Fever to Burn

A tree ate the programs, but that didn't make the vintage TV scripts any less funny.

After thoroughly enjoying the first round of M*A*S*H* staged readings two years ago, I wasn't about to miss round two. There are few television shows that capture my word nerd heart like the well-written episodes of M*A*S*H* do. I'm not saying I could quote lines from it, but I am saying that many lines are instantly recognizable the moment they come out of the actors' mouths and land in my eager ears.

But only after checking out Swan Dive for the first time. The little restaurant that's come a long way from its days as a biker bar on Davis Avenue got my attention with a Shells of the Light salad of lump crab, shrimp, avocado, grapefruit, mango, pineapple and greens lightly dressed in a papaya dressing. When I'd ordered it, the server had said it was her favorite for how refreshing it was and she was right, but I was just as impressed with how generous the amounts of each ingredient were.

My only regret was not being able to savor all of the mango, an impossibility given my stone fruit allergy. After 3 or 4 bites, I could feel my tongue tingling, warning me to knock it off. When I apologized for leaving so much mango, the server was empathetic. She has an apple allergy, although she eats them anyway and deals with the discomfort.

Clearly her tongue has never begun to swell like mine has after eating forbidden fruit.

My dessert was called Under the Cherry Spoon and consisted of a brick of frozen chocolate mousse with chocolate ganache and brandied cherries. And, yes, cherries are also a stone fruit, so I kept mostly to the mousse and ganache for fear of landing in the ER instead of at Richmond Triangle Players.

Like last time, tonight's performance featured a boatload of local acting talent and was a benefit for the Mighty Pen Project, which offers university level writing classes for veterans so their service memories can be archived. Lady G's husband is just one of the countless veterans - albeit the only one I know - who have been changed by putting their experiences to paper.

Founded by local author David L. Robbins (who also directed tonight's readings), the project's performance this year featured three episodes from the second season, episodes that included Corporal Klinger in his usual dress and boa, Hawkeye and Hot Lips making nice with each other out of necessity and the bat-sh*t crazy Colonel Flag, easily one of the show's funniest recurring characters.

If I talk about them like they're old friends, it's because they may as well be. I watched old episodes of M*A*S*H* on VHS for more years than I care to admit and still found them hilarious on repeated viewings.

Before the performance began, Robbins explained that a tree had fallen on the power lines near his house this afternoon, robbing him of his ability to print programs for us tonight. Some might question why he hadn't printed up programs for the three week-run sooner, but not me. Given how many of the actors' faces I recognized - Alexander Sapp as Hawkeye, John Mincks as Trapper, Harry Kollatz as Colonel Blake, Thomas Nowlin as Father Mulcahey and Dean Knight as Frank Burns - it's not like I needed a souvenir to remind me.

What I loved was seeing these familiar faces transformed into the smart-mouthed characters I first met in college.

Immediately following mass this Sunday, Yom Kippur services will be held for Jewish personnel of the Hebrew faith.

The second season's first episode, "Divided We Stand," had barely begun when I started cracking up watching the dysfunctional men and women of the 4077th try to stay on their best behavior while being observed by a psychiatrist. And by being on their best behavior, I mean Hawkeye and Trapper putting an appendix in Frank's boot because the other boot was full of tonsils.

I've got enough nausea to light up the city of Toledo, okay? First I'm hot, then I'm cold and my knees are in business for themselves. My tongue has gone cashmere and I'd like to find an all-night latrine that takes servicemen. Now, have I got the flu or am I just in love?

If ever an episode showed off the monumental talent of Alexander Sapp (and, really, what role he takes on doesn't?) it was "Carry On, Hawkeye," as the rest of the 4077th is felled by flu. It's also the one where Harry Kollatz as Henry Blake (wearing the requisite fishing hat) hilariously tells his unit to kindly refrain from kissing anyone unless absolutely necessary.

All I know is I'll volunteer to be on the committee that decides when kissing is absolutely necessary.

It was during this episode that director Robbins took the seat nearest me, next to the two veterans who'd spoken before the performance. From then on, every time I had a laugh attack - like when Hot Lips gleefully jabs Hawkeye in the butt with a syringe full of flu vaccine - he looked over at me laughing hysterically.

I'm sure he doesn't recall, but at the performance two years ago, he actually thanked me for all my "loud laughter," as he called it. Tonight he just looked on proudly and, after the final bow, said to tell all my friends to come see it.

We've got files on people who haven't been born yet.

It was during the final episode,"A Smattering of Intelligence," that Sapp tripped up his line and John Mincks as Trapper quickly ad-libbed, "Easy for you to say," causing the cast to laugh as much as we were.

As Robbins had pointed out, the cast hadn't had a great deal of rehearsal, so they were reading from scripts, but the actors had taken the time to block scenes on their own. The result was that script notebooks became doors to knock on, operating tables when casualties arrived and Radar's omnipresent clipboard.

My practically non-stop laughter at exchanges like, "Colonel, what's your clearance?" followed by "Oh, I go through the door with about an inch of clearance" made the three episodes fly by.

Radar, get another order of Yankee Doodle Dandy. Count me in when it comes to supporting veterans putting pen to paper to save their military memories.

That it involves one of the very few TV shows this non-TV person ever watched is just ganache on the chocolate mousse.

Too Many Things, Not Enough Clocks

The green fairy opened her arms and welcomed us in tonight.

Pru and Beau came by to scoop me up (early, it should be noted, and with a flapper dress I need for an upcoming soiree because only Pru has an extra flapper dress lying around) to go to the VMFA.

There we walked through the 20th century European gallery, pausing to admire Salvador Dali's "God of the Bay of Roses" in advance of one of tonight's cultural offerings, but also prompting a discussion of the role of a muse.

Following the music as we exited into the atrium, we saw Plunky Branch enthusiastically performing onstage to a middlin' sized crowd, but strolled slowly enough to enjoy the jazz he and his band Oneness were putting out. Even better, once upstairs at an uncrowded Amuse, we could still hear every note, right down to the band's cover of P-Funk's "One Nation Under a Groove."

With a window table facing west to admire the darkening sky, Beau ordered J. Mourat Rose and our server responded by looking at Pru and I, asking what we'd be drinking. Just bring the damn bottle, man, and be done with it.

Although I'm not entirely certain what our starting point was, the conversation may have begun with cross-dressing, which quite naturally led to hiding "junk," but Pru was able to inform us that such a thing as thong gaff panties exist to hide a male bulge.

Every night is a learning experience when you're with the right people.

According to Pru's ratings of what we ate, her artichoke hearts with fennel, carrots and an obscene buerre blanc took top honors, closely followed by my amberjack over roasted cauliflower with fried garlic and frisee in a caper vinaigrette, but Beau made a case for his special of housemade ravioli stuffed with Ricotta cheese with housemade sausage in a red sauce. Venison stew got a tepid reaction.

Clearing the table of plates and stacking them precariously, our server noted, "Who knew Tetris was a life skill?"  The consensus was that it was clever, but sounded like a line he'd used before.

After I ordered dessert of salted chocolate bar over lemon curd with whipped cream and my compadres requested coffee, we each ordered an absinthe drip, only to have the drip placed at the center of the table within minutes.

My introduction to an absinthe drip had happened at this very museum restaurant years ago during the Picasso exhibit and while it no longer sits at the end of the bar, I happen to know it will be brought out for anyone who asks.

Me, I ask.

As we each adjust the dripping of ice water over a sugar cube and into the glass of absinthe, we get caught up in a reverie of the pleasures of not just this spirit, but this manner of drinking it and the process of creating your own iteration of the green fairy based on how you set your tap, how much of the cube you allow to dissolve and how much water you want mixed in.

It's not long before Pru, who'd earlier regaled us with descriptions and photos of her new wine jail, decides than an absinthe drip is her must-have birthday present, conveniently coming up soon.

Dropping hints for Beau like Hansel and Gretl dropped breadcrumbs, she gives him one last instruction,
"Don't go half-assed on me." As if Beau ever goes half-assed on anything.

While sipping this nectar of the gods, we went down the rabbit hole of licorice (Beau's never met any he didn't like) and the distinction between "old man licorice" as opposed to more refined examples of the flavor profile such as absinthe. Twizzlers were, we decided, not worth mentioning although Pru admitted to being a fan of black jellybeans.

I never met anything licorice-flavored I liked until I met absinthe, so I didn't have a dog in this fight.

When we got back down to the atrium, the crowd had tripled or perhaps even quadrupled and Plunky and Oneness had the room in its thrall, making it impossible not to dance our way through the hordes of happy people. Had we not had tickets for a show, I'd have happily stayed there for the rest of the evening.

But we did because tonight was Richmond Famous at the Comedy Coalition and sharing personal stories so he could be mocked (by the talented improv artists of RCC) was writer and hatted flaneur Harry Kollatz.

Because we'd lallygagged a bit over our absinthes, we arrived barely moments before the show was to start, joining the owner of Saison (who introduced me to his wife as, "Karen, a woman about town") in line and scrambling for seats once inside.

All the cool kids were there, including a favorite photographer who told her friends, "I always feel better if I see Karen when I go out because it means I'm in the right place." I don't know about all that, but I saw a lot of familiar faces in the room.

A blue wing chair was brought out for Harry to relax in after telling his stories about his Dad's collection of Edsels and how, as a youth with no friends, he had plenty of time to catalog the items found in these old cars.

Being the organized type, he'd list them by the Edsel's year, the object found and the weather. This, ladies and germs, is probably the seed of how Harry wound up giving weather reports from under the Lee's Chicken sign lo these many years later.

The RCC crew managed to turn Harry's geekdom into comedy about the lubricants of adventure and a used kid lot ("Never turn your back on a kid you've disowned"), while a reminisce about encountering a "dangerous bees" sign on a hike resulted in riffing on Dungeons and Dragons (David: "Hey, pretty lady, have you ever had a man really listen to you before?" Josh: "Wow, this man can role play a loser!") and a reference to Yahtzee.

When the comedy at Harry's expense ended, the audience was told to vacate the building before the staged reading which was to come next, but fortunately we already had a plan for how to best enjoy those 25 minutes before returning, having already verified with the owner that Saison carried absinthe.

"Carried" was a bit of an exaggeration because they were down to their last two pours, but the affable bartender stretched it to fit into three glasses, we fashioned our own drips and were back on the sidewalk heading to RCC in time to score far better seats this time.

Friday night Part Deux was the 20th anniversary performance of Harry's play, "The Persistence of Memory" about that time in 1966 when Richmond considered having Salvador Dali create a sculpture for Monument Avenue to commemorate Captain Sally Tompkins for her heroic nursing work during that war.

Dali won out because Henry Moore was too sensuous and Giacometti had just died. Leave it to Harry to document for posterity one of Richmond's most absurd moments in history.

Waiting for it to start, I was totally digging the soundtrack - Herb Alpert's "A Taste of Honey," "The Ballad of the Green Beret" and other groovy mid-60s hits - when Nancy Sinatra's "The Boots Are Made for Walkin'" came on, prompting Pru to tell me about a recent Nancy Sinatra film she'd seen, "The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini."

Because a bikini doesn't already reveal enough?

When the woman in the seat nearest me smiled at me, I began chatting with her, only to learn that she was a musician and had opened the show every night for a week when Harry's play had originally been produced, so she was especially tickled to be witnessing it again 20 years later.

I'm here to tell you that fabulous as it may have been, "The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini" couldn't possibly have compared to "The Persistence of Memory."

The story involved the village people (the blase local artists who hung out at the Village, albeit before it moved to its present location), the Monument Avenue committee (which included two of the original cast members who crossed state lines to perform tonight) including Mrs. Douglas Southall Freeman, Dali (local actor Jeff Clevenger on video talking on an actual lobster), Harry as his secretary of the military and his assistant, plus the Reynolds company representative trying to get a statue made with his aluminum.

Naturally Harry's script set the scene first, with references to Henry Miller, LSD, LBJ, Vietnam, Anais Nin and Gypsy Rose Lee ("My talking was always better than my stripping") courtesy of the village people, all sunglasses, snapping fingers and condescension about art as commodity.

Besides telling a fascinating story, the play brought on laughter, audience finger snapping and a fresh appreciation for how far Richmond has come since the time when change was seen as unacceptable.

Playwright Harry practically busted his buttons watching from the back and afterwards taking much-deserved congratulations from the crowd.

Out on the sidewalk, the air was freezing and we were still on this side of Saturday, but just barely.

Ordinarily, we're a trio who like one final stop for the sake of discussion post-culture, but He Who Starts to Wane (Pru's pithy descriptor of her man) is still getting the hang of hanging with us and looked a bit peaked so we called it a night.

His absinthe drinking was never as good as his Dungeons and Dragons role playing, but he is catching on. Meanwhile, my talking continues to be better than my almost everything else.

Just don't hold me to any green fairy giddiness, no matter the topic. Beau, I'm looking at you.

It's Alive

Pink is the color of love and happiness.

I gleaned this, not by spending close to two hours in the love and happiness room at Quirk Hotel, but by listening to a Ted talk (as in Ted Ukrop was talking) about the hotel's restoration and renovation, a talk punctuated by the clinking glasses of the cocktail party vibe in the room and a fire alarm.

Given the blase age we live in, it was hardly surprising that, mid-talk, when the excruciatingly loud alarm began sounding, not a soul moved. In fact, a well-dressed guy turned and said to no one in particular, "Funny how no one's making a move to leave."

Funny? It took some time for the Modern Richmond crowd to begrudgingly accept that there was the possibility that the hotel above us was in dire straits and begin shuffling up the stairs, through the smoky lobby and outside.

We never got any explanation, but the moment the alarm ceased, we dutifully filed back in to hear more about how Quirk came to be from Ted and the architect. Like how they researched old photos at the Valentine to see what the lobby originally looked like back when the Italianate building was a toney department store.

How the second floor windows on the east side are original and high up on the walls, in the Italian style, so steps were added to access the views. How flooring from the building next door was used to fashion cabinets, closets and counters. How you can see the racetrack and the Diamond from the rooftop bar because it's the tallest building in the area.

Our ultimate goal was going upstairs to see a room and a loft suite, both with fabulous windows, local artisan-made ice buckets and Virginia art in every room and hallway. Since the rooms cost $200 and $400 a night respectively, it'll likely be my last look at them.

Chatting with a stranger about where I lived and how I liked it (J-Ward, love it) because she's considering a move to the city, she asks, apropos of nothing, "Do you work?"

I think this is about the oddest question you could ask an able-bodied person over 18 and under 65. Do I work? Do I need to pay for shelter and transportation? Do I have living expenses? What the hell?

Yes, I work.

I also eat, both for hire, for pleasure and for sustenance, meaning my next stop was dinner at Lucy's with my favorite walker.

Ensconced at the bar with "On the Town" playing silently on the screen, I licked a bowl of bacon and lentil soup clean and followed it with a fried Brussels sprout and mesclun salad jazzed up with goat cheese and red onions while my companion found religion with Lucy's incomparable cheeseburger.

Shortly, in came the chef and barkeep of Metzger, waiting to meet friends, but happy to share the plans for their new Scott's Addition restaurant in the meantime. While it certainly sounds like it's going to be fun, I can't help but wonder about the wisdom of this mass stampede to such a small and impossibly trendy neighborhood.

Or perhaps I'm secretly envious that more business owners don't consider some of the empty buildings in Jackson Ward when looking for real estate.

But no matter. In front of us was flourless chocolate cake dripping with real whipped cream on a plate squiggled with caramel sauce, so my attention was diverted to more important things like maintaining my daily chocolate quota.

That quota, in fact, had been the subject of discussion earlier today while I was out on my walkabout.

"I see you're still out here strutting every day," says the business owner whose shop I'd passed for years, at least until construction fences forced me to the opposite side of the street.

He felt comfortable giving me a hard time because we'd officially met and chatted at a nearby restaurant I was reviewing when he'd spotted me in non-walking attire. I reminded him that I strut so I can abuse chocolate and put off looking my age.

"I need to get back to the gym more often,:" he said, picking up the gauntlet and running with it before tossing me a delightful compliment (coincidentally, the third reason I walk).

Chocolate needs met for the time, I bade my companion farewell and set out for UR and the annual Musicircus,a tribute to composer John Cage. Since the first one I attended back at the old Chop Suey Books in 2007, I've been devoted to the one-hour cacophony of sound.

Wandering through the concert hall, I was a bit surprised at the small crowd, but there hadn't been much press or even social media about it, so it wasn't entirely surprising. In hallways and practice rooms, the crowd happened on all kinds of music and musicians.

A four-piece fado group, the singer's lovely voice shaping the words of Portuguese longing. A guy playing acoustic guitar and singing the stirring "This Land is Your Land." A piano and drum combo perfectly in sync. Gamelan musicians. A killer guitarist playing lap steel. A familiar sax player, eyes closed, wailing alone in a room.

One of the most unique sound contributors was The Hat, reading from his unfinished novel, using his best actorly voices and hand gestures for dramatic effect.

My only complaint was that the whole point of the Musicircus is the blending of all the disparate music being made, but with such a large building, even the sound of 50+ musicians didn't always reach to the next performer.

It was only when I ran into the jazz critic that I was clued in to the additional musicians playing their hearts out in the basement. Down I went, only to be rewarded with the best bleeding of sound by far.

Just outside a stairwell were three members of No BS - Lance using nothing but a mic'd cymbal and a xylophone, Marcus and Reggie blowing horns - making a disproportionately large sound for three people.

Two favorites - Scott and Cameron - whom I'd seen recently in separate outfits were reunited (and it feels so good) and playing with trumpeter Bob. A noise group turned knobs and produced sound so loud it scared some people off. A guy playing a keyboard with earbuds in seemed to be in his own world.

Walking in on Brian and Pinson, both drummers except tonight Brian - the event's organizer all these years - was playing piano (what?), a favorite gallerist arched an eyebrow and leaned in, saying, "I see your blog is back alive."

Now there was an unexpected compliment. You just never know what instruments people play or who might be paying attention to your blog, do you?

Fittingly, my final stop was a large room with an eight-piece (guitar, bass, drums, congas, trumpet, piano, two saxes) rocking out to the point that the two guys listening were head banging while the grooviest of light shows swirled red, green and yellow on the ceiling and walls.

Needless to say, their raucous sound was bleeding out and down hallways in a manner that had to have had John Cage smiling, wherever he and partner Merce are right now.

With any luck, they're in a place with walls painted in Benjamin Moore's "Love and Happiness Pink," coincidentally, the color of half the rooms at Quirk Hotel.

If only painting it made it so. We strutting types figure that love and happiness are where you find them.

Court and Spark Park

Danger is in the eye of the beholder.

So when a roomful of people are talking about what Monroe Park conjures up for them, I find myself in the group that has positive associations with it.

At tonight's community conversation sponsored by the Valentine and held at the Nile (another standing room only crowd), we began with everyone writing down their first memory of Monroe Park and their favorite, followed by a discussion of both.

People were talking about fears of walking the park, crimes they'd heard of there, hell, one woman even  grumbled about "the people who feel entitled to go there for free food."

My memory of Monroe Park? I've been proposed to three times there, albeit by strangers.

Not much scary or criminal about that.

The Valentine's Bill Martin said that the series' purpose is to discuss places we care about. "If we said we're going to bulldoze Short Pump, I'm not sure anyone would care."

Or notice.

Like last month's community conversation about Shockoe Bottom, this one brought out mostly city residents, although with a much wider economic range.

Despite all the Food Not Bombs volunteers in attendance, 27% of the attendees make over $100,000.

Fortunately, almost as high a percentage were in the bottom money-making bracket with me, making for a nice range of interests and experiences.

People shared memories of swinging on swing sets as college students, taking the bus to play there as children, and going to a Mattaponi Indian protest on Columbus Day.

Martin showed some great old photographs of the park, everything from an 1854 shot when it was the state fairgrounds to 1870 when it was essentially being farmed to the original stone pyramid fountain, a truly odd looking thing. A 1947 photo showed kids cooling off in the fountain on a summer day.

Some of my favorite pictures  were of the protests and music shows in the '70s. "Monroe Park was a principal music venue in the '70s," Martin said. "A vibrant club scene thrived around it."

One horrific photo showed a college student atop a tiered fountain which was collapsing as the photo was taken. The student died from the fall.

Much more fun were photos of a 1979 snowball fight and a '90s episode where students toilet papered the park.

We used keypads to answer questions to determine the demographics of the room and the biggest surprise for me was that fully a third of the room had never been to Monroe Park.

Kudos to you guys for bothering to show up.

A quiz followed and I scored so-so, not realizing that in 1867 the park was used as a baseball field but definitely knowing that Springsteen's first Richmond show was in the park.

During the discussion portion of the evening, people made suggestions for how to improve the park and some were excellent.

One woman suggested a "Laurel box," kind of like the Hyde Park soap box used in London for Sunday speakers.

Permanent chess boards, more bike racks, public art, a regular farmer's market and regularly scheduled music events were all thrown out as ideas to get people into the park.

Tonight's speaker was Harry "the hat" Kollatz of Richmond magazine, who began with an ode to a high school classmate, Boo Bailey, whom he'd last seen sunbathing on a blanket in Monroe Park with fashionable earrings on.

Boo was special not just because she was with him in the Civil War club ("Don't judge," he said), but because apparently she cut quite a figure that day.

Memories of Boo were followed by tales of Winfred Cutshaw, Richmond's director of public works and a man who returned from a great tour of Europe full of ideas for creating public spaces, parks and grand tree-lined boulevards here.

Arguing with the city to recognize the need for green spaces and to work with the terrain, Harry emphasized the need to create places "to walk, to think, to court."

He got me with that one. The way I see it, cities will not survive or at least not cities worth living in, if they do not have appropriate places to court and woo.

During the final Q & A, we learned two things.

First, the statue of Washington that once stood in Monroe Park was sold to the University of Miami. So many things come to mind, but mainly, what the hell?

Second, Harry has no clue what happened to Boo Bailey.

And with that, we were turned out into the rainy night to find our way, although not to the park given the weather.

I was headed back to J-Ward to meet three friends at Lucy's for dinner. As a bonus, I also found a favorite sous chef sporting a technicolor black eye (more of a purple/red eye at the moment) and sharing a meal with a bartender who looks like Lt. Dan.

A bottle of de Bortoli sparkling brut was already open when I got there, so all I needed was a flute of the easy-drinking bubbly to join in, while our savvy bartender put another bottle on ice in preparation for the next round.

One of our group was a visitor from Annapolis and she brought news that she was abandoning her bayside house to move to a swanky apartment house with guest suites for visitors, nightly happy hours and a Whole Foods across the street.

She says she finally figured out that she was happiest in life during college, living communally with limited stuff. I say, whatever makes you happy is what you need to pursue, even if it means moving for the third time in as many years.

Damp, cold weather made the fish chowder blackboard special sound mighty appealing to me and the bowl of mahi mahi, bacon and skin-on potatoes satisfied on all fronts.

On the screen was "Gilligan's Island," which led to a discussion of TV watching, not my strong suit.

The beauty of eating with this group is shared food, so I tasted through shrimp cocktail (with Old Bay oyster crackers that were such a hit more were ordered), a Cesar salad that had the out-of-towner grimacing at anchovies she quickly gave away, and multiple NY strips with horseradish potatoes au gratin.

The last chocolate bread pudding in the house served as dessert since it was the only chocolate option.

One in our group was fading fast and he claimed it was due to having unexpectedly awakened at 6 a.m. the last two days, a brutal way to start the day when you don't have to be up that early.

Another said she regularly gets five, no more than six, hours of sleep a night and it's been that way for her since childhood.

She was amazed that I get nine every night, while the curly-headed one was just envious of my ability to get that much.

To each her own.

As long as I keep getting proposed to in Monroe Park, I'm going to assume all that sleep is working for me.

A Little Sugar in my Bowl

I woke up happy this morning.

You have to love a morning when a guy asks, "Will you marry me today?"

Granted, I didn't know him and I was walking down the street when he said, it, but I take my proposals where ever they come from.

Tonight I took my evening right here in Jackson Ward at the Hippodrome Theater.

The founders of the Firehouse Theater Project were presenting a celebration of (almost) 20 years of provocative Richmond theater and as a long-time Firehouse supporter and theater lover, how better to spend a Tuesday night?

Pru joined me for what turned out to be a big, old party interspersed with songs and scenes from former FTP productions.

The bar was mobbed when we arrived, so we patiently waited our turn before heading to the food table for spicy crabcakes, meatballs and, my favorite, mini-chicken and waffles.

A guy in the buffet line told me he'd never heard of the classic sweet and salty shift meal, so I gave him a brief history as we scooped up food.

I saw lots of familiar faces - the beer and theater loving couple, the Listening Room alum as excited as I am about the upcoming show at the Michaux House, even said hi to Carol Piersol herself, the reason for tonight's celebration.

We took seats in the second row, behind the all-important founders who were in the front row and did our mingling from there.

The show began with host Eva asking for those who'd performed at FTP to clap (lots of applause). Then for those who'd attended an FTP production to clap (even more applause).

Then she asked those who've gone in to Lowe's to use the bathroom to clap and that got the largest applause of all.

Appropriately, the first performer was Scott Wichmann, doing a song from "Bat Boy," the first musical FTP ever did, and setting the bar very high.

We saw a very funny scene from Harry the Hat's "Persistence of Memory," about one of the Reynolds' execs trying to get Salvador Dali (complete with lobster phone) to create a statue out of aluminum for Monument Avenue back in the '60s.

True story.

A scene from David Mamet's "Businessmen" seemed an especially good choice given that tonight's show was a benefit for Carol Piersol's upcoming production of Mamet's "Race."

Desiree Roots killed it during a rendition of  "I Need a Little Sugar in My Bowl," from "The Death of Bessie Smith," one of two Edward Albee shows we saw tonight.

Tired of bein' lonely, tired of bein' blue
Wished I had some good man to tell my troubles to

The audience was testifying right along with her.

More Mamet came courtesy of the classic "Glengarry Glen Ross" with d.l. Hopkins effortlessly tossing off lines like, "This place gets robbed, they'll come looking for me. Why? Because I probably did it."

Jacob Pennington broke my heart with a scene from "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead," about his beagle Snoopy being put to sleep after killing Woodstock.

I can handle many things, but not dead beagle scenes. For me, it'll always be too soon for that.

Matt Shofner brought everybody back up, though with an hysterical and well done version of "Suppertime" ("the very best time of the day," he sang. Amen to that) from "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown.

Man, can that boy sing, as if I didn't already know that from the Ghost Light afterparty.

Sam Shepard's "Curse of the Starving Class" was typical Shepard-like bleak, involving jail, a lamb and an actor in his boxers.

In a related note, host Eva then came out in a nude body stocking, complete with an abundant pubic hair wig. aimlessly twirling strands of hair around her finger as she said, "The Firehouse has never shied away from nudity onstage."

Harry "The Hat" Kollatz spoke next, brilliantly telling the saga of a 1998 FTP production.

Recalling executive director Carol calling him for help, he admitted to wondering why.

"I am the Chauncey Gardiner of this outfit. I have no practical skills," he said, cracking up the entire room.

His story ended up being about how the 100+-year firehouse had been purchased through the generosity of unexpected benefactors.

Katrinah Carol Lewis did "Out Tonight" from "Rent," a show Harry had said could have run forever it was so well-received.

Let's go out tonight
I have to go out tonight
You wanna play?
Let's run away
We won't be back before it's New Year's Day
Take me out tonight

The scene from "Four Dogs and a Bone" had an actress coming on to a writer, resulting in lines like, "I used to be romantic before I joined the writers' guild."

John Patrick Shanley's play was full of stellar lines. "I can't even tell you're drunk except by what you say.

Even better, "I hope I remember this conversation in the morning, not the gist of it, but the details."

Scott came back to do a song he'd planned to do at FTP's 2008 cabaret but which had not made the cut.

"Entering Marion" was ostensibly a travel song except he kept entering towns with girls' names, eventually becoming the kind of trampy traveler who entered places like Lawrence and Lowell before regretting it later at the motel.

His performance was terrifically nuanced, right down to hand gestures of shifting gears in the car.

Watching "Eurydice," it was striking how spot on the cast was.

The guy next to me leaned in and observed, "It's amazing, they're doing these roles years after they originally did and not overacting a bit. That's quite an accomplishment."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Desiree Roots' medley from "Dessa Rose" was so big-voiced and moving that I saw a few people wiping tears away by the end of it.

I recall seeing the second Albee play of the evening, "The Goat, Or Who is Sylvia?" but you never really forget a play about a man having an affair with a goat, do you?

The show ended with the inimitable Matt coming back out, this time with a long, blond wig, full face makeup and open-toed pumps on.

As soon as I saw him, I remembered the other night at the Ghost Light, host Maggie had come onstage with a bulging bag, saying to Matt, "Here, you said to bring your wigs."

Now I knew why.

With scene-stealing know-how, he sang "Midnight Radio" from "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," prancing around the stage, his big voice reaching to the rafters.

By the time he got to the chorus ending of "Lift up your hands, lift up your hands," people in the crowd led by a glowing Carol, were doing just that and a procession began of people dancing toward the stage, all arms in the air.

You know you're doing alright
So hold on to each other
You gotta hold on tonight

Watching a roomful of theater performers and theater lovers gather together to celebrate a company that changed the Richmond theater scene for the better was mighty impressive.

I hope I remember this performance, not just in the morning, but years from now, and not the gist of it, but the details.

Truly, it was a lovely thing to behold.

Underground and Under Newspapers

A moonflower delayed my Saturday night.

I was getting dressed to go to a reading when I glanced out my bedroom window and, much to my surprise, saw my first moonflower of the summer beginning to open on my back porch.

If that doesn't sound impressive, then you've never seen a moonflower open.

It's the only flower I know of that opens so quickly you can watch it happen...in about 90 seconds.

My Mom still tells the story of showing my college boyfriend, Curt, a moonflower vine and watching his jaw drop as flower after flower opened in front of his eyes.

He was flabbergasted, never having heard of flowers that open so quickly.

Every year I grow moonflowers, as much for the novelty of flowers that open at dusk or later as for their entertainment value.

They can be fickle (who among us can't?), but their large, white, deep-throated flowers are stunning twining around a railing or up a trellis.

So when I saw that bud start shaking, I knew that Prudence would have to wait.

As it was, we arrived at Chop Suey in plenty of time for the reading since the event began with an extended mingling period.

I do so love a good reading preceded by time to socialize with a girlfriend while perusing the stacks at Chop Suey.

Dale Brumfield was talking about his new book, "Richmond's Independent Press: A History of the Underground Zine Scene."

And doing so in a most dapper manner wearing a white linen blazer.

He began by stating the obvious, that RVA's alternative papers were born out of disdain for and as a reaction to the dreaded Richmond Times Dispatch and News Leader.

Some things never change.

Those two mainstream papers were not telling the story of the new counterculture movement, demonstrating a clear disdain for the younger generation.

Not a smart choice at a time when youth was on the ascendancy.

But it was when Dale got down to cold, hard facts, that it became clear how key RVA had been in the overall underground press scene.

With a 1960 start, we had the second longest counterculture scene in the U.S., second only to NYC.

And get this, we had the first female editor in a counterculture publication in 1969.

And here I'd thought Richmond women still wearing white gloves in 1969.

Throttle magazine was especially noteworthy.

Among un-financed, free independent papers, they had the fastest circulation growth (from 3,000 to 20,000 copies per month).

I know publishers that would have killed for that kind of growth.

They also won the longevity prize for un-financed, free independent papers, clocking in at eighteen years.

As someone who spent many years working for free, independent papers, I can appreciate how impressive that is.

Dale spoke a bit about Richmond's unique handbill history before bringing readers up to read from his book.

He made it clear that the last thing he wanted to do was read his own words out loud.

Abby read a section about The Sunflower and Tabitha read one about Throttle.

Then Dale called up a man who needed no introduction, giving him none, to read about the Richmond Mercury.

Harry Kollatz, everyone's favorite man-about-town, came up contorting himself and purportedly reading a book called The Best Sex Ever.

The trouble with Harry is he always knows how to get a laugh (including his own).

First he had us rehearse our part (bow chicka wow wow, chicka wow wow) and then went on to read about when critic Frank Rich reviewed an adult movie at the Lee Adult Theater on Grace Street.

Yes, that Frank Rich who went on to become theater critic of the New York Times and, yes, that theater where men self-pleasured under newspapers in their lap during movies designed for that.

At various parts in the story, we were given the signal to sing our part and did so fairly poorly, I'm afraid.

The end of Harry's reading involved a Mercury interview about VCU girls.

"VCU girls have a reputation," said a University of Richmond student. "They'll do anything."

Anything? Or does that just mean UR girls were boring?

Before you let that judge your opinion of the Mercury, though, know that four of the five founders of the alternative went on to win Pulitzer prizes.

Wow, you think you know your city and then, boom, it surprises you again.

Sort of like a moonflower opening.

My Sins Found Me Out in Ashland

If art and writers are placed at the center of the universe, I will go on a Sunday afternoon.

That meant a short drive up Route 301 to the Flippo Gallery at Randolph Macon for the opening of "Artists and Writers II," a biennial invitational exhibit of collaborative works between, duh, artists and writers, even when they're the same person.

Which was the case with comic book artist Dash Shaw, whose monochromatically blue and green panels of a dating adventure opened the show. I was especially taken with the panels of a couple discussing their pasts.

Him: When I was in college, I was with a 33-year old.
Her: What did she teach you?
Him: There are things that are illegal in certain states that women really enjoy over the age of 30.

I was the only one who laughed out loud at those panels, admittedly, but I was in a cluster of people all of whom appeared to be under 30.

The Susan Singer/Valley Haggard collaboration involved Singer taking over 300 nude photos of Haggard and from them producing three paintings which hung in today's show, surrounded by two lists of words.

One held negatives (fat, cellulite, lard ass, thunder thighs) and the other positives (luscious, curvy, voluptuous, goddess), demonstrating the mental progress Haggard made about her body over the year they worked together.

Man-about-town Harry Kollatz collaborated with Amie Oliver for a series of paintings that included some of Harry's scribbles over the past fifteen years. The paintings of coffee cups, flowers and Harry were all done in beautiful winter shades of white, gray and black.

Oliver had traced over Harry's jottings to achieve words on canvas, my favorite being "I have lived long enough that my sins have found me out." A painting of Harry's ubiquitous hat was overlaid with, "C'est ne pas Harry," for a touch of humor.

Poet Joshua Poteat and architectural historian Roberto Ventura came together for a series of panels called, "For Lucy and Yard Sale," based on a news story about a homeless man's murder and the friends he left behind. The thematic nature of the piece was based on railroads, since the friends had hopped trains together.

Lines from one of Poteat's poems were used on wooden panels for a site-specific installation and some also had bits of the news story on them; the proceeds of the sale of the individual pieces will go to the Daily Planet.

I was so taken with a line of poetry on one of the panels that I immediately found the gallery's director and bought it.

While I'll have to wait until April when the show closes to collect it, I look forward to having a piece of poetry on my wall, especially one purchased for a worthwhile and local cause.

The opening was packed and most people stayed for the reading afterwards. Haggard began with ruminations about the self-exploration she'd done during the course of the project.

She said the end result was the ability to allow her insecurities to coexist with her body's past (six surgeries, six miscarriages and one child) in a peaceful and gentle way.

Harry put on his actor's hat (that is, voice) for a reading from old journals of random jottings and overheard conversations; thus we heard things like, "You have to be young, stoned and have good bowels to make art." He spoke of seeing graffiti saying, "Jesus is a gay Boy Scout" in three different handwritings.

Josh Poteat read his previously-written poem, the one that had resonated so strongly when they began their site-specific project. It's the second such piece he's done with Ventura and they hope to do more.

And I got to hear the poet read the line which had compelled me to buy a piece of art in Ashland when I had no intention of doing any such thing.

There is an agreeable sound here, under the thistle...

Not that craving words and art could be considered sins, at least not in my (illustrated) book.