Talk all you want about the "black" card or the "woman" card, but let's get serious about the "city" card.
As in, don't tell me you can't park your compact little car in a space that would accommodate both my Altima and Pru's Mini because I will expect you to park and adjust until you are less than 18 inches from the curb anyway.
Otherwise, I will make a citizen's arrest to confiscate your "city" card. Beau was so hesitant about taking on the parking gauntlet I threw down that a bicyclist riding by piled on, calling out, "Tell him he can park up here," gesturing at an open-ended space that could have accommodated an 18-wheeler.
That kind of condescension while biking is a treat to behold. Luckily, Beau kept his card.
The barkeep at Belmont Food Shop greeted me discreetly, as if we had not just seen each other 18 hours ago, and set up the four of us in the front window, where the confluence of today's 90-something temperatures, a western exposure and the setting sun ensured that perspiration ensued.
"Chef says it's too hot for confit," our server pronounced, setting down plates of amuse bouches (gougeres and three kinds of dressed diced beets, all swoon-worthy) to replace confit. Pickled shrimp and pate took us right into a conversation about the relationship across the table.
"You mean I'm still on trial?" he asks, mock incredulously. No, you're in training, we clarify.
"Training?" Pru challenges. "I prefer 'probation.'" It was immediately clarified that the end game was not a pre-determined outcome, but whatever worked best for both because the term "relationship" is a malleable one, god knows.
Everything we ordered was dead tasty (as my Scottish friend would phrase it) and that extended from the killer skate over sauteed pea shoots to clam chowder to crabmeat over avocado to a sunny asparagus salad with baked Ricotta and lemon to smoked bluefish dip.
When it came time to consider dessert, Pru admonished, "You can have whatever you want," only to get the cheeky response, "I want a 120-pound body and a tall, dark and handsome 35-year old."
Yes, don't we all?
When the subject returned to Beau's lack of parallel parking confidence, the tragic result of too many years living in suburbia, Pru interjected with an idea that she and I would sit in my apartment sipping wine while he practiced parking down on my street between two orange cones outfitted with eggs on top of them, a ploy gleaned from an episode of "The Brady BUnch."
For the record, Marcia did a far better job parallel parking than Greg Brady did, but who's really surprised at that?
In any case, Pru's thought was that we'd watch from above, judging his parking moves and tossing out small rewards when he succeeded. I thought Tootsie Rolls would make a fine reward.
"I'd parallel park for Tootsie Rolls!" she announces, proving yet again why we're soul mates. I'd do a lot for Tootsie Rolls.
After French silk pie and chocolate bread pudding was an acknowledgement that Pru and Beau "will always have coffee" (as opposed to Paris, I suppose), a reference to their shared caffeine addiction which, despite the heat, had them drinking a French press.
We left Belmont to take the scenic route past horse paddocks and nouveau riche houses to Agecroft for Quill's production of "Twelfth Night" on a hot eleventh night of June.
Fortunately, Pru had brought a dramatic black fan with purple flowers for self-cooling, while many in the crowd pressed their programs into service.
My job was to snag the tickets at the box office, where a man walked in and announced, "I hate dealing with old people," a statement that stopped me in my tracks. What exactly do you mean by old?
"Older than you," he assured me. "Besides, you're beautiful." Thanks, stranger.
Tucked to the side of the stage in front of a garden of delphiniums, zinnias, snapdragons and coneflowers and behind a man in a seersucker shirt, our seats afforded a fine view of the two actors laying down the ground rules about not leaving feet in the aisles or walking where the actors would be.
"It sounds silly, but it's happened before and we will cut you," Luke Schares as Feste deadpanned under light blue skies with a pale wedge of a moon overhead. Before the play was over, I'd marvel at a heron flying overhead, spot multiple planes, both large and small crafts, and see stars begin to appear.
Shall we set about some revels?
Goodness knows I've seen "Twelfth Night" more than my fair share of times. I've seen it done as a gender-reversed play, as a staged reading, outdoors in Petersburg, by a high school cast, with Scott Wichmann as Malvolio and actually on Twelfth Night and that's just what I can remember.
But it's an easy play to love, unlike others, as evidenced by the Bermudian explaining why she'd opted out of Quill's outdoor productions last summer. "I just couldn't do "Lear." Talk about depressing!"
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage
Tonight's cast was strong, the energy never lagged and the entire production felt like a non-stop rollicking good time, the perfect summertime entertainment. There was dancing, singing and headstands.
I smell a device.
For language nerds, part of the satisfaction of Shakespeare is word choice and more than once - jot, dissemble, excellent ignorance - Pru and I bemoaned the loss of certain colorful words that have fallen out of use, at least in the circles we frequent.
Daylight and Champagne discovers not more.
Thomas Cunningham as the hapless Malvolio blustered, begged and was sweating bullets as the play's action moved around him, but we felt sorry for all the men in three piece suits onstage.
I am indeed not her fool but her corrupter of words.
The lights being on during intermission put out a call to nature, resulting in a swarm of night bugs joining the audience for the second act, flying about into our chairs, noses and mouths (so undoubtedly the actors' as well) and swirling around the stage.
Pru referred to it as "The Pestilence," but I prefer Shakespeare's words.
Why, this is very mid-summer madness.
Which perhaps is what sitting in the courtyard of a 500-year old Tudor house watching a 500-year old play about love and mockery absent Tootsie Rolls amounts to.
If so, give me excess of it.
Showing posts with label twelfth night. Show all posts
Showing posts with label twelfth night. Show all posts
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Saucy Plays and Love Trains
The last time I saw a high school play I was probably in high school.
And while I don't recall the specific play, I feel absolutely certain it was nowhere near as good as the one I saw tonight.
Maggie Walker Governor's School was doing a preview tonight of "Twelfth Night (Or What You Will)" and I couldn't think of a single reason to pass up free Shakespeare.
I was completely unprepared for what a fabulous theater the school had but not entirely surprised at the fine set dressing.
Clearly talent abounds at this school.
A big, fat, yellow moon hung over the back of the stage with a charming flower-covered swing in front.
These clothes are good enough to drink in and so be these boots, too.
There's a certain kind of amusement that comes from hearing a line like that come out of the mouth of a teenager.
The young cast had clearly been well-rehearsed by director Billy Christopher Maupin and came across sure of their dialog and confident in their movements.
His casting was also cleverly-executed, with a guy playing Maria and a girl playing the beleagured Malvolio, he of the grim smile and yellow cross-gartered stockings, which in this production were black fishnets over yellow tights.
Shall we set about some revels?
There's a line the essence of which rang plenty true coming out of a high-schooler's mouth.
A scene where Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek begin dancing together got big laughs when Toby's hands migrated south to Andrew's butt. You know, like at a high school dance.
I heard you were saucy at my gates.
That's the kind of line that makes me want to work saucy into conversation and not in relation to food, either.
Fact is, I've seen "Twelfth Night" as much as I've seen any Shakespeare play performed, but I never get tired of seeing it interpreted well, as it was tonight.
This was a cast who understood the words they were saying and not just parroting language. Music was incorporated into the play at the beginning, middle and end demonstrating some talented musicality on the part of the cast.
Love sought is good but given unsought is better.
If they haven't yet had the life experience to understand that one, they will.
In the meantime, they're putting on a decidedly excellent production that'll make you forget they still get big X's on their hands at shows.
Once the play was over and I left the high school, where better to go than a dance?
Balliceaux was hosting Mexican band, Sabrosa Sabrosura, playing their cumbia/funk/reggae dance music for our Wednesday night pleasure.
When I got there, I found a friend at the front bar and since the band was running late, sat down with him to chat for a bit.
He'd already heard about the band's delay due to driving up from New Orleans today, but had had been told they were expected within the hour.
We moved to the back room to await their arrival and there I found the jazz critic and settled in to chat with him.
He had great stories, like one about seeing Pat Metheny at a Broad Street venue with only ten other people, including a very young Bruce Hornsby.
The best one happened at a family reunion last year in New Jersey where a young female family member from California who goes to school in New York told him how much she loved Reggie Pace.
That's one far-reaching trombone.
Finally the band - a guitar player, a key-tar player and a slip of a woman playing the cheese grater-looking guira- arrived some time after 11 and set up quickly.
As a bonus, Richmond's own Giustino Riccio was playing congas for them, resplendent in a red shirt and enormous bell-bottom jeans, an ensemble he'd changed into in the basement of Kuba Kuba after his shift tonight.
"Sorry we're so late!" the singer/guira player said. "We're on Mexican time! Get ready because this is dancing music!"
The second they began playing, no one in the good-sized crowd (which was full of jazz musicians) who'd waited around cared how long they'd waited.
But then, before they even got to the end of the first song, something blew on the sound system and there was a break while it was fixed.
Boy, these guys were having a hard time of it tonight.
They began jamming without amplification and soon the guitar player was peeling off his shirt.
"Looks like strip cumbia," the critic joked as we waited.
Soon the guira-playing girl started talking to audience members about papayas, which seemed odd until the critic leaned down and observed, "I think they're talking about genitalia."
After the song "La Papaya y el Despapaye," sung in Spanish we had no more of a clue until she announced, "Since we all come from papayas..."
Genitalia it was.
The band was totally interactive with the crowd, maybe just glad to be out of the car, perhaps grateful that we'd stuck around for them, and challenged us, the guitar player saying, "The Mexicans say if you can't dance, you can't make love right."
Guira girl promptly got off the stage and started a conga line, which the guitar player called a "love train" and which snaked around the room for the rest of the song.
The critic finally looked at me and stood up, saying, "I'm gonna go home and play my own cheese grater."
I have no reason to assume that was a euphemism or related to genitalia.
He missed out on more high-energy dance music.
Saying that they'd driven for more than ten hours and been caught by the police, the band announced a ten-minute break.
Unfortunately because of the late start, many people had to leave at the break, but if they'd stuck around they might have been as surprised as I was that the band actually took a ten-minute break.
Clearly they were not on jazz time where 10 always means at least 30.
Another guy who'd been dancing a lot took over conga duties after the break, leaving Giustino to dance in front of the stage, first alone and then with a girl who asked him.
When the song ended and he went to retrieve his drink, there was some sort of collision and it shattered on the floor.
"You can drink my blood, but don't spill my tequila," the lovely guira player called out.
So now we better understood Mexican priorities.
Giustino returned to the congas where he was less likely to spill something and more likely to wow the crowd with his sure-handed playing.
The guira girl kept leaving the stage to pull people up to dance, or maybe she was trying to ascertain who knew how to make love right.
I felt pretty confident there. That's the part that made it way better than a high school dance.
And while I don't recall the specific play, I feel absolutely certain it was nowhere near as good as the one I saw tonight.
Maggie Walker Governor's School was doing a preview tonight of "Twelfth Night (Or What You Will)" and I couldn't think of a single reason to pass up free Shakespeare.
I was completely unprepared for what a fabulous theater the school had but not entirely surprised at the fine set dressing.
Clearly talent abounds at this school.
A big, fat, yellow moon hung over the back of the stage with a charming flower-covered swing in front.
These clothes are good enough to drink in and so be these boots, too.
There's a certain kind of amusement that comes from hearing a line like that come out of the mouth of a teenager.
The young cast had clearly been well-rehearsed by director Billy Christopher Maupin and came across sure of their dialog and confident in their movements.
His casting was also cleverly-executed, with a guy playing Maria and a girl playing the beleagured Malvolio, he of the grim smile and yellow cross-gartered stockings, which in this production were black fishnets over yellow tights.
Shall we set about some revels?
There's a line the essence of which rang plenty true coming out of a high-schooler's mouth.
A scene where Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek begin dancing together got big laughs when Toby's hands migrated south to Andrew's butt. You know, like at a high school dance.
I heard you were saucy at my gates.
That's the kind of line that makes me want to work saucy into conversation and not in relation to food, either.
Fact is, I've seen "Twelfth Night" as much as I've seen any Shakespeare play performed, but I never get tired of seeing it interpreted well, as it was tonight.
This was a cast who understood the words they were saying and not just parroting language. Music was incorporated into the play at the beginning, middle and end demonstrating some talented musicality on the part of the cast.
Love sought is good but given unsought is better.
If they haven't yet had the life experience to understand that one, they will.
In the meantime, they're putting on a decidedly excellent production that'll make you forget they still get big X's on their hands at shows.
Once the play was over and I left the high school, where better to go than a dance?
Balliceaux was hosting Mexican band, Sabrosa Sabrosura, playing their cumbia/funk/reggae dance music for our Wednesday night pleasure.
When I got there, I found a friend at the front bar and since the band was running late, sat down with him to chat for a bit.
He'd already heard about the band's delay due to driving up from New Orleans today, but had had been told they were expected within the hour.
We moved to the back room to await their arrival and there I found the jazz critic and settled in to chat with him.
He had great stories, like one about seeing Pat Metheny at a Broad Street venue with only ten other people, including a very young Bruce Hornsby.
The best one happened at a family reunion last year in New Jersey where a young female family member from California who goes to school in New York told him how much she loved Reggie Pace.
That's one far-reaching trombone.
Finally the band - a guitar player, a key-tar player and a slip of a woman playing the cheese grater-looking guira- arrived some time after 11 and set up quickly.
As a bonus, Richmond's own Giustino Riccio was playing congas for them, resplendent in a red shirt and enormous bell-bottom jeans, an ensemble he'd changed into in the basement of Kuba Kuba after his shift tonight.
"Sorry we're so late!" the singer/guira player said. "We're on Mexican time! Get ready because this is dancing music!"
The second they began playing, no one in the good-sized crowd (which was full of jazz musicians) who'd waited around cared how long they'd waited.
But then, before they even got to the end of the first song, something blew on the sound system and there was a break while it was fixed.
Boy, these guys were having a hard time of it tonight.
They began jamming without amplification and soon the guitar player was peeling off his shirt.
"Looks like strip cumbia," the critic joked as we waited.
Soon the guira-playing girl started talking to audience members about papayas, which seemed odd until the critic leaned down and observed, "I think they're talking about genitalia."
After the song "La Papaya y el Despapaye," sung in Spanish we had no more of a clue until she announced, "Since we all come from papayas..."
Genitalia it was.
The band was totally interactive with the crowd, maybe just glad to be out of the car, perhaps grateful that we'd stuck around for them, and challenged us, the guitar player saying, "The Mexicans say if you can't dance, you can't make love right."
Guira girl promptly got off the stage and started a conga line, which the guitar player called a "love train" and which snaked around the room for the rest of the song.
The critic finally looked at me and stood up, saying, "I'm gonna go home and play my own cheese grater."
I have no reason to assume that was a euphemism or related to genitalia.
He missed out on more high-energy dance music.
Saying that they'd driven for more than ten hours and been caught by the police, the band announced a ten-minute break.
Unfortunately because of the late start, many people had to leave at the break, but if they'd stuck around they might have been as surprised as I was that the band actually took a ten-minute break.
Clearly they were not on jazz time where 10 always means at least 30.
Another guy who'd been dancing a lot took over conga duties after the break, leaving Giustino to dance in front of the stage, first alone and then with a girl who asked him.
When the song ended and he went to retrieve his drink, there was some sort of collision and it shattered on the floor.
"You can drink my blood, but don't spill my tequila," the lovely guira player called out.
So now we better understood Mexican priorities.
Giustino returned to the congas where he was less likely to spill something and more likely to wow the crowd with his sure-handed playing.
The guira girl kept leaving the stage to pull people up to dance, or maybe she was trying to ascertain who knew how to make love right.
I felt pretty confident there. That's the part that made it way better than a high school dance.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
The Most Brisk and Giddy-Paced Times
Standing on a corner in Jackson Ward and the familiar faces just keep coming.
The aviator, the intrepid trekker, the DJs.
Inside, "Invisible Weight," a show by Sean Mahan displays paintings on wood of figures connecting, floating and being.
"Sewing 4," already sold when I arrive, depicts a young girl and old-fashioned sewing machine. Its purity is striking.
In the back gallery, "Moving Moments" by Erin Tobey takes a whimsical look at tables crashing through rooves and sisters transmuting into furry, winged creatures.
A friend buys a piece of a figure taking in air through a pipe to help her confront her asthma issues..
At 1708 Gallery, "Everything is Under Control," a video piece by Sara Pomerance is part of a larger video series, "Telling Tales."
The short clips of her family and friends leading their lives is melancholy and mundane, like far too many people's.
And because it is Twelfth Night, Richmond Shakespeare presents a reading of, what else, "Twelfth Night" with its themes of merriment (Jeff Clevinger's Sir Toby perfectly nailed the drunken shenanigans of an instigator) and love, always love.
"Love sought is good, but given unsought is better."
It was suggested to me that it could also be phrased as, "I want you to want me."
Daylight and champagne discovers not more."
Avalon, mobbed and with a steady influx of people, provides duck pizza, pepperoni pizza,Thurston Wolfe Family Red (at the owner's suggestion) and questions of growing old.
Moments after our server told us it was last call, I look over to see a girl applying deodorant at her booth. Fortunately, there is no one else sitting with her.
I have seen many things in bar, but never anyone addressing their pit wetness. I suppose it was her last chance to find someone tonight.
Meanwhile, my long-time companion (eight hours at this point) hilariously and half-seriously explains to me that our friendship can be traced back to Abe Lincoln.
Everything hinges on something else and a perfect storm was required to bring it to fruition.
Twelfth Night, or What You Will. That's exactly what we're figuring out.
The aviator, the intrepid trekker, the DJs.
Inside, "Invisible Weight," a show by Sean Mahan displays paintings on wood of figures connecting, floating and being.
"Sewing 4," already sold when I arrive, depicts a young girl and old-fashioned sewing machine. Its purity is striking.
In the back gallery, "Moving Moments" by Erin Tobey takes a whimsical look at tables crashing through rooves and sisters transmuting into furry, winged creatures.
A friend buys a piece of a figure taking in air through a pipe to help her confront her asthma issues..
At 1708 Gallery, "Everything is Under Control," a video piece by Sara Pomerance is part of a larger video series, "Telling Tales."
The short clips of her family and friends leading their lives is melancholy and mundane, like far too many people's.
And because it is Twelfth Night, Richmond Shakespeare presents a reading of, what else, "Twelfth Night" with its themes of merriment (Jeff Clevinger's Sir Toby perfectly nailed the drunken shenanigans of an instigator) and love, always love.
"Love sought is good, but given unsought is better."
It was suggested to me that it could also be phrased as, "I want you to want me."
Daylight and champagne discovers not more."
Avalon, mobbed and with a steady influx of people, provides duck pizza, pepperoni pizza,Thurston Wolfe Family Red (at the owner's suggestion) and questions of growing old.
Moments after our server told us it was last call, I look over to see a girl applying deodorant at her booth. Fortunately, there is no one else sitting with her.
I have seen many things in bar, but never anyone addressing their pit wetness. I suppose it was her last chance to find someone tonight.
Meanwhile, my long-time companion (eight hours at this point) hilariously and half-seriously explains to me that our friendship can be traced back to Abe Lincoln.
Everything hinges on something else and a perfect storm was required to bring it to fruition.
Twelfth Night, or What You Will. That's exactly what we're figuring out.
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