Dodging the Angora Bullet

Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. ~ Emerson

Will do, Ralph, but some some evenings even exceed "best." That I spent said evening in a $6 thrift store dress I bought last May with no event in mind only served to make me feel both virtuous and celebratory.

Surely the best New Year's Eve blowouts begin in late afternoon because it's one holiday that is a marathon, not a sprint. Ours kicked off on Clay Street with Mr. Wright supplying a bottle of Clos Lentiscus Blanc de Noirs Brut Nature - chosen as a nod to 2019 agenda items - to set an appropriately festive mood.

That the bubbles were from a groovy, bio-dynamically-farmed single vineyard planted just south of Barcelona in the 1930s only added to the wine's romance, while the second fermentation being helped along courtesy of rosemary honey from the estate's beehives - picaresque much? - made for heady, pastoral sipping.

To you, Espana.

Three-hours were disappeared in the name of traditional NYE rituals involving Shakespeare, a unicorn and the best kind of crunch before our Uber driver appeared and whisked us to Aloi.

There we lounged in near darkness until Pru and Beau showed up. Both were a tad under the weather, but had nonetheless donned festive attire - Beau's textured, burgundy blazer, a Christmas gift from Pru, and pink shirt were swingin' '70s cool (a fact I know because I made my college boyfriend a blazer exactly that color), while Pru's teal velvet leggings and shoulder-dusting earrings conveyed the usual subtle sophistication - and gathered their forces for the big night.

Seated at a central table, everyone agreed that the recessed lighting above the table was too direct, too bright while the table beside ours sat in near darkness. That aside, consensus was how un-Richmond the vibe felt with the added oomph of NYE. The time Mr. Wright and I had been there, our perch was two stools on the far end of the bar, so a much different experience.

The menu for the evening involved an amuse bouche, a bubbly intermezzo and four choices. so I got to taste everything. Best in class goes to a couple of goodies I cadged off Mr. Wright's plate: wild mushrooms lightly fried up over peppedew romesco with a killer topping of sauteed sweet onions and endive escabeche (the contrasting textures! the balanced flavors!) and then Morrocan-spiced lamb over toasted fergola (golden raisin gastrique, mmm).

Every bit as welcome as the tasty chow was how well served we were, never rushed, Montand Blanc de Blancs flutes and water glasses never fully empty, as our hospitable server aided our cause unobtrusively with grace and stealth. I call that good service, especially on a busy night.

When the subject of hoe cakes came up - as it inevitably does at smart dinner parties - Beau shared that his only experience with them involved Bisquick and water griddled until near-charred blackness was achieved. He was quickly brought up to speed: "That's hardtack."

"That's why you like war," Pru deadpanned.

Although we'd allowed two and a half hours for dinner, before I knew it I was polishing off my dark chocolate mousse bar and accepting bites of sticky date cake with grilled pineapple (a swanky take on pineapple upside down cake without the vertigo) so we could walk around the block to Richmond Triangle Players.

Our objective was a 10:30 cabaret called "Scott Wichmann: A Very Good Year," a plan hatched by Mr. Wright and Beau, albeit independently of each other.

With a three-piece combo backing him, Scott dazzled the sold-out crowd with gems like "Strangers in the Night," the "Love Boat Theme" and, perhaps most charmingly of all, "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?" a 1947 song that takes me back to my parents' Christmas records. Invoking a 21st century Rat Pack feel, complete with e-cigarette, Scott demonstrated how effortlessly he can fill a theater twice in one night.

So. Much. Talent.

Even more adorable were the parts of the show that included his talented wife Eva DeVirgilis because of how unabashed they are in their over-the-moon happiness at having found each other.

Talk about people mooning over each other.

It was only after the show ended and we were heading out of the theater that Pru's first rule of picture-taking was blatantly ignored. (see Chapter 5, section 7, sub-article 3.92)

1. Pictures are always taken at the beginning of the evening, never at the end. No one looks fresher or more attractive after eight hours of revelry than they did just after getting doodied up. [paraphrased]

The woman's not wrong.

Even so, pictures of loopy people surfaced today, proof that having fun makes up for a lot of late night sins in terms of photographic documentation. I was only sorry I had on my coat, thus despriving my $6 dress of its shot at immortality.

So that was yesterday's best day of the year.

Today's best day of the year got a late start when Mac returned from her NYE revelry in Charlottesville so we could do our First Day Walk mid-afternoon. Since it's been months since we could get on the pipeline from the western end, we resolved for New Year's Day to climb down on the eastern end and walk it to the flooded part and back.

Upside of this decision? It had been far too long since we'd made our favorite local walk. Downside: Fair weather/newly resolved weekend warriors, meaning the pipeline was lousy with first-timers and families, one of whom carried a scooter, a decision that can only be called imbecilic on a narrow walkway over a raging river.

And raging it was, so much so that Mac and I, regular pipeline walkers that we've been for years, felt strongly that James River Parks should have had the chained off sign at the end of the walkway to prevent people unused to walking it from attempting to given how high and fast the water was.

"Especially the kind of people we saw on here today," Mac, the most tolerant person on the planet, pointed out.

But they didn't, so we took advantage and walked to the edge of where the river was covering the pipeline and promptly made a U-turn. The way back was our usual direction, which afforded us a comparison of what we would normally see in terms of the river's flow and ferocity and what we were seeing today.

Two of the usual crazy kayak types were bobbing up and down on Class IV rapids that probably qualify for Class V right now. A couple was scavenging for old railroad spikes, amassing their rusty collection on the walkway itself.

I feel sure we got some kind of science lesson as we walked, shivering to the cold dampness of the air between the supports of the railroad track above us and then feeling the temperature rise when we had river on both sides of us. Every now and then, we'd walk through an especially warm pocket of air and had no idea where it came from. When the river hit the pipeline just right, we got splashed by water that felt very January-like on my bare legs.

On the north bank where it's rocky, I spotted a Great Blue Heron, wet and hunkered down, putting off an I'm-not-happy vibe about having to still deal with whitewater when all you want is dinner. But even miserable, the heron was striking, the white feathers around its eyes in marked contrast to the blue feather tips huddled around its chest.

Pipeline fix aside, any day that has me opening all my windows before breakfast definitely qualifies as best day of the year.

2019, maybe it's much too early in the game, but if you're half as dazzling as last year, please send more of same.

In the pantheon of very good years, 2018 took my breath away.

Down versus Pound

It was really too beautiful to spend the evening indoors - 77 degrees in mid-October - unless love was involved.

As it turned out, it was, but I didn't know that. I thought I was getting dinner and a play.

Given the bodacious weather, I was hardly surprised when I arrived at Magpie to find only one couple in attendance. I took a seat at the bar to await my friend's arrival and discuss my theater plans with the bartender.

Although he'd never been to Richmond Triangle Players, he used to work with their bartender, a woman I've bought wine from on many an occasion. Funny how there's never more than three degrees of separation from anyone in this town.

Right on time, my friend arrived (amuse bouche: easter egg radish slice with golden raisin chutney and carrot top) and we lost no time ordering so we could discuss theater without our mouths being full.

My only regret was that he invited me to go with him to see "Book of Mormon," a show I could never afford, and I'll be out of town that weekend. Drat the luck.

Once dinner came, we focused on that.

Not that anyone needs to eat their sweetbreads chicken-fried, but as long as they were offering, why not? These came with turnip hash, pickled relish and house hot sauce and I also shared a side of roasted brussels sprouts with my friend as he ate his huntsman's stew, which smelled divine.

Unfortunately, we had so little time left that dessert wasn't an option so we left for the theater to see 5th Wall Theater's staged reading of John Anastasi's new play, "Transition," without my sweet tooth being satisfied.

Instead, I sublimated it when the reading began with a sex scene between two women, one of whom came noisily moments after the action began. Unfortunately, her partner hadn't come (or enjoyed the strap-on she'd been using), causing her to lament, "I'd rather you went downtown instead of taking me to Pound Town."

Hmm, "Pound Town." That's a new one on me.

"Transition" was the story of a man born in a woman's body who takes 28 years to decide he needs to transition to the male he's always been. The problem is that his partner, the love of his life, is a lesbian who wants a female, not male, partner.

When he tells his mother about his planned hormone treatments and surgery, she's forced to come to terms with what she always knew but never acknowledged: her daughter is her son. "You haven't even started the male hormones and already you're acting just like your father!" Jacqueline Jones as the mother said to a big laugh.

Ditto the laughs when the subject of genital reconstruction surgery came up. "That glorious organ with the head but no brain." Ah, yes, we know the one.

But the most unexpectedly funny moment came when Melissa Johnston Price (as the doctor planning to do the surgery) explained all that was involved, right down to creation of the brain-less head. "So that's it in the nutshell," she said before turning to look at the audience with a classic WTF? look on her face. "I never saw that coming."

The audience laughed long and hard at her reaction to the line in the script.

Danya/Daniel, the woman transitioning, was played superbly by Eva DeVirgilis, who tries to convince her true love Addison (played by Sara Heifetz) that even if she has the surgery, they'll still love each other just the same, pulling out Shakespeare's "A rose by another name would smell as sweet" to prove her point.

Addison is having none of it. "Male hormones do not smell good," she retorts, miserable at the idea of having a male partner when she's madly in love with a woman.

But the bigger issue wasn't about smell or hormones or any of that. The play asks us why do we love the person we do? Is it their heart, their soul, their personality, their body?

The play was terribly poignant in parts, especially in a scene that takes place five years after surgery and the couple's split, when Daniel runs into the doctor who tries to assure him he'll get over the loss of his true love. He corrects her.

"Those who've had a real loss know that it never gets better. You just get better at living with it." I'd like to see someone put that in a fortune cookie.

The play ended ambiguously, leaving the outcome to the viewer's imagination. Some saw a happy ending and others didn't. Sort of like life.

But the biggest question remained. Could you still have real love if one of the people changes?

During the talkback with the playwright, director Carol Piersol and cast, the audience had a lot of questions and a lot of opinions on what needed to be changed and not changed in the script.

That's a major reason I look forward to this kind of reading. Part of its purpose is to provide feedback to the author and another part is to gauge audience reaction to the idea of seeing the play fully produced.

As an opinionated woman and a theater lover, I find it immensely satisfying to have a chance to provide that kind of input.

Playwright Anastasi told us he'd spent a great deal of time talking to a doctor who does this kind of surgery in order to get the finer points right. "I still take a lot of criticism as a heterosexual writing about the trans experience. But, Stephen King, did he kill all those people?"

I think not. Clearly, the man had a sense of humor.

What he did make clear was that what he had written was, more than anything else, a love story. By the end, Daniel has fully transitioned and has finally gotten what he's wanted his whole life. But in the process, he's lost the only person he ever needed. He's alone but acknowledges that that's his choice.

"He chooses not to have someone else if he can't have the love of his life, "Anastasi told us to wrap things up.

And that, if you ask me, makes it a hell of a love story.