A Nod to the Posse Queen

It's like Matt said at Ghost Light afterparty last night, "With musical theater, you can do all the things."

The proof was in what I just witnessed: possibly the sweetest birthday tribute to a woman I've ever seen and lousy with musical theater. As one of the guests, I was sworn to complete secrecy - though because it's the theater panel that connects us, I only see her at plays and panel meetings, so I wasn't likely to be the one who blew it - and instructed when to arrive to stage the surprise.

The birthday girl had been fooled into thinking she was going to a cabaret for donors at Richmond Triangle Players, right down to the director reading a speech about the theater's accomplishments when she and her thoughtful husband arrived (intentionally) late. His speech ended with a nod to the real reason we were all there and that was our cue to roar, "Surprise!" and watch her face shift from attentive to shocked.

From there, it was part cabaret/part "This is Your Life," as Richmond luminary after Richmond talent after close friends regaled the celebrant with songs rewritten about her, along with poems, limericks and dramatic presentations written for her.

Scott Wichmann kicked things off doing "The Lady is Our Pat" to the tune of "The Lady is a Tramp," referencing her hatred for the Orange Dictator and her devotion to "the posse," her theater-going coterie, and setting the bar high for those who followed him.

Who else could sing about Pat as an Italian girl with serious cooking chops who found the love of her life in a "pasta-loving Jew" who didn't initially full respect her knives?

One of the men in the posse got up and praised her as thoughtful, considerate friend and fun to be with, before alluding to her dark side, deadpanning that, "Pat can get lost," and providing details of her lack of directional skills navigating the city, and the UR campus particularly.

It was awfully funny, but as someone who took years to come up to speed on that labyrinth of a campus, I empathized with the birthday girl.

Interspersed throughout the show were staged readings depicting everyday conversations between Pat and her husband, all of which demonstrated Pat's iron will, New York moxie and intolerance for fools. One involved Pat making an argument, starting the conversation with "A" and expounding from there. When her beloved asked what B was, she had nothing to say, to which he responded you couldn't have an "A" without a subsequent "B."

"Watch me," the actor playing Pat said, sounding exactly like the woman of the hour.

That beacon of sunshine, Georgia Rogers Farmer, sang both parts on Pat's favorite song from "Phantom of the Opera," whipping the white half-mask on and off depending on which part she was singing. Her vocal range was stunning and the song provided the opportunity for her to show off her operatic talent as well as do a headstand that caused her dress to fall, revealing shorts that said, "PAT" in pink block letters.

Leaving aside for a moment the sheer range of talent demonstrated during said number, afterward Georgia also noted, "Pat, I did that because I know you love that song from 'Phantom of the Opera' and that you wanted to see your name on my butt."

I mean, who wouldn't?

That's a birthday gift not soon forgotten. And that's not even counting the box of bacon she gift-wrapped and presented to Pat. Georgia is, after all, a domestic goddess in addition to her theater talents.

Party Organizer Jacquie O'Connor took a seat at a table onstage, pulled out a datebook and proceeded to sing a song about Pat's major preoccupation, "I Work on the List," a reference to the prodigious scheduling involved with all the posse's theater-going. Between her voice and the hilarious lyrics, the effect was like having a humorous window into Pat's daily life.

The emotional height of the evening took place when her adoring husband got onstage to read to us all the words he'd written and read to her when they married, a moving tribute to how lucky he felt to have found her.

Songbird Desiree Roots - wiping tears away from hearing his devoted words - called the happy couple up onstage and serenaded them, instructing after a moment, "You're supposed to dance!" which they proceeded to do.

After some quiet conversation between the birthday girl and the love of her life as they slow danced - the comment was, "They're discussing who's gonna lead!" - the lyrics became so powerful that Pat looked genuinely moved as they danced.

Singer Susan Greenbaum did a rousing take on "Oklahoma" that transmuted the "Ok" of "Ok-lahoma" to Pat's name and got the guests singing along to the chorus as she belted it out and did an arm jig between verses. The entertainment wound down with a group singalong about the birthday girl, set to the tune of "Mame," which anyone who knows Pat is required to know.

Once we broke for eats, I positioned myself in front of a screen showing photographs of Pat since she was a wee babe in her christening gown. I'm always fascinated to see snaps of people I know from before I knew them and sure enough, I loved seeing old pictures of her in the 70s and 80s when her curly hair was gorgeously wild (her words) and not straightened.

The kind of tresses we straight-haired girls covet. Lust after, even.

And since no birthday celebration, much less an important birthday like this one, would be complete without birthday cake, there were two: one fruit and one chocolate, both from Shyndigz. I can only speak to the latter, but let's just say the butter to salt ratio was swoon-worthy.

Birthdays come and go, so to see a heartfelt tribute by friends on such a festive occasion was like having a sugar buzz as the result of a top-notch show. Oh, wait...

There's a reason Pat always looks so happy. Proof positive that you're never too old to find the person who will dance with you onstage while everyone else toasts your happiness.

And from where I sat, A., it didn't look like either of them was looking to lead. Don't look for a B.

I'm Just a Girl

Making "The Taming of the Shrew" relevant for 21st century audiences is challenging and therein lies the rub.

I have seen the play produced every which way: set in the wild, wild west at an outdoor stage framing Roanoke Sound; set on a 1930s Hollywood movie set at a toney West End school; and as a staged reading where Petruchio lost his place in his script, causing Katarina to shrewishly shout, "Page 42!"

And while I have been a devoted audience member for gender-reversed stagings of many of the Bard's best - Much Ado About Nothing, Twelfth Night, Hamlet, Midsummer Night's Dream and even Coriolanus - I had never seen a Shakespeare play done by an all-female cast. Until tonight.

Hallelujah and pass the estrogen.

With so much talent and so many girl parts on stage, it felt like a fitting production to follow the women's soccer team's world triumph. 2019, the year of girl power continues. Knowing that men had originally played all the women's parts in Shakespeare's time made it all the sweeter.

Foto Boy and I began the evening in the front tiki booth at My Noodle & Bar for dinner, scarfing my broccoli and chicken entree and his green curry tofu while he tried to cool down after a hot day spent holding a yard sale. Our server couldn't refill the blue water bottle on our table often enough.

Anticipating a sweaty evening at an outdoor stage - and because this wasn't my first Agecroft rodeo - I'd brought along fans for us both. For myself, I'd chosen a fan that doubled as a program from a 2013 Sycamore Rouge production of "Twelfth Night" in Petersburg. When I saw that the director of that production is now the artistic director of Quill and tonight's production manager and that the actress who'd played Viola would play tonight's Petruchio, it seemed like an inspired choice.

You can be sure I showed it to both of them before the night was over.

We found seats in the second row, only to wind up behind the three tallest people in attendance. When I told the guy in front of me that he won for best shirt - brown with leopard markings and bees embroidered on the front - he said I got the best lipstick award. Sharing that it's called Violetini, his response was, "Hello, Violetini."

Best summation of what we were about to see: "I know it's a problem play, but it can't be misogynistic with an all women cast, right?" Um, we'll see?

The show began, appropriately enough, with songs of female empowerment - "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar," "You Don't Own Me" and "I'm Just a Girl" - sung by the cast and accompanied by guitar, ukulele, kazoo and random compliments like, "You're so beautiful you could be an air hostess in the '60s."

Use thoughts and wits to win her

We were just getting into the set-up of the story, so it was well after Baptista tells his daughter Bianca's multiple suitors that she will not be married off until her shrewish sister Katarina gets hitched, yet not long past when Petruchio arrives looking "happily to wive and thrive as best I may" that there was a shout behind us because a woman in the audience had fainted.

All eyes turned to see.

After she came to in her seat, a cluster of doctors who just happened to be out for a night of Shakespeare, began gathering around her, suggesting she lay down on the ground for a bit. Eventually she stood and her date led her across the now-empty stage toward the building.

House manager Noah took to the stage, saying, "So, everybody hydrate! We'll resume in just a minute. Just ignore that ambulance out there. It's definitely not the first time this has happened."

Ah, the hazards of Shakespeare outdoors in July.

Waiting for the play to resume, the tall trio in front of us shared that the fainting was all their fault. Seems whenever they go out together, bad things happen to others. Sometimes it's minor, like somebody vomiting nearby and other times, like when they were at a restaurant for Cinqo de Mayo, somebody committed suicide by jumping off the balcony.

Foto Boy and I inched our chairs back away from these Typhoid Marys and hoped for the best.

When the play started up again, the brilliantly comedic Maggie Bavolack playing the aged Gremio observed, "I had forgotten my line anyway!" before taking up the script exactly where she'd left off. Not long after, as a small plane flew overhead, she improvised, "Hark! There's a plane!" and cracked up the entire audience. Like the talented comedienne she is, she waited for the laughs to die down before saying, "Hark! This gentleman is happily arrived" and then posing, hands under chin with a big smile.

I know she is an irksome, brawling scold 

Bianca Bryan was masterful as Petruchio, denying his bride Kate her creature comforts (food, sleep, clean clothing), but also hilarious, as when she showed up for their wedding wearing dirty pants with "Kiss me, Kate" embroidered on the back pockets.

For I am rough and woo not like a babe

During intermission, bottles of water were handed out for free and after claiming ours and pouring their contents into the large water bottles we'd brought, we strolled over to the stone patio to admire the waxing moon ahead of Tuesday's full moon.

Overheard on the way back to our seats: "You didn't tell me I needed to see movie before I came tonight!" to which her friend explained that "Kiss Me, Kate" was based on "Taming," not the other way around. I suppose reading it - even a synopsis - never occurred to the angry first-timer.

Act II began with the cast singing Adele's "Hello" followed by "Why Do Fools Fall in Love?" and "Tell Me Do You Love Me, Too?" and an extended kazoo solo by the actress playing Bianca. Petruchio and Kate then took the stage so he could serenade her with the greatest stalker song of all time, the Police's "Every Breath You Take" while she grimaced at the lyrics.

I'm with you, girl, that is so not a love song. Creepy, that's what it is.

For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich

Throughout the hot, sticky evening, Foto Boy and I marveled at the actors running, jumping and  stage fighting in layers of heavy men's clothing while we sweated in our minimal summer garb.

Director Chelsea Burke kept the thirteen talented women busy moving the story along with only a few of the actors being difficult to hear. Allison Paige Gilman shone as the small but mighty Tranio, her sense of comedic timing impressive, her face wildly expressive and her physicality fun to watch. Desiree Dabney turned the Hortensio role into something special with her asides and noises of upset and displeasure. Easily one of the best at nailing the Bard's cadences and projecting her voice to the fainting seats was Meg Carnahan as Biondello.

But truly, everyone shone (and not just from perspiration) and you could tell how much fun they were having with this all-female cast doing such a dated, chauvinistic play. Besides, I always tell myself that while Katarina appears to have been subdued, when they're alone she calls all the shots and Petruchio does her bidding willingly.

But that's just my take so I can enjoy it without feminist guilt.

Because of the delay - where's a fainting couch when you need one? - by the time we left Agecroft, it was time to head directly to the Basement for the piano bar known as the Ghost Light afterparty, which was in full swing when we walked in.

There were cast members from "Dance Nation" already with beverages in hand and soon some of the "Taming" cast showed up, along with theater types and lovers from all over town.

As host Matt (also part of that 2013 cast on my fan from Sycamore Rouge) proclaimed in between songs, "Through musical theater, we can do all things!" Evenings like this are proof of that, no?

We found room to stand at a table near the back with a great view and fine acoustics for songs sung by anyone who cared to get up there. Song choices always vary widely and yet still hue to millennial favorites with a surprise or two thrown in, a fact I know from all my years attending these after parties.

There's "Seasons of Love" from "Rent, a perennial singalong favorite with this crowd, but also "A Whole New World" because of the crowd's childhood nostalgia. A song from "The Fantasticks" because it's currently in production at the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen. Tonight we got a couple of unlikely choices: Radiohead's "Creep" and Elvis' "Blue Christmas."

When Foto Boy wondered aloud about the odder selections, I explained that there's no rhyme or reason to what you hear at Ghost Light. You come for the buzzy vibe, fabulous voices and to see what craziness might happen over the course of the evening.

Why, indeed. As the Bard so wisely put it, "Sit by my side and let the world slip; we shall never be younger." It's really that simple.

Truth be told, after a night at Agecroft, the air conditioning doesn't hurt either.

The Dizzy, Dancing Way You Feel

Let me tell you about my 13-year old self.

This young nerd was in eighth grade at Charles Carroll Junior High (this having been before middle school became the norm) where I was an avid reader and good student who sewed my own mini-dresses. I collected 45s, babysat for spending money and had never gotten the slightest bit of attention from a boy.

I was involved in zero after school activities, which was fine by me since I could quickly knock off my homework and either hop on my bike and ride the neighborhood or find somewhere quiet to read.

All in all, I was a very happy camper with few complaints about my life beyond my 12-year old sister borrowing my clothes and returning them unwashed with her B.O. on them, which, incidentally, was far worse than my own.

I had just started wearing braces but apparently wasn't very good about oral hygiene with them, since on my way into school one morning, Anthony Basil - an uber-nerd I could never aspire to top - pointed out that I had toast in my braces after I smiled a good-morning to him.

Naturally, I was mildly embarrassed at the comment, although the fact that it came from Anthony and not a cute, funny boy helped, but mostly I was grateful for the reminder to be more vigilant about braces-brushing. That and not to eat any more toast as I'm walking to school.

Thirteen was when I finally acknowledged how much satisfaction I got from writing. Although I'd started my first novel at the beach when I was 11, it was eighth grade when my aptitude for writing became apparent to my teachers.

In English class, we were told to write a short story about anything at all, only to be surprised when six of the 37 (helluva class size) stories were chosen to be printed, bound and distributed. I was pretty proud of myself when "Has Anybody Seen My Jiffy John?" made the cut. Later in the school year, another assignment was to choose a popular song, treat the lyrics as poetry and analyze it. I chose Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now" and with every fiber of my 13-year old being analyzed the hell out of Mitchell's tale of life experiences I'd yet to have.

All of this is just a long way of saying that my experiences as a 13-year old bear almost no resemblance to what today's 13-year olds must go through.

I got a crash course in modern eighth graders at the Basement, where TheatreLAB's production of "Dance Nation" was opening tonight. And although the play is ostensibly about a group of competitive dancers - all girls except one boy - from Ohio trying to make the finals, the dancing is secondary to the trials and tribulations of the young girls trying to navigate adolescence.

I'm here to tell you that theirs is not the adolescence mine was. Or, as it turns out, much like the coming of age of any of us now comfortably in middle age.

During a scene where one of the girls does a monologue, she howls her affirmation of her body - men and boys telling her how perfect her ass or boobs are is already normal for her - shouting about her body confidence with fierce pride. When she finished, a woman my age nearby commented, "I never felt that way when I was thirteen."

I don't remember being unhappy with my 13-year old body at all, but nor do I recall thinking of it in sexual terms at that point. And losing my virginity was definitely not a hot topic with girlfriends.

Ditto these young girls asking each other how to masturbate, which wasn't discussed in my adolescence because back in the olden days, each of us just figured it out ourselves. Honestly, it wasn't that difficult. By high school, you might discuss it with your best friend but only after you knew what you were doing.

And mind you, we didn't have the Internet for reference.

Maggie Roop's direction is flawless and knowing, and I'd guess that being a dancer herself helped immeasurably. The young cast (and stellar Chris Klinger as dance teacher Pat, played with the utmost seriousness because winning matters) nailed the insecurities, doubts and narcissism of these girls navigating a 21st century world where everyone feels fame is attainable and competing for superiority has been bred into them since toddlerhood.

Let's put it this way: when I was 13, there was no way I or any girl I knew would have undressed in front of other girls. Hell, I had five sisters and we never got naked in front of each other once we no longer had to take shared baths.

But also, I didn't participate in team activities, so my knowledge of that kind of group dynamic as a young teen is non-existent.

As someone whose early teen years seem comparatively easy to what these young characters go through, the play registered as a sad commentary on what parents have wrought in terms of child-rearing. These are girls who have felt pressures and sexual attention from many sides since before they even get their first period, which couldn't help but make me feel sad for their lost youth.

The audience skewed heavily young so it was fascinating hearing their cheering and laughing reactions to scenes that pulled at my heartstrings and those of some other nearby Baby Boomers, one of whom noted at the end, "Not for me."

Don't get me wrong, it does my estrogen-filled heart good to sit back and, for a change, watch a mostly female cast interpret a woman-written play directed by a woman.  I can't help it if my 13-year old life didn't carry the emotional weight that the 13-year olds of today must bear as a matter of course.

The beauty of TheatreLAB's "Dance Nation" is the glimpse into the now it provides, allowing people like me to consider what a monumental shift has taken place for our girls.

Now that's worthwhile theater.

Learning to Crawl

Sip, savor, crawl, repeat.

And, when needed, offer occasional pro tips en route. Having been a regular on Secco's annual Rose Crawl since the first one in 2011 - that was the one where a thunderstorm knocked out the power, forcing us to drink our final pink in darkness - I like to think I'm uniquely qualified to spread my wisdom with any crawl virgins seeking aid.

My raspberry sherbet-colored sun dress was meant to identify me as a professional.

After a quick stop at Secco to nab my Rose passport, Lady G and I started the festivities at Acacia with a handful of other pink-clad women. Claiming seats at the bar, bartender Kenny looked at me and jokingly demanded to know where I'd been on recent Tuesday evenings, since clearly I hadn't been drinking half priced wine with friends at his bar.

After explaining I'd been at the beach for a week, he responded, "Okay, you're off the hook for one week. What about all the other Tuesdays you weren't here?"

You never know who's going to note your absence.

With plenty of appealing Rose options, G went with a perennial favorite of mine, Francoise Montand Brut Rose, while I opted to show her the pleasures of a Rose made of Pinot Noir, specifically Henri Bourgeois Petit Rose. I'm not sure if it was the tangy fruitiness or just the major shift in palate from her pink bubbles, but, after making a surprised face, she saw the light.

Kenny and I meanwhile exhorted the pleasures of German and Austrian Roses of Pinot Noir, while the pink maxi skirt-clad owner pledged her allegiance to the hard-to-find Sinskey Rose, which I love.

Acacia's bar menu for the occasion was spot on, so we indulged. First was fried squash blossoms stuffed with crab, ricotta and corn drizzled in tzatziki, with a piquant cucumber/red onion side salad riding shotgun, the delicate flavors a perfect complement to our wines. Next up were fried local softshell "bites" (actually, miscellaneous soft shell legs) enhanced by a spicy chili garlic sauce, making for a decided contrast to the squash blossom's muted flavors.

After getting Kenny to stamp my passport, we bid him adieu and walked outside to a sky filled with angry-looking black clouds threatening action. Fortunately our next stop, Cask Cafe, was a mere block away.

Taking up stools at the end of the bar near owner Dave (who let us know that Cask is now making their own sausages), we scanned their pink list, with G deciding on Domaine des Terrisses Rose solely because Dave described it as the heartiest and, at her core, G is a red wine lover. I chose Domaine de Mus Rose mainly because it was from Languedoc, not that I wasn't rewarded with a wildly refreshing wine with notes of citrus and red fruits.

A customer replaced Dave at the end of the bar, so naturally I eventually turned to him and asked if he was there for the Rose crawl (he wasn't). So I asked if he lived in the neighborhood (he didn't). Naturally I asked if he was a regular, to which he responded, "Why do you ask so many questions?"

Um, I'm a journalist, sir. And nosey.

When I came back from the loo, there was a newly-arrived Irishman sitting next to G and she was already asking where in Ireland he was from. "The only place in Ireland: Dublin," he informed her with a grin. Looking to converse with us more, he leaned in and shared that actor/director Ethan Hawke is currently living in the house next to his while he scouts a project about the slave John Brown.

Needless to say, our Irishman wasn't sharing where he lived beyond the Fan, but he didn't hesitate to mention that Mandy Patinkin had also lived in the house next door while in Richmond. Since G and I had long since finished our Rose, we got up to leave, causing the Irishman to entice us by suggesting, "Come back and I'll tell you how it goes."

Not sure I'm enough of an Ethan fan to care.

Walking toward the door to leave, we saw that the roiling skies had cracked open and torrents of rain were coming down, but luckily I'd insisted on us both bringing umbrellas for just such an eventuality. Just as we made it back to G's car, I realized that my pink-addled brain had forgotten to get my passport stamped at Cask.

G inched the car through driving rain, pulling up right out front so I could run in and get stamped by bartender Dash (best bartender name ever, no?). As he perfunctorily stamped me legit, a couple at the bar began teasing me that I had to drink pink before I got a stamp. Explaining the situation to them, they then gave me an A for effort. "That was dedication!" the woman said, noting my dress' wet parts and my dripping umbrella. "You didn't have to come back!"

Ah, but a Rose Crawl pro doesn't cut corners, young 'un.

It was still pouring rain as we drove to our next stop, so I reminded G that I'd warned her there was a 92% chance of precipitation tonight and wasn't she glad she had her umbrella. "I'd say this is 100% precipitation," she corrected me, only slightly loopily. Hilarious.

When we arrived at Secco, there were exactly two available seats at the community table in the back by the kitchen and no more. We gratefully took them, only to find ourselves sandwiched between two young mothers who were crawl newbies and an Indian couple drinking Rose but who had no knowledge of the crawl.

After ordering glasses of Raventos i Blanc Brut Nature Rose "de Nit" - a reliable Spanish favorite of mine - we turned our attention to the first-timers, both Moms with young children, to see how they were faring.

Secco was their first stop and now they were debating where to go since neither had brought an umbrella (rookie mistake). Their dilemma was where to Uber next in order to stay dry. G immediately piped up, telling them how cute and funny Kenny had been at Acacia, hoping to steer them to a good time.

But they wanted to know where we were headed next and that was Amuse. "Maybe we'll see you later!" they said as they took their fresh faces out into the storm.

Thoroughly digging our pink bubbles, we accompanied them with to-die-for gnocchi smothered in Twenty Paces Ricotta, peas, basil, green garlic and fennel, into which we added crispy fried chickpeas just because they were a worthy addition.

The Indian couple's cheese and charcuterie plate arrived (when debating what meat to get the server mentioned Sopressata, which they'd never heard of, necessitating me insisting that Sopressata was the way to go, so they ordered it) and they began chowing down, although the hunk of Madame di Bufala, a creamy, tangy water buffalo cheese from Italy, defeated them.

"It's the stinkiest cheese I've ever had and I thought I liked stinky cheeses," she said. "But this actually tastes like a buffalo after being on a treadmill in this hot, humid Virginia heat. Help yourselves, we won't eat it all." You don't have to offer G and me stinky cheese twice, so we cut off pieces, finding it a mouth and noseful, but delicious, too.

I reassured the couple that their palates would undoubtedly develop with age and that one day, Madame di Bufala would be right up their alley. When I was their age, I eschewed blue cheese because I thought it smelled like stinky feet and look at me now. They were wide-eyed acolytes by the time I finished with them and said goodnight.

Amuse was our final stop and while we'd originally had plans to see the new American art show while we were there, we had only enough time for two final glasses of Rose and dessert. Taking seats at the end of the bar, I didn't even bother asking for my passport to be stamped, I just reached over next to the absinthe fountain, picked up the stamp and stamped my own passport.

A pink-clad girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Our bartender had no recommendations beyond steering clear of the Indian Rose, even giving us a taste to show how oddly the Shiraz-based Rose finished. Instead, G went predictably straight for the heartiest , Clos la Coutale, a Malbec Rose, while I went directly (do not pass Go, do not collect $200) to Daniel Reverdy et Fils Rose, a Sancerre from the Loire Valley.

Some choices are unavoidable yet heavenly at the same time.

A chocolate pate with one perfect raspberry, one perfect blackberry and a mound of vanilla whipped cream accompanied our wines as we watched the storm dissipate over the VMFA's sculpture garden. Regrettably, we hadn't made it downstairs to see "Transatlantic Currents," though we did have a  cursory look at Carl Chiarenza's abstract photographs from the 1930s en route to the loo, for what that's worth.

By the time we'd wound down our 2019 Rose Crawl, the VMFA was closed, staff were vacuuming the floors and the Boulevard door we'd come in had long since been locked. Walking out the other entrance, we ran smack into the two Moms we'd met at Secco, who had made it only to Amuse and no further. Awed that we'd had our passport stamped at all four locations, they bowed to our superior crawling skills.

Someday, ladies, you'll have the life experience to do the same, maybe even with some Madame di Bufala along the way.

With a nod to the probability of precipitation and apologies to Matthew Sweet, tonight was what we pros call 100% fun.

This Woman's Work

The solemnity of today required a little humor.

And by solemnity, I'm not just talking about a major car repair that took two days to complete and more money than I want to think about, I'm talking about the tragic news that the final Beetle that Volkswagen will ever make rolled off the assembly line today.

Can we just have a moment for my first car - a '66 blue Beetle - and its place in shaping who I am today? I mean, what kind of world are we leaving future generations if no more Beetles are being made?

RIP, Bug.

Add in that Mac's still a bit jet-lagged since her return from Scotland, and neither of us was feeling up to anything heavy tonight. So when trying to decide what movie to see, "Late Night" beat out other films such as "Shaft" and "Last Black Man in San Francisco," which would have required more brain reserves than we had.

Truthfully, I wanted it for Emma Thompson and she wanted it for Mindy Kaling, so we were a match made in heaven.

We started at Goatocado since she'd never been (eating at their food truck didn't count) and I'm such a fan. I'm embarrassed to admit that we ate indoors, a fact attributable on my part to all the walking I'd had to do in the hot afternoon sun and on her part to having been at work since 7 a.m.

She surprised me by ordering the ramen - which I'd never even noticed they had on the menu - while I did my usual Californian: flatbread stuffed with black beans, apples, corn, greens and avocado with a chipotle/pineapple dressing, which I proceeded to wolf down as if I'd been on the run all day. Oh, wait...

Then it was on to Criterion to see a film about sexism in the workplace, ageism, double standards, affirmative action and, central to the story, the dumbing down of entertainment in the YouTube/Twitter age of short attention spans and disdain for depth. Why have Doris Kearns Goodwin as a guest when you can have the latest YouTube sensation?

And while any one of those issues is enough to cause apoplexy, at least they were dealt with in a clever, comedic manner.

Better still, it was a comedy written by Mindy Kaling (whom, it turns out, Mac follows on Instagram) who had firsthand knowledge of being a woman in a male-dominated writing staff from her time writing for "The Office."

Only a woman writes a line like, "My Spanx have cut off the blood supply to my head" or "I am a 56 year old woman who's not had a baby and never seen a superhero movie." Need more proof? Only a woman would have her character bring cupcakes to her first staff meeting on her first day of work.

Not to go too far with this estrogen tangent, but both Emma and Mindy's wardrobes (and shoes) were also fabulously unique, albeit in completely different ways that any one of the seven - count 'em -women in the theater could appreciate.

Because of course it was a female audience, although I'm betting I'm the only one of them who's never seen a superhero movie.

Or, more importantly, had a window box full of plants in the back of her blue VW bug.

A Rich, Little Plum Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How's a boy supposed to resist that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sprinkler Season in Full Bloom

I can already feel July melting away like a cherry popsicle on a summer day.

Holmes and Beloved were kind enough to invite me over for dinner Sunday evening to close out the long Fourth of July holiday weekend. Even better, rather than going mainstream with the traditional hamburgers and hot dogs, they were serving up Champagne, lobster tails and North Carolina steamed shrimp.

Needless to say, I was there ten minutes early and stayed for a solid five and a half hours.

After gorging on dinner, we moved the bottle and the party downstairs to the Man Cave where I requested that Holmes play nothing but bands from the Laurel Canyon era as I regaled them with tidbits from the film I'd recently seen.

That meant starting with 1967's "Buffalo Springfield Again" which opened with the Neil Young-penned and sung "Mr. Soul," a fitting way to kick off a listening party that went on to include (duh) the Byrds, Joni Mitchell (notably absent from the documentary despite her "Ladies of the Canyon" album a few years later) and Tom Petty.

Oh, and chocolate mousse.

The only reason I left before midnight was because it was a school night and even I had Monday responsibilities, beginning with a walk with Mac who had just returned from ten days in Scotland. I was particularly impressed with the news that her group's private guide had worn a kilt - it was his family's tartan, Mac made sure to ask, though she didn't ask what was underneath it - except the day they went hiking when he wore jeans.

As we walked to the river, she described the magical sights they'd taken in: moors, castles and almost no precipitation. She liked both haggis (we agreed it's nothing but Scottish Scrapple) and blood sausage, but was less fond of the potatoes in fish and chips, a dish they naturally ate more than once.

It was good to have my waking buddy with me on the Pipeline after weeks of us being in different places. That said, I couldn't convince her to join me in my now-daily (and thoroughly enjoyable) walk through the sprinklers on Brown's Island before getting on the walkway, a fact she attributed to the phone in her pocket.

One more way that technology saps the fun out of life.

After catching up, she was headed to work and I was headed to the Northern Neck, also for work - I had an interview in Kilmarnock and another in Warsaw - but at least with better scenery than Short Pump where Mac works.

When I left the Front Porch Coffeehouse after the first interview, I was greeted by a roiling black sky in the exact direction I was headed.

Sure enough, I got barely a few miles before a fierce rainstorm slowed traffic to a crawl and visibility to nonexistent.  Since no one on the Northern Neck is in a hurry anyway, I just took it in stride, tried to avoid hydroplaning and just when I thought the sky had cleared, drove right into another squall.

Nerve-wracking as the driving was, I kept reminding myself that my Mom had just told me that they've been so long without rain that the grass crunches underfoot, so at least I was suffering for the greater good.

Back in Richmond, everything looked bone-dry, making it even more of a surprise when I saw photos from the morning storm in D.C., where cars were half submerged at 15th and Constitution Avenue, a crazy sight to behold. The Post said they got a month's worth of rain in one morning.

After a full day of road tripping, all I wanted was a comfortable seat, some vintage Hitchcock and buttered popcorn. Walking into the Byrd to see "Vertigo," manager Todd said to me, "It wouldn't be a Hitchcock movie without you."

I didn't mention it, but it will have to be since I have plans the nights he's showing the other Hitchcocks this month.

The Byrd had a great crowd for a Monday night - far more people than I'd expected, although the parking lot had been full, so I should have been suspicious - and when Todd was introducing the film, he asked who was seeing it for the first time. I was gobsmacked when fully a third of the people raised their hands.

Never seen "Vertigo?" The film that replaced "Citizen Kane" as the greatest film ever made according to the British Film Institute? Say it isn't so.

It was clear that the audience was full of newbies because when Kim Novak's Madeline character throws herself to her death from the mission bell tower, there were gasps of "Whoa!" and "Omygod!"

Guess they didn't see that coming.

Because I've seen "Vertigo" plenty of times, I could sit back and enjoy the film as a 1958 travelogue of San Francisco. Obviously, the city was far more uncrowded in 1958 than when I went there, but that only made it easier to recognize places I'd seen in real life like Lombard Street, Coit Tower (shown repeatedly by Hitch as a phallic symbol), Mission Dolores and Grace Cathedral.

Other signs of the times included a diagnosis of acute melancholia at a sanitarium and Kim Novak's character Judy asking him, "Is this some kind of Gallup Poll?"

Because this was a 21st century audience watching it, many of them for the first time, there were frequent moments when the audience had issues with things James Stewart's character said. I mean, let's face it, when a stranger knocks on your hotel door and wants to not only start seeing you but change how you dress, the style of your hair and your make-up, it's not going to sit well with modern audiences.

When Stewart told Novak he wanted her to change her hair color, he rationalized his request by saying, "It can't matter to you!" I don't know which was louder, the laughter or the sounds of female indignation. Seriously?

In the immortal words of Megan Rapinoe, "I think to be a woman in the world, in general, is frustrating. And I feel we spend so much time fighting against things."

Even in 1958, I'd be willing to bet that women wanted to be the ones who decided what color their hair was. Still do, but now we have bigger fish to fry.

Equal pay would be a fine start. Stick that in your Gallup poll, Hitch.

Ease on Down the Road

Let's call it a celebration of friendship and sobriety.

A decade ago when I first met Foto Boy while eating a sandwich at Lift, I knew very little about him beyond that he bartended at Tarrant's. I knew even less about his past, except, I might add, for one major fact: he told me right away that he was celebrating his first year sober and drug-free. He was understandably very proud of himself for the accomplishment while I was just happy to have a new friend who liked to go out and do things.

Now, ten years later, he was looking to celebrate his eleventh year sober and drug-free and I had just the way to do it: fifth row seats to see the critically-acclaimed "The Wiz" at Virginia Repertory Theater.

As it turned out, both of us were "Wiz" virgins, having seen neither the '70s play nor the 1978 film starring Diana Ross and Michael Jackson, so we sat down with a clean slate. The first thing that struck us both was how refreshing it was to see an all black/brown cast for a change.

And that was just the start. Everything about the production was impressive, from the dazzling Afro-futuristic costumes - the brilliance of the Munchkins' crazy quilt-like patterned costumes as they bounced along on colorful stability balls - and elaborate sets to the quality of talent onstage.

One thing he and I especially enjoyed was all the '70s references, from cracks about urban renewal in Oz to references to other characters as "this cat." And don't get me started on the Cowardly Lion's magnificent brown bell bottoms and two-tone platform shoes.

Better yet, do let me get started because, hands down, Brandon LaReau's performance as the lion, played with strong drag queen undertones, was nothing short of show-stopping. Whether flipping his blond-highlighted curly wig, mincing his steps or playing every situation for maximum laughs in his sequined vest and ring bedecked-fingers - although he also conveyed sweet tenderness skillfully - it was impossible to take our eyes off of him.

Surely never has a man conveyed leonine femininity trapped inside a male body so bodaciously.

Richmond's own Desiree Roots was a triple threat, playing a concerned Auntie Em as well as the goofy but charming good witch Addaperie (when she sees Dorothy's house has fallen on the witch, leaving only the red and white striped tights and feet visible, she IDs the body by saying, "I'd know those tacky pantyhose anywhere") and nailing the inherent meanness and cruelty of bad witch Evillene. I've seen Desiree play many roles, but never have I seen her command the stage as she did in a bustier, skin-tight pants, thigh-high leather boots and a black over-skirt that screamed dominatrix.

But we also had to give mad props to the ensemble, a coterie of uber-talented dancers who conveyed a tornado with balletic grace, the Munchkins' sweet exuberance, the Winkies' elation once Evillene was killed by Dorothy with buckets of water and the classic nightmare-inducing flying monkeys, whose masks contained kitchen utensils and industrial parts for added oddness and scariness.

During intermission, we toasted Foto Boy's momentous anniversary with the two tangerines I'd brought along for the purpose. Earlier, he'd posted a shot of his Sobriety medallion, appropriately marked "XI," with a watchband strap to illustrate the ongoing nature of his efforts.

Then we were back in Oz. If there was any regret, it was that we didn't get to see more of the Tin Man tap dancing because it's so rare that you see that onstage anymore.

Impressing me more than he's ever done before, Jerold E. Solomon captivated the audience as the Wiz, his song "Believe in Yourself" making for a true showstopper before he climbed in his hot air balloon and sailed back to Nebraska.

Oddly enough, the weakest link onstage was the actress who played Dorothy who, despite having a wonderful voice, brought no depth or soul to the character. Applauding at the end, it felt wrong for her to come out last for the final ovation when everyone else had touched the audience more strongly.

Clocking in at just over two hours, we were out on the street in what felt like no time, bemoaning that the play hadn't gone on for another hour just so we could listen to more of those stellar voices, watch the ensemble's fabulous dancing and revel in a play about unexpected friendships.

Walking home, Foto Boy shared that when the film had come out, he'd been young and hadn't been able to get his head around why anyone would want to see a classic like "The Wizard of Oz" done as an all-black production.

"But I was a kid, I grew up with a Tidewater mentality and my Dad was racist, so I didn't know any better," he admitted. All that began to change a few years later, so by the time we met, he was one of the most ardent social justice warriors I'd ever met. Still is.

I didn't see his FB post showing the play's program and the glittering "The Wiz" curtain behind it until I got home, but the words said it all: "At Virginia Repertory Theater celebrating 11 years with a friend who's known me since year one."

If back in 2009 I was Dorothy looking for my new life after my former one imploded, Foto Boy was my Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion rolled into one.

No doubt about it, I owe this cat a friendship medallion.

Knowing Me, Knowing You,

I took the rainbow for a good sign.

Granted, Pru is always chiding me for finding the "[expletive deleted] silver lining in everything," but this was an honest-to-goodness half rainbow situated between two construction cranes as I headed east on the Leigh Street bridge to meet her and Beau at Alewife. Since it had been breezy and nice when I'd left J-Ward, I was immediately suspicious about the cause of the rainbow.

Virtual projection, perhaps?

That question was answered the moment I got to Church Hill, where it felt positively jungle-like and the streets were wet. Clearly rain had recently visited the 'hood on the hill, leaving behind sticky, humid air you practically had to swim through.

I walked into Alewife to find every seat taken except for two at the bar and my friends not yet arrived, so I installed myself in one of the free bar stools and scored a glass of Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Brut to justify my presence. Pru and Beau soon showed up, a tad dewy from having strolled over from the manse, but otherwise ready for an evening of fish and conversation.

Once the former occupants of our table had cleared out, we took it over, its only disadvantage being it was right in the front window and the 7:00 sun was beating down on it mercilessly. After putting up with it long enough to get a bottle of wine from the Loire, we politely asked our server if he could lower the shade below the skyline, a minor adjustment that immediately lowered the temperature at our table.

As much as the three of us enjoy Alewife's mid-Atlantic fish focus and the seafood shack vibe with its white beadboard walls, between the three of us, we couldn't think of a single reason why the place doesn't have ceiling fans. No self-respecting seafood joint would open its doors without fans to move the hot air, fish smells and cooking heat from the open kitchen around, especially when no amount of air conditioning can offset it.

Because while I'm the last person to complain about heat - plus I'd worn the thinnest, lightest dress I own - Pru and Beau are the first and they were definitely wilting. She resorted to fanning herself with a menu to deal with it.

Heat aside, the second most challenging part of the evening was deciding what to order from a dream menu listing five starter and five entree offerings from the sea. Those are my kind of odds.

Naturally, I went directly to what I didn't know, beginning with an Okonomiyaki-style waffle (main ingredient: cabbage) spread with creamy smoked fish, paper-thin slices of black garlic and kimchi. Beau was quick to question the proportion of kimchi, insisting that more would have been better to offset the richness of the smoked fish and he wasn't wrong.

In any case, this dish, which resembled pizza, was so appealing looking (and we were scarfing it down so enthusiastically) that the newly arrived eight-top next to us leaned over and asked what it was so they could order their own.

Few things could be as summery as chilled peach soup with ginger, Caramont goat cheese and peanuts, although with my stone fruit allergy, I had to limit myself to only a few delicious bites. But the Cremant had made me weak and so I had a few more and in no time, my tongue was swelling and the inside of my mouth was itchy.

During peach season, it sucks to be me.

The best description of cured cobia with strawberry, buttermilk and pickled blueberries was Beau's: "It's like I'm drinking the beach!" a nod to the Cobia's saltiness which matched that of a mouthful of ocean. Serious yum.

Pru and I both chose Snook, a highly desirable southern Florida fish that's extremely regulated, so infrequently found on menus. With its savory crisped skin, medium firm white flesh and farro salad with grilled squash and carrots underneath, it was everything you'd hope for in ordering an unknown fish at a beachside fish shack.

Beau tried unsuccessfully to insist that his mackeral was better, but that's only because he was drooling over the Surry sausage, charred cabbage and mustard vin that completed it.

Complaints about the heat subsided while so much stellar food was being enjoyed, but the pause in conversation (beyond moans of delight for what was in our mouths) only accentuated how noisy it was in there and that it was impossible to hear the music. Let's just say ambiance is not Alewife's forte.

With nothing but soft serve custard on the dessert menu, we decide to cover as many bases as possible. My vanilla and chocolate swirl had hot fudge (though not nearly enough), cocoa nibs and graham cracker crumbs, while Beau's poundcake was smothered in peach, raspberry and soft serve. Pru kept it simple with affogato: coffee-drenched soft serve, though she acknowledged she still prefers Dinamo's version.

I stay out of all coffee-related discussions given my lack of knowledge and interest on that front.

Given the heat and absence of music, the Church Hillians were only too eager to clear out and head to the manse's screened porch which somehow, despite being essentially outdoors, managed to be cooler and drier feeling than Alewife.

Thankfully, some people know the value of ceiling fans.

With blades whirring, we began the evening on the porch with the soundtrack from "Heavy Metal," a 1981 film with which they were both familiar and which meant nothing to me. Am I going to judge if a soundtrack starts with Sammy Hagar? Yes, yes I am. And who knew that Blue Oyster Cult ever did anything beyond "Don't Fear the Reaper?"

That said, both Pru and Beau were singing and chair dancing once Devo's "Working in a Coal Mine" cranked up. Such are the memories of those who came of age in the '80s.

Speaking of the old days, Pru regaled us with stories of reporting to boarding school wearing a yellow Gant button-down shirt, jeans and loafers, a pack of Marlboro Reds in her shirt pocket and enough attitude to dare anyone to challenge her on any of it.

When I brought up the end of an era - MAD magazine deciding to no longer publish new material, instead resorting to old editorial - a discussion ensued about how topical MAD's humor had been. Would Millennials even get, much less appreciate, some of those brilliant satires from before they were born? Doubtful, we agreed.

"I have to find a safe space and cry," deadpanned Pru about the generation that holds the reins to our future.

Meanwhile, a debate on the merits of the word "classy" (which I abhor and, we agreed, no classy person would think of using) and "swanky," which at least has a retro, humorous connotation, ensued. Yes, we are those people who can debate word usage and consider it Friday night fun.

Once we'd listened to as much of "Heavy Metal" as we could stand, we struggled to find something else to please our ears. When Beau told Alexa to play Huey Lewis and the News, Pru's response was swift and clear. "No, it's not that time yet!"

For some of us, it's never the time for Huey Lewis and the News.

Instead, with fireworks exploding in the background, we sipped and chatted through a lot of '70s AM radio music like America, Bread, Seals and Croft (Pru: "Sure, I know the song, but I had no idea it was called "Diamond Girl!"), eventually landing on ABBA for the long haul. With this crowd, Dancing Queens beat Veterans of Psychic Wars every time.

Never more so than when you've seen a rainbow, drank the beach and talked into the next day. I call that my kind of silver lining.

One of the Bohemians

I'd be lying if I said it was only about the opera.

Despite the cultural smorgasbord I call my nightlife, the truth is I've only been to the opera a handful of times. But I also figured that my firmly-established role as a documentary dork would be more than enough to carry me through my lack of deep opera knowledge.

Well, that and the movie started at the right time. That was the real clincher. My goal was to catch a film at Movieland, specifically a film that would end around the time that the fireworks were starting up at the Diamond, practically next door.

Kind of brilliant, right? Or, at least efficient, which is one of my trademarks.

So after perusing the movie offerings for Independence Day, I settled on "Pavarotti," director Ron Howard's ode to the man known as the "King of High Cs." And no, I didn't know that about him before seeing the flick.

Those drenching thunderstorms that arrived as I was getting up from my heat nap afternoon was giving way to evening had me wondering if fireworks were even going to happen, especially after the Flying Squirrels announced a delay of the game start time. The way I figured it, at least I'd get a documentary out of my Fourth of July evening.

It's not like I was going to stay home to celebrate independence. So I drove through massive puddles to Movieland and found a parking space facing the Diamond, just in case because I am nothing if not optimistic.

I could have guessed that the audience would all be in my age bracket and they were, mostly couples. The upside of that was how quietly respectful everyone was during the film, with none of the usual talking and looking at cell phones that seems to be the new movie-going norm.

Because my knowledge of the big man (and opera, in general) was scant, this was the ideal documentary for me because Howard seemed to be making it for non-opera types like me. Why else include a charming scene of Pavarotti soaping up, singing in the shower? Or provide a plot synopsis of the operas he was shown singing?

Opera newbie or not, I loved getting to see all the vintage photographs and performance clips, not to mention the fascinating interviews with his first wife and three daughters and, eventually, the other ridiculously younger woman who became his second wife.

All I can say is, no women age as well as Italian women (that skin! those bones! that style!) so maybe we need to take a lesson from them on lifestyle choices.

Although I vaguely recall the Three Tenors phenomena in the '90s, somehow I had no clue about Pavarotti and Friends, his extensive charity shows with the rock world that lasted over a decade and made Princess Di a close friend and major fan. Seeing him sing with the likes of Bono, Sting and Dolores O'Riordan (RIP) in his hometown of Modena, Italy was pretty cool, even if opera snobs did disdain them.

What shone through the entire film was how robustly the singer lived life, gathering friends wherever he went, schlepping suitcases full of Italian food when he toured and facing stage fright every single time he performed (his standard comment just before taking the stage was always, "I go to die."). And I gotta say, the young Pavarotti was quite good-looking, his smile oozing charisma even as he got old and obese.

Before the film ended, I began hearing the pop-pop-pop of fireworks sounding close enough that they could only be coming from the Diamond. Since I hadn't been sure if they would happen at all, it was a nice surprise, albeit one that I hadn't expected to hear until after the movie ended.

Unfortunately, the Flying Squirrels had decided to postpone the game, which allowed them to start the fireworks at a ridiculously early 8:30, thwarting my plans for a doubleheader.

Which means when I walked out with a new appreciation for Pavarotti's voice and legacy, all was quiet at the Diamond. The only saving grace was the more traditionally-timed fireworks display just starting at the Carillon, so I took the scenic route home hoping to catch what I could of their explosions in the sky.

For the record, I saw no evidence of the rockets red glare you-know-who was talking about, but that could have been because the army was busy celebrating when they took over the airports in, what, 1775 or 1814?

Oh, say, can you see to read a history book, Mr. President? A real patriot would.

Portrait of a Sweaty Woman

Summer afternoon - summer afternoon; to me, those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.

You tell 'em, Henry James because they won't listen to me.

Since I got back from the beach Sunday, it's clear that Richmond has settled into full-on summer mode. In Jackson Ward, that means clearing out of the 'hood, whether permanently, as is the case with VCU students, or temporarily, as seems to be the case with a goodly percentage of my neighbors.

The sense around here is that everyone was told to blow this pop stand but I didn't get the memo, which is fine because I don't mind living in a ghost town for a few months. With each day that passed this week, I noticed fewer cars on the road as well as parked, with barely a fraction of the number of people I usually encounter when walking to the river.

A river which is decidedly low at the moment given the extended heat.

Walking over to Bar Solita for a nosh with my date last night only proved my point. Other than a few people milling about in front of the November Theater awaiting the start of "The Wiz," the streets were all but deserted. Inside Bar Solita, other stuck-in-the-city stragglers like us were finishing up happy hour, but once they cleared out, there wasn't much left in the way of humanity beyond a dozen people.

Not that we cared. A bottle of Can Petit Cava Brut provided light refreshment and a long finish, while orzo salad, eggplant caponata and quinoa tabbouleh delivered nourishment that wouldn't send us into sleep mode.

We were so engrossed in conversation as I shared all my upcoming trips to the Northern Neck to do interviews for stories (not to mention, an excuse to drop by Merroir to scarf oysters) that I hadn't realized that the bartender had nothing better to do than listen to us blather.

Finally, he came over, grinning, and asked, of all the unlikely questions, if we were from Lancaster. "I heard you mention Morratico and Whitestone," he explained of hearing those unlikely locations mentioned in Richmond.

After I shared that I do a lot of writing about that area and that my parents have lived there for 30+ years, my date piped up to say he had a house in Irvington. The bartender's mind was being blown right in front of us. The question was, how did this charming young man in the Hawaiian shirt know what we were talking about?

"I grew up in Belle Isle State Park," he explained, looking not a little proud of it. "My Dad was a ranger so we lived on park land." Whoa, what an awesome place to grow up.

I've been to Belle Isle State park many times - it's minutes from where my folks live, basically a straight shot from their dock by water - for picnics, music, walks and to check out boat rentals, but I'd had no clue park personnel ever lived on the property. Suddenly, I wanted to hear more about his childhood. He told us about summers spent swimming in the river, riding his bike on the roads winding through the park system, exploring the woods and commandeering the picnic pavilion.

Hell, the Hardy Boys only wished they'd grown up in a place with so much exploration potential.

Not surprisingly, once he'd come of age, rural Lancaster County lost its allure so after a detour to Key West, he'd landed in Richmond, specifically Jackson Ward, which he loved. The only place where he lost points was in admitting that he'd never been to Merroir. "I haven't been to Rappahannock, either," he said sheepishly, probably because it's barely five blocks away.

I informed him that there was no need to pay twice as much at Rappahannock for the same oysters he could get by driving to Merroir and he looked relieved to hear it.

Once we'd finished a slice of triple chocolate cake and the last of the bubbly, we bid our new friend farewell and headed out into the even-emptier streets, where we were wholly surprised to see puddles everywhere as we strolled home. Apparently it had rained, if not long at least hard, and we'd never even noticed, despite Bar Solita having two entirely glass walls.

It wasn't much cooler, but the pavement had that lovely hot, wet smell that inevitably follows a summer rain shower or thunderstorm, so there was at least the illusion of cool. For people like Henry James and me, that's enough to get us to the next summer afternoon.

Speaking of which, if it winds up being so steamy that a heat nap is in order, all the better. In the immortal words of Sam Keen, "deep summer is when laziness finds respectability."

Only in summertime could those two be such fine bedfellows.

Countdowns and Sunbaths

If I wanted to be cool, it only made sense to go outside.

It's not like it wasn't a hot evening when I headed to Scuffletown Park for music, but it sure wasn't 90 degrees, which is what the thermostat read in my apartment when I left. Considering the afternoon high had been 95, the appeal of being outside where it was more like mid-80s and occasionally breezy was wildly appealing.

Despite hoping that the unpleasant heat would make tonight's turnout smaller than usual so I could score a bench close to the band, no such good fortune. I mean, I did luck into a bench but not one of the close ones, which was nonetheless good news since I'm just not willing to sit on the brick walkway like so many late arrivals do.

A band I didn't recognize was doing sound checks when I got there, but after a minute of testing vocals, the singer announced that they'd start playing in four minutes. Not five, four and if that sounds random, it's not. Part of the beauty of Sunsets at Scuffletown is that they begin exactly 30 minutes before sunset (so the start time changes every week) and end, more or less, as the sun sets.

Poetic, isn't it?

That said, the problem with being on a bench midway back in the park is that's hard to hear everything said or sung in the front. Oh, I heard the organizer announce, "Tonight we're counting down to sunset with (mumble, mumble)." So while I have no clue who the band was, I can tell you they had a lead singer, a horn section, a bassist, drummer and a couple of back-up singers.

Meanwhile, the two young women on the bench next to me never even looked up because they were so busy doing a sheaf of shared crossword puzzles from the time they sat down to when the show ended.

I'm going to assume they just wanted live background music for their word play.

Then the lead singer took the mic and announced that, "We're gonna do one long piece of music for the whole time," before the band launched into a comfortable jazz-inflected groove enlivened by strong vocals, not to mention the sheer pleasure of hearing horns played outdoors. It didn't hurt that a decent breeze kept stirring, moving the stale air around as the musicians played on, looking hotter and hotter.

Their salvation is that these shows only last half an hour, so relief is always in sight. Even so, the band members were passing around water bottles throughout the show attempting to cool down.

When their set ended, I made a beeline for the front because I'd seen my friend Xtina come in and sit down on the brick walkway just as the show was starting. Next to her was the Minimalist, whom I've known almost as long. As people were packing up to leave, we three sat down on a bench for a good girlfriend gab session.

Since both of them are introverts, they were congratulating each other on having forced themselves to leave the house and be among people. I told them Pru, also an introvert, refers to this as "peopling" and avoids it, causing them to nod in understanding.

Like me, they both work at home, though this extrovert has no problem seeking out humans on a nightly basis. That discussion led us straight to Myers Briggs and how enlightening it is understand the people in your life that way.

Talking about how we structure our work days at home, I mentioned that I always do my walk as soon as I finish breakfast because it's such a great prelude to whatever I have to do. The Minimalist was fascinated and both said they always feel obligated to jump right into work first thing in the morning.

Take it from someone older and wiser, ladies, you'll get over that.

But after hearing me describe the unique pleasures of beginning every day by the river with the sounds of the falls and rushing water, the Minimalist sweetly asked, "Do you mind if I steal your walk habit?" and asked for suggestions on how to get to the river from her (minimalist) house.

That's when Xtina piped up, telling us she had a vitamin D deficiency, so her doctor had prescribed a daily sun bath of 20 minutes. Although it sounds like something a Victorian doctor would prescribe for a woman recovering from the vapors, I love what a simple Rx it is. She puts on short shorts, pulls up her shirt to expose her midriff and soaks it in.

I recall my doctor complimenting me when she determined I didn't have a vitamin D deficiency - apparently it's pretty common in women - but it's tough to walk outside daily and not soak it up, whether you mean to or not.

So we sat there as the light faded, as two guys got into a shouting match and decided to take it to the streets and as others continued to sit on their blankets to finish their beverages before heading home, talking about the men in our lives, how the scene has changed since we first met and how much more confident we've all gotten as we get older.

By the time we parted company, we felt energized for having run into each other and talking for an hour, plus cooler than when we'd arrived at the park.

I'd like to say that I got home to find my thermostat had dropped, but you don't earn a $28 electric bill that way. Fact is, summer's supposed to be hot, it's healthy to sweat and there's no better time to walk through sprinklers like I did this morning. This is my time of year, so I don't want to hear how miserable you are.

I'm in good company on this one. No one says it better than the Bard: "Summer's lease hath all too short a date."

Sigh. Don't remind me.

Go Where You Wanna Go

The thing about going to a documentary is that it always means I have homework afterwards.

I'd been eager to see "Echo in the Canyon" since I first read about it in the Post. As a major fan of that Laurel Canyon sound - the first album I ever asked my parents to buy me was the Byrds' Greatest Hits - I was understandably looking forward to an in-depth look at one of my favorite periods in musical history when, as David Crosby put it, "We were putting poetry on pop radio."

Then Jakob Dylan got in the way.

I get it, he was executive producer plus he was the onscreen talent interviewing the luminaries - Roger McGuinn, Steven Stills, Brian Wilson, Graham Nash, Michelle Phillips, David Crosby et al - who created the folk-rock music that changed everything that came after it. But one thing I did not go to see was him and assorted contemporaries (Beck, Regina Spektor, Cat Power) performing songs by the bands being featured.

Can you say vanity project?

In what was his last interview before he died, Tom Petty is the one "contemporary" musician who made sense in this context. It was great hearing how he'd been introduced to the Laurel Canyon sound: by answering a trivia question on the radio and winning a prize of the Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds," which blew him away. When Buffalo Springfield and the Beach Boys played his hometown of Gainesville in 1967, he went, only to realize that it didn't get any better than what he was hearing.

So to have to watch Jakob and his posse singing the Byrds' take on the Goffin/Carole King-penned "Going Back" instead of the actual Byrds doing a much better job strikes me as, well, pandering to a younger audience. Given the decidedly older bent of tonight's audience at Criterion - what you might have thought was the target audience - I'm betting not a single person preferred to hear Fiona Apple doing "In My Room" over watching a vintage Beach Boys clip of the song.

Translation: too much 21st century posturing and not enough 20th century magic.

What did grab me was seeing old clips of these bands playing, mostly on the TV shows of the day. There was Buffalo Springfield playing "For What It's Worth," complete with Steven Stills in a ten gallon hat and Neil Young in one of his buckskin fringed jackets. Groovy, man. And the exquisite harmonies of the ridiculously young-looking Mamas and the Papas took my breath away.

Stills talked about the song "Triad," a Crosby-penned tune that got overruled for inclusion on "The Notorious Byrd Brothers" album because it was about a menage-a-trois. "Crosby was like Brando. He had no borders," his bandmate says before Crosby insists there's nothing wrong with a threesome or the French wouldn't have a word for it.

I'm here to tell you that looking at how cute the young Crosby was, I'm sure he had zero problem finding female companionship.

It was fascinating hearing how musicians would show up at each other's houses to play a song they'd just written or were working on. As several musicians pointed out, there couldn't help but be influences absorbed given how frequently get-togethers developed into jam sessions and song try-outs.

So while my reasons for going to see the documentary were twofold - to escape the ungodly heat and finally see a more in-depth look at how folk-rock developed - I came away knowing I need to know more.

For one, the initial inspiration for even making this film came from the directors seeing a film called "Model Shop," which was shot in Laurel Canyon in 1968 by a French director who felt burnt out making movies in his homeland. So now I definitely need to see that.

Plus I really must do deeper dives into some of the bands featured so I can better hear the cross-pollination that went on during this period. The Beatles said the Byrds were their favorite band, "Sgt. Pepper" was a direct reaction to "Pet Sounds" and everyone thought Brian Wilson was a once in lifetime musical genius, better than Mozart. I've got a lot to learn.

For what it's worth, we music nerds love a good homework assignment.

Try Her On, She Fits Like a Glove

When you return from the beach and spend the day missing the sound of the ocean, only music will do as an antidote.

Not going to lie, it helped that a sweet, little musical set in the flannel-clad '90s about finding first love was on tap at Richmond Triangle Players. That it used nothing but the music of Matthew Sweet - and primarily off his killer 1991 power pop magnum opus "Girlfriend"  - ensured that Foto Boy and I would enjoy it immensely.

I only saw Matthew Sweet live once and that was in 1993 or '94 at the Flood Zone, a show memorable for watching a woman sit on the curb outside and barf. It's bad enough to pre-game to the point of retching, but to miss so much good jangly pop is just a crying shame.

My life has finally become the musical I always expected it to be.

Tonight's story was simple enough: two boys begin seeing each other the day that high school ends after one gives the other a mix tape. One is already aware of his attraction to boys (and bullied for it) while the other, a star athlete about to embark on pre-med in college, is just starting to acknowledge his.

What made it so achingly poignant was how deliberately slowly they acted on those desires, even something as small as hand-holding. There's a lot to be said for delayed gratification.

With a stellar four piece band - bass, guitar, drum pad and keys - onstage (and, it must be noted, two of the four were women for a change) to sing back-up, the show got off to a rousing start with "I've Been Waiting," as our descent into the '90s began.

I've been waiting my whole life for a boy to ask me to run errands with him.

There were so many great Matthew Sweet songs incorporated into the play: "We're the  Same," of course "Girlfriend" and even a personal favorite, "Sick of Myself." One of the play's running jokes was that the boys went to the drive-in movie every night to be alone, even though it meant seeing the same ultra-violent flick all summer about a nun turned super hero named Evangeline. As they continue to watch this movie, all I'm thinking is what song is coming up (duh, "Evangeline") while Foto Boy leans over and says, "I remember seeing this movie."

Well, that makes one of us.

Both actors nailed their characters and their love of music. Cooper Sved's was sweetly thrilled, a boy who feels like his life has finally begun now that someone cares for him. Ray Wrightstone had more of an arc because his character was just realizing it wasn't his girlfriend he was attracted to, so he spends time fighting his instincts (and his bullying father) but unable to deny what he's feeling. Both young actors shone, both with their acting chops and singing voices.

And since I'm constitutionally unable to go to a play set during my lifetime without critiquing its anachronisms, here goes: Princess phones were attached to walls by a cord, meaning you couldn't just take the phone anywhere. Skinny jeans were not worn with flannel shirts, nor did Vans look like that in the '90s. And I don't know for sure, but I seriously doubt that drive-ins were much of a thing circa 1991.

But one thing with which I had no quibble was the use of a mix tape to show interest and attraction. I can't speak for everyone, but I'll admit to having been wooed with multiple mix tapes back then, even when the mixes far exceeded the men proffering them.

And if anything summed up the '90s, that was it. Far better to finally find a man who could turn my life into the musical it was always meant to be.

Besides, I can make the mix tape myself.

RIP Beach Reads

Not for the first time, I was reminded that I bloom at the beach.

Much as I appreciate the compliment, I'm not sure it's a trait worthy of praise. After all, who wouldn't thrive when they can see and hear the ocean day and night, gently unwinding the stresses accumulated since the last beach week in May? What's not to love about getting up and putting on a bathing suit as the official attire for the entire day?

And truly, who wouldn't be all aglow when she gets to shower outdoors every afternoon?

Although my favorite guest teased me daily about the focus on food - we were seldom more than an hour past the last meal when someone wanted to know when (and what) the next one would be - it's kind of nice to have nothing more to think about than what you feel like eating next. That all meals are taken on the screened-in porch with a side of ocean breezes doesn't hurt a girl's mood, either.

So when a guest looks over at you while you chew a Tootsie Roll on the beach half an hour after lunch and casually refers to you as "an eating machine," well, I guess I'll just have to live with that.

The weather all week was ideal for blooming: breezy, sunny (but never hotter than 89) and dropping down in the low '70s at night. Just as good was the ocean temperature which started the week at 70 degrees, took a brief nose-dive to 64, then rebounded with 75, 73, 71 and 72, ensuring that we spent time morning and afternoon bathing in the sea like some Victorian prescription for good health.

Wednesday afternoon, our water fun was interrupted when we saw dozens of people congregating further down the beach. Just in case they'd spotted something we hadn't, we dutifully trooped out of the water and made our way toward the onlookers, noticing thousands of tiny fish lying near death on the shore, some of them still twitching futilely yards from the surf. Not far out in the ocean was a feeding frenzy of epic proportions with larger fish jumping in and out of the water as they repeatedly dove for dinner, putting on a show for the entire beach.

I'm not smart enough to know why all the little fish wound up on shore dying, but surely there was a connection to the all-you-can-eat buffet we were witnessing.

In other tragic news, one thing that's become quite clear about my last five beach sojourns going back to May 2018 is that the days of me finishing 3 or 4 books in a week have ended. In fact, let's have a moment of silence for my love of beach reading, which apparently died a quiet death last year despite my resolve to still tote at least four more books than I have any realistic hope of reading.

The only thing that makes it bearable is that reading time has been replaced with conversation time, so I tell myself that's my consolation.

Maybe part of the reason I'm so happy at the beach is the steady diet of bubbly and seafood. Whether it was a dolphin boat with hushpuppies from John's Drive-in, rare tuna sashimi at Ocean Boulevard, local shrimp from Carawan Seafood savored on the porch or a crabcake rolled in coconut flakes and panko enjoyed at Art's Place while live music played, we definitely did our part to support the local fishing economy.

On my walk one morning after breakfast, I spotted a woman sitting on the beach with a bottle of bubbles and a large bubble wand. Without taking her eyes off the ocean, she'd periodically dip the wand in the jar and hold it up, allowing the breeze to push out scores of bubbles with zero effort on her part.

Meanwhile, kids in her vicinity were having a ball running around the sand with bubbles coming at them from one side and the surf pounding the shore on the other, both reasons to scream with delight.

When it comes to showing my happiness level, I'm past the screaming stage. Unlike the kids in the bubble clouds, it's enough for me to just revel in it all: every open window framing the blues and greens of ocean and sky, the constant sound of the surf crashing down onshore, and, best of all, every wave that slapped me full on, leaving behind a mouthful of salt water.

Why, it's enough to make even an eating machine bloom.

Island Girl

I stick with my original answer.

When friends started asking me if I was going to see "Rocketman," my answer was nope. I knew it was inevitable I wouldn't be able to buy into someone else's voice as Elton's. I felt the same way about the Queen biopic and instead watched a 15-minute clip of Queen at Live Aid that said more than any 21st century film could. I had a sense - having seen Elton in '77 or '78 and his music having been a thread through the soundtrack of my youth - I'd not be satisfied.

I wasn't.

I saw it at Cinebistro, although it wasn't even my first time there, to everyone's surprise. Lady G and I'd gone years ago. And sure, having a server take your order when you sit down and food delivered before the movie starts, it's a unique experience. Usually I'm just downing buttered popcorn. My arugula salad had enough interesting platemates, although my side of crispy Brussels sprouts was saltier than buttered popcorn. More like a salt lick. But the salad scored.

Random thoughts: The story fleshed out a lot of what I already knew just living through those years. Taron Egerton pulls off the mental Elton better than he does the physical. A little too 21st-century musical for my taste. Costumes never look like clothes really looked then. The lack of chronology in the songs was distracting. And mostly, since EJ was the executive producer, the presumption that there's some truth to the way things are shown as happening.

But I was right. Didn't need to see it and now I'll just have more rationale to decline when I'm asked to do the music biopic thing. Not being crotchety, just know well enough what I like.

Besides, the trip down Memory Lane was just prelude to an evening of musical memory talk on Pru's screened porch.

Looking at it that way, I saw "Rocketman" for the post-film discussion. Like I do.

A Tempest in a Wine Glass

Summer has arrived and the Roundhouse has redeemed itself.

Or, more accurately, I now know the drill. So after dinner at Garnett's we knew enough to be at the Roundhouse before 7 p.m., arriving to find the band set up and having a relaxed chat about the set list. What makes me think others had not yet learned their lesson was how few people had their butts in seats when Quatro na Bossa started playing shortly thereafter.

And, honestly, why on earth wouldn't you be on time for Brazilian Bossa Nova music from the '50s, '60s and '70s? I mean, really?

The evening's performance was extra poignant because it was guitarist Bruno's last show with the band now that he's moving to South Carolina as a doctor of music theory. His exquisite guitar playing and lovely voice will be missed, at least until he realizes he wants to return to Richmond (like they all do).

During the first song, an instrumental, singer Laura Ann stood off to the side listening, eventually making the executive decision (like women do) that we didn't need no stinkin' overhead light and turning it off. She was right, with sun pouring through three windows (unfortunately not open, though, like last week) behind the band and the door wide open to light, we had all the early summer sunlight we needed.

Let's just that when she joined the band onstage, it the lighting was much more appropriate for Brazilian music.

Because the syncopated sounds Quatro na Bossa play are so danceable and because we were all sitting in folding chairs, there was a lot of toe-tapping and seat dancing going on as Laura Ann and/or Bruno's voices rose and fell with each samba or Tropicalia song.

Happily, people kept arriving to give the band the audience it deserved.

Once the sun finally got near setting, a firefly found its way into the Roundhouse, flying around and reminding us of its presence periodically with a green glow before then showing up on the far side of the room to dazzle someone new.

It says so much about the music that despite not being able to understand a word of the lyrics, everyone was rapt listening to the music.  All except the big galoot sitting in front of us, taking up three chairs by extending his arms across the two on either side of him and repeatedly staring at the ceiling, rubbing his face and looking bored out of his mind. Luckily, his date got the hint and they cut out early.

We stayed until the last note, reluctant to leave the magic of bossa nova and fireflies before retreating to J-Ward.

When it comes to Summer Solstice, that was celebrated outdoors by seeing Quill Theatre's production of "The Tempest" at Agecroft on a night when the weather could only be described as glorious. Breezy, low humidity and just warm enough, it was a night meant for being outdoors with just the right person, savoring the longest day of the year (also a bittersweet one now that days begin getting shorter).

We stopped at Goatocado to get dinner, bringing along birthday wine courtesy of my best friend in Texas (thanks, Buns!) and a slice of cake - my personal fave, chocolate with white icing - to celebrate multiple occasions. Spreading a quilt under a row of massive shade trees on Agecroft's back lawn, we had a view of the river, a breeze from multiple sides and live entertainment.

Four of Quill's costumed Young Players showed up, offering a song or a monologue for our pleasure. The first we chose was that of the melancholy Jacques from "As You Like It" and afterwards, they offered us another. The young man offering to do Puck in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" seemed especially animated and eager when he offered up his monologue, so I capitulated, telling him that it was obvious he was dying to dazzle us.

At several points, he was crouched on one knee or leaning forward looking about to spring onto us, so his antics were worth it.

Once inside, we chose seats in the third row center for best possible view. In the 20 past years of seeing Shakespeare at Agecroft, I have never tired of being close enough to see the actors spit, not to mention scale the nearby stone wall and deliver monologues. Translation: I like to be in the thick of things.

Sitting just behind us was a familiar acting face who now graces L.A. with his acting chops, but is back in town for a few. Last time I'd seen him at Agecroft, he'd been playing Sir Andrew Aguecheeck dressed in a brown suit. Hearing his guffaws throughout added a nice touch to tonight's show.

My standards for "The Tempest" are unusually high, only because back in the '90s, I saw Richmond Shakespeare (Quill's predecessor) do it on Fulton Hill with an approaching thunderstorm as backdrop and that's tough to beat.

This production got its points other ways, since the weather couldn't have been more un-tempest-like. The always-impressive Adam Turck made Ariel his own in gray-blue body paints, nervous tics and aim to please. Just watching him stand on the stone wall and react to what was happening onstage could have been a master class for a younger actor.

Jeff Clevenger has made a career of milking the humor in any character, making him the ideal person to play the jester Trinculo, besotted with wine and fearful of spirits. My fandom for Adam Valentine was born when I saw him in "Heathers" and tonight's turn as Alonso's butler "Stephano" showed that his take on humor is equal parts visual (that sad sack face he calls forth!) and gangly physicality. The scene of Trinculo and Stephano "hiding" in plain sight had the audience in stitches.

Sitting in the courtyard of a building that stood in Shakespeare's time, watching a time-honored play under a brilliant blue sky on the longest day of the year may take the cake in terms of exquisite ways to wile away the summer solstice a deux.

But then, anyone as stupidly happy as I am would think that. Just ignore me...

Victim of Circumstance

You know it takes a lot to lure me to the suburbs.

But that's exactly what I did when I headed to Chesterfield County in rush hour, during a thunderstorm and why? Because Modern Richmond was opening up a 1978 house originally designed by NOVA architect Joseph Boggs. And while Northern Virginia in general makes my skin crawl, I admit I was curious to see the house.

Besides being honored by the American Institute of Architects not once but twice - in 1978 and again in 2012 after a renovation - I was intrigued at seeing the state of modern architecture at a time when my top priority was college and clubs and not necessarily in that order.

Translation: I wasn't paying attention to residential architecture being built at that point and now I am.

Just as I was overcoming my distaste for the entitled-feeling neighborhood and the lackluster houses in general, I came to the one in question. Situated into a one acre lot that rose much higher in the back, it at least had character that I hadn't seen in other houses I'd passed.

Right away, I gave it points for the fish pond in an island in the driveway and the fact that the concrete walkway had been poured with an opening for a large, existing tree. Inside the house, I was struck by the large expanses of glass, the abundance of skylights, vaulted ceilings and clerestory windows (so Frank Lloyd Wright, but what did I expect?).

Standing near the kitchen, I overheard a woman tell her husband, "I don't know about those windows," referring to the rectangular windows located between the counters and the kitchen cabinets. "I'm good with them," her husband opined and kept walking.

Looking through one of the large expanses of glass - the windows were a mixture of the opening kind and not -  several of us spotted a Mama deer and two babies just behind the plastic playhouse in the elevated backyard. I guess they have lots of nature in the county.

A narrow, carpeted spiral staircase seemed dated, but I gave it a few points for how it reminded me of climbing a lighthouse because of the extremely tight fit making my way up and down. At the top was what seemed to be a playroom with toys on shelves, although a full box of rolled up blueprints indicated otherwise. Bookshelves contained books on Gaudi, Impressionism and Frank Lloyd Wright, the latter no surprise.

After having been through a lot of Modern Richmond houses old and new over the years, this one fell somewhere in between the distinctive mid-century styles and the lackluster creativity of newer modern construction we've seen. Vintage details like cypress tongue and groove paneling on walls and ceiling certainly elevated this one.

I couldn't stay to hear the current owners talk, but on the way out, I ran into a gallerist I know coming up the driveway and we immediately bonded over the schlep from the city (she's in Church Hill), agreeing that the suburbs are not for us.

Happy to be headed back to my natural habitat, I made a bee-line for the Byrd to meet Mac for another pre-code movie from 1933, just like last week. This time, it was "Baby Face" with a young Barbara Stanwyck. In the introduction, Byrd manager Todd told us that this was a very salacious film for the time in that it showed a woman taking control of her own life. "nowadays, we call it reality TV," he joked.

Granted, she did it by sleeping her way to the top long before Madonna was a gleam in her Daddy's eye, but, come on, it was the Depression and a woman's options were limited. Except that the story used a kindly cobbler character to introduce our heroine to Nietzsche and his theory that all life is exploitation. He tells her to exploit herself by using men to get what she wants.

You never saw an Erie, Pennsylvania girl get the hang of using men so fast, resulting in fur coats, an expensive apartment and lots of bling. Along the way, one of her ex-lovers kills her present lover and then himself, so that gets a bit messy, but our girls keeps going anyway, landing a job in Paris and, ultimately, the grandson of the bank's founder. He's smitten and sends her a note at work: "Pick you up at 8. We are dining and dancing." A bit blunt, but a solid plan, if you ask me.

But it's still 1933, so ultimately, she tells him all she really wants is for it to say "Mrs." on her tombstone (aim higher, honey!), so he marries our little go-getter.

This pat Hollywood plot twist is how the studio placated the New York board of censors before it was allowed to screen there. Even so, he winds up shooting himself (this girl was rough on men's hearts), but he lives so there can be a happy ending.

You want to know how happy? He told her he wanted to buy her a house in New York City and one in Paris, which means she'd never have to live in the suburbs.

Now, that's true love, Nietzsche-style.