A Nod to the Posse Queen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I mean, who wouldn't?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be Good or Be Gone

I can thank 5th Wall Theatre for teaching me that I don't like moon pies.

Pru might be inclined to point out that our pre-theater dinner at Rogue might have had something to do with it and she'd likely be right. If we hadn't eaten through three courses, we may have had a teensy bit more room to enjoy the southern disks of tastelessness.

Since it was St. Patrick's Day and since we knew there would be all kinds of unpleasant drunken revelry going on all over town, from the moment she picked me up, we resolved to stay in Jackson Ward for the entire evening.

Better safe than face to face with a drunk in a green t-shirt.

Rogue was a bastion of understated cool on a Saturday night, allowing us to score two end bar stools and, once Pru had cooed over the plush new bar stools, complete with backs, glasses of a white Riojas.

Some people would be ashamed to admit that they ordered two of the same dishes as they'd had on their last visit, but I'm not one of them. That first time had been with Beau and not Pru, so why wouldn't I want to introduce her to a couple of dishes we'd fallen for on our maiden voyage?

If I were ever to meet a person who purported to hate carrots (thankfully, I have not), I would take them immediately to  Rogue and order the charred carrots. Then I would sit there to watch the revelation on their face as they learned what carrots' potential can be in the right hands. Cooked to al dente perfection, these multi-colored beauties are bathed in citrus, ginger and soy, with peanuts added for crunch. Cue angels singing.

Fact: I will no doubt have them the next time I go to Rogue, too. No shame.

Beets topped with greens and chevre was every bit as solid as last time and for something new, we tried the russet potato gnocchi in bolognese sauce, the rich meat sauce aided and abetted by the runny egg  and bits of Parmesan on top.

This leads to a discussion because I'm of the opinion that gnocchi is better than pasta and Pru tried to make a case for pasta. But when I point out that if you want pasta and they don't have it, you'll probably eat gnocchi instead and be happy. But if you're looking forward to gnocchi? Pasta probably isn't going to do the trick. At least that's how we saw it.

How we saw "Pump Boys and Dinettes" was from the front row (there were only two) of the Basement, arriving as the two dinettes (servers in a diner) were offering coffee and Moon Pies to those in the front row. A woman two seats down scored a cup of coffee and later was offered a slice of actual pie. For the record, she ate every bite, but only after feeding her husband the first one. Ain't love grand?

What I got offered was a Moon Pie and naturally I accepted it since it looked chocolate to me. Heaven knows, it only took one bite to determine that it tasted like what I imagined the wrapper it came in would have tasted like. Plastic-tasting chocolate, stale, almost chewy marshmallow and bone-dry graham crackers ensured that my first bite would be my last.

Happily, "Pump Boys and Dinettes" was far more pleasurable, with a litany of feel-good songs dealing with the problems that come with being a garage or diner worker: love, food and jobs, not to mention drinking. Who doesn't put on their drinking shoes occasionally?

The waitresses uniforms were perfection: orange, blue and white, right down to the buttons, with an apron for good measure, just like a proper HoJo server would have on so she'd have a place to stash her order book.

A lot of the fun of the musical was that the four actors playing the pump boys played their own instruments, although watching the Dinettes play pots, pans and the counter was pretty darn impressive, too.

During the moving song "Mamaw," I spotted a guy in the second row mouthing every single word to the song. He was part of a large group who'd come in, all in blue blazers and khakis, and while I'd resorted to making rich white people jokes, Pru had pegged them for a men's glee club. She's brilliant like that.

It was the kind of play where you walked out, not feeling like your worldview had been changed in any way, but confident that you'd been solidly entertained by talented people for a couple of hours.

As for the green beer squad, we never so much as laid eyes on them. As usual, J-Ward for the win.