Awe and Panic

A heathen sits down next to a devoted church-goer who sings in the choir. What could possibly go wrong?

Before decamping to another play in the Acts of Faith Festival, Pru, Beau and I bellied up to a table at Belmont Food Shop for dinner. Beau's original choice for wine came from the Willamette, a reliable source for pinot noirs that please them both. This one didn't.

Our second try came from even more scared ground - the Loire valley - and everybody was happy with Domaine de Chevilly "Quincy," a Sauvignon Blanc with notes of peach and good acidity. The Pinot Noir, meanwhile, was recorked to go home with Beau.

An amuse bouche of gougeres came out first, followed by three spears, each holding two tiny confit duck hearts, causing Beau to reverse his prior announcement that he eats everything. He did try one, commented on the texture, and admitted that organ meats just aren't his thing.

Except for the organ meats he likes, he clarified.

Pru and I savored cups of mushroom soup redolent of tamarind, which is seducing me a lot lately (see: Rust and Stardust cocktail at Perch). The consomme-like soup was ideal for piquing our appetites for what was to come.

For me, it was monkfish with leeks and fingerlings in a brown butter sauce, further cementing monkfish's claim to fame as the poor man's lobster. Beau's vegetable potpie was the undisputed star of the table, a hearty gravy studded with vegetables under a flaky crust, while Pru's seared tuna delivered a lighter taste.

Despite being full to the gills, Beau insisted on his own butterscotch custard even after I offered to share mine. Like the butterscotch mousse I'd had last week in Annapolis, this was another subtle butterscotch dessert when I was really hoping for the oomph of a darker, more intense butterscotch finish.

At least Beau liked it, even if he was looking a tad over-full by that point.

We got to Richmond Triangle Players with plenty of time to spare, which allowed the man seated next to me to initiate a conversation. Seems he and his wife were there from Maryland because their daughter was in this production. When Pru and I asked if she'd gotten her talent from her parents, he insisted she hadn't. Their only talent, he claimed, was singing in the choir at church every Sunday.

Luckily, he didn't seem to sense that he was elbow to elbow with a card-carrying heathen.

The premise of "An Act of Gd" was simple: god comes down and takes the body of a somewhat successful regional actress with an Artsie award to explain that the ten commandments Moses brought down weren't the final version.

She's here to provide an update.

Knowing that talented comic actress Maggie Bavolack was playing god only made the irreverent play more appealing. She joked that Richmond has almost as many houses of worship as it does Confederate monuments. She claimed that when creating the land masses and shaping Florida, she knew even then that it was going to be shaped like a penis.

It was while she was explaining the commandment, "Thou shalt not tell others who to fornicate" that she said, "I mean the gays" that I first realized that the church-going man next to me wasn't looking at the stage. On purpose. Instead, he was staring off into the back of the chair in front of him, as if to avoid absorbing the sacrilegious things being said onstage. Occasionally, he'd look up for a minute and then avert his eyes when things got profane.

Maggie as god went on to explain creation and the pains she went to to make it look like evolution had created the world. We heard the story of Adam and Steve and why Steve was changed to Eve and what that meant for mankind (less master gardening, for one).

And sometimes, she'd drop a line so clever that most people didn't even catch it, like when she said, "I did Cosby his nectar," and Pru and I about lost it laughing. Any word nerd can't help but react to a new verb like that.

"Please stop calling my name during sex," Mags instructed us. "I'm not that interested." I can understand, with all the naked bodies she'd have to look at.

We heard about Noah and his wife Nameless and how there was no sea-worthy boat capable of carrying two of every animal. Period.

Particularly satisfying to me was the commandment, "Thou shalt separate me and state," followed by a demonstration of her on one side of the stage and state on the far side. There was exuberant clapping for this commandment.

"Thou shalt not seek a personal relationship with me," god instructed. "I like distance." Pru related heavily to this one or at least I assumed she did after I poked her in the ribs when god said it.

The church-goer next to me, not so much. He looked directly at his shoes while god made her case for not getting too close.

But the somewhat successful regional actress was honest, too, explaining that god is a brand, but that she has wrath management issues at times. "Faith and sausage, two things best not seen being made," she advised. Amen to that.

"Thou shalt not believe in me, just like thou shalt not believe in the Richmond Flying Squirrels," Maggie told the room to much laughter.

By the end, the audience had been apprised of the official ten commandments as devised by a more modern deity. Only the man next to me looked unhappy about the updates.

But then, he wasn't invited back to the manse, where the absinthe drip was filled with water and ice and Beau poured ridiculous amounts of absinthe into our glasses. Then we settled into Pru's comfy couch and chairs to dish. It had been nearly a month since we'd last convened to talk trash, judge others and dissect the play we'd just seen and everyone had come with stories and opinions to share with the group.

What I found out what that Pru finds me exhausting to be around because of her introverted tendencies. She freely admits she'd always rather stay at home in her pajamas than have to get dressed and go out, a sentiment I don't share. Although she can play vivacious and talkative when we're together, it's not who she really is.

Then Beau piled on, too, saying that while he has the ability to crank up his energy levels to accommodate me, he needs recovery time afterward. And here I'd always thought I was a cinch to be around.

Eating confit duck hearts and time with me, two things best left to the highly energetic, it turns out.

A nap ahead of time doesn't hurt, either.

Be Prepared for Peace

Because when you see a guy sever his patella right in front of you, the least you can do is go to a fundraiser for him afterward.

Beckham and Beauty met me at SPARC for the lip sync benefit show for Durron's patella, not just because they'd been with me when Durron first fell, but because they were just back from a month-long honeymoon in South Africa and I wanted all the delicious details.

I joined them in the second row for an audio highlights reel of their adventure, from winery hopping to every other day beach jaunts to a safari - petting cheetahs and and feeding elephants - to loads of books read over delightfully long days.

Not going to lie, I was pea-green with envy.

When they did venture out to do the proper tourist-y things, they were continually met with uncontrolled children running amuck, an annoyance they likened to the best possible birth control.

As I'd have guessed, their re-entry to the real world has been cold and harsh - and not just because they left a cultured, competent and contemplative leader running the country and came back to a fascist creating a police state - as they adjust to early mornings, less time together and the realities of setting up a shared household while holding down demanding jobs.

Fortunately, they're young and strong with love and endless optimism on their side. And, like me, they love some good lip syncing.

The show began with Durron walking onstage, stiff-legged and using a cane, to take his rightful place in the "king's" chair, a red armchair complete with footstool for the ailing gam. Onstage was to be his spot for the entire evening.

Unlike the usual lip sync battles Beckham, the Beauty and I've attended in the past, tonight's was more of a showcase of local acting talent singing their hearts out for a fallen comrade, with host Phil kicking things off brilliantly with The Lion King's "Be Prepared," complete with a full range of actions to reflect the words.

To be honest, I had no idea about the song, but Beauty brought me up to speed.

The quartet of "Team Not This Winter Body," who'd also been present for Durron's spill, came out and addressed him directly, saying, "This is for you, buddy. We love you a lot and we're so sorry," a sentiment that was expressed repeatedly throughout the evening.

Reliably fabulous Mags blew the roof off with her histrionic take on the vocal (yet silent) acrobatics of Demi Lovato's  "Heart Attack," but she stumbled a bit getting offstage, causing host Phil to call out, "No one falls tonight!"

New to the lip sync business was Natty who emoted the hell out of "Bernadette" while pounding his chest, dropping to his knees and eventually handcuffing himself to Durron to prove his love, per the song lyrics.

Epic best describes what we witnessed as this lip sync virgin showed us his mastery of the art form.

Forrest, whom I knew solely as a guitar player (a very good guitar player), pulled off dance moves in sunglasses, while he silently sang Justin Timberlake's "Can't Stop the Feeling," a song that sounds like every other auto-tuned male pop hit of this century. Or is it just me?

Britney's "Lucky" got the full treatment - tiara, feather boa, robe - from Liz who also used signage ("Because she can't walk") and a water bottle to splash her face with the tears of her lonely heart, tears which dripped down on poor Durron as she hugged him from above.

But when the song ended, everyone began freaking out about the water on the stage (no more falls, remember?) and a crew of paper towel-wielding driers descended on the stage to ensure there wasn't so much as a drop to slip on.

Up to this point, Beckham, Beauty and I had been thoroughly enjoying the show, with equal parts laughter and appreciation for how well choreographed most numbers were tonight.

Then it was Asa's turn, a good thing since I'd already decided after the last lip sync battle that Asa is a lip sync god.

He sure didn't disprove that with tonight's choice of Beyonce's "Single Ladies," coming onstage in a black bodysuit, white fur-trimmed jacket and ankle booties and shaking it for all he was worth, smacking his backside and oozing enough sass to sell every word.

Behind him were a half dozen dancers in black bodysuits and tights, nailing every booty shake, every extended ring finger, every nuance of the original choreography while Asa continued to "sing" lead from the front of the stage. More dancers joined them and suddenly, we were seeing a full-blown synchronized dance sequence with nary a hip swing or hand flutter out of place.

It was a thing of beauty, no less so for Asa's charismatic presence as front woman. That's one agile man and the look on Durron's face was pure pleasure.

The final round was the improv round, supposedly with seven contestants, although only six showed up onstage. "We need one more!" Phil called out.

"Asa's coming! He's putting his pants on!" someone hollered. One number in a bodysuit is probably enough for any man.

With all seven in place, we watched as songs - "Man, I Feel Like a Woman," "What's Love Got to Do With It?" and something from The Little Mermaid - were played for 30 seconds and one of the contestants had to lip sync to it on the spot.

Everybody had had a turn except Natty and when the first notes of the final song began, he seized the moment, extending his arms and silently belting out the syrupy "My Heart Will Go On" in Durron's direction to great dramatic effect.

There's just no way to come down after that kind of stellar entertainment.

Although my friends and I hadn't made any post-show plans, we were on such a high after witnessing that array of terrifically talented people, that we resolved to go to Secco for vino and conversation. Though it was prime time Saturday night and the odds were stacked against us, we scored bar stools, where Beckham insisted I sit between the two since, "We've seen a lot of each other lately."

All talk. I know because they were touching each other the entire night and it was pretty charming to see. Nobody was tired of anybody.

It was a night to introduce Beauty to Hungarian wine with Affinitas Tokaj Furmint, floral, rich and a fine pairing with spicy octopus Bolognese with chile oil, not that it didn't hold up just fine to fried acorn squash (the very same I'd had a week ago and fallen hard for) with buratta, fermented honey and gingersnap crumbles, plus the reliable tortilla espanola and one of tonight's specials, a thoroughly obscene poutine of oxtail gravy with white cheddar over fries.

The funny part is, when we'd met at SPARC, Beckham made sure I knew they'd already eaten, yet his first words at Secco were, "We're feeling a little peckish," while requesting a food menu.

Naturally, that led to a conversation of how some people (*cough* Beckham) can say they're not hungry but that only lasts until they have access to something tasty. Like a restaurant menu.

Beauty admitted that too often she allows herself get to the "hangry" point, but tries to mitigate that by keeping a snack cabinet over her desk. Meanwhile, I eat every chance I get.

Mainly we discussed their time in South Africa, which disappointed only on the cultural front (a New Year's Eve concert in the botanical gardens featured a band so bad they left, while a piano bar seemed to be more of a recording of a piano), a fact which only bolstered their conviction to spend their free time drinking wine.

Like me, Beckham had been there before, but he was nevertheless surprised at how many new varietals are being planted and grown successfully now. Hello, South African Tempranillo.

And of course we talked about dealing with the ongoing disaster of the past eight days under a thin-skinned tyrant and whether it would be possible to have a repeat of Nazi Germany here. We're more connected so it would be more difficult, we agree, but impossible? Who knows?

When Gorbachev, the former Soviet leader and Nobel Peace Prize winner, is going on record today as saying that it "looks as if the world is preparing for war," I, for one, am all ears.

Even fabulous lip-syncing can only keep the fear at bay for so long. All the single ladies know there are people we want to see a lot of before it all goes up in flames.

Can't stop the feeling time is running out.

All Manners

I may not be a lesbian, but I can play one for an evening.

That said, it was a man who picked me up, albeit one who brought along the apple of his eye and her mother for an evening of food and frivolity.

Although I usually assert my alpha female side and am the one doing the picking up, it seemed silly for me to play driver when our destination was Max's on Broad, four blocks away from me.

Thank goodness we had a reservation at Max's because with "Chicago" playing tonight at the Mosque Landmark Altria theater, the place was a zoo and we had a curtain to make.

Fortunately, our server was the deep-voiced Russell, himself an actor and singer (Mom: "I bet he's a bass"), and a master at ensuring swift and seamless food delivery in the service of making a play.

Approving our choice of a Gamay, he had the bottle out in a flash. It doesn't hurt that he's quick-witted, too. When I dithered over choosing dinner, he quipped, "We have some quiche in the back if that's what you're in the mood for."

While I didn't avail myself of it, I probably should have since I'm not sure I'll ever look at quiche the same after what I witnessed tonight. And I've been eating a lot of quiche in the past few months.

We had a front window table so I had a view of the valets as they appropriated SUVs from people with a distinctive Richmond look, or at least that's what Pru's Mom, a recent transplant back to Richmond, saw. More precisely, a lot of people had a West End look, if you know what I mean.

Our meal began with all kinds of delicacies - foie gras in truffle oil, a cheese plate complete with Tallegio and figs (so right up my alley) among other delights, and beef carpaccio with shaved Parmesan - and everyone's forks eventually making it to each plate for a sampling.

The big news at the table was about the elegant and light-filled house that's just been purchased in Church Hill, the one that'll change Pru from a long-time Fan resident to a Hill denizen. Looking at a brochure about the house, it's safe to say they found a beaut.

While Pru and her date talked about his bad habits, her Mom and I went deeper, sharing our theories on karma and paying life forward. She's a delightful woman and I can see how she could have produced my offbeat and interesting friend.

Things got very quiet at the table when our entrees arrived. Pru raved about her rockfish, but I was too busy devouring my curry chicken salad and mesclun to taste it. But I did score bites of Mom's short rib ravioli in tomato cream sauce which was decadent and meaty while the lone male in the bow tie scored highest with juicy quail.

Behind us was a Last Supper-worthy length table with over a dozen people celebrating something, making it difficult for our little four-top to hear each other except when one of them was making a toast.

When we had a moment, I heard about Pru and her Mom's upcoming trip to Europe. They came home this week to a package from the Orient Express containing luggage tags, a list of stops, a journal and other accouterments sent to upcoming passengers of the legendary train.

I wasn't the least taken aback to hear that there was a dress code (no jeans or casual attire) but I was a tad surprised that period dress was encouraged. What a fabulous way to experience Europe.

Once we got to 45 minutes until curtain, Russell was all over us like white on rice making sure that if we wanted dessert or coffee, we order it right then. I chose chocolate mousse, Pru chose Blanchard's coffee gelato from Gelati Celesti and the cute couple both wanted coffee.

Moments later Russell returned with a somber face. "Chocolate mousse has left the building," he informed me solemnly before offering me chocolate decadence gelato as his conciliatory gift for the departure of my chosen one.

"Just give her something chocolate," Pru instructed and we gobbled our gelatos before the handsome one at the table picked up the check and escorted us to the car.

Considering he was taking us to a riotously anti-male play (his choice, mind you), it was all terribly generous of him.

Tonight was closing night for "5 Lesbians Eating a Quiche" at Richmond Triangle Players and it was sold out. Milling about with the audience beforehand were cast members in pastel '50s-era dresses, Mamie Eisenhower hairdos and veiled hats.

Ushers passed out name tags (I was Ingrid) which we were expected to wear during the show as members of the Susan B. Anthony Society for the Sisters of Gertrude Stein. The play told the story of their annual quiche breakfast meeting to decide who makes the best quiche.

It wasn't long before we not only learned the group's motto, but were instructed to stand and say it in unison along with the hand motions.

No men! (think the gesture for "Stop! In the Name of Love")
No meat! (think thumbs on head, fingers wiggling like an animal)
All manners! (a lady-like curtsy)

See? I was getting the hang of this lesbian thing.

After we'd all complied, the president of the society, Lulie, points to a woman in the front row (fortunately I was in the second) named Connie for doing the "no meat!" gesture with only one hand because, "Her other hand was holding an alcoholic drink!" Shameful!

Double entendres abounded, such as when the sisters discussed what constitutes quiche. "Can you imagine putting sausage in a quiche?" Envision the hand gestures boys used to make in elementary school.

Fifties-style drama ensues when warnings go off and there's a nuclear attack, stranding them in the meeting room for the next four years. What will they do without eggs to make quiche?

The audience lost it when Ginny, the timid and over-eager to please sister, is denied access to the lone quiche and jumps on the table, crouches over it and proceeds to eat it in a way that suggested she was doing something else.

"Ooh, she's doing it right," one of the sisters moans.

Once the sisters realize what's happened and that they're stuck, they decide to come out, even entreating the audience to do the same. "Say it loud and say it proud!" The first voice from the crowd was a man's."I'm a lesbian!"

Next came a cataloging of how they knew audience members were lesbians, things such as multiple banjos. "She's definitely a lesbian because she owns stock in U-Haul!"

Considering how many same sex couples were in the room, you can imagine how many laughs all this got.

By far the funniest scene was when Dale, clad only in a '50s-era corset and stockings, makes a run to get more quiches to tide them over for the next four years.

Before the radiation outside claims her (she explodes outside a window as her fellow lesbians shriek), she and her beloved Wren have a moment putting their hands against the glass to say goodbye.

The play was a ball, campy, corny and over-the-top, although there were moments when five female voices talking/shrieking/screaming got a bit shrill.

Let's just say we laughed a lot. Walking out, I overheard a woman tell her partner, "I don't know when I've ever consistently smiled so long." She might have owned some U-Haul stock.

Not me. No men, no meat? No way.

Play What You Know

If I'd been a student, my teacher would have told me to stop horsing around.

Walking up the brick walkway to happy hour at the Anderson Gallery, I spotted tonight's musical guest - Dave Watkins -being posed for some pictures under a tree.

I could have paused to stay out of frame, could have breezed by and into the gallery, but, no, I all but ran up behind him and used my hand to stick rabbit ears behind his head.

His newly shorn head, I might add, since Dave was sporting a very attractive curly on top, high and tight on the sides summer do.

It was my first time photo-bombing, just for the record, and I'm pretty pleased with myself about it.

Saying hello to a gallerist and an artist, I was almost immediately joined by other members of the Dave Watkins fan club: neighbors from J-Ward, the photographer and his cute wife, the motorcyclist, the DJ, the one with the new state job.

Hail, hail, the gang's all here.

A friend immediately complimented my hair, asking me where I'd gotten it cut. As if. I love how much credit people give me.

When I told her it had been Hair Cuttery in August 2013, she told me she asks her husband to just lop off the end of her ponytail when she needs a trim (he won't, by the way). I guess we'll just keep growing it out then, she and I.

Once everyone in our little group had a beverage in hand, we sat outside on the brick patio catching up.

The couple who'd just returned from the Red Wing Roots music festival told a funny story of having their pirate flag stolen from the pole (which they didn't steal) beside their tent. Far more valuable stuff was ignored, but the thieves got the skull and crossbones.

My friend loved the poetry of a pirate flag having been pirated.

Because there are even more music shows this week than normal, we all compared notes to see who is going to which shows.

An artist I know from another lifetime came over and told me she had seen me running up behind Dave and how great I looked. "You never change," she said, "no matter how many years go by. I hope that means you're happy!"

I dare say I am.

When we moved inside for music, Dave proceeded to not only blow minds with his music but also put on a sound-activated light show on the walls of the gallery.

Is there nothing the man can't do?

Building up layers of musical phrases with his electric dulcitar - you know, the one he built himself just like the new haircut he gave himself - and looping them so he could produce the sound of an entire band instead of just one guy, I watched minds being blown as first-timers became part of the cult of Dave.

Me, I've been a card-carrying member of his fan club for five years now and he knows it.

When his set ended, there was major applause and extended mingling. My neighbors asked me to join them for dinner, but I had plans. Neither was surprised.

"Do you go out every night?" the husband asked. I do, I told him. I can't think of a good reason not to.

The plans that kept me from eating with them were at Richmond Triangle Players where brothers Evan and Chris Nasteff were doing a cabaret/rock show.

Plus it was going to be an interactive show so every attendee got to put two song requests in the hat (bribes were suggested). The only rule was that there could be no show tune requests because they didn't know what a show tune was until eight years ago and show tunes are difficult...or so they claimed.

Considering Evan's an actor (I'd seen him do a terrific job in "Cabaret" last month), their aversion to show tunes was unexpected.

No surprise, I ran into an actor friend and we got to talking about auditions for "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," my excitement over The Basement (the new theater space coming to my neighborhood where "Hedwig" will play) and, of all things, the Pump House in Byrd Park, which he'd heard was finally being renovated.

If the Pump House is ever redone, he thinks the preview event should be a tea dance to kick off pride week. I can't think of a better way to christen the old dance floor than having a bunch of queens break it in. Can I get an amen?

Finally taking my seat in the second row, when I was asked where I'd come from, I said happy hour.

"Are you happy?" he wanted to know. Oh, yes, I'm happy.

All of a sudden tonight's star, Evan, was onstage and demanding of the room, "Sit down!" followed by his best "Cabaret" German accent saying, "You VILL sit down!" so we did.

He and his band - brother Chris on guitar, Grant on guitar, Bobby on bass and Bentley on drums- were all in tank tops and they enthusiastically crashed into the Beatles' "I Saw Her Standing There," making for a fabulous start to the evening.

We all yelled our approval.

Partway through, Richmond icon Marjorie Lee Stewart VanderCamp (aka Maggie) took the stage before being shooed away while Chris and Grant got out their acoustic guitars and did "And I Love Her" with Bentley hand drumming, which I love the sound of.

Meanwhile, the Nasteff parents were in the front row, alternately taking pictures and looking rather proud.

Next Evan called the platinum blond Grey up (she's currently doing "Hair," which I'd also just seen) and she took the stage looking like a million bucks in pink satin pants, a black sequin top and silver platform shoes before destroying the room (or at least me) doing a slow burn of the Foundations' "Baby, Now That I Found You" with Chris on guitar.

You better believe I hooted and hollered after that one.

The next guest was the ringer. Nick, also taking  a night off from "Hair" joined Chris and Evan on Crosby, Stills and Nash's magnificently alliterative "Helplessly Hoping," complete with three part harmonies. Absolutely beautiful.

Afterwards, Evan quipped, "As you can see by the words written all over Nick's arms, that's not his last song with us." Sure enough, both arms were covered in lyrics.

Admitting that they couldn't stand John Mayer but admired his music, the band rocked through "3 x 5" and then went in a whole different direction with Chris doing R. Kelly's "Remix of Ignition" and I screamed even louder at the end.

After singing about stroking it and feeling that body, Chris looked over at the woman who had birthed him and said, eyes down, "Hi, Mom."

And what better to follow sexual pleading than with "Hey Ya," with the line, "I don't wanna meet your Mama, I just want to make you come-a"?

Sorry, Mama Nasteff.

The always energetic Matt did a couple of Green Day songs - "She" and "Pullin' Teeth"- with Marjorie, claiming they only learned them yesterday. If so, well done, you two.

Who needed show tunes when these guys were killing it with rock?

That was when we got to the request box and Evan pulled out some wiseacre's suggestion for Lindsay Buckingham pre-Fleetwood Mac.

"Are you kidding?" Evan said, tossing it aside. "I'm going to take your dollar anyway."

The next request was for "Genie in a Bottle," followed by a another for the same song. Who are you people?

Only problem was Evan didn't have his phone so he couldn't look up the chords. Aw, too bad.

"Yea, we thought this through," Chris deadpanned at the mic for the third time tonight, his go-to announcement every time things got chaotic onstage.

They decided the smart thing to do was break for intermission, let everyone get drinks, they'd find the chords and start the second act with "Genie."

After a mad rush for the bar (with Will Smith playing on the sound system) and a friend saying to me, "This is crazier than the Ghostlight after party," which is really saying something because that's always a pretty silly evening, the audience mostly took their drinks to their seats so the Nasteffs could carry on.

Because that's what they'd come to do and, by gum, they were going to do it.

Evan sang lead on "Genie," while Marjorie did the best interpretive dance and backing vocals and the band members just cracked up the entire time.

When you think about it, that's actually an appropriate reaction to that silly song.

Midway through the Killers' "When You Were Young," Evan flashed Chris a smile and said, "See, I did learn that last chord." Apparently brotherly one-upmanship never dies.

Nick returned, studying his lyric-filled arm during the intro to "My Sharona," before belting it out which got lots of audience squeals, but then they went into OK Go's "Here We Go Again" sung by Evan, before reverting to "Sharona."

Ye gads, a medley!

Walking offstage, someone called to Nick asking, "Who's Sharona?" and he yelled, "Mine!"

Chris did "Life in the Slaw Lane," an acoustic ode to fruits and vegetables that had the crowd cracking up with every line of wordplay ("Her name was Peaches, a soiled but radishing beauty with huge gourds"), laughing himself at points.

Naturally they had to follow that with something crazy like Tenacious D, resulting in Papa Nasteff calling out from the first row, "Play something you know!"

No matter how old you get, they still think they're the boss of you. Pipe down, Daddio.

"We're gonna do a Dire Straits song as re-imagined by the Killers because we're not old as shit," Evan said before trading off vocals with Chris on "Romeo and Juliet," a song I admit I hadn't heard before and I am old as shit, despite what artists might tell me.

Nick and Majorie returned ("Yes, Nick, it's that arm!"), ready to regale us with a song from "School of Rock" while having a dance-off with each other. "Teacher's Pet" was definitely the song where the band rocked out hardest.

"Rock and roll!" someone shouted as they finished. That's what we'd come for.

"We're gonna play our encore as our last song and then do one request," Evan said before "Hey, Jude" and the whole audience joining in for the "na, na, na" chorus, a true kumbaya moment.

Because I've been to the Ghostlight after party plenty, I more or less was certain that "Hit Me, Baby, One More Time" would be the big finale (Evan always closes the show doing it) and I wasn't disappointed.

With the band cracking up, the crowd singing along, tonight's cabaret/rock show ended on the happiest of notes.

The brothers who have always wanted to do a show together can now scratch that off their bucket list after a well-executed performance.

I'm pretty sure they were having as good a time as we were.

Some things you don't have to think through.

Not That There's Anything Wrong with That

Unconventional space, young company, new playwright. Totally worked.

TheaterLab, the upstart ensemble dedicated to cultivating new talent, has brought another fresh play to town, this time for its east coast premiere.

I fumbled my way to Plant Zero's RVA event space (I'm getting marginally better at navigating Manchester with each foray there) to take in "See Jane Quit," a play about a young restaurant worker determined to finally quit smoking.

Because well know that restaurant workers who don't smoke are few and far between.

Waiting in a long line to pick up my ticket, I saw lots of familiar faces, not necessarily of people I knew, but of faces I knew from seeing theater productions.

It turned out it was "industry night" so lots of actors were there on their night off.

Let's see, I saw one from "Race," which I'd seen Saturday and a couple others from "It's a Fabulous Life," which I'd seen Thursday and another from "Wild Party," but also grade A boring non-actors types like me.

The artistic director was working the waiting group like it was a receiving line at a wedding, hugging and kissing left and right.

I'd been inside the space before - for the Italian film fest, to see Hotel X, to hear Ian MacKaye- but tonight it had been configured with the set in the middle of the room and rows of chairs on two sides.

Maggie Bavolack, who'd been so impressive in "Riding the Bull," played Jane with all the piss and vinegar of a 29-year old who lives with her cantankerous, deaf, southern grandmother ("That's because your generation places no value on language!") and works endless double shifts.

Her brother (played by the reliably good Adam Mincks), friend/sister-in-law (Louise Mason, whom I remembered as a fine Helena in "Midsummer"), grandmother (Linda Beringer playing Bessie, my grandmother's name) and even love interest (awkwardly funny Chandler Hubbard) are all eager to do whatever it takes to avoid stressing Jane so she won't reach for cigarettes.

Seems it takes a team to quit.

So major secrets are kept from Jane, but not the audience, as we learn that practically all of them are undergoing some major life change.

The dialog was fast and funny and by intermission even Jane had revealed a major secret.

It was hysterical how, once the first act ended, half the audience bolted for the cold environs of the building to have the cigarette Jane had been denying herself.

When the group behind me got up to go smoke, one asked another if she could have a sip of his soda before they went out. No, he said, he was very sick.

On returning reeking of smoke, the sick one was lecturing the others about his need to inhale.

"You know, they say never try quitting while you're sick because it makes you sick just to quit."

Smoker logic of the highest order.

The second act picked up six months later when everyone is dealing with the outcomes of their secrets.

By then everyone has figured out that life seldom works out the way you plan for it to. True story, kids.

TheaterLab may be young, but they're wise beyond their years.

We're a better theater town for having them raising up a new crop of theater artists...but Grandma was wrong. Their generation clearly does place value on language.

As Bessie would say, praise the lord (and pass the biscuits).

Sublime and Surreal

Saturday is the new Monday.

Or at least is is for those of us who had a raucous week and were finally ready to take it easy tonight.

For us, there was a dinner and a show with my best date gal.

I was craving some Restaurant of the Year action, so we drove east to Aziza's, arriving early enough to be the first customers of the evening.

Prudence went straight for the Vinho Verde while I went with something even less alcoholic. Agua.

Our arrival had apparently signaled the masses, as two tables followed us in shortly after, and we kicked back listening to Sirius' "Coffeehouse" station.

On a mock-Monday, acoustic music is just the ticket.

Despite Pru's objections to octopus, we started with fruiti de mare panzanella because if there's any  good time of the year for panzanella, this is it.

Chef Philip's was so much more than stale bread and tomatoes, though, with shrimp, mussels, feta, cucumbers, olives, mint, basil and anchovies besides two beautifully tender tentacles.

Our lovely server joined me in trying to coax Pru to eat something she was sure she hated, telling her that this would be incredibly tender octopus, like none she had ever tasted.

Midway through our panzanella, she reluctantly agreed to try a bite, even admitting it was far better than she'd expected.

From there we moved on to sharing an entree with a lamb kefta kebab and a marinated ribeye kebab with tatziki and house-baked pita.

The ribeye was perfectly rare and tender while the lamb sausage seduced with its vibrant spices.

Getting our meat fix led to a discussion with our server about our mutual need for meat and how we are happy to order it out when we can afford it.

"And not that petit fillet, either," she laughed. "I want a full eight ounces."

She admitted that on dates, she'll only eat part of her steak and bring the rest home so as to appear more ladylike.

I assured her she'd grow out of that nonsense.

For our final course, we had, wait for it, foie gras carpaccio with sliced brown turkey figs, rose hips and watermelon and cantaloupe balls.

Words can't describe this new-to-the-menu dish, but I'll try.

Obscene. Sex on a plate.

Sliced thinly, the rich, creamy slices of foie gras combined with the deep fig flavor and the delicate tang of the rose hips was exquisite.

The melon balls brought in another level of sweetness, but the overall effect was best summed up by Pru.

"That goose happily gave up his liver for this dish."

All I can say is tonight may have been the first night for Aziza's foie gras carpaccio, but please god, don't let it be the last.

The sublime combination of buttery and sweet made for an ideal last course, and that's saying a lot at a place that has the best cream puff around on the menu.

After sopping the plate clean with bread, we raved to our sever about our satisfaction with the dish, which led to a discussion of sex.

She was concerned that her sex drive seemed to escalate with age and wanted input from a couple of older women.

Conveniently, we had the experience to help her out.

"Wow, I'm so glad to hear that!" she said. "I thought there was something wrong with me."

Nothing that the right guy can't take care of, my dear.

She suggested we all needed to have dinner sometime to discuss the matter further.

Sex talk while eating? Glad to oblige.

Can we eat here, where the food is as good as the topic of conversation?

By then it was time to take our stuffed bellies and overactive libidos to the theater.

It was my first time at Dogtown Dance Theater in Manchester and I have to say it's a great space, high-ceilinged with comfortable chairs, so I hope to be back.

Playing tonight was TheaterLab's production of "Exquisite Corpse, a Devised Piece."

The name comes for a parlor game played by the surrealists where one person begins a drawing, poem or story and passes it on to the next guest, who does another part before passing it on.

We've all played that game where you add on fanciful tails and heads to an unseen creature, only to see the result once everyone's had a go at it.

Tonight's theater piece was a little like that in that it was collaborative (all the actors had contributed to the ideas and dialog) and didn't follow a linear path.

It began with humor, a skit about first year medical students witnessing a mock operation and morphed into a dance piece.

At times a group of actors would be lined up in chairs onstage, alternately spouting out confessions.

"I'm no magician, but I've had my fair share of being in a trunk," said the guy who claimed to masturbate in a trunk's confines.

A scene with  two people alternately telling a third, "I love you," segued then into the central person telling the other two alternately, "I love you," until his words were unintelligible as his head snapped side to side.

Music served the devised piece well (like Sinatra's "That's Life"), as did humor (a couple rush at each other to kiss, only to stop, putting on a sterile mask and gown before kissing) and even nudity.

One especially surrealistic scene involved three people and an operating table littered with gummy bears that they alternately gorged on and attacked each other.

There was plenty of commentary on contemporary life, like when the group came out into the spotlight, bouncing and shouting under the light and moving with the light to stay in the spotlight.

When the spotlight moved to the audience, they approached us, looking at us like animals in cages worthy of observation.

One particularly confessional scene had the group lying on the floor calling out their fears.

"I'm afraid of dying alone."

"I'm not afraid of getting older, just having an unfulfilled life."

"I'm afraid if people really knew me, they wouldn't like me."

Because the cast was very young, some of their fears were the kind that will dissipate with time and life experience, not that they know that now.

Others were universal.

What mattered was the truthfulness of the performance, which came out in every line of dialog, every improvised scene, every concern voiced.

It was theater that didn't give you the option of sitting back and being spoon-fed.

Whether confusing you, making you sad, reminding you of an old hurt or amusing you, the audience had to think. And feel.

That's a damn fine way to spend a Saturday or Monday night.