come to Hardywood to play a show.

But I can't just talk to one person, and before long I ran into the jeweler, one of last night's drummers and a Jackson Ward neighbor.

The evening was hosted by Matt, the same Matt who hosts the Ghost Light Afterparty with aplomb and high heels.

After the band played the brief "Intro to Flood," Matt and Evan sang the classic "Birdhouse In Your Soul," only messing up a little.

After mad clapping, Matt observed, "You guys are far too forgiving."  Copious amounts of beer will do that to you.

After a few minor adjustments to the sound system, Evan informed us, "We're gonna turn up the vocals higher in the mix so you can hear us better not knowing the words."

Meanwhile, the girl standing in front of me turned and said to me, "If my hair gets too big, just flip it out of your way."

Will do, honey.

Symphony violinist Treesa came onstage for "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" after having lost an hour of her life learning the part yesterday and promptly nailed it, making the song just about perfect.

It was during "Your Racist Friend" that Matt got jiggy with it, knocking into the pianist's music stand and light.

The Richmond symphony librarian, who happened to be in the crowd, vaulted onstage, adjusting the light for him like it was his job, which it wasn't.

Maggie did "Particle Man' complete with hand gestures just short of interpretive dance.

By then the crowd was pretty big and Evan said, "Sorry to those of you in the middle and back who can't hear us. Scooch closer and we'll all sweat to the oldies.

"We'll only bite if you want us to," Matt added, probably not kidding.

After "We Want a Rock," the Star Foster Dance Project showed up on two stages for several songs, including for "Minimum Wage," where a dancer named Egbert did a frenetic dance that perfectly mimicked the song's energy.

Katrinah and Maggie did a killer version of "Women and Men" with Matt singing back-up crouched on the floor at the women's feet. Appropriate, I thought.

Before "Sapphire Bullets of Pure Love," Matt warned us, "Here comes a song we never practiced." In other words, it was just like being at the Ghost Light Afterparty.

After the final song, "Road Movie to Berlin," they had time to kill before the art raffle, so they did "Birdhouse in Your Soul" again, this time to a far more, um, lubricated crowd.

The theater crowd, grouped to the right of the stage, created a big dance party, getting everyone else dancing, too.

Of course, once they'd done that, how could they not bring Treesa back onstage for one last rousing rendition of "Istanbul"?

"Look at all the invisible panties being thrown up here on stage!" Matt yelled, in the finest GLAP tradition.

And speaking of those fine GLAP folks, Matt and Maggie, tonight was only the first in the"Cover to Cover" series designed to raise money for their new production company, Spin, Spit and Swear, an apt metaphor for anything they do.

Once the music was over, I said my farewells to the good people and headed back to J-Ward for dinner at Lucy's.

Walking in, I heard my name called and found a wine rep, a pizza mogul and their husbands eating dinner before journeying out to Short Pump to see Eddie Murphy's brother at a comedy club.

Asking where I'd been, I shared, only to see my friend's face fall.

"I love that album! How did I not hear about that?" she wailed. Knowing about the first time for anything new is always the hardest.

After they left, I settled in at the bar where the bartender asked if I wanted Espolon, but I needed something better suited to warming me up on a cold night.

Her memory was excellent, but no, I was hoping for a glass of Stefano Antonucci Rosse Piceno, a Sangiovese and Montepulciano blend from Santa Barbara, a place with fond memories for the abundance of wine tasting I'd done there on vacation a few years back.

Playing on the screen was Alfred Hitchcock's "Lifeboat," a 1944 film I've never seen, but with no subtitles, couldn't really follow. I did question how Tallulah Bankhead was able to look so well-groomed stuck in a lifeboat for so long.

It was while I was eating a Cesar salad with white anchovies (perfectly dressed, too often not the case and I can't stand greens dripping in dressing) that I heard my name called again, this time by an actress I knew who had moved to Washington, D.C.

She's back to do a role in "The Elaborate Entrance of Chad Deity" at Firehouse Theater, promising flesh, fighting and a whole lot more inappropriate behavior if I come see it.

Sounds like a superb night of theater to me.

While eating some addictive spicy walnuts (cayenne, sugar, salt), I heard the table behind me talking about Black Iris Studio and the "suitcase exhibit," so I wasted no time in twirling around in my bar stool and telling them plenty about this terrific traveling music installation, which I've not only written about but done myself.

They asked me questions and thanked me profusely, despite my eavesdropping.

You guys are far too forgiving.

And while you're at it, keep the nightlight on inside the birdhouse in your soul.

Everyone Needs a Person to Turn Their Pages

The one thing we couldn't be thankful for at tonight's Ghost Light afterparty was heat.

Maybe it was there, but if it was, the females in the room couldn't feel it for the second annual 1st GLAPsgiving celebration (also given a shout-out as the weirdest GLAP ever), but Princess Di sat next to me with his Cosmo and I used his furnace-like body heat to warm my hands throughout the evening.

Hostess Maggie wore a fetching green circle skirt with "thank you" written in a dozen languages on it. Host Matt wore a headband with a giant acorn and pine needles. The guy who volunteered to run sound, a funk DJ at WRIR, was not only new to the job but new to the space. There was only one microphone instead of two and it only worked when it wanted to.

And nobody ever did find pianist Sandy's sustain pedal ("So we're going to have some choppy-sounding piano tonight, y'all").

"It's a technological shit storm," Matt warned.

"Usually I'm thankful for heat," Maggie said, shivering in one of Matt's bustiers.

Given that the set was one of a glitter-encrusted igloo (albeit with a rainbow over it), the absence of warmth fit right in.

The festivities got off to an amazing start with her saying, "First I'd like to thank the lord. You can snap along," and then she, Matt and Audra launched into Lorde's "Royals."

With nothing but the occasional bongo beats and snapping fingers, they nailed the song everyone knows.

Let me be your ruler (ruler)
You can call me queen bee
And baby, I'll rule, I'll rule, I'll rule, I'll rule
Let me live that fantasy

Nick from New York (who's apparently in the cast of "Fiddler on the Roof") was invaluable tonight, at one point calling out during a lull, "I have a pop song in my back pocket if you need it."

Wouldn't the world be a better place if we all had a good pop song in our back pocket?

Matt and Ali did a goosebump-inducing version of "I'd Give It All for You" when their two incredible voices harmonized.

When Audra and Ali got up to sing a song from "Little Women," Ali introduced it by saying, "This is where one of us dies," host Maggie broke in, saying hilariously, "Don't spoil it for the people!"

We already knew it was going to be serious because Ali spit out her gum.

Another devastating song followed when Brittney did a song from "Les Miz," Princess DI's least favorite musical.

The always clever Starlet Knight said she was going to sing the only Thanksgiving song she knew and did the sweetly retro "Counting My Blessings" while wearing a spotted Cruella deVille jacket.

From there, the weirdness flowed like syrup on pancakes.

Sam, the sound guy did "Fly Me to the Moon," a standard you might not expect from a funk DJ.

Joe did a dramatic reading of a hand-written letter he found on the sidewalk that began with, "Boo, I know things be whack," and moved through discussions of (and he'd warned us about the adult language in his "dramatic reading") both his anatomy and that of the babe he was writing to and where he'd like to see things placed.

With each reference to a body part, we in the audience began snapping our fingers in applause, beatnik-style.

When he finished, both Maggie and Ian bowed down at his feet.

The first half closed with "The Circle of Life" because what is a GLAP without it and the accompanying interpretive dance, bongos and myriad shaker balls?

Instead of the usual pizza, there was a GLAPSgiving feast of fried chicken and a yard of cookies (really, the box was 36 inches long) while dance music (Janet Jackson, Go-Gos, Tony Basil) blared.

The second act got off with a bang as Nicole got up to sing "As We Stumble Along" from "The Drowsy Chaperone," which I'd just seen a couple weeks ago.

Hilariously, she started singing, then stopped and said of herself, "She already messed up."

Maggie, who is also in the show, smiled and said, "We're in week four of our run," and pianist Sandy said, "Take 2" for the rousing tribute to alcohol.

Could there be a more appropriate song at GLAP? I think not.

Nick and guitarist Steven (whom Maggie called Jesus when she couldn't remember his name) did "Dock of the Bay," Nick promising to "break it down" for us.

Another old chestnut that got rolled out was "Suddenly Seymour" with David and Audra acting out as well as singing, while a couple slow danced over by the bathroom to it.

Wearing her Hello, Kitty gloves for warmth, Starlet returned to sing "Romance is a Slow Dance," perhaps inspired by what was going on nearby.

Suddenly it was last call and we finished out the night with Audra and Ali singing.

"This is from a musical about co-joined twins," Audra explained. "It's kind of a creepy story."

But the song, "I Will Never Leave You" was gorgeous and surprisingly well executed considering the hour and alcohol consumption, while it had the princess next to me all but tearing up.

I had to break it down for him. Don't be cryin' at the GLAP, Boo. That just be whack.

As We Stumble Along

My plans were to go to the Quaker meeting house for music. No, seriously.

But then a review and a play dropped in my lap and my evening took a southward turn.

My friend Moira shared the meal with me before returning to work for a photography assignment while I felt my way through the dark to Swift Creek Mill theater, a place I'd never been.

I'm directionally-challenged in broad daylight, so at night, I'm at a complete loss when looking for someplace new to me.

Let's just say I allowed 45 minutes to get someplace that was 20.5 miles away - and 17 of the miles were highway so I was going 60 miles per hour.

In my defense, I got stopped for a train (coming and going, now what are the chances of that?), had to stop and ask for directions twice (once at a 7-11 where a young guy who'd just bought a 40 ounce leered and asked if he could drive me there) and made it to the theater with five minutes before curtain.

After a quick trip to the bathroom, I joined a couple of guys on the elevator up to the theater, listening to them rave that the elevator was the highlight of the renovation.

Explaining that it was my first time there, one of the men extended his hand and introduced himself as the president of the Mill.

I found out during the introduction of the show that the theater's grand re-opening had been just last weekend.

"Make sure that while you're here tonight you pee," the director (I think) told us to great laughter. "You can actually turn around now. And the new elevator is an uplifting ride."

How about that? Brand new to SCM theater and I'd already managed to experience its strengths.

"Act like normal people tonight so the actors can find out where the laughs are so we'll be ready for the paying customers tomorrow night," he added.

All I could do was try.

With that, the dress rehearsal began with a dark stage and a voice intoning, "I hate theater."

The Man in the Chair talking was a key character who narrated the play, set in 1928, deconstructing its story and characters for us throughout the show.

First we were instructed to listen to the overture ("a musical appetizer, a pu pu platter of tunes") and then he explained a few things.

"The Drowsy Chaperone" was his favorite musical and he liked to play the two-record set when he was feeling a non-specific sadness.

So he begins playing the record and the story comes to life in his living room. It's everything a musical-hater hates about musicals. It also won a Tony award and played on Broadway for a year and a half.

The drowsy chaperon of the title was a hilarious character, a seasoned woman who liked to drink despite it being set during Prohibition and the one responsible for ensuring that the bride did not see the groom before the wedding.

When asked if it wasn't a bit early in the day to be drinking, she responds, "I don't understand the question." When asked if she'd ever been married, she says, "No, I drink for pleasure."

Her big showstopper of a number is a rousing anthem about alcoholism.

The groom and best man have a tap dancing scene where they are joined by the narrator, also tapping, and eventually the older butler, who does full on turns and almost steals the scene.

It's been a while since I've seen any tap dancing.

Even more impressive was the scene where the bride ("We spooned briefly, then he proposed") explains that she's willing to give up her show biz career to be married to the man of her dreams.

During the course of the song "Show Off," she sings, "I don't wanna change keys no more, I don't wanna striptease no more," while doing cartwheels, handstands and splits. Oh, yes, and Rockette kicks.

Truly impressive.

Evan Nasteff, as one of two gangsters disguised as pastry chefs, had some of the cleverest wordplay of the evening, not to mention their ability to flip trays of pastries mid-dance step. Then there was their masterful jazz hands as they danced in flowered aprons over plaid knickers.

The bride's Feldzieg Follies producer is determined to stop the wedding so he won't lose his star, so he begins plotting.

"I need someone with loose morals," he muses. "I need, what do you call it? A European!"

Enter Adolpho, played by the always brilliant Matt Shofner, this time in a black pompadour wig with a white streak, a mustache and as full of himself as any Latin lover.

His broad comedy and thick accent had the audience in stitches every time he was on stage.

During intermission, I took my second trip to those fabulous new bathrooms, where I heard several women say they'd seen the play before, including one who saw it on Broadway.

All of them agreed that the play was great entertainment and the notion of a "musical within a comedy" was awfully amusing.

When the show resumed, our narrator asked if we'd enjoyed intermission because he hadn't, didn't like the interruption of reality.

"Whenever a character is in crisis, they sing and dance. That's musical theater!" he said, cheered up that the second act was coming.

Like a good Shakespeare play, eventually all the romantic problems are sorted out and all of a sudden everyone is in love with someone and wanting to marry them.

One of the most hilarious moments comes when the chaperone announces that she and Adolpho are in love. Smiling and putting his hands over her ears, he mouths, "Help me!"

But he doesn't really want help and before long there are four marriages in the offing, with the hostess and her butler singing "Love is Always Lovely in the End," she citing lovers as examples and him reminding her they all ended badly.

"We'll all get married in a clump, like they do in Utah!" they decide.

The nuptials are done on a plane which also flies up (and kind of away), a nice effect, to symbolize happiness and honeymoons in Rio to come. And, musically, the end of non-specific sadness.

Just goes to show you where alcohol and spooning can lead.

Legs M.I.A.

My legs were covered day and night and that tells the whole story.

Sunday night, it was a black burnt velvet dress (purchased by a former boyfriend back in 1997 at Lex's in Carytown) that ended at my feet, the better to fit in for the black-tie Richmond Theater Critics Circle awards (aka the Artsies) at the November Theater.

Considering that my skirts always end well above the knees, my full-length attire was cause for comment.

"You look beautiful but what did you do with your legs?" I was asked in the lobby pre-show.

Put them away for the night?

After hearing that I looked swanky, I explained that that's like telling someone they look casual. I got an amended, "You look really good," far more complimentary to my ears.

One of the evening's hosts, Michael Hawke, came onstage and yelled, "Good evening, Richmond bitches!" setting the tone for a raucous evening celebrating local theater.

Not that I'm partial or anything, but Matt and Maggie, hosts of the monthly Ghost Light Afterparty, did some of the funniest awards presenting, using every possible opportunity to crack wise.

"Look at this! Everyone's in costume, everyone's wasted, clearly this is GLAP!" Matt joked before Maggie clarified it was the Artsies.

When they went to announce their first award, he yelled, "Wait! We have to have a drum roll!" and pulled out the GLAP bongos a familiar sight to regulars.

"I'm still not convinced this isn't the GLAP," Matt said, playing it to the hilt. "I'm pretty sure I saw Karen at the bar."

"I'm gonna go look for Karen!" Maggie said, using me as an excuse to leave her hosting duties and get a drink.

And while I wasn't at the bar (I was in my seat like a good attendee), it's always good to get a solid shout-out from the GLAP crew.

As if an evening with my assets hidden wasn't enough, I took a day to go to the country to traipse through the woods at the invitation of a friend.

The invite came with a warning, though.

"I know you're not fond of long pants but I'm going to recommend you wear a pair and some shoes suitable for hiking so we can trek through the wilderness."

What are these long pants you speak of, friend?

But I took the caveat to heart, went to Diversity Thrift and found a pair of jeans that I was told looked straight out of the disco.

Hip-huggers, multiple zippered pockets front and back, wide bell-bottoms and only $5.25, they were about as groovy (and cheap) as they come.

If there'd been a disco on the other side of the state forest, I could have gone there directly.

Instead, I spent most of a day wearing jeans, so rare an occurrence for me that I can tell you the last time I had denim obliterating a view of my gams.

February 2009.

I'm not expecting to put jeans back on again anytime soon, because what's the point in having good legs and not showing them off? Twice was more than enough.

Okay, maybe if I get invited to the disco.

A Little Sugar in my Bowl

I woke up happy this morning.

You have to love a morning when a guy asks, "Will you marry me today?"

Granted, I didn't know him and I was walking down the street when he said, it, but I take my proposals where ever they come from.

Tonight I took my evening right here in Jackson Ward at the Hippodrome Theater.

The founders of the Firehouse Theater Project were presenting a celebration of (almost) 20 years of provocative Richmond theater and as a long-time Firehouse supporter and theater lover, how better to spend a Tuesday night?

Pru joined me for what turned out to be a big, old party interspersed with songs and scenes from former FTP productions.

The bar was mobbed when we arrived, so we patiently waited our turn before heading to the food table for spicy crabcakes, meatballs and, my favorite, mini-chicken and waffles.

A guy in the buffet line told me he'd never heard of the classic sweet and salty shift meal, so I gave him a brief history as we scooped up food.

I saw lots of familiar faces - the beer and theater loving couple, the Listening Room alum as excited as I am about the upcoming show at the Michaux House, even said hi to Carol Piersol herself, the reason for tonight's celebration.

We took seats in the second row, behind the all-important founders who were in the front row and did our mingling from there.

The show began with host Eva asking for those who'd performed at FTP to clap (lots of applause). Then for those who'd attended an FTP production to clap (even more applause).

Then she asked those who've gone in to Lowe's to use the bathroom to clap and that got the largest applause of all.

Appropriately, the first performer was Scott Wichmann, doing a song from "Bat Boy," the first musical FTP ever did, and setting the bar very high.

We saw a very funny scene from Harry the Hat's "Persistence of Memory," about one of the Reynolds' execs trying to get Salvador Dali (complete with lobster phone) to create a statue out of aluminum for Monument Avenue back in the '60s.

True story.

A scene from David Mamet's "Businessmen" seemed an especially good choice given that tonight's show was a benefit for Carol Piersol's upcoming production of Mamet's "Race."

Desiree Roots killed it during a rendition of  "I Need a Little Sugar in My Bowl," from "The Death of Bessie Smith," one of two Edward Albee shows we saw tonight.

Tired of bein' lonely, tired of bein' blue
Wished I had some good man to tell my troubles to

The audience was testifying right along with her.

More Mamet came courtesy of the classic "Glengarry Glen Ross" with d.l. Hopkins effortlessly tossing off lines like, "This place gets robbed, they'll come looking for me. Why? Because I probably did it."

Jacob Pennington broke my heart with a scene from "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead," about his beagle Snoopy being put to sleep after killing Woodstock.

I can handle many things, but not dead beagle scenes. For me, it'll always be too soon for that.

Matt Shofner brought everybody back up, though with an hysterical and well done version of "Suppertime" ("the very best time of the day," he sang. Amen to that) from "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown.

Man, can that boy sing, as if I didn't already know that from the Ghost Light afterparty.

Sam Shepard's "Curse of the Starving Class" was typical Shepard-like bleak, involving jail, a lamb and an actor in his boxers.

In a related note, host Eva then came out in a nude body stocking, complete with an abundant pubic hair wig. aimlessly twirling strands of hair around her finger as she said, "The Firehouse has never shied away from nudity onstage."

Harry "The Hat" Kollatz spoke next, brilliantly telling the saga of a 1998 FTP production.

Recalling executive director Carol calling him for help, he admitted to wondering why.

"I am the Chauncey Gardiner of this outfit. I have no practical skills," he said, cracking up the entire room.

His story ended up being about how the 100+-year firehouse had been purchased through the generosity of unexpected benefactors.

Katrinah Carol Lewis did "Out Tonight" from "Rent," a show Harry had said could have run forever it was so well-received.

Let's go out tonight
I have to go out tonight
You wanna play?
Let's run away
We won't be back before it's New Year's Day
Take me out tonight

The scene from "Four Dogs and a Bone" had an actress coming on to a writer, resulting in lines like, "I used to be romantic before I joined the writers' guild."

John Patrick Shanley's play was full of stellar lines. "I can't even tell you're drunk except by what you say.

Even better, "I hope I remember this conversation in the morning, not the gist of it, but the details."

Scott came back to do a song he'd planned to do at FTP's 2008 cabaret but which had not made the cut.

"Entering Marion" was ostensibly a travel song except he kept entering towns with girls' names, eventually becoming the kind of trampy traveler who entered places like Lawrence and Lowell before regretting it later at the motel.

His performance was terrifically nuanced, right down to hand gestures of shifting gears in the car.

Watching "Eurydice," it was striking how spot on the cast was.

The guy next to me leaned in and observed, "It's amazing, they're doing these roles years after they originally did and not overacting a bit. That's quite an accomplishment."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Desiree Roots' medley from "Dessa Rose" was so big-voiced and moving that I saw a few people wiping tears away by the end of it.

I recall seeing the second Albee play of the evening, "The Goat, Or Who is Sylvia?" but you never really forget a play about a man having an affair with a goat, do you?

The show ended with the inimitable Matt coming back out, this time with a long, blond wig, full face makeup and open-toed pumps on.

As soon as I saw him, I remembered the other night at the Ghost Light, host Maggie had come onstage with a bulging bag, saying to Matt, "Here, you said to bring your wigs."

Now I knew why.

With scene-stealing know-how, he sang "Midnight Radio" from "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," prancing around the stage, his big voice reaching to the rafters.

By the time he got to the chorus ending of "Lift up your hands, lift up your hands," people in the crowd led by a glowing Carol, were doing just that and a procession began of people dancing toward the stage, all arms in the air.

You know you're doing alright
So hold on to each other
You gotta hold on tonight

Watching a roomful of theater performers and theater lovers gather together to celebrate a company that changed the Richmond theater scene for the better was mighty impressive.

I hope I remember this performance, not just in the morning, but years from now, and not the gist of it, but the details.

Truly, it was a lovely thing to behold.

Mid-Summer Madness

Nothing worked out as expected and everything worked out great.

The plan was to go to Petersburg to have a picnic on the lawn and see Sycamore Rouge's free production of  "Twelfth Night."

Free Shakespeare outdoors, hell, yes.

I mean, yes, please.

On the drive down 95, it began to rain.

By the time we got downtown it was more like a monsoon.

We pulled up right in front of the Petersburg Art League and sat there in the car, hoping to wait out the rain and hope that the play would still begin in just over an hour.

I suppose we were a little obvious, sitting there idling and staring, so when a woman stuck her head out the door, I rolled down my window and asked if the play was still happening.

It was, only inside now and, yes, we could bring our dinner in with us.

Being straight-haired women, we opted to wait out the worst of the rain before making a mad dash for the door.

All at once, my friend had a flash of clarity.

"Wine!" she exclaimed, pulling a bottle of Rose d'Anjou from the back seat.

She's brilliant, that one.

So that was us, the two happy theater lovers sitting in the Mini sipping Rose as the rain fell harder and car tires disappeared into the enormous puddle across the street.

Once we'd gotten into the wine, we couldn't help but get into the food we'd brought from Garnett's and next thing you know, I'm eating a farmer's salad and she's downing a black forest ham sandwich and potato chips which had morphed from extra crispy to slightly soggy in the humid air.

About 7:15, a woman came out of the building, indicating we should roll down the window and said, "If you want to come in, we're going to start in about fifteen minutes."

Food and wine consumed, we soon joined the small crowd inside.

No doubt many people had assumed the outdoor show had been called off by the bad weather, but they'd have been wrong.

You know what they say about assumptions.

We had our pick of seats and choose two in the front row, the better to see the mistaken identities and cross-gartered stockings up close.

The cast, full of fine voices, began the show by singing "Walk Like a Man" before they were off and running.

I heard you were saucy at my gates.

"Twelfth Night" is a play I've seen many times (Scott Wichmann was my first Mavolio, what, over a decade ago?) and one I still enjoy with the right cast.

This was the right cast and the right chaise, the only prop.

O, time, thou must untangle this, not I.

This production included a lot of popular music - "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away," "Leavin' on a Jet Plane," "Get Off of My Cloud"- played to a guitar strummed by the especially well-acted Feste, the fool (whose voice sent both Friend and I into palpitations).

As I am, all lovers are.

Having the Art League as the backdrop for the play instead of the great outdoors meant that behind the actors hung a show by Adam Juresko, an artist with whom I'm well familiar since two of his pieces hang in my living room.

All I'm saying is, you could do a whole lot worse for set decoration.

Let thy love be younger than thyself.

That's always been my M.O.

When intermission arrived, we stretched our legs by going outside during a momentary break in the rain and admired the little park and stage next door where the play is usually performed.

Seeing it made us both want to come back and try the picnic/play thing again.

But indeed, words are very rascals.

During the second act, I got the payoff for being in the front row when the actor playing Sebastian leered at me mid-dialog and inquired, "So, I'm Sebastian. What are you doing after the show?"

It's always nice to be singled out.

When after a discussion with his servant, Antonio, he finds he has an hour and some cash to kill, he leered again, as if to check if an hour would be enough.

I could work with  an hour.

Why, this is very mid-summer madness.

Despite the small crowd and move to the indoors, the cast was energetic, delivering their lines as if to a lawn full of people.

Which is, I bet, what they will have for all their other performances considering how well-executed and hilarious this production is.

I recognized a couple of people since I was practically up in their faces.

Matt as Sir Andrew was laugh-out-loud funny with his big eyes and effortless broad physical comedy, once even knocking the curtain off the opening to the backstage area in his exuberance.

Despite having seen Nick wow me with show tunes at Ghost Light Afterparty so many times, his turn as Malvolio was a treat, as he played alternately egotistical and angry and oh-so dapperly yellow.

McLean's Olivia was funny, self-involved but enthusiastically devoted to the man/woman she thought she loved.

Besides, by the end of the play, everyone had been found out, marriages made and Malvolio clear that he'd be revenged on the lot of them.

By the end of my night, I'd had wine and dinner in a car during a rainstorm and seen a rollicking good play inside instead of out.

Not what I expected, but what you will.