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.

Bloom Where You're Planted

The "Don't Tread On Me" license plate said it all: TRU MP.

In what could only be called foreshadowing, FotoBoy and I followed an enormous white truck with that unpleasant personalized plate most of the way down Patterson Avenue to get to HATTheatre to see "Hillary and Clinton."

Because as we get ready to head to the polls Tuesday, what could feel more timely than a look back at a time when our biggest problem was choosing between a woman and a black man, both whip smart and worthy of the job, to be our candidate?

Good god, was that only 9 years ago?

It was only somewhat mortifying to be the last arrivals - FB was tardy in picking me up - to see the four-actor production. The set was an all-white hotel room, framed in white as if to provide a glimpse into "an alternate universe light years from our own, January 2008 in New Hampshire."

Working from a decidedly strong script, the story follows Hillary, then predicted to lose the upcoming primary, as she listens to advice from her driven campaign manager Mark and politically savvy husband Bill, whom she's asked to join her in New Hampshire despite her manager's insistence that she keep him far away.

Since this is an alternate universe, Hillary is winningly played by Patricia Ali, a black actress who uses calm, measured delivery rather than looks to convey Hillary and her unenviable position of trying to break the glass ceiling without having to avail herself of her husband's money or charisma with voters.

The playwright gives us a Bill Clinton who is feeling his age, needy and contrite, eager to return to his wife's good graces, a man who rests his head on her shoulder, telling her he's lonely and missing her. A man who needs his head patted by his wife to feel like everything is all better now. Jeff Clevenger ably takes the character from marital suck-up to master politician reveling in being right about how to win.

As campaign manager Mark, Billy Christopher Maupin nails the obsessive political insider type that anyone who's lived in D.C. has met at some point. He was especially moving in his scenes disagreeing with Bill, because he knows there's no way to win and acknowledges it in ways both humorous and resigned. The kicker was that he'd already caught the audience off guard when he privately drops an unexpected bomb on Hillary.

What? Wonks have emotions, too? Who knew?

The final character was known only as Other Guy, but we know it's the guy who ultimately took the nomination and the presidency. Here, he's willing to offer her the vice-presidency if she'll lose the next few primaries. It's a small and tightly wound role for Waleed Sami.

Kudos to director Deejay Gray for delivering a solid 80-minute entertainment that never for a moment lost our interest, despite knowing how things turned out, at least in this universe. And nothing could have been more poignant than Hillary's final line acknowledging that she knows she can't ever win.

That said, not much could have been more discouraging than the exchange I had with a server at a nearby restaurant. When she politely inquired if we needed anything, I jokingly said, yes, how about a new president?

"I voted for him, but now I know what a mistake that was," this young black woman tells me to my utter surprise. Gobsmacked, I ask how she could have ever thought he was worthy of being elected.

"I believed him when he said he would make America great again," she says, looking obviously apologetic. "I was wrong. All he cares about is himself." Oh, honey, if only you and your kind had come to that realization a year ago.

So "Hillary and Clinton" turned out to be both a compelling look at what if and a sad reminder of what is now. As for the latter, my only hope is that people like the guy in the white supremacist pick-up truck won't be voting on Tuesday.

And hats off to HATT. If ever there was a time for the intersection of theater and politics, that time is now.

Moment of Truth

You know how it feels when you lose somebody you cared about deeply, someone you thought was the one?

Yea, well, Billy Christopher Maupin knows that feeling, too, only he's got a far better singing voice than you do and he's a whiz at mining soundtracks for musical gems to tell the highs and lows of trying to navigate the world once you've been smitten.

So quit yer whining.

The Camel was the setting for his cabaret, "This Fish Needs a Bicycle," an evening of history ("I was a virgin until I was 19"), self-reflection (resolving to be okay with being single) and observation ("I'm always hitting on straight guys"), accompanied by Tristan on guitar and Joshua on keyboards, punctuated by show tunes and obscure character-driven songs.

Occasionally a random dancer appeared to great effect, like when long-legged Emily began shimmying to "Sister Kate" right up the aisles between the tables to the stage.

As long as they were songs about missin' a feller, lovin' a man or muddlin' through heartache, he was all over it while nattily clad in a red blazer, black shirt and cuffed pants.

Barefoot, naturally.

From Oklahoma's "I Can't Say No" to a torch song such as "The Man I Love" to "Down With Love," with a Cher imitation (not just voice, but hair flipping as well) smack dab in the middle of a killer medley, it was pretty easy to see where  this boy had channeled his feelings after his last big romance had ended.

Acknowledging his constant companion, stage fright, he promised to do one more song before the break, during which we were instructed to get a drink, order some dessert and avail ourselves of the bathroom, which he also planned to do.

Just as he was about to hop off the stage, he realized his error, sheepishly saying, "Oh, yea, the song."

Of course he'd told us about the romance that had spawned the evening earlier, because that's what lovesick people do after they call the whole thing off.

But their heart will go on, and in this case that meant the trio returned after a break (BC in a different blazer) only to start, stop and restart a song before realizing that their juju was off. "Okay, I'm just gonna go out and come in again," he said and once he did, all was well in the world of sung emotions.

BC brought up acoustic guitarist Psalm Swarr because at his request, she'd written a song about his breakup, telling him if he didn't want it, she'd sing it herself. Between Tristan's slide guitar and his harmonizing with Psalm and Emily, the heartbreaking song was rendered achingly.

There were songs about why people fall in love (can you say hormones? how about convenience?), future chances and endless optimism.

Things got a little emotional when he talked about getting really good at "hiding from life," but he also shared his attack plan: (F*ck that!" with enthusiasm), simultaneously citing Auntie Mame's advice abut life being a banquet while letting drop that Mame was one of his dream roles.

It never hurts to let people know what you want, said every kvetching mother ever.

When he came back for an encore, he asked the sell-out crowd, "One more?" and someone yelled out, "Ten more!" just before someone else laughing instructed, "Calm down there!"

Reaching in for a prime nugget with which to close the well-sung show, he pulled out Rodgers and Hammerstein's "Something Good" from "Sound of Music" and performed it like his life depended upon it.

Or at least his heart. The good news, he'd already sung, is that love is going around, heck, it's practically in the air.

Best to keep your resistance low.

Here's to the Girls on the Go

Once again, Billy Christopher has delivered all the estrogen I could possibly want in one fabulous evening.

Truthfully, he's been my source, my dealer, a reliable estrogen supplier for years now, chiefly by way of his Gender-Reversed Shakespeare performances. Tonight I scored from him with something different: his birthday present to himself, a cabaret, fittingly entitled "My Favorite Richmond Leading Ladies."

So he turns 35 and we get the present (not that turning a mere 35 isn't gift enough). I like the way the man thinks.

The photographer and I found seats down in front so as to have the best possible view of all these talented women, their pretty outfits and, perhaps best of all, their parade of cute shoes.

You haven't heard "Cabaret" sung until you've seen it done in sparkly blue peep-toe platform pumps to open the show.

There was a pop quiz - What is the "Wizard of Oz" about? - given by a woman in sparkly silver t-strap shoes with bows (!) purchased for her by the love of her life.

Answer: The "Wizard of Oz" is about a pair of shoes ("No, this isn't the medication. I'm always this funny," whilst draping herself and those shoes around the piano).

The immensely talented Starlet Knight, her white Mohawk a thing of beauty, did her best to accompany this group of divas on piano, eventually throwing up her hands and saying, "It's a lot of woman...in the middle of a bike race...while I'm trying to do "Hello, Dolly"! I'm doing the best I can."

We felt her pain, but in all honesty, she was doing a bang-up job of playing piano to a host of show tunes, with nary a moment to rest in between songs.

You really had to be there to see the red patent leather pumps straddling devoted theater patron Dennis in his seat while singing "Bring On the Men." If he didn't need his neck brace before that number, he probably did afterwards.

But she wasn't finished, cooing, "Come dance with me, darling," to BC who not only danced her around the stage but dropped her in a magnificent dip.

The fishnet tights-wearing beauty introduced "In His Eyes" by saying, "Someone once asked me to sing a song I never sang outside a crowded karaoke bar with a Broadway veteran" and then did just that, giving the crowd chills at the blending of their two voices.

Another pair of red patent leather pumps crossed herself (maybe in deference to the Pope's visit?) before doing "Don't Rain on My Parade," changing the lyric, "Hey, Mr. Arnstein" to "Hey, Mr. Maupin" in a nod to the birthday boy.

We got topical. There were old fashioned lesbian love stories and laments about every guy a girl tries to date ending up being gay (BC inserting a good-natured shrug at this point).

Only the red dress brought out her guitar, announcing, "Those songs were spicy but I'm going to bring it down to bittersweet," singing the haunting indie folk ballad, "Fighter Dancer."

Props showed up for "The Ladies who Lunch" because a drink is a must for that classic, along with a whole lot of attitude for "Some People."

The pretty pink dress and matching flower in her hair belted out "Love Changes Everything," which was taken into the stratosphere when shiny taupe pumps chimed in with "I Don't Know How to Love Him" (that song alone making my night) and the maternal one on "Unexpected Song," an Andrew Lloyd Webber trifecta that absolutely killed.

When it ended, BC said what the stunned room was thinking: "Holy, shit, that just happened!"

Of course, only the pregnant woman could sing "Little Girls" from "Annie," especially appropriate since she'd just found out that this baby bump will be her third daughter. As one of six daughters, all I can say is, three is nothing, honey.

Last up came sparkly t-strap shoes with double ankle straps, an actress with fond memories of having been cast as a Munchkin in "The Wiz" at 13, her first professional production, only to be given the part of Dorothy instead.

"I'm so glad you moved here and made this your home," she said directly to the birthday boy, who'd spent the night alternately beaming and tearing up.

Of course she had to sing "Home" from "The Wiz", the words made all the more poignant for the Band-aid on her knee.

All the divas in the house and their assortment of cute shoes, sexy dresses and powerful lungs took to the stage for one last song before everyone joined in a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday," celebrating the fact that for two days now, that song is officially in the public domain.

Just in time for somebody's 35th birthday. Just in time to benefit the Richmond Theater Artists Fund. Just in time for Richmond's favorite leading ladies to dazzle us with their unstoppable talent.

Here's to the King of Estrogen! Isn't he a gem? Let's drink to him.

Let's drink to all of them, all his favorite Richmond leading ladies. Then let's bring on the men for the birthday boy.

What Will Be, Will Be

Let's spend Friday night looking at life, shall we?

In the case of the Anderson Gallery's new exhibit "Myron Helfgott: An Inventory of My Thoughts," it was a wide-ranging retrospective covering the 45-year artistic career of one of my favorite curmudgeons. I can say that because I've known Myron for 15 years and besides, he'd say it about himself.

Despite the multiple hours and afternoons spent in his studio interviewing him for my profile, here, in Style Weekly, I'd only seen a fraction of the work that made it into the show. So tonight's three-level exhibit was as much a surprise to me as to the rest of the world.

In 1971's "Salute," hands cast in lead were captured in a box with a lead flag on top. Lead, so different a material than the plywood and paper pieces he's been creating the past few years. Pieces such as "Windows" from 2013, a segmented view of the Kroger parking lot from his condo.

I was captivated by "We Share the Same Interests," a mixed media piece from 1981-82, comprised of a metal figure of a woman that Myron had taken all around town - Monument Avenue, MCV, VMFA - and had himself photographed with. The dated photos were part of the piece and provided a glimpse into Myron long before I met him in 2000.

Immediately recognizable was "Waterfall after Duchamp" from 1990 because it had been in the foyer of his condo when I'd first interviewed him. Here the motorized waterfall took its place among the many pieces powered by small motors.

"33 years and 6 months" was another lead piece, this one from 1970, showing a pair of men's underwear. "Don't look at that too long. People will talk!" a man stage-whispered in my ear as I gazed at it.

Listening to reactions from the ever-growing crowd, I overheard, "Phenomenal work" and "This is the shit, man. The shit!" High praise, indeed.

I went through all three floors of Myron's art twice, knowing full well I'll need to come back when the crowds are gone to enjoy it all without the socializing distractions. And they were many tonight, with all that old '70s VCU art crowd in attendance.

When I finally made it back to the tent, there was Myron, wine in hand, holding court. He pinched my cheek, he hugged me and he thanked me profusely for my article, especially thrilled that I hadn't talked about his work.

Who needs to try to describe astonishing art when there's a crabby old man with a lifetime's worth of opinions to share instead? Not that the work doesn't tell an amazing story of a man who never stopped evolving, but anyone with eyes can see that.

People were still pouring in to the gallery when I left to meet my theater date for dinner at Bistro 27, finding him at the bar with a Cosmopolitan in hand. The hostess raved about how cute my tights were and seated us with a great view of Adams Street. I kept my meal simple - Caesar salad with grilled shrimp - to offset a decadent chocolate torte for dessert.

Over dinner, we covered the multiple months' worth of life that had happened since we'd last gone to a play together. We compared notes on "Mame," made plans to see "Sister Act," exchanged Christmas vacation trip stories and restaurant gossip. Then we high-tailed it to Richmond Triangle Players for another kind of look at life.

It was opening night for 5th Wall's production of "The Lyons," a black comedy I'd first seen a sample of at the 5th Wall preview party last August. Even that snippet had been enough to see the potential of the play about nothing more than family relations, which is to say, everything.

But what a family! In a magnificent brown curly wig, Jacqueline Jones chewed up the scenery and spit it out as Rita, the matriarch of the Lyons family. This is an actress I've seen in all kinds of roles and never have I seen her so completely inhabit a character. She will be undoubtedly be honored come awards time next year for this part.

When her dying husband (the always excellent Alan Sader) muses that he may go to hell, she shoots him down succinctly. "What have you ever done to go to Hell? Who are you?" Nobody in this family seems to have a kind word for anyone.

The first act was mesmerizing as the parents had their adult children (a gay writer and recovering alcoholic mother with two kids) come to the hospital room to learn that their father was dying. Despite the seriousness of it, the family immediately devolves into bickering and bringing up old family issues. Meanwhile, Rita peruses decorating magazines, planning to redo their tawdry living room once husband Ben is dead.

No one feels comfortable when they're intimate. 
Your mother used to vomit a lot.

Watching this family argue - the father endlessly cursing because he has nothing to lose, listening to Rita criticize her dying husband and messed-up children - was like eavesdropping on a majorly dysfunctional family. Awkward but utterly compelling.

Significantly, playwright Nicky Silver even weaves in the particular bond of siblings; they may not like each other or respect each other's choices, but they share secrets that Mom and Dad were never privy to. That's real life.

Romance is a treacherous arena.

At intermission, my friend and I discussed how director B.C. Maupin had created a tightly wound production that never ceased to elicit reaction from the audience, whether we were squirming in our seats, anticipating discomfort, embroiled in embarrassment or mortified at how this family treated each other.

Meanwhile, a cadre of black-clad crew miraculously turned the hospital room set into a much, larger studio apartment, as big a set change as I've seen at RTP, a feat only believable if you saw the transformation.

After the first act, my friend had commented on the robust laughter coming from the back of the room and, sure enough, the Man About Town (the source of that laugh) stopped by to discuss Myron's show and our enjoyment of the play we were seeing.

Writing short stories is like selling Victrolas.

If the first act had set some people's teeth on edge, the second began with a scene uncomfortable in about a dozen more ways. As it unfolded with missed signals, over-reactions and brutality, little of the dark humor remained.

The set was again changed back to the hospital room, this time without an intermission, but it was accomplished briskly and efficiently while the audience listened to "Que Sera, Sera." It was so impressively done that the crowd broke out in spontaneous applause for the crew.

Since when do you talk like a character from "Cagney and Lacey"?

The final scene begins with the father dead, but the remaining members no less unhappy or rude to each other. Hello, real life.

Watching the widow tell her son and daughter that she's decided to go on with her life in a manner that appalls them becomes one of the most satisfying moments in the play. Changing from power pumps to pink slides before a flight to Aruba, Jones makes a compelling case for delayed happiness after a loveless marriage that's almost worth standing up to cheer for.

Some people are happy, some people are lonely, some people are mean and sad. That's the way of the world.

As 5th Wall's production so ably demonstrates, it's every person's choice to decide which of those people they want to be. As if I weren't already in the first category, a superbly-executed production such as this one makes me even happier because Carol Piersol is back at the helm of a cutting edge theater company in Richmond.

Here's to long, artistic lives. Fortunately, they seem to thrive in this town.

Titillating and Informative at the Same Time

It's probably terribly post-modern of me to write about writing, but here goes.

If, as Benjamin Franklin said, you should either write something worth reading or do something worth writing about, where does that leave writing something no one will read?

I spent a fair amount of my day writing a letter that I didn't send, but needed to capture. Thoughts have been swirling around in my head and in order to make them stop, I needed to get them down in words and sentences, which I did.

But the more I thought about it, the more sure I was that no one needed to read them. But, plain and simple, I needed, really needed, to write them.

The words I wrote weren't about being the 282nd person to vote at my polling place or about the sweet old lady outside it who questioned me intently about whether I'd been challenged when I provided my photo ID to vote (I hadn't).

They weren't about taking my hired mouth and a friend to lunch and having him remind me that we should be getting together for more than lunch, say music or art.

And while it was a lovely meal, my words weren't about dinner at Lucy's where my fellow diner told me about a car chase, crash and arrest on Broad Street this afternoon, snarling traffic westward for hours.

Irresistible was the soup of the day, a tomato-based mahi mahi and potato with just a hint of heat, worth slurping up every spoonful. Then I tucked into the lemon-vinaigrette-dressed winter salad of kale, roasted Brussels sprouts and sunflower seeds while hearing tales of familiar faces showing up in commercials and TV shows (so I'll never see them).

Post-dinner, I made my way to the Speakeasy to see 5th Wall Theater's staged reading of "Writer's Weekend: A New Musical," sharing a table with two women, one of whom turned out to be in the show's band.

I'd seen the first reading of the play last Spring and thoroughly enjoyed the story of six people attending a writer's workshop in hopes of fine-tuning their writing skills or, as the only published writer in the bunch put it, "Jump-starting my literary libido."

A four-piece band of two keyboard players, a bassist and drummer accompanied the actors as they sang of their frustrations and hopes for their writing careers, all in various stages. The sci-fi writer was self-published with cartons of her books crowding her basement, the former TV action star wanted to be a playwright but his concept was weak, the newspaper reporter hoped to use his journalism background writing about crime to pen detective stories, the young technical writer was trying to branch out into fiction, the suburban slam poet still had more attitude than talent and the oversexed romance writer had writer's block but a string of best-sellers behind her. Add in the bitter writer who leads the sessions and the potential for snappy dialog was obvious.

Jacqueline Jones narrated the play, sometimes even helping it along when there was overly-long silence. "I think that's a music cue!" she said cheerily to get everyone back on track.

And just in case the audience was unclear on what being a writer means, it was spelled out in song. "A working writer means a writer who gets paid. Who knows, I might even get laid." Don't count on it, friend, it never got me laid.

I couldn't decide which character I found the funniest, the timid technical writer played by Mark Persinger who was seduced by the older woman ("Old is the new black") or the ebony goddess poet played by Carolyn Meade, all attitude and adjectives.

Like last time, there was a lot that made me laugh out loud (editor jokes, older woman comments) including the written-to-be-awful manuscripts the would-be writers shared with their peers ("Rickets: The Musical").

And like with all his staged readings, director B.C. Maupin had made sure we got a lot more than just actors with scripts reading in chairs. Characters made eyes at each other, moved as if to dance, met at a bar and just generally suggested a lot more staging than some readings deliver.

Even though I knew the story, it was interesting to hear the songs come out of different mouths this time - and there were some excellent voices in the cast - and watch how these actors put their spins on the characters I'd met last May.

Seeing "Writer's Weekend" satisfied old Ben Franklin's directive to do something worth writing about. As to the other part of his wisdom, I'd even go so far as to say my earlier, unsent letter was worth reading.

Didn't get paid, didn't get laid, but there's always tomorrow. I'll probably write about that, too.

I Love Long Life Better Than Figs

Bootleg: to make, distribute or sell illicit goods. Origin: late 19th century, from the smugglers' practice of concealing bottles in their boots.

Bootleg Shakespeare: annual production whereby actors learn their lines separately and only come together for one night to stage Shakespeare without rehearsal.

Scene: VMFA for the first time, meaning that instead of standing outdoors on a nasty evening to wait in line for tickets, would-be attendees waited in the comfort of heat and art.

I could get used to this.

Once tickets were handed out, everyone beat feet to Best Cafe to wine and dine until showtime. Both Pru and I opted for steaming bowls of beef stew and bread, the better to ward off the chill from tonight's wind and rain.

We joined George and Jo, two strangers who'd been in line behind us, at their table to eat and listen to Bardship Enterprise, an aptly named quartet playing music (Prince, Jackson 5, Bob Marley, Sublime) for our listening pleasure.

Between songs, George, a security guard at the museum, regaled us with tales of drunken debauchery during corporate parties and weddings at the museum. Imagine a couple pitching woo on the Rockefeller bed and you get an idea of the nerve exhibited while on state property.

It was only during our chit-chat that I learned that tonight we turn the clocks back. Woo-hoo, after the week I've had, I could sure use an extra hour.

Then it was on to the Leslie Cheek theater for "Antony and Cleopatra" directed by local favorite Foster Solomon.

"Twelve hours ago, this production did not exist," he explained from the stage. "If you know 'Antony and Cleopatra," you're going to be surprised. If you don't know 'Antony and Cleopatra," you're going to be surprised."

Sounded like a win/win to me.

The play opened with "As Time Goes By" performed by the show band onstage which went on to feature the vocal stylings of Rebecca Anne Muhleman in a bright red wig and Jacqueline O'Connor in a sassy blond wig on vocals doing Lady Gaga and Beyonce.

My full heart remains in use with you.

The always compelling (and quick) Joe Carlson played Antony, getting big laughs with lines such as, "Look here at this imaginary letter" and pulling out nothing.

The world and my great office will sometimes divide me from your bosom.

When he said that line, he stared directly into Octavia, his future wife's, chest.

Octavia is of a holy, cold and still conversation.

Of the 33 actors involved, I recognized many of them. I'm an unabashed fan of David Janosik who played Caesar for his diction and timing, Billy Christopher Maupin who played a white-faced soothsayer for his facility with language and comedic detail, and Kerry McGee for her elastic face and descriptive gestures.

And we are women's men.

I never tire of watching the nuances of an Adam Mincks character, Dean Knight can convey more with a glance or downturn of his mouth than some actors can with entire monologues and Dixon Cashwell was born to play a saucy eunuch.

During the big fight scene in Act II, a screen showed everything from Monty Python to space battles, while the real cast used plastic swords and pillows to fight onstage.

You knew very well that my heart was tied to your ship and that you would pull me along with you.

The delight of a bootleg performance is that even when you're watching a tragedy, humor bubbles up throughout, whether it's an actor calling for his line (and often making a joke of it in the process), missed cues ("Enter Caesar...Caesar?") or improvisation ("Trust no one with Caesar except that guy with the "P" name").

By the end, the lovers were dead and even Caesar had to soften a little acknowledging their love of each other, but not before the inimitable Susan Sanford had the audience in stitches as the asp supplier with a thick Scottish brogue. Hilarious.

After the cast took a well-deserved bow or two, Pru and I walked out discussing how the Bootleg Shakespeare production is always top-notch despite the lack of rehearsals and reliably funny because of the lack of rehearsals.

It was enough to make me drop everything I had in my wallet into the bucket on my way out.

And then, just because I'd found out we had an extra hour, we headed to the Sporty to hear our favorite '80s cover band who tonight were all about some southern rock.

Turning away from the bar after procuring my 1800, a guy asked me to dance before I'd even had a sip or found a place to roost. Sorry, sir, not yet.

Sipping and listening to the band, I exercised my best conversation, which was neither holy, cold or still.

Octavia, I'm not. All about bootleg and '80s covers, I absolutely am.

Daylight and Champagne

Virginia is no longer just for straight lovers, but for all lovers. And about damn time.

With gender issues blaring from the headlines this week as same sex marriage became legal here, it's kind of thrilling to step out of the shadow of so many embarrassing stories about Virginia and feel proud we are, if not ahead of the curve, at last riding the wave of progressive thought for a change.

What better reason to spend an evening further blurring gender lines using magnificent language and a ratio of 13 women to 4 men to tell a tale of cross-dressing, passionate love and drunkenness? What I mean is, I may not want to be a man, but I can dig watching women play men all night long.

That's just what I was going for when Pru and I made our way to the Speakeasy, right here in lovely downtown Jackson Ward, for a gender-reversed exploration of "Twelfth Night."

The latest in director BC Maupin's mission to produce Shakespeare's entire canon using women in men's roles, I've yet to miss a reading and, frankly, it's because of girl parts.

I love seeing that many women on stage. It doesn't matter what the play is - goodness knows I've seen "Twelfth Night" produced a lot - because even a familiar play takes on a different shape and feel when women are playing the male roles.

We arrived in time to grab a good table and eat bowls of gumbo full of shrimp, chicken and sausage topped with a perfect ball of rice and cornbread buttons before the play began. I was asked to move my chair around a bit as I was apparently right in one of the paths the actors would be using to come and go.

The action began with several locations - on top of the upright piano, from upstairs in the balcony where part of the audience sat and from either side of the bar behind us.

It was clear we were in for a treat when Molly Hood and Melissa Johnston Price stumbled out from between the tables playing drunken cohorts Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby Belch.

A plague o' these pickle herring!

While technically, these gender-reversed plays are readings because the cast is still holding their scripts, it's not the kind of reading where actors sit in chairs and just read. Instead, they're out there cutting a caper, one might say, especially these two drunken masters.

Come, come, I'll go burn some sack. 'Tis too late to go to bed now.

Ditto Robert Throckmorton who was playing the fair Olivia, the object of the Duke of Orsino's affection, who after saying the line, "Give me my veil. Come, throw it over my face," proceeded to clip sunglasses shades over his regular glasses.

Our cross-dressing heroine Viola was played by Alexander Sapp with a scarf on his head and adoration in his eyes.

During the scene where the fake letter is left out for Malvolio to "accidentally" discover," the drunken trio of Toby, Andrew and Fabian (the always funny Jacqueline O'Connor) crouched behind a nearby bar table subbing for a hedge of bushes. Moving from there to beside our table, Toby and Fabian pulled out straws to mooch sips of people's drinks from them, including Toby taking a long pull on Pru's Pinot Noir.

The versatility award went to the energetic Rebecca Anne Muhleman playing Feste, the fool, singing like an angel and even playing piano when necessary.

I am indeed not her fool but her corrupter of words.

The Speakeasy space was put to excellent use, given that it was crowded with tables full of Shakespeare fans, like when the excellent Becki Jones as the beleaguered Malvolio is in jail, with the railing of the balcony suggesting the bars on his cell.

Watching the tall Jay Millman play the servant wench and instigator Maria, a character I think of as short and curvy (busty even), I had to keep reminding myself he was a she.

No matter how well you know the play, it was inevitable that there'd be times when you were looking at the actors trying to remember who was who. As a guy at the next table asked, "So, that's a guy playing a girl who's a boy?" His date nailed the answer. "Okay."

To put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.

It was easier just to go with the flow and enjoy watching the sexes play each other. One thing I did notice was how much more believable women are at playing men than men playing women. Maybe it's just me, but it rings truer to see women showing strength than seeing men showing adoration and fawning.

Of course, an added bonus of "Twelfth Night" is that in addition to all that great comedy plus love stories, you get the touching scene at the end where siblings Viola and Sebastian realize the other isn't dead, a truly moving moment even after so many times.

Love sought is good but given unsought, better.

During the talkback with the actors afterwards, there was much discussion of whether it's harder playing the opposite sex in a comedy or drama.

Price/Sir Toby was adamant that doing comedy as a man was much more difficult and that she only relaxed after she'd gotten her first few big laughs from the crowd. "We knew you had a drunk man inside you," quipped Sapp.

Even if we didn't, it was a distinct pleasure to watch the actors relax into their roles, begging the question of what a full production with plenty of rehearsal time to work out playing against your sex might be like.

Good question. I'm still working out getting good at the one I was born with and it's taking a lot longer than I expected.

One thing I do know is Sir Toby, you're wrong. 'Tis never too late to go to bed. 'Tis only too early to get up.

Here's To the Girls Who Stay Smart

It was a theater lover's wet dream.

The preview and party for 5th Wall, the new production company from Carol Piersol and B.C. Maupin, was a great big celebration at the Hippodrome (how convenient for me) showcasing some of the major talent in this town.

Walking in, there were plenty of familiar faces - the hat, the neighbors, the critic - and before long we invited ourselves to join the table of a handsome couple we did not know.

By the time we finished introductions, the show was starting.

Host Eva DeVirgilis began by saying, "It's fun to be out on a Wednesday night, huh? Feels kind of naughty."

As someone who's out every night of the week, it feels kind of right to me.

The program was a satisfying mix of theatrical scenes and musical numbers, the cast changing up for each one. The crowd ate it all up.

In the first act, songs alternated with scenes from 5th Wall's last season, so I recognized the adoration humor of "Patti Issues," the excruciating tension of "Gidion's Knot," the touchy issues of "Race."

Singer Susan Greenbaum came out with her guitar and smiled, saying, "I learned this from my theater friends," and tossed her red scarf over her shoulder. Saying, "Despite the fact that it's twelve degrees in here..." and boy, was she right about that, she launched into "Summertime."

Seeing a scene from "Breast in Show" made me sorry I hadn't seen it.

Eva provided some humor with a monologue about how directors are always expecting her take her clothes off. "I'm an actress, too, you know," she insisted before being called over by the pianist, revealing that the pants she was wearing had no fabric over her butt cheeks.

It got her lots of laughs and we got a great view of her lovely backside.

Georgia Rogers Farmer came out looking demure with her blond hair and sweet face and began singing a slow burn cabaret style version of "Baby Got Back," so far removed from the original in tone and tempo that I'd bet some people didn't even recognize it.

It was fabulous beyond words on a night with many stellar performances.

As if her languorous version wasn't enough, she complemented the singing with some magnificent ass-shaking, twitching, hip rolling and just about any other possible bottom motion.

When she finished my friend learned over and told me that after her divorce, her husband had sent her a copy of that song because he'd missed his baby's back.

True story.

Next came Matt Shofner killing it on "Wig in a Box," but then every theatergoer in town knows he's chomping at the bit to start rehearsals for "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" this Fall.

When Debra Wagoner came out to close the first act, she walked up to the mic stand and looked up. "Every time, it's too tall," she joked.

Matt came rushing over to adjust it. "A diva doesn't move her own mic." More truth.

"Also, we need a clean-up on chair five," she cracked, pointing to where she'd just left.

Drink in hand, her version of "The Ladies Who Lunch" was hilarious, powerful and pointed.

Over intermission, I chatted with our table mates, unexpectedly discovering that we shared some common history.

You never know when you'll meet someone who's experienced the same difficult thing you have.

The handsome and big-voiced Russell Rowland did a great job with "Being Alive," pulling everyone back from the bar to their tables.

The second act began with Eva introduced as local actor extraordinaire, Scott Wichmann, and she came out dressed like him, moving like him and even talking like him, to the great amusement of the crowd.

Introducing "a woman who needs no introduction," Carol Piersol came out ("Thanks, Scotty!" to Eva) to start the preview portion of the evening with scenes from upcoming plays.

"The Lyons" provided some of the funniest lines of the evening around a dying Jewish father talking to his adult children and wife while in the hospital.

Mother: Everyone feels uncomfortable when they're intimate
Father: Your mother used to vomit.

"The Human Terrain" featured the always impressive Molly Hood in a story of an anthropologist embedded with a combat unit, something that apparently happens in real life.

D.C. actress Felicia Curry (currently appearing in "The Color Purple") came out in what had to be the best shoes of the entire evening and sang, "Whatever Happened to My Part?" from "Spamalot," subbing in lines such as, "This is one unhappy diva, Billy Christopher has deceived her."

She raved about her time in Richmond, singing "Get Here" as a love song to our city, then doing a duet with Katrinah Carol Lewis of "For Good" that had them holding hands and tearing up as they traded "love letters" to Richmond.

But when she really brought down the house was with "Random Black Girl," singing, scatting and strutting as "just the random black girl singing the soul," while the crowd clapped along.

Everyone who'd performed tonight came back on stage for a sing-it-to-the-rafters version of "Seasons of Love" from "Rent" that was goose bump worthy.

It had been an all-star coming out party for Richmond's newest production company.

Eva had the last (hilarious) words with, "Join us tomorrow night as we do it all again with a gender-reversed take on tonight's program directed by B.C. Maupin."

If only.

But if they did, my money is on Matt wearing those epic shoes of Felicia's.

Can't Sing, Loves to Dance

Ahhh....

That's the sound of a non-stop busy week finally letting up. I got home from my day trip to see my Mom, got cleaned up and headed right back out again.

This time, it was to see a showcase of a new musical, "Writers' Weekend," at Richmond Triangle Players.

I stopped to collect my theater-loving girlfriend Pru and we managed to snag last minute tickets in row H, also known as the back row of the theater or eight rows back.

Not only was it the highest point in the theater (perfect for two vertically-challenged women) but we were lucky enough to have a table between us for our beverages.

I love a good phrase as when Pru told a woman who stopped to chat with her how much she liked her gray hair. "I'm embracing my crone years," the woman laughed. Meanwhile, Pru is thinking of going blond, although she's not nearly ditzy enough.

Director B.C. Maupin got things rolling by telling us that the purpose of tonight was for the play's writers (of the book and lyrics and maybe even the music) to finally hear words coming out of actors' mouths.

I know that's what I was there for.

Scripts in hand, a cast of eight acted out and sang the story of a weekend writers' workshop at a rural Virginia B & B while a four-piece band (keys, guitar, bass, drums) provided the musical accompaniment for all the songs.

The six aspiring writers began by singing about why they wanted to become writers.

I want to be a writer
because then my life will turn out right
I want to be a writer
because I have to write

There was the TV action star turned playwright, the newspaper reporter turned detective writer, the technical writer who wanted to branch out into fiction, the self-published sci-fi writer, the suburban slam poet and the published romance writer (with classics such as "Hunky Vampires in Handcuffs") who had writer's block.

It was a terrific cast for a workshop with the actors having achieved far more character nuances than you'd expect for people who'd rehearsed for less than a week.

Clearly that's why they're actors.

The early scenes were funny, with the unpublished writer who was facilitating the group unimpressed with their writing samples after having them each read from a piece they were working on (gems such as "Rickets: The Musical").

All were so badly written that there was nowhere to go but up when she had them break into duos and trade genres to challenge their skill sets.

So the older woman romance writer and younger man technical writer are paired up to bodice-ripping results while the slam poet, an attitude-filled black woman, is paired with the former reporter she describes as a "puffy white man."

And of course the playwright (formerly TV hero "Captain Fabulous") gets paired with the worshipful sci-fi fan.

When the workshop leader tells them she has arranged for a literary agent to attend their final reading in hopes that one of them will get representation, it's an excuse for her to vent about the sleaziness of agents and the ineptitude of editors.

"Agents are the speed bumps in the literary highway!" she says with disgust. "Editors are the sworn enemy of adverbs."

Much of the script was hilarious enough to laugh out loud and not just because I earn my (meager) living as a writer, because I was far from the only one chortling repeatedly.

During intermission, Pru and I digressed, discussing the beauty of recycling books by buying used and how the main library's sales and giveaways make that so easy to do.

I have to admit, I'm always curious about whoever read the book I'm holding before I did and whether we had the same reaction to it. Did they get something I missed?

Then we settled back in for the second act, only to discover that each of the sets of writers who'd been paired up were finding attraction in each other.

At a cocktail party, both the angry slam poet and frustrated reporter found themselves ordering the same thing at the bar.

"There is nothing sexier than a woman drinking whiskey," the reporter purrs. I would argue that a woman drinking tequila is sexier, but it's not my play, so not my dialog.

When the playwright and sci-fi writer begin flirting, he's put off, feeling that she's too young for him.

"Old is sexy," she assures him. "Old is the new black." It's enough to get them dancing, despite that she says she doesn't know how.

"A dance floor is a foreign land where you're who you want to be," he tells her. So true.

The lusty romance writer and geeky, young tech writer are soon embroiled in concocting a steamy train tale with her hand repeatedly "on the throttle," necessitating them both needing cigarettes afterwards.

The song lyrics were creatively catchy and, in many cases, so cleverly funny that you missed the next line by laughing, a great problem to have.

If there was a better way to end a jam-packed week than laughing at a bunch of characters whose main goal is to spend their time writing, I can't imagine what it would be.

Well, maybe at a story about a woman who, no matter how busy she finds herself, somehow makes the time between meeting deadlines and going out every night to blog and over-share her life, feelings and thoughts.

Nah, probably not that funny.

Don't Cry for Me, Doll

My day went from the river to Broadway.

Driving east to visit my parents meant seeing fields of diminishing snow the closer I got to the Rapphannock. If it weren't for my being completely over winter, it might have been lovely.

Shortly after arriving, my Dad left for the barbershop in Kilmarnock, half an hour and a world away, a place where he hears the latest from the locals and returns three hours later looking exactly the same as before the haircut.

Meanwhile, my mother and I have discussed everything from family drama to personal grooming in his absence.

By the time I return from the river, I have just enough turnaround time to get cleaned up and meet a friend for dinner and a play.

Like me, he's an avid theater-goer and on tonight's agenda was a trip to Richmond Triangle Players to see Carol Piersol's newest production, "Patti Issues."

It's like RTP says, if they don't do it, who would?

A one man monologue, the charge of carrying the entire show rested on Billy Christopher Maupin's shoulders which were more than up to the task of portraying Ben Rimalower from age four to adulthood.

Playing multiple voices - his parents, grandparents, and the diva herself - he told the tale of a kid whose life is made all the more difficult when his promiscuous doctor of a dad comes out and divorces his mother.

With a great deal of humor and self-introspection, he reflects on being in therapy three times by the age of ten and a half, but also about how fabulous the first two seasons of "Dynasty" were because Joan Collins still had long hair.

So there was pathos but there were also many moments of hilarious commentary by a character who knew young he was gay and was fine with that.

As his father spirals out of control, attempting suicide and generally being the poorest sort of role model for the boy, at fourteen he retreats into the world of actress Patti LuPone, listening endlessly to the Broadway soundtrack to "Evita."

"Like Scarlett O'Hara and Joan Collins, she was every ballsy woman I ever loved." Only a gay man can sell that line so sincerely.

Eventually he gets a chance to work with her on a revival of "Sweeney Todd," which only reinforces how Maupin as Ben becomes even more devoted to Patti because now he's around the real thing. "I want to inhale her. I want to memorize her."

When she asks him to come by her hotel to help her rehearse, she suggests 8:00, which he deems perfect because it gives him enough time to go home and change the pants in which he just shat.

The play, written from Rimalower's own experiences, was simply staged with a stool, a chair and a table for a glass of water, with Maupin moving around the space alternately like a caged animal and a guileless child.

Piersol's taut direction ensured that the audience stayed engaged every moment and Maupin's big voice perfectly captured snippets of LuPone songs as well as her over-the-top diva way of speaking - everyone is "darling" or "doll."

With no intermission, Maupin's free-wheeling energy and a sweet and sometimes melancholy story about growing up and idol worship, my companion and I were completely charmed by a very different play than what we'd expected.

Avid theater- goer bliss ensues when a ballsy woman directs a ballsy man in a fiercely funny and poignant play, right here in river city.

You might say it rates right up there with when Joan Collins had long hair on "Dynasty."

Fun Done Well

My Dad's nickname for me growing up was Camille because I tended to be a tad, shall we say, melodramatic as a child.

In spite of that proclivity, when my sixth grade class decided to put on a play, I was chosen for student director, meaning no actual stage time.

My sophomore year in college, an older friend decided to make a movie and enlisted me for the female lead, mainly, I think, because he wanted to date me.

Watching the premiere of his film at a party with 75 people I knew, all I could think was how silly he'd been to put his hormones ahead of choosing someone with talent.

So I haven't exactly had an illustrious life on the wicked stage.

Ah, but Billy Christopher Maupin has and his show at Richmond Triangle Players tonight, "(My) Life Upon the Wicked Stage" took us through a good part of that wickedness.

Coming onstage looking handsome and barefoot in a red shirt, jeans and fresh haircut, he opened up to a full house with the appropriate "Cabaret."

He talked about the roles he hadn't gotten to play and the songs he hadn't gotten to sing.

So while he played a Protean in "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum," he sang lead Pseudolus' song, "Free."

We heard a funny story about his move to NYC ("I was going on ten auditions a week") where he auditioned for "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" by singing "Not A Day Goes By" in the style of Huck Finn.

"Did I mention I got the job?" he smirked.

Then he was lured back by Richmond, like so many others before and after him, where he tried out for a Barksdale production of "Into the Woods," hoping desperately to play Jack.

"I got the role of Rapunzel's prince, but tonight this is my show, so I'm gonna do Jack's song," he grinned, beginning "Giants in the Sky."

Three quarters of the way through, he got a look on his face and sang, "I lost my place," but pianist Susan chimed in with, "The fun is done" and he picked up seamlessly.

That's a pro.

The humor kept up when he sang a song from a play called "Mr. Marmalade," in which a suitcase of sex toys spills onstage, including the centerpiece of the collection, the Super Cock 9 with suction cup.

During one performance, when the suction cup fell out, it adhered to the stage fully erect for the duration of the song, so for tonight's rendition, BC held his fisted arm in front of his face as he sang "La Vie en Rose," clearly a tribute to the magnificence of the Super Cock 9.

This is why he's an actor and I'm not.

For a reading from "Greater Tuna," the only play he said he ever got fired from, he called up fellow thespian Joe Inscoe (who immediately took his shoes off) so they could both play multiple characters.

Joe noted that they hadn't had much practice, dryly observing, "This is gonna be real spontaneous, just like we rehearsed."

The hysterical scene covered used weapons, dire weather forecasts and the pet of the week segment trying to find a home for Yippy, a terrier-chihuahua mix played to deadpan perfection by Joe, eliciting the observation that, "We at the Humane Society have had problems giving away small, shrill animals."

And deservedly so.

BC went on to talk about roles he'd loved to play like Miss Hannigan in "Annie" and Mama Morton in "Chicago," enthusiastically singing "When You're Good to Mama" crouched down in the faces of the people in the front row.

We were sent off to intermission with the instruction," You can go get a drink from Evan...or five," Evan being the talented actor/bartender who's heading off to the Big Apple this summer but hopefully not before he sings "Hit Me Baby One More Time" a few more times in Richmond.

During intermission, BC found a long, curly blond wig, the perfect accessory to wear to sing "My Life Upon the Wicked Stage," pushing the curly bangs out of his eyes as he did so.

Afterwards, he passed the wig on to guitarist Tristan who removed his hat and tried it for a minute before deciding he was more of a hat guy.

Not every man can pull off a full-length blond wig.

Next up, BC got talking about the gender-reversed series he'd begun a few years back and one I know well because I try never to miss an opportunity to see a stage filled with women doing Shakespeare.

"Hamlet, "Midsummer Night's Dream," "Much Ado About Nothing," "Coriolanus," I've seen his productions of them all and continue to keep my fingers crossed that he'll follow through on doing all of Will's work with estrogen subbing for testosterone.

As he talked about the project, actor Molly Hood strolled by chatting away on her cell phone and the two of them ricocheted off into a Beatrice and Benedick exchange, gender-reversed of course.

Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted. And I would I could find in my heart I had not a hard heart, for truly I love none. 

A dear happiness to woman.They else would have been troubled by a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood I am of your humor for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.

This evening just kept getting better and better.

Talking about his time spent going to Campbellsville University, "the small, Baptist, scary place...where I came out," BC talked about deciding to audition for one last play before transferring to another school.

Cue next song.

After getting someone capable to do it for him, he had "I Dream a Dream" transposed to another key he could sing in and got the part. I guess he showed them.

By the time he was 25, he said he'd scratched the role of Matt in "The Fantasticks" off his list, not because he'd done it, but because he was too old to play a 19-year old.

But when upstart theater company Cadence decided to stage it, of course he had to audition, getting the role he'd coveted at last, at 30, but only after the director asked how he felt about being slammed against a wall by a 6'4" man every night.

"I dream of it," BC recalled, before singing "I Can See It" with Russell, who'd also been in the production and sang most of his part from the audience, arriving onstage for the ending and a kiss on top of BC's head.

Tonight's star gave us a little of the dreadful Styx song "Sailing" before redeeming himself with "I'd Rather Be Sailing" from "A New Brain."

"Now comes the corny part," he warned and took off with, "No Business Like Show Business," with all kinds of actors standing up in front of their seats and singing along.

The line, "There's no people like show people," got spontaneous applause, no surprise given the crowd's makeup of actors, directors and theater-goers.

That, of course, was the big finale and got a standing ovation but the audience insisted on one last song.

"I don't have anything else new," he said, smiling widely, "I can do 'I Dream a Dream' in the original key."

Which he did - beautifully- and took his leave of the wicked stage.

That's the mark of a professional.

If only I'd had the wisdom to end my stage career in 6th grade, there'd be no damning celluloid evidence today.

Thank goodness the people who really do have talent keep plugging away.

Even when it means singing to the Super Cock 9 with suction cup.

Mind Racing and Blown

If you're the least bit curious about the state of Richmond's theater scene, run, do not walk to see "Race."

Your mind will be blown and you will leave wishing you had a bigger brain to process what you just experienced.

My hired mouth and I had dinner with a girlfriend before I drove home, parked the car and walked over to Virginia Rep Center for Carol Piersol and the African American Repertory Theater's production of David Mamet's "Race."

As much as I adore good theater, I'd only seen one Mamet play produced before and that was 1999's "Boston Marriage," which I saw in Philadelphia back in the mid-aughts.

"Race" was written ten years later and boldly delves into racial differences in processing shame and guilt through the eyes of one white and two black characters who work in a law office and are defending a white man accused of raping a black woman.

An elegant and eloquent set greeted us in the Theater Gym and our usher warned us that the play ran 80 minutes, no intermission.

Fortuitously, I'd already made a pit stop.

Ten minutes of intense Mamet-speak dialog in and it was obvious why there could be no break in the action; the audience was already as enmeshed in the machinations of the story as the actors.

There were so many levels to the play: the black to black conversations, the white to black exchanges, the male to female, male to male, accused to defenders, all within the bigger context of the law and played by an all-star Richmond cast.

Billy Christopher Maupin and dl Hopkins as the two lawyers who've recently taken in a young, black female associate, play off each other with post-modern respect tempered by acknowledgement of wholly different cultural experience due to their racial differences.

Causing problems for them and their client is Katrinah Carol Lewis, who brings her own baggage to the case by being black and female, meaning she presumes their white, male client is guilty from the get-go.

The questionable client role was handled oh-so capably by Joe Inscoe, the focus of everyone's attention because he claimed the sex had been consensual, not rape.

With a Mamet play, dialog is always king ("I think all people are stupid. I don't think black people are exempt.") and provocative; between unfinished sentences, people talking over each other and as much politically incorrect dialog as could be crammed into 80 minutes, the play never let up for a second.

Twice the lights dimmed to indicate that we were going from one time of day to another and truly, it was only for those few seconds that your brain got a moment's reprieve from processing so much.

It was wildly stimulating in a way that reminds you of the wonder of live theater and the headiness of being fully mentally engaged.

When the play abruptly ended, it was with more questions than when it began and not so much as a whiff of answer in the air.

The audience was stunned and thrilled at the same time for what we'd just experienced.

My friend and I stood up but the woman at the end of our row was already asking us questions about the play.

We stood discussing it with her for about five minutes before taking our talk-back to the lobby where we found a cluster of astounded people ready to talk.

"I want there to be  a second act!" an actress lamented. "I wanna know more."

"Damn that Mamet! He throws so much at you and doesn't give you a hint of how things might go," another woman said.

"Shakespeare does the same thing; look at "King Lear" or "Merchant of Venice," someone said. "Besides..."

A half dozen or so strangers stood there for the next fifteen minutes talking about the play and the issues it raised about the court system, race relations, sexual relations and how everyone brings their own baggage to them.

It was less than an hour and a half of superbly-produced theater and I can almost bet the farm that everyone who sees it will continue to question, re-examine and return to thoughts of "Race" for weeks to come.

You know how cities choose a book and everyone reads it (Richmond Reads or something like that?) so that there can be discussion groups all over town about it?

I  make a motion that we have a Richmond Plays and everyone goes to see "Race."

Besides the thought-provoking discussion topics such a thing would raise, it would serve an even greater cultural good.

It would make a theater lover out of every single person who saw it.

Saucy Plays and Love Trains

The last time I saw a high school play I was probably in high school.

And while I don't recall the specific play, I feel absolutely certain it was nowhere near as good as the one I saw tonight.

Maggie Walker Governor's School was doing a preview tonight of "Twelfth Night (Or What You Will)" and I couldn't think of a single reason to pass up free Shakespeare.

I was completely unprepared for what a fabulous theater the school had but not entirely surprised at the fine set dressing.

Clearly talent abounds at this school.

A big, fat, yellow moon hung over the back of the stage with a charming flower-covered swing in front.

These clothes are good enough to drink in and so be these boots, too.

There's a certain kind of amusement that comes from hearing a line like that come out of the mouth of a teenager.

The young cast had clearly been well-rehearsed by director Billy Christopher Maupin and came across sure of their dialog and confident in their movements.

His casting was also cleverly-executed, with a guy playing Maria and a girl playing the beleagured Malvolio, he of the grim smile and yellow cross-gartered stockings, which in this production were black fishnets over yellow tights.

Shall we set about some revels?

There's a line the essence of which rang plenty true coming out of a high-schooler's mouth.

A scene where Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek begin dancing together got big laughs when Toby's hands migrated south to Andrew's butt. You know, like at a high school dance.

I heard you were saucy at my gates.

That's the kind of line that makes me want to work saucy into conversation and not in relation to food, either.

Fact is, I've seen "Twelfth Night" as much as I've seen any Shakespeare play performed, but I never get tired of seeing it interpreted well, as it was tonight.

This was a cast who understood the words they were saying and not just parroting language. Music was incorporated into the play at the beginning, middle and end demonstrating some talented musicality on the part of the cast.

Love sought is good but given unsought is better.

If they haven't yet had the life experience to understand that one, they will.

In the meantime, they're putting on a decidedly excellent production that'll make you forget they still get big X's on their hands at shows.

Once the play was over and I left the high school, where better to go than a dance?

Balliceaux was hosting Mexican band, Sabrosa Sabrosura, playing their cumbia/funk/reggae dance music for our Wednesday night pleasure.

When I got there, I found a friend at the front bar and since the band was running late, sat down with him to chat for a bit.

He'd already heard about the band's delay due to driving up from New Orleans today, but had had been told they were expected within the hour.

We moved to the back room to await their arrival and there I found the jazz critic and settled in to chat with him.

He had great stories, like one about seeing Pat Metheny at a Broad Street venue with only ten other people, including a very young Bruce Hornsby.

The best one happened at a family reunion last year in New Jersey where a young female family member from California who goes to school in New York told him how much she loved Reggie Pace.

That's one far-reaching trombone.

Finally the band - a guitar player, a key-tar player and a slip of a woman playing the cheese grater-looking guira- arrived some time after 11 and set up quickly.

As a bonus, Richmond's own Giustino Riccio was playing congas for them, resplendent in a red shirt and enormous bell-bottom jeans, an ensemble he'd changed into in the basement of Kuba Kuba after his shift tonight.

"Sorry we're so late!" the singer/guira player said. "We're on Mexican time! Get ready because this is dancing music!"

The second they began playing, no one in the good-sized crowd (which was full of jazz musicians) who'd waited around cared how long they'd waited.

But then, before they even got to the end of the first song, something blew on the sound system and there was a break while it was fixed.

Boy, these guys were having a hard time of it tonight.

They began jamming without amplification and soon the guitar player was peeling off his shirt.

"Looks like strip cumbia," the critic joked as we waited.

Soon the guira-playing girl started talking to audience members about papayas, which seemed odd until the critic leaned down and observed, "I think they're talking about genitalia."

After the song "La Papaya y el Despapaye," sung in Spanish we had no more of a clue until she announced, "Since we all come from papayas..."

Genitalia it was.

The band was totally interactive with the crowd, maybe just glad to be out of the car, perhaps grateful that we'd stuck around for them, and challenged us, the guitar player saying, "The Mexicans say if you can't dance, you can't make love right."

Guira girl promptly got off the stage and started a conga line, which the guitar player called a "love train" and which snaked around the room for the rest of the song.

The critic finally looked at me and stood up, saying, "I'm gonna go home and play my own cheese grater."

I have no reason to assume that was a euphemism or related to genitalia.

He missed out on more high-energy dance music.

Saying that they'd driven for more than ten hours and been caught by the police, the band announced a ten-minute break.

Unfortunately because of the late start, many people had to leave at the break, but if they'd stuck around they might have been as surprised as I was that the band actually took a ten-minute break.

Clearly they were not on jazz time where 10 always means at least 30.

Another guy who'd been dancing a lot took over conga duties after the break, leaving Giustino to dance in front of the stage, first alone and then with a girl who asked him.

When the song ended and he went to retrieve his drink, there was some sort of collision and it shattered on the floor.

"You can drink my blood, but don't spill my tequila," the lovely guira player called out.

So now we better understood Mexican priorities.

Giustino returned to the congas where he was less likely to spill something and more likely to wow the crowd with his sure-handed playing.

The guira girl kept leaving the stage to pull people up to dance, or maybe she was trying to ascertain who knew how to make love right.

I felt pretty confident there. That's the part that made it way better than a high school dance.

Life is Like Dancing

Nothing like poetry and dance to cleanse the soul.

Not that I know that my soul's in particularly bad shape, but it never hurts to pay it forward.

That and on my walk this morning, I'd overheard a VCU student on the phone saying she was on the way to the li-berry.

Truly, I worry for our linguistic future sometimes. Poetry helps assuage those fears.

Chop Suey was hosting poet and Library of Virginia literary award finalist Luann Keener-Mikenas reading from her books "Color Documentary" and "Homeland," the nominated one.

"Elephants" provided the evocative phrase, "Deep in your many-corridored memory," but "The Indigo Bunting," took the prize for my favorite line.

These days we look through the nothing that is not there to the everything that is.

Kind of a life philosophy, I thought.

Literary soul thus fed, a friend and I traversed the river for some cultural feeding of the highest order.

Dogtown Dance Theater was hosting the 15th annual Yes! National Dance Invitational, an evening of some of the country's best dance troupes.

Before the show started, we were advised to silence all cell phones and devices and to stow any small children under the stairwell.

I love a director with a sense of humor and the right attitude about rug rats.

As the lights came up and the back curtain began to open, I was struck again by what a superior dance performance space this theater is.

With a front row seat and a towering ceiling, it was easy to feel one with the dancers without any coordination required.

Gin Dance company out of northern Virginia led off with "The Core," precisely executed by the raven-haired Shu-Chen Cuff at center, surrounded by four dancers with much lighter tresses complementing her hair and eastern dance movements.

Melissa Chisena choreographed and danced a piece called "Breathe," mesmerizingly set to a woman (what else?) breathing into a microphone while nearby a man played a jug for percussion.

Her every movement was matched by syncopated breath work that became the music of the piece. It was a truly unique piece.

S/OAP Lab's piece, "Praedari," began with the sound of thunder and was compelling to watch because one dancer portrayed the predator and the other the prey.

Very aware of each other, but maintaining their distance for most of the piece, it was hard not to empathize with the one being stalked.

Okay, and hard not to admire the lithe, chiseled body of the predator.

Richmond's own K Dance did "The Dog" by David Mamet, a piece that began with Kaye Weinstein Gary singing "How Much is that Doggy in the Window?" to a stuffed dog before sliding off the pedestal to dance and move to the sounds of a dog barking and whimpering in between lines of Mamet's monologue.

"Rebound" got its title from the first two members of Houston Met Dance company who were tethered to each other, necessitating that they move in tandem, much like prisoners shackled together.

Two more couples soon joined them and instead of tethers, each wore a large black belt that his or her partner could use to lift and/or direct the other to a dramatic piece of music featuring piano and drums. It was an elegant ebb and flow of movement.

During intermission, we were kept amused by a raffle for a bottle of wine.

The woman at the end of our row was asked to pull out the winning name and, as luck would have it, pulled the name of her companion sitting right next to her.

What are the chances?

The second half of the program began with stellar local actress Molly Hood beginning a scene from Marsha Norman's short play "140."

Directed by the inimitable Billy Christopher Maupin, the theater/dance piece was a thought-provoking meditation on infidelity.

Weaving dialog at the front of the stage with a Greek chorus of dancers at the back of the stage moving silently, the scene revolved around characters discovering their lover was unfaithful but wanting to keep the lover anyway.

It heart-breakingly ended with each begging of the person they wronged, "Undo this."

If only the world worked that way.

Last, but certainly not least, was one of Dance Magazine's "25 to Watch" troupes, BodyTraffic from Los Angeles.

Using the great American songbook- "Sunny Side of the Street," "All of Me," "Someone to Watch Over Me"- the wildly exuberant "o2Joy" was the killer closer the show deserved.

Taking inspiration from old musicals and with a definite nod to Gene Kelly, the five young dancers used jazz hands, lip synching, and tight choreography to express what absolutely felt like an ode to joy.

Come to think of it, the joy of watching so many talented dancers from all over the country all night long was yet another example of how lucky culture lovers are to be in Richmond.

Best of all, the performance repeats tomorrow afternoon and evening, meaning dance and theater lovers can savor a variety of dance, much the way many of us sampled a variety of music last weekend at the Folk Fest.

Sure, it'll feed your soul if that's what you need, but if your soul's fine, it'll also delight your senses.

Who'd have thought that Dogtown was the place to look through the nothing that is not there to the everything that is?

Anyone who saw tonight's performance, that's who.

Love is a Grand and a Beautiful Thing

So there goes the title of my autobiography.

"Still Mad About the Boys" had been appropriated by Billy Christopher Maupin for an evening of cabaret.

The fun was to be at Richmond Triangle Players, so I invited my favorite theater-lover to join me.

Knowing that songs, stories and a bar were in our future, we stopped at Lunch for a nosh first.

Within fifteen minutes, the restaurant was full of people I recognized from going to the theater.

A one-block proximity is hard to resist.

Inquiring of our soon-to-be harried server what Rose they had, she checked and responded, "The Seeker," a Rose Prudence and I had discovered on the Rose crawl two weeks ago.

"The Seeker?" we gasped in unison. Yes, please.

Dinner was a shared bowl of brown sugar bacon chili and corn griddle cakes with pulled pork and cole slaw.

I don't know that I've ever eaten lightly at Lunch, but then that's the pleasure of it.

Leaving the Cure blaring and the other theater-goers finishing up, we headed over to Richmond Triangle Players.

There we found a room full of actors, directors, dancers and a few people like us, mere theater-goers with no actual talent beyond fandom.

Our seats were separated by a table, just the place for a bottle of Sciarpa Pinot Grigio.

We saw a guy in the shiniest of jackets and asked if we could touch him (he said yes), only to find it was a brushed fabric, almost velvet-like, but shiny silver with thin black stripes.

He even took it off for us, looking for a fabric tag (there was none) and sharing the story of how he'd arrived in Rome but his baggage hadn't, so he'd headed down the Spanish Steps and found a shop open.

There he'd bought this beautiful Versace blazer ("Back when Versace was alive," he clarified, so pre-1997) which we were now stroking.

Ah, the pleasures of a theater crowd.

The reason for the evening, Billy Christopher, I'd seen act, direct and sing at the Ghost Light afterparty.

Tonight he walked onstage in a black shirt, jeans and barefoot and proceeded to sing a well-chosen program interspersed with the moving story of his coming out and love life.

It was nothing short of extraordinary.

"It's just you and us," he said gesturing at his two musicians. "For the next hour and a half. I think I just peed in my pants."

That was the beginning of the self-deprecating humor that pervaded the evening.

He said he'd last done a solo cabaret in 2008. "I've become much more terrified as a performer since then," he admitted before breaking into song.

After introducing his pianist Joshua and his guitarist Tristan, he spoke about his upbringing and college years in his hometown of Campbellsville, Kentucky.

It is apparently a school where homosexual acts were punishable by expulsion when he went there and are now punishable by mere suspension. A hard place for a gay kid to go to school, in other words.

Luckily there was a mall an hour away and on his first visit to Hot Topic, he locked eyes with a blue-eyed boy who became his first boyfriend. The rest was personal history, as we heard tonight.

He spoke about his farmer father, a simple man very different than himself, and one he clearly adores, saying, "Dad is possibly the boy I'm most mad about."

BC did a beautiful version "I'm Beginning to See the Light" before talking about his "forever fiancee" Jackie Jones and how their relationship had developed.

His best tribute to her was singing her standard audition song, an hysterical one about Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle's seafaring, salty dog of a husband.

Getting everyone going with "Bring On the Men" from "Jekyll and Hyde," he couldn't resist playing the ham, running his hands through Tristan's thick hair or stroking Joshua's back as he sang.

So let's bring on the men
And let the fun begin
Another touch of sin
Why wait another minute?

There was nowhere to go from there but to intermission.

Starting the second act, he put on the sandals of a woman in the front row (marveling that they fit) and sang "Mad About the Boy."

That was followed by a monologue that began with, "I really hate camping."

I feel your pain, BC.

This was an introduction to a story about camping with a former boyfriend in Crabtree Falls, where he was promised a hike, a waterfall and an air mattress.

After explaining how the air mattress deflated and he ended up on vinyl over twigs (his worst fear), he sang the perfect song, "Good Thing He Can't Read My Mind," a feeling anyone in a relationship has probably experienced.

The song about suffering along to the opera ("I don't understand a word, even when it's in English"), skiing ("There's no exhilaration, I'm only feeling terrified") and sushi ("I'm poking with a chopstick at a living, breathing fish stick") was laugh-out-loud funny and we did.

From those hi-jinks, he moved on to telling us about the only man he'd ever called "partner" and how once they acknowledged their feelings, "I never slept in my bed again."

As we all have learned, even the best relationships sometimes end, but his acceptance and memory of the relationship was touching, to say the least.

"That was perfect and I'll never have that again and that's okay," he said and sang "Once Upon a Time."

Just as we were all ready to cry, he lifted us back up again, saying, "Every act has a great medley. I made that up because we have a medley."

And not just any medley, but a reconstruction of a reconstruction of a medley from his first solo cabaret.

Even better, it was a Richard Rodgers medley.

By this time, I thought I was going to explode out of my seat, except the woman next to me was even more crazed than I was about it, whistling and yelling.

BC kicked off with "Wonderful Guy" from "South Pacific," went on to "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" from "Pal Joey," and then did "I Wish I Were in Love Again" and "My Funny Valentine," both from "Babes in Arms."

The crowd was hooting and hollering with delight at his renditions.

"Tonight's been about love for me," he said to wind up the show. "I challenge you each to love someone or everyone. Why not?"

His last song was "The Rose," achingly sung and the perfect finale to an evening of soul-baring and classic song-singing.

To take it over the top, certain appointed people in the audience rose one by one and joined him, singing harmony or background and giving the rest of us chills.

One guy even lit his lighter in tribute.

After a standing ovation for both him, Joshua and Tristan, who had added immeasurably to every song, BC bounded back to inquire if we wanted an encore.

Why, yes, we did as a matter of fact.

Could there be a better way to end a cabaret than with a song from "Cabaret"?

"Maybe This Time," with its hopeful and poignant lyrics sung with every ounce of his heart and soul brought the house down.

Maybe this time I'll be lucky
Maybe this time, he'll stay
Maybe this time for the first time
Love won't hurry away

There's nothing like hearing someone sing it like they mean it.

I do hope Billy Christopher is lucky.

I know very single one of us in the audience felt that way by the time he finished with us.

Fitting Entertainment for Pints

Turns out people were crying out for theater on the southside.

O'Theater at O'Toole's welcomed in more people than they had chairs for to see a staged reading of "The Playboy of the Western World.'

Touted as "plays and pints," tonight was the first in a series of summer readings.

The organizers must be Irish because they brilliantly got Murphy's Irish Stout to sponsor the series and, even better, 100% of the proceeds from the sale of that stout went to the actors.

There's the way to get actors to work -pay them in beer.

And while I don't drink beer, I'm plenty Irish (hello, O'Donnell)  and a theater lover of the highest order.

With only one rehearsal under their belts, the cast did a terrific job with a 1907 play about a man who stumbles into a pub, claiming to have killed his father.

You're a fine, hearty girl who'd knock the heads together of any men in the room.

The Irish accents took a bit of getting used to, just like they do in a movie.

Two fine women fighting for the likes of me. I'm thinking this night, wasn't I a foolish fellow not to kill my father in the years gone by?

DeeJay Gray played Christy, the supposed murderer, to perfection, marveling at his new identity as a sought-after man for the first time in his life.

Billy Christopher Maupin played Shawn with a big voice and a timid demeanor, the cowering suitor of the pub owner's daughter, Pegeen, and was hysterical, worried about everything possible.

We'd been warned in advance that the play had two intermissions, the better to relieve ourselves of all that stout we were drinking.

I like a theater group that thinks ahead.

It's the likes of me she's only fit for.

In the second act, David Bridgewater showed up as the father who'd been maimed but not killed and immediately made the audience laugh with his ad-libbing.

Revealing his bandaged head where his son had clobbered him, he was asked who'd hit him.

Momentarily losing his place but eyes twinkling, he looked at the audience and paused. "Wait for it...my own son!" and the crowd cracked up.

The father wastes no time in telling the pub crowd what his son was really like, which was nothing like the brave murderer they'd assumed.

He wasn't even the smooth womanizer they'd taken him for.

If he saw a red petticoat coming over the hill, he'd be running away.

As more women clamored for Christy, he reveled in all the attention.

She'll knock the head off you, I'm thinking.

The pints of stout continued to arrive from the bar during the second intermission, a sure sign everybody was having a good time.

I know I was.

I'm taking a fancy to you.

By Act 3, the other pub denizens were getting a bit tired of Christy's boasting.

He's not able to say ten words without bragging about killing his father.

It was in the final act that we also got a limerick, courtesy of Gordon Bass, who played the drunken pub owner, Pegeen's father.

There was a young man from Kent
Whose tool was exceedingly bent
He put it in double
To save himself trouble
Instead of coming, he went

You can imagine the raucous laughter heard from a roomful of stout-swilling people after that delivery.

What is it to make a woman like me fitting entertainment for the likes of you?

When Pegeen scorns Shawn for Christy, she explains to her father why.

There's no savagery or fine words in him at all.

Savagery aside, what woman doesn't want fine words from her beloved?

By the end, Christy is gone and she woefully laments, "I've lost the only playboy of the western world."

Others, however, saw the positive side of his absence.

For the love of god, we'll have peace now for our drinks.

Maybe it's the Irish in me talking, but frankly, peace for drinking is over-rated.

"Plays and Pints," however, is not. Drink on, theater lovers.

With Witchcraft of His Wits

You gotta want it.

But if you do want it, you'll stand in line for an hour plus to get a ticket (having learned my lesson the first year when I got four people from the box office only to have them run out of tickets).

You'll grab slices of pizza from Tarrant's and eat them as you walk back, tickets in hand, to claim your seats and listen to the pre-show music. And if you want it, you'll devote four hours of your Saturday night to seeing it.

And that's when you'll know you're a Bootleg Shakespeare groupie. Tonight was my fourth attempt and my third success. And I did it all for Hamlet.

Henley Street's annual ode to the Bard always has the potential to be a major mess, yet never is. A month in advance, all the actors get their parts and scrips, which they study but don't rehearse. They come up with their own costumes and props, but still no rehearsal.

On the day of the show (beginning at an ungodly 7 a.m., an hour most of them surely never see), they spend the day blocking but not going through lines. So what the audience sees is as fresh as what the actors experience.

It's a recipe for disaster that inevitably proves the acting talent in this town with enough hilarity and inside jokes interspersed to keep everyone on their toes, both cast and crowd.

This year, it was at Virginia Rep (terribly convenient for me, a mere five blocks from home) instead of Barksdale, meaning way more seats available. The evening began with an announcement from Henley Street's Jacquie O, who enthused from the stage, "This year we turned no one away!"

That's what a fan wants to hear.

After a giveaway of a mug, two tickets to Henley Street's next production and a small ham  (a "hamlet," get it?), we were informed that the only rule of Bootleg Shakespeare is no bad words. Naturally the onstage band begins by doing Radiohead's "Creep" and singing the lyric, "You're so f*cking special" just to clarify that f*ck is not a bad word.

Or, more likely, to demonstrate the attitude of a bootleg performance.

This "Hamlet" was done '90s-style, with disaffected youth, video games and the Pixies. Let's just say that Hamlet wore a Pogues t-shirt. Gertrude wore a pink suit, pillbox hat and white gloves. Poloniuswore a "Sticky Fingers" t-shirt.

Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence.

Henley Street's artistic director James Ricks (his hair dyed blond) played Hamlet in all his melancholy glory, whether stomping the stage in anger at his father's death or giving Ophelia the kiss-off speech.

At a bootleg show, actors often need to call for their lines (not having had any rehearsal) and it inevitably results in hysterical moments. Tonight, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, clad in trench coats and while picking up and moving each other, began calling for theirs, to great comic effect.

At one point, one ad-libbed, "We were supposed to bring a piece of paper and we didn't" to much laughter. Polonius appeared immediately after they left the stage, noting, "This business is well ended." Major applause.

He took me by the wrist and held me hard.

Another very funny scene came after Gertrude and Claudius had been informed that, "Your noble son is mad." Cue Hamlet in an untied red robe wearing goggles and swatting at the air. Passing by Gertrude, he casually says, "Hi, Mom!"

Soon after he's stuffing an entire banana in his mouth until he's unable to answer questions.

This is the very ecstasy of love.

Bootleg always uses modern touches to further the humor as when Polonius asks, "What do you read, my lord?" and Hamlet responds "Slanders, sir," holding up a copy of "Newsweek." When Rosencrantz and Guildenstern set out to do the king's bidding and see what's up with Hamlet, the three end up sitting on the edge of the stage smoking weed and playing video games

Hey, it was the '90s.

There is a kind of confession in your looks which your modesties have not craft enough to color.

Opehlia's descent into madness was well played by Audra Honaker who ends up looking like a cake-top decoration in full-skirted yellow tulle dress with pink belt and crazy eyes. When it came time for Hamlet's seminal speech, Ricks cracked wise, saying, "To be...line!"

He then exhorted the audience to read that speech with him and we did, first all together, then the women and then the men (giving a far inferior reading, I might add). Midway through that, Jacquie O. ran onstage in socks, pointing at her watch to move things along.

Soon after, when Hamlet decides to stage a play to show his uncle's guilt, he inquires about Polonius' acting experience. Frank Creasy brilliantly did his line with one minor addition, "I did, I played Julius Caesar," and then stepping forward and raising his eyebrows, he continued, "Coming this season to Henley Street Theater."

When the play within a play is being shown, an actor sits in a director's chair clearly labeled "Billy Christoper" no doubt a joke about the local director. The first act ended with the Pixies and the second act began with Ce-Lo's "Crazy," neither '90s songs yet both worked.

The first scene began while "Crazy" was still being sung with Hamlet shaving his own head. There's a moment we won't soon forget.

During the gravedigger's scene as he pulls up skulls, one is wearing a red clown's nose and Hamlet notes, "I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest." Playing in the background for this scene was Blood, Sweat and Tears' "And When I Die." Brilliant.

One thing very obvious this year was how infrequently actors called for lines compared to past years.
There's no value judgment to that statement because either way works for the audience.

But late in the play when John Mincks was playing a priest, he called for his line. When he clearly didn't remember, the prompter gave him more of it, eventually all of it.

"What she said," Mincks said in lieu of those lines and the audience roared. No question that best costume went to Phil Crosby in the role of Osric. He wore a splendid red velvet jacket, a bad wig and a foppish hat that only added to his very mannered line delivery.

He was a hoot.

But because something was rotten in Denmark, we had to end with a big fight scene, albeit one using foam noodles and plastic swords. At the end of the evening some three and a half hours later, the audience gave a standing ovation for the brave people who'd given us our annual dose of bootleg.

People like Deejay Gray who stepped in at the last minute and had only 24 hours to learn his lines. Even so, I'd have to say that he played a queen brilliantly. Likewise, when he and John Mincks played sailors, the camp was off the charts.

And naturally there was the big finish with local legend Scott Wichmann coming out in sunglasses and looking buff in fatigues to play Fortinbras at the end. The Bard said it best and all I can add is "amen."

What a piece of work is man.

Okay, I can add something else to that.

What a piece of work is man and woman...never more so than when combined to give us Bootleg Shakespeare.

Ay, there's the rub. I gotta have it.