Man, the women killed it tonight.
I'd invited Mac to join me for a 1.8 mile progressive walk with multiple stops, both cultural and edible, and, trooper that she is (and despite having been up since daybreak), she signed on.
Our first stop was the VCU Depot where artist Hope Ginsberg was holding a preview of her new work, "Swirling." Walking in, I ran into an artist who hugged me and thanked me for the piece I'd written about her recent exhibit. When I pointed out that it had been a show worth calling attention to, she'd agreed, suggesting that was mostly because of its universal theme: f*cking.
Hard to argue with fact.
Further in, I spotted musician Josh Quarles, who's also Hope's husband and partner in art-making, and said hello. "It's been a while," he answered, echoing something I've been hearing from old friends for a while now.
But then again, I'm only one woman and I've only got so much time.
Mac and I made our way through the gabbing artsy crowd to the partitioned off room where Hope's video was showing on three walls of the room. Ultimately, it'll be presented on three two-sided screens arranged in a triangle formation that will allow viewers to "swirl," that is, move around them freely, to see the different videos about underwater coral farming, reef restoration and possible outcomes.
The only way to describe looking at the scuba divers in coral nurseries in St. Croix is fascinating (I can't be the only one who had no idea that such a thing went on), albeit thought-provoking because of the United Nations report predicting massive die-offs of coral reefs by 2040.
My point? If you're still using sunscreen with Oxybenzone or Octinoxate, you're part of the problem. End of story.
Watching the scenes unfold on the walls was accompanied by the sound of many voices having conversations at the preview reception just outside the cordoned-off space, but other than that, it was a compelling piece of art that raised some important question about ecological priorities.
After stopping to chat with Hope about her art and our repeated yet thwarted attempts at taking a walk together, Mac and I headed to Soul Taco for dinner because I was overdue to check out the new spot on Second Street. The way I see it, J-Ward could use more casual places to eat.
Soul Taco was small but happening, with a wall of colorful art, music loud enough to feel like you were someplace fun and a uniquely soulful menu of Mexican staples. I decided on cornmeal-crusted catfish tacos (crispy, with tomatillo and corn salsa) and low country shrimp tacos (Old Bay lending its distinctive flavor to the sauteed shrimp and the crema), while Mac went with pulled pork carnitas and Mississippi pot roast taquitos.
Housemade limeade washed it all down as we sat on stools in the front window wishing for a time when all the unoccupied storefronts across the street have eateries in them.
Since neither of us had counted on Soul Taco having desserts, we had a Plan B: to score a giant piece of cake at Mama J's Kitchen. In what can only be considered a personal tragedy, we arrived to find the cake rack empty. Empty. Years of going to Mama J's and neither of us had ever been faced with empty cake racks.
Sitting pitifully on the end of the bar were a half dozen individually boxed slices of pineapple coconut cake, the only remnants of the day's original cake offerings. It wasn't what we were in the mood for.
Rather than accept defeat, we moseyed over to Lucy's, only to find that the flourless chocolate cake we were counting on is no longer on the menu. But Mac and I aren't quitters, so we made do. She couldn't resist their fried oysters and once they were disptached, we shared a housemade ice cream sandwich of dark chocolate cookies with vanilla ice cream (all the while wishing it were mint chocolate chip).
All I can say is, it shouldn't be that hard for two chocolate-loving women to score some dessert in the Ward.
Only then, once our savory and sweet needs were met, were we ready to walk over to the Basement for opening night of the Women's Theatre Festival, featuring four different one act, one actor plays performed by women and directed by women. Tonight's offering was "Pretty Fire," a production of 5th Wall Theatre starring Haliya Roberts and directed by Carl Piersol.
Beautifully acted by Roberts and skillfully directed by Piersol using only a red bench as a prop, the story of a young black girl born prematurely, exposed to racist name-calling in the north and the Klan (the pretty fire of the title was when the girl saw a cross being burnt by the KKK) in the south, ends with the young girl getting her first taste of stardom as a soloist in the children's choir at church.
Playing all the parts - mother, father, sister, grandfather, grandmother, mean kid, choir director - Roberts was a marvel to behold. Whether singing Aretha's "Respect," being taught her ABCs by her father or being terrorized by a bully, she created believable voices and mannerisms for them all.
From her fearless Grandma, she learned never to let anybody have the last word if you know you're right. From her mother, she learned the components of the "breakfast of life:" grits with butter, scrambled eggs with onions and sometimes hamburger and homemade biscuits.
Talk about life-affirming. Who couldn't conquer the world after that breakfast?
When the play ended, Mac and I looked at each other in awe. No question, the play had been a masterful choice and Roberts had nailed every nuance of it. So. Much. Talent. Then she turned to the woman next to her to say as much, only to have the woman share that Roberts is her daughter.
When I asked when they'd known how incredibly talented she was, her mom said they knew by age two that she had something special. Truly, what we saw tonight won't soon be forgotten.
And that, I'm here to tell you, is how you kick off Richmond's first women's theatre festival. Leave it to the XX.
All I can say is, let the estrogen flow, but let's make sure there's chocolate available nearby. It is the food of life.
Showing posts with label the basement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the basement. Show all posts
Thursday, March 28, 2019
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Talk to Me
If I was going to jump back in, it might as well be whole hog.
The first thing that meant was dinner at a new place in Scott's Addition, namely Perch, because Mac had gotten a gift certificate for her birthday and wanted to share her good fortune. The funny part is, it was the women at her job who'd given it to her because they know she's an adventurous eater and they're not.
As in, they wanted to all take her out for dinner but she had so many celebrations going on that it couldn't be worked out, so instead they gave her a card for a restaurant none of them wanted to eat at anyway.
I call that a win/win.
Perch is located in the former Joy Garden space and while I'd only been there once (maybe 5 or 6 years ago), my memories of it were of a dark, divided up room and not that it was the rare Richmond restaurant with a parking lot. The new interior pays homage to the Joy Garden roots in a stylish way with all sight lines leading to the gorgeous green wood-fired oven in the back.
We dove right in, Mac with a Rust and Stardust cocktail (Woodford reserve bourbon, tamarind, vanilla, lemon and bitters, with an egg white froth) that was to die for, which is saying a lot coming from a non-bourbon fan. Having just come off a vacation involving enough wine and rum to choke a horse, I abstained with a mocktail involving guava and pineapple, among other things, called the Sound.
That it arrived in a glass resembling a carved coconut head was pure gravy.
The first thing to dazzle us post-drinks was arroz caldo, a thick soup of rice, huge pieces of shredded chicken, preserved lemon, garlic, chicken skin and egg. And while you might presume that the chicken skin was the star, it was actually the soy-marinated hard-cooked egg that had me moaning and Mac copping to a sudden love of eggs (she usually avoids them).
Every bit as stellar and with the chef's Filipino heritage on full display was pork lumpia, fried springroll-like cigars stuffed with local spiced pork and fried so lightly that I could almost forget that I shouldn't be eating them.
I always appreciate a place that sells oysters individually (even if they are overpriced that way) and Mac and I are oyster hounds, so we had to check out the offerings. Our bartender told us that the bivalves from Tom's Cove -coincidentally where he often went camping as a child - were less salty than the Ruby Salts, which was all I wanted to taste, but Mac insisted we needed to try both and who am I to argue when she's treating me?
Verdict: Ruby Salts took the prize, no surprise.
On a 34 degree night, shrimp bouillabaisse with parsnips, carrots, leeks and bread sounded like a warm dream come true. That it took the server multiple tries to figure out how to pour the broth from the little pitcher over the bowl of seafood and vegetables was more amusing than anything else.
To our surprise, it arrived with not just shrimp, but scallops and mussels too, a nice bonus but more bread would have been even better. I ask you, what's a good broth without sufficient sopping vehicles?
We had just enough time for a flourless chocolate torte with orange sorbet, a combo that's not one of Mac's favorites, but fortunately the two flavors were in separate dishes, so she didn't have to suffer the citrus/chocolate co-mingling that so offends her.
Meanwhile, we discovered on separate trips to the bathroom that they were frigid due to ongoing insulation problems and a sign on each stall informs the customer that their contractor is "working to correct the situation."
In the meantime, that's some mighty cold porcelain under a girl's tush.
We left giving a thumbs up to the industrial but softened interior, high marks to the soup and lumpia and passing grades to the bouillabaisse and dessert. The Ruby Salts worked for us but the Tom's Coves left us unmoved, so we'll call that a draw.
The second thing jumping back in whole hog meant was seeing "Talk Radio" at the Basement, a play about a character named Barry Champlain, an '80s shock jock a la Howard Stern. You know, the kind of on-air personality who will tell a handicapped caller, "Gotta run! I know you can't, but we can!" and hangs up on the guy.
For that matter, he hangs up on just about everybody, just for different reasons: they're boring, they're whining, they're missing the point. Fair enough.
His engineer wears an '80s-style sweater worthy of Bill Cosby, his producer wears a red silk blouse and flat gold necklace I can vouch for as being entirely era-appropriate and there's a never ending supply of tequila at the station.
As someone who worked in radio for a few years, albeit in the '90s, I can assure you that tequila is a mainstay, both in the general manager's office and in the sales manager's office.
A play with a central character who sits at a desk talking into a microphone the entire time has to rely on his facial gestures, eye direction and subtle head and hand movements to convey any sense of action, all of which the masterful Scott Wichmann as Barry did to keep things compelling.
And just to prove that shock jocks weren't animals, he manages to reference William Blake and Richard Speck, expecting his listeners to follow along and get every rapid-fire comment, no matter how pointed or downright rude.
For me, it was full immersion back into my regular life via a new restaurant and a solid play that brought to mind the kind of DJ birthed from the '80s.
When I lived in D.C., my husband managed a video store directly under DC 101 and Howard Stern used to call regularly to ask about XXX-rated movie titles or make crude jokes about porn stars, so I remember when people were transfixed by these new radio voices that sought to offend.
Maybe that was the beginning of the end of civility. Or maybe we didn't know how good we had it then compared to the daily depths of human discourse which have now become the new norm.
In either case, my brain seems to be engaged again, my palate teased by new dishes in a recently-opened restaurant. Mac keeps reminding me that I had my warm time and now I have to get used to winter again.
Life is returning to normal. Icy toilets aside, I can do this.
The first thing that meant was dinner at a new place in Scott's Addition, namely Perch, because Mac had gotten a gift certificate for her birthday and wanted to share her good fortune. The funny part is, it was the women at her job who'd given it to her because they know she's an adventurous eater and they're not.
As in, they wanted to all take her out for dinner but she had so many celebrations going on that it couldn't be worked out, so instead they gave her a card for a restaurant none of them wanted to eat at anyway.
I call that a win/win.
Perch is located in the former Joy Garden space and while I'd only been there once (maybe 5 or 6 years ago), my memories of it were of a dark, divided up room and not that it was the rare Richmond restaurant with a parking lot. The new interior pays homage to the Joy Garden roots in a stylish way with all sight lines leading to the gorgeous green wood-fired oven in the back.
We dove right in, Mac with a Rust and Stardust cocktail (Woodford reserve bourbon, tamarind, vanilla, lemon and bitters, with an egg white froth) that was to die for, which is saying a lot coming from a non-bourbon fan. Having just come off a vacation involving enough wine and rum to choke a horse, I abstained with a mocktail involving guava and pineapple, among other things, called the Sound.
That it arrived in a glass resembling a carved coconut head was pure gravy.
The first thing to dazzle us post-drinks was arroz caldo, a thick soup of rice, huge pieces of shredded chicken, preserved lemon, garlic, chicken skin and egg. And while you might presume that the chicken skin was the star, it was actually the soy-marinated hard-cooked egg that had me moaning and Mac copping to a sudden love of eggs (she usually avoids them).
Every bit as stellar and with the chef's Filipino heritage on full display was pork lumpia, fried springroll-like cigars stuffed with local spiced pork and fried so lightly that I could almost forget that I shouldn't be eating them.
I always appreciate a place that sells oysters individually (even if they are overpriced that way) and Mac and I are oyster hounds, so we had to check out the offerings. Our bartender told us that the bivalves from Tom's Cove -coincidentally where he often went camping as a child - were less salty than the Ruby Salts, which was all I wanted to taste, but Mac insisted we needed to try both and who am I to argue when she's treating me?
Verdict: Ruby Salts took the prize, no surprise.
On a 34 degree night, shrimp bouillabaisse with parsnips, carrots, leeks and bread sounded like a warm dream come true. That it took the server multiple tries to figure out how to pour the broth from the little pitcher over the bowl of seafood and vegetables was more amusing than anything else.
To our surprise, it arrived with not just shrimp, but scallops and mussels too, a nice bonus but more bread would have been even better. I ask you, what's a good broth without sufficient sopping vehicles?
We had just enough time for a flourless chocolate torte with orange sorbet, a combo that's not one of Mac's favorites, but fortunately the two flavors were in separate dishes, so she didn't have to suffer the citrus/chocolate co-mingling that so offends her.
Meanwhile, we discovered on separate trips to the bathroom that they were frigid due to ongoing insulation problems and a sign on each stall informs the customer that their contractor is "working to correct the situation."
In the meantime, that's some mighty cold porcelain under a girl's tush.
We left giving a thumbs up to the industrial but softened interior, high marks to the soup and lumpia and passing grades to the bouillabaisse and dessert. The Ruby Salts worked for us but the Tom's Coves left us unmoved, so we'll call that a draw.
The second thing jumping back in whole hog meant was seeing "Talk Radio" at the Basement, a play about a character named Barry Champlain, an '80s shock jock a la Howard Stern. You know, the kind of on-air personality who will tell a handicapped caller, "Gotta run! I know you can't, but we can!" and hangs up on the guy.
For that matter, he hangs up on just about everybody, just for different reasons: they're boring, they're whining, they're missing the point. Fair enough.
His engineer wears an '80s-style sweater worthy of Bill Cosby, his producer wears a red silk blouse and flat gold necklace I can vouch for as being entirely era-appropriate and there's a never ending supply of tequila at the station.
As someone who worked in radio for a few years, albeit in the '90s, I can assure you that tequila is a mainstay, both in the general manager's office and in the sales manager's office.
A play with a central character who sits at a desk talking into a microphone the entire time has to rely on his facial gestures, eye direction and subtle head and hand movements to convey any sense of action, all of which the masterful Scott Wichmann as Barry did to keep things compelling.
And just to prove that shock jocks weren't animals, he manages to reference William Blake and Richard Speck, expecting his listeners to follow along and get every rapid-fire comment, no matter how pointed or downright rude.
For me, it was full immersion back into my regular life via a new restaurant and a solid play that brought to mind the kind of DJ birthed from the '80s.
When I lived in D.C., my husband managed a video store directly under DC 101 and Howard Stern used to call regularly to ask about XXX-rated movie titles or make crude jokes about porn stars, so I remember when people were transfixed by these new radio voices that sought to offend.
Maybe that was the beginning of the end of civility. Or maybe we didn't know how good we had it then compared to the daily depths of human discourse which have now become the new norm.
In either case, my brain seems to be engaged again, my palate teased by new dishes in a recently-opened restaurant. Mac keeps reminding me that I had my warm time and now I have to get used to winter again.
Life is returning to normal. Icy toilets aside, I can do this.
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
In Daylights, In Midnights
When a David Byrne song starts feeling holiday-like, it's probably time to step away from the gift wrap and cookie sheets.
Cruising along Route 360 this morning with the sky a pale blue, the odd angle of the December sunlight in my eyes and the unnatural warmth of the car baking my brain, I unexpectedly heard holiday thankfulness in the music.
Everyday is a miracle
Every day is an unpaid bill
You've got to sing for your super
Love one another
The mind is a soft-boiled potato
A jewel in a chocolate shell
I staple my love to your heart, dear
With memories and beautiful smells
You can kind of hear it, right?
It was my final pre-Christmas visit to help Mom and Dad prepare for the onslaught of family that will descend like locusts on the Northern Neck over the next ten days, a whirlwind of wrapping presents, baking cookies and deleting photographs (don't ask) for them.
During a brief break, I showed them the SNL cold open from Saturday, the one where the cast redid "It's a Wonderful Life" into "It's a Wonderful Trump," showing that idiot what the world would have been like if he'd never been put in office by the Russians.
My uber-liberal parents loved it, though I suspect it may have been their first episode of SNL. At least they got all the political humor.
By noon, I had eaten my weight in raw eggs.
That's because I can't resist nibbling on cookie dough and today I made something like ten dozen cookies, so there was a lot of dough around. Mom and I mocked the recipe warning not to eat raw dough (because of the eggs), given that we've been doing so our entire lives and aren't likely to stop any time soon, no matter how much the medical science community tries to scare us.
As Hall and Oates once said, you've got to know that old habits die hard.
Frankly, as solidly as my days have been packed lately, I could justify dough-eating as fuel for the duration. Even for heathens like me, holiday season is a marathon, not a sprint.
It already seems like eons ago that Mr. Wright and I slipped over to the VMFA to see "Congo Masks: Masterpieces from Central Africa," but I think it might have been just last Friday. With the snowball that is my life rolling steadily downhill and getting bigger all the time, I thought it only prudent to get over there while I had a free moment.
The masks were a unique kind of artifact, but for me, it was the film of Congolese people wearing them and dancing in them that provided the best insight into why masks are so central to aspects of the culture. The films were also a fascinating timeline, since the ones from the '50s showed everyone in native dress, while the 1990 footage showed that Western clothing had reached the Congo.
I'm sorry, but it's disconcerting to see a man in a wooden mask with raffia hair wearing cargo shorts. Is there no point too remote on earth for these baggy bloomers to appear and degenerate native dress? Asking for a friend.
Most surprising was learning that masks are still being created and several newer ones are included in the show. There's one of Jesus from the second quarter of the 20th century and another of Elvis from the third quarter of the 20th century.
As to how either one wards off evil spirits, well, the signage wasn't specific about that.
Also unexpected was a gallery full of musical instruments, the kind used to create the sounds that men in masks danced to. Favorite? The wooden trapezoid slit drum which could produce a half dozen tones because of the varying thickness of its sides.
Almost as long ago was a cozy dinner at Max's, tucked away at the far end of the long bar behind the enormous coffee machine, where we were out of view of absolutely everyone else in the place. Even the bartender had trouble even seeing us to pour Blanc de Blanc or serve us dinner, but the allure of being out of sight was too good to pass up.
Equally as good was an entree that could have been the poster child for vegetarian comfort food: grilled asparagus with sauteed mushrooms and Brussels sprouts leaves over pommes aligot, aka obscene cheesy mashed potatoes.
And before you go thinking we've become some kind of healthy vegetarians, know that two courses had meat and one had chocolate, so we still have our heads about us.
By 11 we were walking over to the Ghost Light After Party at the Basement, the latest incarnation of a piano bar in J-Ward. We found a table with a view, scored glasses of Rose and watched as local theater types took turns singing whatever the hell they wanted to, even when that included "My Heart Will Go On."
As I told the evening's host when he came over to chat, Mr. Wright had scored major points early on in our acquaintance when he'd copped to a love of show tunes while straight.
Let's just say he looked positively beatific when "Seasons of Love" began, but that's always a show-stopper because everyone in the theater community apparently knows every word, so it's inevitably a group singalong.
525,600 minutes
525,600 moments so dear
525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunset?
In midnights? In cups of coffee?
In inches, in miles?
In laughter, in strife?
In 525,600 minutes,
How do you measure a year in a life?
Well, if you're asking Mr. Wright, he would say it's measured in something to do, someone to love and something to look forward to. He's not wrong, either.
We didn't intend to stay until last call, but the songs kept coming - I'm not sure there's ever been a GLAP where "A Whole New World" isn't sung - and it was too much fun to tear ourselves away, so we got more Rose and stayed the course, walking home at 2 a.m. through deserted J-Ward streets.
Sunday, we started at the Byrd for that perennial mash-up of love stories, "Love Actually," which I've been informed is now actually considered a Christmas movie. Whether of not that's a fact is still up for grabs, but why wouldn't I want to see a romantic comedy with Alan Rickman, Liam Neeson and Bill Nighy?
That's some pretty appealing man meat right there, and of multiple varieties, too.
Afterwards, just to prove our range, we wound up in the front row at Gallery 5 for Silent Music Revival's holiday screening of director Jean Renoir's surrealistic 1928 film, "The Little Matchgirl." Spoiler alert: all her matches can't keep her warm and she freezes to death.
That Hans Christian Anderson was dark, I'm telling you.
Disco punk band Toxic Moxie provided an improvised soundtrack that I would put up against any SMR soundtrack I've heard and I've been going to the event practically since it began 11 years ago. Their ability to react aurally to what was happening visually onscreen was spot on and evocative in that way that synths are so good at conveying sadness.
The only problem with being non-stop busy all weekend was that Monday arrived with a to-do list for the week that encompasses all the holiday prep I've been doing for Mom but needed to do for myself plus six interviews, seven deadlines and the need to get my hired mouth to a new place multiple times, all by New Year's Eve.
And don't even get me started on the travel prep that jumps into high gear once the work obligations have been met.
Sign seen on an insurance office sign in Tappahannock this morning: "Say yes to new adventures."
Don't mind if I do. This heathen is ready to dive into the holidays solely so she can come out on the other side and get back to real life.
It may mean a lot less raw egg, but a whole lot more to look forward to. Just one question, though. How did those 525,600 minutes pass so quickly this year?
Ah, yes, the biggest adventure of them all. Talk about your whole new world...
Cruising along Route 360 this morning with the sky a pale blue, the odd angle of the December sunlight in my eyes and the unnatural warmth of the car baking my brain, I unexpectedly heard holiday thankfulness in the music.
Everyday is a miracle
Every day is an unpaid bill
You've got to sing for your super
Love one another
The mind is a soft-boiled potato
A jewel in a chocolate shell
I staple my love to your heart, dear
With memories and beautiful smells
You can kind of hear it, right?
It was my final pre-Christmas visit to help Mom and Dad prepare for the onslaught of family that will descend like locusts on the Northern Neck over the next ten days, a whirlwind of wrapping presents, baking cookies and deleting photographs (don't ask) for them.
During a brief break, I showed them the SNL cold open from Saturday, the one where the cast redid "It's a Wonderful Life" into "It's a Wonderful Trump," showing that idiot what the world would have been like if he'd never been put in office by the Russians.
My uber-liberal parents loved it, though I suspect it may have been their first episode of SNL. At least they got all the political humor.
By noon, I had eaten my weight in raw eggs.
That's because I can't resist nibbling on cookie dough and today I made something like ten dozen cookies, so there was a lot of dough around. Mom and I mocked the recipe warning not to eat raw dough (because of the eggs), given that we've been doing so our entire lives and aren't likely to stop any time soon, no matter how much the medical science community tries to scare us.
As Hall and Oates once said, you've got to know that old habits die hard.
Frankly, as solidly as my days have been packed lately, I could justify dough-eating as fuel for the duration. Even for heathens like me, holiday season is a marathon, not a sprint.
It already seems like eons ago that Mr. Wright and I slipped over to the VMFA to see "Congo Masks: Masterpieces from Central Africa," but I think it might have been just last Friday. With the snowball that is my life rolling steadily downhill and getting bigger all the time, I thought it only prudent to get over there while I had a free moment.
The masks were a unique kind of artifact, but for me, it was the film of Congolese people wearing them and dancing in them that provided the best insight into why masks are so central to aspects of the culture. The films were also a fascinating timeline, since the ones from the '50s showed everyone in native dress, while the 1990 footage showed that Western clothing had reached the Congo.
I'm sorry, but it's disconcerting to see a man in a wooden mask with raffia hair wearing cargo shorts. Is there no point too remote on earth for these baggy bloomers to appear and degenerate native dress? Asking for a friend.
Most surprising was learning that masks are still being created and several newer ones are included in the show. There's one of Jesus from the second quarter of the 20th century and another of Elvis from the third quarter of the 20th century.
As to how either one wards off evil spirits, well, the signage wasn't specific about that.
Also unexpected was a gallery full of musical instruments, the kind used to create the sounds that men in masks danced to. Favorite? The wooden trapezoid slit drum which could produce a half dozen tones because of the varying thickness of its sides.
Almost as long ago was a cozy dinner at Max's, tucked away at the far end of the long bar behind the enormous coffee machine, where we were out of view of absolutely everyone else in the place. Even the bartender had trouble even seeing us to pour Blanc de Blanc or serve us dinner, but the allure of being out of sight was too good to pass up.
Equally as good was an entree that could have been the poster child for vegetarian comfort food: grilled asparagus with sauteed mushrooms and Brussels sprouts leaves over pommes aligot, aka obscene cheesy mashed potatoes.
And before you go thinking we've become some kind of healthy vegetarians, know that two courses had meat and one had chocolate, so we still have our heads about us.
By 11 we were walking over to the Ghost Light After Party at the Basement, the latest incarnation of a piano bar in J-Ward. We found a table with a view, scored glasses of Rose and watched as local theater types took turns singing whatever the hell they wanted to, even when that included "My Heart Will Go On."
As I told the evening's host when he came over to chat, Mr. Wright had scored major points early on in our acquaintance when he'd copped to a love of show tunes while straight.
Let's just say he looked positively beatific when "Seasons of Love" began, but that's always a show-stopper because everyone in the theater community apparently knows every word, so it's inevitably a group singalong.
525,600 minutes
525,600 moments so dear
525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunset?
In midnights? In cups of coffee?
In inches, in miles?
In laughter, in strife?
In 525,600 minutes,
How do you measure a year in a life?
Well, if you're asking Mr. Wright, he would say it's measured in something to do, someone to love and something to look forward to. He's not wrong, either.
We didn't intend to stay until last call, but the songs kept coming - I'm not sure there's ever been a GLAP where "A Whole New World" isn't sung - and it was too much fun to tear ourselves away, so we got more Rose and stayed the course, walking home at 2 a.m. through deserted J-Ward streets.
Sunday, we started at the Byrd for that perennial mash-up of love stories, "Love Actually," which I've been informed is now actually considered a Christmas movie. Whether of not that's a fact is still up for grabs, but why wouldn't I want to see a romantic comedy with Alan Rickman, Liam Neeson and Bill Nighy?
That's some pretty appealing man meat right there, and of multiple varieties, too.
Afterwards, just to prove our range, we wound up in the front row at Gallery 5 for Silent Music Revival's holiday screening of director Jean Renoir's surrealistic 1928 film, "The Little Matchgirl." Spoiler alert: all her matches can't keep her warm and she freezes to death.
That Hans Christian Anderson was dark, I'm telling you.
Disco punk band Toxic Moxie provided an improvised soundtrack that I would put up against any SMR soundtrack I've heard and I've been going to the event practically since it began 11 years ago. Their ability to react aurally to what was happening visually onscreen was spot on and evocative in that way that synths are so good at conveying sadness.
The only problem with being non-stop busy all weekend was that Monday arrived with a to-do list for the week that encompasses all the holiday prep I've been doing for Mom but needed to do for myself plus six interviews, seven deadlines and the need to get my hired mouth to a new place multiple times, all by New Year's Eve.
And don't even get me started on the travel prep that jumps into high gear once the work obligations have been met.
Sign seen on an insurance office sign in Tappahannock this morning: "Say yes to new adventures."
Don't mind if I do. This heathen is ready to dive into the holidays solely so she can come out on the other side and get back to real life.
It may mean a lot less raw egg, but a whole lot more to look forward to. Just one question, though. How did those 525,600 minutes pass so quickly this year?
Ah, yes, the biggest adventure of them all. Talk about your whole new world...
Friday, December 14, 2018
My Kingdom for Someone to Ride With
Some Christmas presents come early and arrive in the form of words.
A: I learned from your blog that X and Y had broken up. You are my conduit to the Richmond social, food and art scene. Thank you.
K: It pleases me no end that you still catch up on my blog on occasion.
A: I don't catch up on your blog "on occasion." I've subscribed via a feed reader and read EVERY SINGLE ENTRY AS THEY POST.
Some Christmas music is just a new song from an old artist that evokes memories.
Hearing on the radio that David Bazhan is back making music with his band Pedro the Lion, I immediately fell for their new song, "Yellow Bike" which is as much a tribute to Christmas past - the song begins with him seeing the bike next to the Christmas tree - as any "traditional" song...with a far better guitar line.
And speaking of music, as if it wasn't enough to be reminiscing about childhood bikes and holidays, I also heard a live version of "Never Going Back Again." It was recorded on the "Tusk" tour and is part of a new Fleetwood Mac box set because, somehow, someway, the Mac has apparently been a band for 50 years.
Granted, I didn't discover them until the mid '70s but, yes, I was that college kid who went to all the shows with her best friend when they played multiple night stands.
Holy crap, I'm old.
But not too old to appreciate seeing a piece of classic feminist theater for only the second time in my life. Back in 2010 when I couldn't afford a theater ticket and wasn't yet on the Theater Alliance Panel, I'd ushered a performance so that I could see Henley Street Theater's production of "A Doll's House," my first time seeing it.
Planning to see TheatreLAB's production of the same, Pru and Beau had expressed interest, although Pru changed her mind, deciding she was no longer in the mood for Ibsen. That left the odd couple, Beau and me.
We started the evening at Longoven, a place I'd been but he hadn't. Walking in, a favorite bartender greeted me with a smile and we were led to a table underneath a giant wreath that gave off the most delicious evergreen aroma.
Carrying the "pink bubbles fo-evah" banner, I stayed true to form with Montand Cremant du Jura Rose, while Beau furthered his Hungarian curiosity with Evolucio Tokaj, the latest in a series he's had from that region.
Naturally this led to a discussion of the Balkan restaurant Ambar, where he'd first fallen hard for Hungarian wines. I've been to the one in D.C., while Beau's been to the one in Clarendon and both of us had been intrigued and wowed by a wine list covering places like Hungary, Croatia, Slovenia, Moldovia and Macedonia.
So many grapes, so little time.
Everything we put in our mouths was exceptional and highly creative, leading Beau to dub Longoven "non-safe eating," a term I love. One of my sisters used to regularly proclaim that "Only boring people get bored," but I'd tack on an addendum of, "Only boring people prefer safe eating."
Knocking it out of the park was a dish of smoked duck, over which rested a mound of turnip slices and turnip confit and topped with a leaf of grilled radicchio and horseradish cream. Delicately fried cauliflower leaves added the final texture and flavor. It was a dish that got better with each successive bite as my palate absorbed the brilliant combination of rich and bitter, soft and toothsome.
Waiting for our next course, Beau did his best to toss a compliment my way, observing, "Your hair always looks good, but tonight's dishevelment is less." The backtracking that followed may have been the humorous high point of the evening.
Next up was a risotto of seeds - sunflower, chia, pepitas, millet and quinoa - arranged in a circle like a wreath and bordered with autumn greens, a dollop of Fontina fondue at the center. It was vegetarian comfort food of the highest order and our only regret was not having a piece of crusty bread to sop up the remains with.
More Cremant arrived for me as Beau made the switch to the Loire with Domaine a Deux Sauvignon Blanc Touraine and we geared up for our shared large plate.
We'd chosen a favorite for both of us, skate wing, seared and riding atop cauliflower puree with maitake mushrooms and dollops of soubise, which combines two of my very favorite staples, onion butter, into a sauce. The edges of the wing were seared to golden brown crunch perfection and our server (a transplant from Raleigh) commented on how clean we'd licked the plate.
We are nothing if not eaters, Beau and I. And, unlike Pru, we both need a shift to sweet after multiple savory courses.
Intrigued by the combination of black sesame ice cream with black sesame sponge cake, both dehydrated and fresh, and a pear sauce, Beau's dessert was a fascinating shade of gunmetal gray and pastiche of sweet and savory.
Meanwhile, I savored a glass of 20-year Tawny Port with hazelnut sponge cake and hazelnut praline with rosettes of hazelnut mousse and the thinnest of slivers of dark chocolate, a dish that took a turn for the obscene with Comte ice cream.
Whoever thought of translating Comte into ice cream deserves a major award. It also convinced both of us that even the dessert-avoiding Pru could have been seduced by its cheesy richness.
When our server came over to inquire if she could get us anything else, Beau piped up, "What else you got?" Clearly the wine had kicked in and it was time to motor.
Some plays may lack traditional Christmas characters - the Grinch, Scrooge - but the fact that they take place at Christmastime more than qualifies them for December entertainment.
Full as ticks from a meal of non-safe food, we headed east to the Basement for a lesson in female empowerment. In a play oozing male chauvinism, the production was a solid reminder of how revolutionary Ibsen's script had been when it was written in 1879, but how it still resonates today.
I wouldn't change the smallest part of you, not in any way.
Even the music chosen to be played before and between acts reflected the kind of strong women Nora found herself becoming: Aretha, Adele, Carole King, Dolly Parton, Marian Anderson. Director Josh Chenard had chosen groundbreaking women to establish the mood.
I hardly saw you for four weeks. I was never so bored.
Watching Landon Nagel switch seamlessly from adoring, sweet-talking lover to bullying husband was disturbing and unsettling, like reading about abused women who choose not to press charges against the men who beat them because they focus on his "good" side. Nagel's ability to convey both convincingly speaks to his well-honed skills as an actor.
Although whether the sweat on his face was due to his 19th century costume or his passion in portraying Torvald, I really can't say.
I'm your husband. It's your job to indulge me.
Katrinah Carol Lewis wrung every possible emotion from the character of Nora as we watched her abandon the fantasy of a strong and happy marriage to go from docile wife to a woman who is driven to understand herself and her own needs before she can address any other aspects of her life.
"A Doll's House," for me, is the kind of play that reminds a 21st century woman how fortunate she was to come up during a time when women could be themselves and follow whatever (convoluted, in my case) path they chose. The confrontational scene near the end where Nora tells Torvald she's leaving him - and why - remains a classic of female empowerment.
And that door slam as the story concludes? Has there ever been a more satisfying ending to a play?
Or to a day more satisfying than one that began with learning that there are some people who read my ramblings every single time they post?
Some Christmas season evenings, I'm just grateful that my dishevelment isn't an issue for everyone.
A: I learned from your blog that X and Y had broken up. You are my conduit to the Richmond social, food and art scene. Thank you.
K: It pleases me no end that you still catch up on my blog on occasion.
A: I don't catch up on your blog "on occasion." I've subscribed via a feed reader and read EVERY SINGLE ENTRY AS THEY POST.
Some Christmas music is just a new song from an old artist that evokes memories.
Hearing on the radio that David Bazhan is back making music with his band Pedro the Lion, I immediately fell for their new song, "Yellow Bike" which is as much a tribute to Christmas past - the song begins with him seeing the bike next to the Christmas tree - as any "traditional" song...with a far better guitar line.
And speaking of music, as if it wasn't enough to be reminiscing about childhood bikes and holidays, I also heard a live version of "Never Going Back Again." It was recorded on the "Tusk" tour and is part of a new Fleetwood Mac box set because, somehow, someway, the Mac has apparently been a band for 50 years.
Granted, I didn't discover them until the mid '70s but, yes, I was that college kid who went to all the shows with her best friend when they played multiple night stands.
Holy crap, I'm old.
But not too old to appreciate seeing a piece of classic feminist theater for only the second time in my life. Back in 2010 when I couldn't afford a theater ticket and wasn't yet on the Theater Alliance Panel, I'd ushered a performance so that I could see Henley Street Theater's production of "A Doll's House," my first time seeing it.
Planning to see TheatreLAB's production of the same, Pru and Beau had expressed interest, although Pru changed her mind, deciding she was no longer in the mood for Ibsen. That left the odd couple, Beau and me.
We started the evening at Longoven, a place I'd been but he hadn't. Walking in, a favorite bartender greeted me with a smile and we were led to a table underneath a giant wreath that gave off the most delicious evergreen aroma.
Carrying the "pink bubbles fo-evah" banner, I stayed true to form with Montand Cremant du Jura Rose, while Beau furthered his Hungarian curiosity with Evolucio Tokaj, the latest in a series he's had from that region.
Naturally this led to a discussion of the Balkan restaurant Ambar, where he'd first fallen hard for Hungarian wines. I've been to the one in D.C., while Beau's been to the one in Clarendon and both of us had been intrigued and wowed by a wine list covering places like Hungary, Croatia, Slovenia, Moldovia and Macedonia.
So many grapes, so little time.
Everything we put in our mouths was exceptional and highly creative, leading Beau to dub Longoven "non-safe eating," a term I love. One of my sisters used to regularly proclaim that "Only boring people get bored," but I'd tack on an addendum of, "Only boring people prefer safe eating."
Knocking it out of the park was a dish of smoked duck, over which rested a mound of turnip slices and turnip confit and topped with a leaf of grilled radicchio and horseradish cream. Delicately fried cauliflower leaves added the final texture and flavor. It was a dish that got better with each successive bite as my palate absorbed the brilliant combination of rich and bitter, soft and toothsome.
Waiting for our next course, Beau did his best to toss a compliment my way, observing, "Your hair always looks good, but tonight's dishevelment is less." The backtracking that followed may have been the humorous high point of the evening.
Next up was a risotto of seeds - sunflower, chia, pepitas, millet and quinoa - arranged in a circle like a wreath and bordered with autumn greens, a dollop of Fontina fondue at the center. It was vegetarian comfort food of the highest order and our only regret was not having a piece of crusty bread to sop up the remains with.
More Cremant arrived for me as Beau made the switch to the Loire with Domaine a Deux Sauvignon Blanc Touraine and we geared up for our shared large plate.
We'd chosen a favorite for both of us, skate wing, seared and riding atop cauliflower puree with maitake mushrooms and dollops of soubise, which combines two of my very favorite staples, onion butter, into a sauce. The edges of the wing were seared to golden brown crunch perfection and our server (a transplant from Raleigh) commented on how clean we'd licked the plate.
We are nothing if not eaters, Beau and I. And, unlike Pru, we both need a shift to sweet after multiple savory courses.
Intrigued by the combination of black sesame ice cream with black sesame sponge cake, both dehydrated and fresh, and a pear sauce, Beau's dessert was a fascinating shade of gunmetal gray and pastiche of sweet and savory.
Meanwhile, I savored a glass of 20-year Tawny Port with hazelnut sponge cake and hazelnut praline with rosettes of hazelnut mousse and the thinnest of slivers of dark chocolate, a dish that took a turn for the obscene with Comte ice cream.
Whoever thought of translating Comte into ice cream deserves a major award. It also convinced both of us that even the dessert-avoiding Pru could have been seduced by its cheesy richness.
When our server came over to inquire if she could get us anything else, Beau piped up, "What else you got?" Clearly the wine had kicked in and it was time to motor.
Some plays may lack traditional Christmas characters - the Grinch, Scrooge - but the fact that they take place at Christmastime more than qualifies them for December entertainment.
Full as ticks from a meal of non-safe food, we headed east to the Basement for a lesson in female empowerment. In a play oozing male chauvinism, the production was a solid reminder of how revolutionary Ibsen's script had been when it was written in 1879, but how it still resonates today.
I wouldn't change the smallest part of you, not in any way.
Even the music chosen to be played before and between acts reflected the kind of strong women Nora found herself becoming: Aretha, Adele, Carole King, Dolly Parton, Marian Anderson. Director Josh Chenard had chosen groundbreaking women to establish the mood.
I hardly saw you for four weeks. I was never so bored.
Watching Landon Nagel switch seamlessly from adoring, sweet-talking lover to bullying husband was disturbing and unsettling, like reading about abused women who choose not to press charges against the men who beat them because they focus on his "good" side. Nagel's ability to convey both convincingly speaks to his well-honed skills as an actor.
Although whether the sweat on his face was due to his 19th century costume or his passion in portraying Torvald, I really can't say.
I'm your husband. It's your job to indulge me.
Katrinah Carol Lewis wrung every possible emotion from the character of Nora as we watched her abandon the fantasy of a strong and happy marriage to go from docile wife to a woman who is driven to understand herself and her own needs before she can address any other aspects of her life.
"A Doll's House," for me, is the kind of play that reminds a 21st century woman how fortunate she was to come up during a time when women could be themselves and follow whatever (convoluted, in my case) path they chose. The confrontational scene near the end where Nora tells Torvald she's leaving him - and why - remains a classic of female empowerment.
And that door slam as the story concludes? Has there ever been a more satisfying ending to a play?
Or to a day more satisfying than one that began with learning that there are some people who read my ramblings every single time they post?
Some Christmas season evenings, I'm just grateful that my dishevelment isn't an issue for everyone.
Sunday, September 23, 2018
But the World Goes Round
It's hard to leave the beach on a gorgeous, sunny afternoon.
Beau and I did our final beach walk, spotting more than a few sandpipers in search of their fling. If we have accomplished nothing else this week while lounging about, it was researching and learning the plural names for birds. Sandpipers are what started it and someone guessed their group name would a be a "flute," which isn't all that far from a "fling."
At various times, we learned about a scurry of squirrels, an unkindness of ravens and a stand of flamingos, but my favorite remains the fling. For obvious reasons.
I took the longest possible outdoor shower I could manage, knowing I won't be soaping up outside with a view of the sky and the sound of the waves for some time to come.
After bidding goodbye to Pru, Beau and Queen B, I made my way up the beach road toward home. "Prayers for down south," read a heartfelt sign on the Nags Head pier. Another hurricane reminder was the sign on the Quality Inn in Kill Devil Hills, proclaiming, "Very open."
Further up Route 158, I passed a sign advertising an upcoming event: "Boggin' for Boobies." Talk about knowing your audience.
Around the time I crossed the Virginia state line, the beautiful sunny day I'd left behind on the beach gave way to a gray and cloudy sky that made it a lot easier to keep driving north. No one wants to leave the beach during prime time, least of all me.
Driving past the Disputanta Baptist Church, I saw their sign calling to my people; "Women's Empowerment Seminar 9/29" and wondered what kinds of things would be taught at such a thing and if I didn't already know them all anyway.
And then I was back in the city again. And much as I'm a city person, it's always a tough transition away from the constant sound of the surf and the mesmerizing attraction of watching the ocean. In J-Ward, it was business as usual.
For me, that meant a change of clothes and a walk over to the Basement to see TheatreLAB's production of "Significant Other." As you might imagine, the subject called to me.
My seat was in the front row, next to the theater critic I seem to run into just about every time I see a play. I laughed when he asked if I'd ever acted - there were a couple of amateur films made by a friend in college, but all they did was prove I have no acting talent - but was surprised when he said he had. Apparently he'd only given it up to study journalism in college. The things you learn when you're elbow to elbow.
Grownups live alone.
I keep forgetting we're grown up now.
The play told the story of a group of friends, one guy and three women, as they navigate adulthood and find mates.
At the center of the action is Jordan, played by Deejay Gray, who is not having nearly the good luck at finding his forever person as his girlfriends are. He's about to turn 30 and is convinced it's not going to happen to him ever.
You know, because he's so old.
And if ever anyone was born to play this role, it was Deejay, who managed to convey the frustration of being supportive because your friends are happy while beginning to give up on your own possibilities and fearing a life alone. Because if anyone can play sweet, earnest and sad, it's him.
Life is finding someone to go through it with.
What struck me about the story was how premature Jordan's reaction was. I'd say a person is incredibly lucky if they manage to find their life partner as early as 30. Realistically, many of us aren't even formed enough to know who we are at that age, much less be ready to take on the responsibilities of a live-in relationship.
He's also Jewish, so we can talk about our Moms and it's not weird.
Al three of the female leads nailed their characters. Always impressive no matter what the role, Kelsey Cordrey as Laura shone as Jordan's best friend and partner in single life. As Vanessa, Jessi Johnson walked the line between being a negative Nancy and reveling in finding an adoring partner. Mallory Keene as Kiki embodied the ditzy, "it's all about me" persona, always in a tight dress and the highest of heels.
You know I'm not a happy person. I like foreign films.
Matt Polson and Dan Cimo (his way of saying "Hey, girl!" every time he saw Jordan was a guaranteed laugh) each managed to make their three different male characters distinct from each other. Honestly, I've never seen Dan without being impressed with how he owns his time on stage every single outing.
If I had to come back from the beach, having such a well-directed production to come home to made my landing a whole lot softer.
Mingling after the show, I overheard a man talking about how sad the play made him with its unresolved ending. I talked to a favorite artistic director who admitted that the Jordan character had been him 4 1/2 years ago, before he met his true love and they had their first dog-child. I reminded him that some of us took far longer to achieve half that.
The final part of my return to city life was right in the same place I'd just enjoyed the play. The Ghostlight Afterparty, recently resurrected after a hiatus of several years, is essentially a piano bar with a roomful of actors and audience members busily drinking and socializing while anyone who wanted to could get up and sing a song to piano accompaniment. And when no one wasdrunk enough ready to sing, he played alone.
When he began playing "All That Jazz" from "Chicago," a woman took to the floor to dance a part she'd probably danced before. Soon after, he began playing "Seasons of Love" from "Rent" and half the room was singing along.
But it was when the incomparable Debra Wagoner approached the mic to sing "And the World Goes Round" that the magic really began. She warned the room that she was doing a slow, bluesy number so they'd have to listen and when many kept talking as she sang, she yelled, "Shut the f*ck up!" and some of them did.
Afterward, someone stood up and scolded the talkers for having the nerve to gab through Debra's singing. telling them nothing they were saying sounded a fraction as good as what was coming out of her mouth. Truth.
You gotta love the Ghostlight Afterparty because no one holds back. Also, there's a whole lot of drinking, so people often forget their manners. But you know when the pianist began playing Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'," it got people's attention.
Some time around midnight, my combination beach and city day was enough to send me home through the streets of Jackson Ward - admiring the Pride flags hanging in J Kogi's window - and to my own bed for the first time in a week.
Flings of sandpipers may be in my rear-view window, but that's okay. At least I've checked "find my significant other" off my to-do list. That it happened decades past 30 should be reassuring to the Jordans of the world.
Don't stop believin', kids. Life really is about finding someone to go through it with. Dog-children optional.
Beau and I did our final beach walk, spotting more than a few sandpipers in search of their fling. If we have accomplished nothing else this week while lounging about, it was researching and learning the plural names for birds. Sandpipers are what started it and someone guessed their group name would a be a "flute," which isn't all that far from a "fling."
At various times, we learned about a scurry of squirrels, an unkindness of ravens and a stand of flamingos, but my favorite remains the fling. For obvious reasons.
I took the longest possible outdoor shower I could manage, knowing I won't be soaping up outside with a view of the sky and the sound of the waves for some time to come.
After bidding goodbye to Pru, Beau and Queen B, I made my way up the beach road toward home. "Prayers for down south," read a heartfelt sign on the Nags Head pier. Another hurricane reminder was the sign on the Quality Inn in Kill Devil Hills, proclaiming, "Very open."
Further up Route 158, I passed a sign advertising an upcoming event: "Boggin' for Boobies." Talk about knowing your audience.
Around the time I crossed the Virginia state line, the beautiful sunny day I'd left behind on the beach gave way to a gray and cloudy sky that made it a lot easier to keep driving north. No one wants to leave the beach during prime time, least of all me.
Driving past the Disputanta Baptist Church, I saw their sign calling to my people; "Women's Empowerment Seminar 9/29" and wondered what kinds of things would be taught at such a thing and if I didn't already know them all anyway.
And then I was back in the city again. And much as I'm a city person, it's always a tough transition away from the constant sound of the surf and the mesmerizing attraction of watching the ocean. In J-Ward, it was business as usual.
For me, that meant a change of clothes and a walk over to the Basement to see TheatreLAB's production of "Significant Other." As you might imagine, the subject called to me.
My seat was in the front row, next to the theater critic I seem to run into just about every time I see a play. I laughed when he asked if I'd ever acted - there were a couple of amateur films made by a friend in college, but all they did was prove I have no acting talent - but was surprised when he said he had. Apparently he'd only given it up to study journalism in college. The things you learn when you're elbow to elbow.
Grownups live alone.
I keep forgetting we're grown up now.
The play told the story of a group of friends, one guy and three women, as they navigate adulthood and find mates.
At the center of the action is Jordan, played by Deejay Gray, who is not having nearly the good luck at finding his forever person as his girlfriends are. He's about to turn 30 and is convinced it's not going to happen to him ever.
You know, because he's so old.
And if ever anyone was born to play this role, it was Deejay, who managed to convey the frustration of being supportive because your friends are happy while beginning to give up on your own possibilities and fearing a life alone. Because if anyone can play sweet, earnest and sad, it's him.
Life is finding someone to go through it with.
What struck me about the story was how premature Jordan's reaction was. I'd say a person is incredibly lucky if they manage to find their life partner as early as 30. Realistically, many of us aren't even formed enough to know who we are at that age, much less be ready to take on the responsibilities of a live-in relationship.
He's also Jewish, so we can talk about our Moms and it's not weird.
Al three of the female leads nailed their characters. Always impressive no matter what the role, Kelsey Cordrey as Laura shone as Jordan's best friend and partner in single life. As Vanessa, Jessi Johnson walked the line between being a negative Nancy and reveling in finding an adoring partner. Mallory Keene as Kiki embodied the ditzy, "it's all about me" persona, always in a tight dress and the highest of heels.
You know I'm not a happy person. I like foreign films.
Matt Polson and Dan Cimo (his way of saying "Hey, girl!" every time he saw Jordan was a guaranteed laugh) each managed to make their three different male characters distinct from each other. Honestly, I've never seen Dan without being impressed with how he owns his time on stage every single outing.
If I had to come back from the beach, having such a well-directed production to come home to made my landing a whole lot softer.
Mingling after the show, I overheard a man talking about how sad the play made him with its unresolved ending. I talked to a favorite artistic director who admitted that the Jordan character had been him 4 1/2 years ago, before he met his true love and they had their first dog-child. I reminded him that some of us took far longer to achieve half that.
The final part of my return to city life was right in the same place I'd just enjoyed the play. The Ghostlight Afterparty, recently resurrected after a hiatus of several years, is essentially a piano bar with a roomful of actors and audience members busily drinking and socializing while anyone who wanted to could get up and sing a song to piano accompaniment. And when no one was
When he began playing "All That Jazz" from "Chicago," a woman took to the floor to dance a part she'd probably danced before. Soon after, he began playing "Seasons of Love" from "Rent" and half the room was singing along.
But it was when the incomparable Debra Wagoner approached the mic to sing "And the World Goes Round" that the magic really began. She warned the room that she was doing a slow, bluesy number so they'd have to listen and when many kept talking as she sang, she yelled, "Shut the f*ck up!" and some of them did.
Afterward, someone stood up and scolded the talkers for having the nerve to gab through Debra's singing. telling them nothing they were saying sounded a fraction as good as what was coming out of her mouth. Truth.
You gotta love the Ghostlight Afterparty because no one holds back. Also, there's a whole lot of drinking, so people often forget their manners. But you know when the pianist began playing Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'," it got people's attention.
Some time around midnight, my combination beach and city day was enough to send me home through the streets of Jackson Ward - admiring the Pride flags hanging in J Kogi's window - and to my own bed for the first time in a week.
Flings of sandpipers may be in my rear-view window, but that's okay. At least I've checked "find my significant other" off my to-do list. That it happened decades past 30 should be reassuring to the Jordans of the world.
Don't stop believin', kids. Life really is about finding someone to go through it with. Dog-children optional.
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
Who's on First
Industry is in the eye of the beholder.
Sure, technically I'm not an actor or director and I don't design costumes, sound or light, but that didn't stop me from getting tickets for "Hand to God" at the Basement on Industry night. If anything, I chose this stormy Tuesday evening to see a co-production by TheatreLab and 5th Wall partly because I knew I'd see so many familiar stage faces in the audience.
And in my usual Luddite manner, I went to the see the 2015 Tony award-nominated best new play with absolutely no clue what it was about, nor any sense of how lewdly and furiously funny a dark comedy that includes puppet orgasms could be. Because, really, being a heathen and all, how could I not be sucked in by a play about a demonic puppet at a Lutheran bible school in Texas?
My J-boy and I walked over in a steady rain under a large umbrella, only to be told by artistic director Deejay Gray that he couldn't guarantee that the Basement wouldn't flood during tonight's performance because, "Well, it's a basement."
That's truth talk right there because I'd arrived home from Norfolk just as the second round of thunderstorms hit Jackson Ward and my basement was already under a couple inches of water. Still is.
From the front row, we had such an up close and personal view of the stage - set up to look like a church basement - that I didn't even need my glasses for most of it. Now that's proximity.
Looking at the set before the play began, I focused on the centerpiece of it, a puppet stage labeled "Christcateers," wondering what Jesus and sock puppets could possibly have in common. Meanwhile, the non-Christian next to me commented that the set confirmed every scary thought he'd ever had about church basements, although he guessed it was Catholic and I knew with certainty that it was Protestants of some sort.
I happen to know that Catholic church basements are a different kind of crazy.
And now I've learned that some crazy Protestants actually do use puppets as part of their Christian ministry, which only adds to a friend's religious dating theory (something about avoiding Protestant men because passion isn't their strong suit), and further solidifies my place in the heathen world.
"Hand to God" was riveting from the opening prologue of a green puppet sharing his thoughts on how mankind went from "rutting as we chose, careless in the night" to making rules about doing bad things, which included inventing the concept of the devil.
As a card-carrying heathen, I don't have to worry about that.
The entire cast was strong, none more so than Adam Turck as shy, insecure Jason, the unfortunate teen with Tyrone, the puppet, on his hand, who loudly and stridently voiced the evil puppet by biting off syllables, popping his every "p" and "t" and terrifying everyone around him. What fascinated me was that even though he mouthed Tyrone's words with no attempt to conceal where it was coming from, my eyes were glued to how convincing that puppet was every time he spoke.
That's right, I could have been looking at the actor dramatically saying Tyrone's lines but instead couldn't tear myself from watching a green sock with red hair inches from his face. This really wasn't your Sesame Street kind of puppet, though it was some top notch puppeteering.
What made a play about a demonic puppet so continuously laugh-out-loud funny was the dead serious nature of the topics covered in the story: sexual repression ("I don't want to be good anymore") and religious hypocrisy (a minister talking about his "needs" to a grieving widow), alcoholism and death, depression and repression.
But where it truly resonated was in its peek into the divided soul of Everyman, with its constant battle between good and evil. You don't even have to be a crazy Christian to know what I'm talking about.
Every member of the five person cast shone, from the confused and horny Margery assuredly and hilariously played by Kimberly Jones, to the surprisingly sexual confidence of quiet Jessica as portrayed by Anne Michelle Forbes. Adam Valentine, whose work I'd admired in "Heathers the Musical," again grabbed my attention playing the sullen Timothy with bravado, sardonic humor and in one scene, in his underwear. Fred Iacovo managed to transition from a skeevy minister hitting on Margery to the only one strong enough to stand up to the bastard puppet, no easy shift.
Which is all a long, rambling way of saying that I can't imagine a darker or more clever take on raw family dysfunction and religious hypocrisy, much less one where I was doubled over laughing so much.
As for all the screaming sex scenes - puppets as well as humans - well, bras coming off and skirts being pushed up were just icing on the industry night cake.
Damn, Richmond, your theater game is stellar.
Sure, technically I'm not an actor or director and I don't design costumes, sound or light, but that didn't stop me from getting tickets for "Hand to God" at the Basement on Industry night. If anything, I chose this stormy Tuesday evening to see a co-production by TheatreLab and 5th Wall partly because I knew I'd see so many familiar stage faces in the audience.
And in my usual Luddite manner, I went to the see the 2015 Tony award-nominated best new play with absolutely no clue what it was about, nor any sense of how lewdly and furiously funny a dark comedy that includes puppet orgasms could be. Because, really, being a heathen and all, how could I not be sucked in by a play about a demonic puppet at a Lutheran bible school in Texas?
My J-boy and I walked over in a steady rain under a large umbrella, only to be told by artistic director Deejay Gray that he couldn't guarantee that the Basement wouldn't flood during tonight's performance because, "Well, it's a basement."
That's truth talk right there because I'd arrived home from Norfolk just as the second round of thunderstorms hit Jackson Ward and my basement was already under a couple inches of water. Still is.
From the front row, we had such an up close and personal view of the stage - set up to look like a church basement - that I didn't even need my glasses for most of it. Now that's proximity.
Looking at the set before the play began, I focused on the centerpiece of it, a puppet stage labeled "Christcateers," wondering what Jesus and sock puppets could possibly have in common. Meanwhile, the non-Christian next to me commented that the set confirmed every scary thought he'd ever had about church basements, although he guessed it was Catholic and I knew with certainty that it was Protestants of some sort.
I happen to know that Catholic church basements are a different kind of crazy.
And now I've learned that some crazy Protestants actually do use puppets as part of their Christian ministry, which only adds to a friend's religious dating theory (something about avoiding Protestant men because passion isn't their strong suit), and further solidifies my place in the heathen world.
"Hand to God" was riveting from the opening prologue of a green puppet sharing his thoughts on how mankind went from "rutting as we chose, careless in the night" to making rules about doing bad things, which included inventing the concept of the devil.
As a card-carrying heathen, I don't have to worry about that.
The entire cast was strong, none more so than Adam Turck as shy, insecure Jason, the unfortunate teen with Tyrone, the puppet, on his hand, who loudly and stridently voiced the evil puppet by biting off syllables, popping his every "p" and "t" and terrifying everyone around him. What fascinated me was that even though he mouthed Tyrone's words with no attempt to conceal where it was coming from, my eyes were glued to how convincing that puppet was every time he spoke.
That's right, I could have been looking at the actor dramatically saying Tyrone's lines but instead couldn't tear myself from watching a green sock with red hair inches from his face. This really wasn't your Sesame Street kind of puppet, though it was some top notch puppeteering.
What made a play about a demonic puppet so continuously laugh-out-loud funny was the dead serious nature of the topics covered in the story: sexual repression ("I don't want to be good anymore") and religious hypocrisy (a minister talking about his "needs" to a grieving widow), alcoholism and death, depression and repression.
But where it truly resonated was in its peek into the divided soul of Everyman, with its constant battle between good and evil. You don't even have to be a crazy Christian to know what I'm talking about.
Every member of the five person cast shone, from the confused and horny Margery assuredly and hilariously played by Kimberly Jones, to the surprisingly sexual confidence of quiet Jessica as portrayed by Anne Michelle Forbes. Adam Valentine, whose work I'd admired in "Heathers the Musical," again grabbed my attention playing the sullen Timothy with bravado, sardonic humor and in one scene, in his underwear. Fred Iacovo managed to transition from a skeevy minister hitting on Margery to the only one strong enough to stand up to the bastard puppet, no easy shift.
Which is all a long, rambling way of saying that I can't imagine a darker or more clever take on raw family dysfunction and religious hypocrisy, much less one where I was doubled over laughing so much.
As for all the screaming sex scenes - puppets as well as humans - well, bras coming off and skirts being pushed up were just icing on the industry night cake.
Damn, Richmond, your theater game is stellar.
Monday, March 19, 2018
Be Good or Be Gone
I can thank 5th Wall Theatre for teaching me that I don't like moon pies.
Pru might be inclined to point out that our pre-theater dinner at Rogue might have had something to do with it and she'd likely be right. If we hadn't eaten through three courses, we may have had a teensy bit more room to enjoy the southern disks of tastelessness.
Since it was St. Patrick's Day and since we knew there would be all kinds of unpleasant drunken revelry going on all over town, from the moment she picked me up, we resolved to stay in Jackson Ward for the entire evening.
Better safe than face to face with a drunk in a green t-shirt.
Rogue was a bastion of understated cool on a Saturday night, allowing us to score two end bar stools and, once Pru had cooed over the plush new bar stools, complete with backs, glasses of a white Riojas.
Some people would be ashamed to admit that they ordered two of the same dishes as they'd had on their last visit, but I'm not one of them. That first time had been with Beau and not Pru, so why wouldn't I want to introduce her to a couple of dishes we'd fallen for on our maiden voyage?
If I were ever to meet a person who purported to hate carrots (thankfully, I have not), I would take them immediately to Rogue and order the charred carrots. Then I would sit there to watch the revelation on their face as they learned what carrots' potential can be in the right hands. Cooked to al dente perfection, these multi-colored beauties are bathed in citrus, ginger and soy, with peanuts added for crunch. Cue angels singing.
Fact: I will no doubt have them the next time I go to Rogue, too. No shame.
Beets topped with greens and chevre was every bit as solid as last time and for something new, we tried the russet potato gnocchi in bolognese sauce, the rich meat sauce aided and abetted by the runny egg and bits of Parmesan on top.
This leads to a discussion because I'm of the opinion that gnocchi is better than pasta and Pru tried to make a case for pasta. But when I point out that if you want pasta and they don't have it, you'll probably eat gnocchi instead and be happy. But if you're looking forward to gnocchi? Pasta probably isn't going to do the trick. At least that's how we saw it.
How we saw "Pump Boys and Dinettes" was from the front row (there were only two) of the Basement, arriving as the two dinettes (servers in a diner) were offering coffee and Moon Pies to those in the front row. A woman two seats down scored a cup of coffee and later was offered a slice of actual pie. For the record, she ate every bite, but only after feeding her husband the first one. Ain't love grand?
What I got offered was a Moon Pie and naturally I accepted it since it looked chocolate to me. Heaven knows, it only took one bite to determine that it tasted like what I imagined the wrapper it came in would have tasted like. Plastic-tasting chocolate, stale, almost chewy marshmallow and bone-dry graham crackers ensured that my first bite would be my last.
Happily, "Pump Boys and Dinettes" was far more pleasurable, with a litany of feel-good songs dealing with the problems that come with being a garage or diner worker: love, food and jobs, not to mention drinking. Who doesn't put on their drinking shoes occasionally?
The waitresses uniforms were perfection: orange, blue and white, right down to the buttons, with an apron for good measure, just like a proper HoJo server would have on so she'd have a place to stash her order book.
A lot of the fun of the musical was that the four actors playing the pump boys played their own instruments, although watching the Dinettes play pots, pans and the counter was pretty darn impressive, too.
During the moving song "Mamaw," I spotted a guy in the second row mouthing every single word to the song. He was part of a large group who'd come in, all in blue blazers and khakis, and while I'd resorted to making rich white people jokes, Pru had pegged them for a men's glee club. She's brilliant like that.
It was the kind of play where you walked out, not feeling like your worldview had been changed in any way, but confident that you'd been solidly entertained by talented people for a couple of hours.
As for the green beer squad, we never so much as laid eyes on them. As usual, J-Ward for the win.
Pru might be inclined to point out that our pre-theater dinner at Rogue might have had something to do with it and she'd likely be right. If we hadn't eaten through three courses, we may have had a teensy bit more room to enjoy the southern disks of tastelessness.
Since it was St. Patrick's Day and since we knew there would be all kinds of unpleasant drunken revelry going on all over town, from the moment she picked me up, we resolved to stay in Jackson Ward for the entire evening.
Better safe than face to face with a drunk in a green t-shirt.
Rogue was a bastion of understated cool on a Saturday night, allowing us to score two end bar stools and, once Pru had cooed over the plush new bar stools, complete with backs, glasses of a white Riojas.
Some people would be ashamed to admit that they ordered two of the same dishes as they'd had on their last visit, but I'm not one of them. That first time had been with Beau and not Pru, so why wouldn't I want to introduce her to a couple of dishes we'd fallen for on our maiden voyage?
If I were ever to meet a person who purported to hate carrots (thankfully, I have not), I would take them immediately to Rogue and order the charred carrots. Then I would sit there to watch the revelation on their face as they learned what carrots' potential can be in the right hands. Cooked to al dente perfection, these multi-colored beauties are bathed in citrus, ginger and soy, with peanuts added for crunch. Cue angels singing.
Fact: I will no doubt have them the next time I go to Rogue, too. No shame.
Beets topped with greens and chevre was every bit as solid as last time and for something new, we tried the russet potato gnocchi in bolognese sauce, the rich meat sauce aided and abetted by the runny egg and bits of Parmesan on top.
This leads to a discussion because I'm of the opinion that gnocchi is better than pasta and Pru tried to make a case for pasta. But when I point out that if you want pasta and they don't have it, you'll probably eat gnocchi instead and be happy. But if you're looking forward to gnocchi? Pasta probably isn't going to do the trick. At least that's how we saw it.
How we saw "Pump Boys and Dinettes" was from the front row (there were only two) of the Basement, arriving as the two dinettes (servers in a diner) were offering coffee and Moon Pies to those in the front row. A woman two seats down scored a cup of coffee and later was offered a slice of actual pie. For the record, she ate every bite, but only after feeding her husband the first one. Ain't love grand?
What I got offered was a Moon Pie and naturally I accepted it since it looked chocolate to me. Heaven knows, it only took one bite to determine that it tasted like what I imagined the wrapper it came in would have tasted like. Plastic-tasting chocolate, stale, almost chewy marshmallow and bone-dry graham crackers ensured that my first bite would be my last.
Happily, "Pump Boys and Dinettes" was far more pleasurable, with a litany of feel-good songs dealing with the problems that come with being a garage or diner worker: love, food and jobs, not to mention drinking. Who doesn't put on their drinking shoes occasionally?
The waitresses uniforms were perfection: orange, blue and white, right down to the buttons, with an apron for good measure, just like a proper HoJo server would have on so she'd have a place to stash her order book.
A lot of the fun of the musical was that the four actors playing the pump boys played their own instruments, although watching the Dinettes play pots, pans and the counter was pretty darn impressive, too.
During the moving song "Mamaw," I spotted a guy in the second row mouthing every single word to the song. He was part of a large group who'd come in, all in blue blazers and khakis, and while I'd resorted to making rich white people jokes, Pru had pegged them for a men's glee club. She's brilliant like that.
It was the kind of play where you walked out, not feeling like your worldview had been changed in any way, but confident that you'd been solidly entertained by talented people for a couple of hours.
As for the green beer squad, we never so much as laid eyes on them. As usual, J-Ward for the win.
Friday, October 6, 2017
Full Hunter's Moon Fever
For a while there, we couldn't find it.
Mac and I strolled Jackson Ward to reach the Basement, confident we'd be able to catch a glimpse of tonight's full hunter's moon along the way. Wrong. At nearly an hour past sunset, we walked nine blocks and never saw so much as a glimpse of it.
I was so determined to see it that after we'd claimed our tickets, we returned to the streets to stroll some more in hopes that the taller buildings were just blocking its rise. After all, we'd both seen how magnificent it had been last night, so tonight was bound to be even better.
Nada. We walked two blocks east, then three blocks west and all we got was a guy panhandling. When I told him that regretfully, neither of us carried cash, he slapped his leg and said to me, "Now I remember you!"
Now you remember the woman who walks this neighborhood without carrying cash? Good, so stop asking me for it.
And still, no moon to be found, so we gave up our quest.
After admiring the new sign on the brick reading, "The Basement," we walked down the stairs to the subterranean theater to see "The Last Five Years."
Because who wouldn't want to see a play that addresses the issues of a relationship that only lasts five years? Hell, I've known people who've set that as their maximum relationship tolerance right from the first date.
Like so many plays I've seen in the past couple years, this one had no intermission which allowed the differing memories of a couple - his told in chronological order, hers told in reverse - to play out against each other without interruption, the two threads meeting in the middle only for the wedding scene.
It was the kind of story that anyone who's ever been in a loving relationship that ultimately ended - and, let's face it, that's an awful lot of us - can relate to on various levels.
What was interesting was that the action played out on a stage down the middle of the room (with the band in the back) and the audience lined up on two sides, able to see the action and the other side's reaction.
I don't know about you, but a musical that begins with a woman singing "Still Hurting" post-breakup is going to resonate on a lot of levels, some of which we could see in people's faces across the stage.
It was a simple story, really: boy who's written a book and girl who wants to be an actress meet and fall in love. Jamie's career gains traction (about getting a story published in Atlantic Monthly, he sings, "Two thousand dollars without rewriting a word!" - a writer's wet dream) while Cathy struggles and they lose sight of each other, resulting in a break-up.
We didn't have to get very far in for me to realize with certainty that the play must have been written by a man. There was an insecurity to Cathy, an inability to be happy for Jamie's success because her own career was stalled, that made her seem petty and playing victim.
As the two worked through problems, both began looking for the reasons - what didn't he do, how she didn't give as much as she could have - just like we do in real life when cracks in a relationship inevitably show up.
As Jamie, Alexander Sapp owned the stage with killer vocals, insightful gestures and effortless acting from the moment he appeared. In fact, on the chalkboard in the loo, someone had drawn five stars and written, "Alexander Sapp...tasty!" and signed it Michelle Obama.
And when is Michelle wrong?
Christie Jackson with her stellar voice and heartbreaking songs made the most of a role that gave her character the power to fall in love almost at first sight, but not to change what life handed her, whether career-wise or in her love life. The kind of powerless woman you'd expect from a '50s play, not one written in 2001.
In the director's notes, Chelsea Burke wrote that the play was an invitation to reflect on past relationships in their entirety (gee, I've never done that at 4 a.m.) and a reminder that love leaves no one unchanged.
If there's a more timeless topic, it doesn't immediately come to mind.
Back on the street after being wowed by the performance, Mac and I were greeted by the hunter's moon, finally hanging above the building line and beaming its light over the city streets.
Love may not always be reliable, but at least the moon is. What matters is remembering that love is always possible...
Mac and I strolled Jackson Ward to reach the Basement, confident we'd be able to catch a glimpse of tonight's full hunter's moon along the way. Wrong. At nearly an hour past sunset, we walked nine blocks and never saw so much as a glimpse of it.
I was so determined to see it that after we'd claimed our tickets, we returned to the streets to stroll some more in hopes that the taller buildings were just blocking its rise. After all, we'd both seen how magnificent it had been last night, so tonight was bound to be even better.
Nada. We walked two blocks east, then three blocks west and all we got was a guy panhandling. When I told him that regretfully, neither of us carried cash, he slapped his leg and said to me, "Now I remember you!"
Now you remember the woman who walks this neighborhood without carrying cash? Good, so stop asking me for it.
And still, no moon to be found, so we gave up our quest.
After admiring the new sign on the brick reading, "The Basement," we walked down the stairs to the subterranean theater to see "The Last Five Years."
Because who wouldn't want to see a play that addresses the issues of a relationship that only lasts five years? Hell, I've known people who've set that as their maximum relationship tolerance right from the first date.
Like so many plays I've seen in the past couple years, this one had no intermission which allowed the differing memories of a couple - his told in chronological order, hers told in reverse - to play out against each other without interruption, the two threads meeting in the middle only for the wedding scene.
It was the kind of story that anyone who's ever been in a loving relationship that ultimately ended - and, let's face it, that's an awful lot of us - can relate to on various levels.
What was interesting was that the action played out on a stage down the middle of the room (with the band in the back) and the audience lined up on two sides, able to see the action and the other side's reaction.
I don't know about you, but a musical that begins with a woman singing "Still Hurting" post-breakup is going to resonate on a lot of levels, some of which we could see in people's faces across the stage.
It was a simple story, really: boy who's written a book and girl who wants to be an actress meet and fall in love. Jamie's career gains traction (about getting a story published in Atlantic Monthly, he sings, "Two thousand dollars without rewriting a word!" - a writer's wet dream) while Cathy struggles and they lose sight of each other, resulting in a break-up.
We didn't have to get very far in for me to realize with certainty that the play must have been written by a man. There was an insecurity to Cathy, an inability to be happy for Jamie's success because her own career was stalled, that made her seem petty and playing victim.
As the two worked through problems, both began looking for the reasons - what didn't he do, how she didn't give as much as she could have - just like we do in real life when cracks in a relationship inevitably show up.
As Jamie, Alexander Sapp owned the stage with killer vocals, insightful gestures and effortless acting from the moment he appeared. In fact, on the chalkboard in the loo, someone had drawn five stars and written, "Alexander Sapp...tasty!" and signed it Michelle Obama.
And when is Michelle wrong?
Christie Jackson with her stellar voice and heartbreaking songs made the most of a role that gave her character the power to fall in love almost at first sight, but not to change what life handed her, whether career-wise or in her love life. The kind of powerless woman you'd expect from a '50s play, not one written in 2001.
In the director's notes, Chelsea Burke wrote that the play was an invitation to reflect on past relationships in their entirety (gee, I've never done that at 4 a.m.) and a reminder that love leaves no one unchanged.
If there's a more timeless topic, it doesn't immediately come to mind.
Back on the street after being wowed by the performance, Mac and I were greeted by the hunter's moon, finally hanging above the building line and beaming its light over the city streets.
Love may not always be reliable, but at least the moon is. What matters is remembering that love is always possible...
Sunday, December 11, 2016
Yes This Winter Body
Studies have shown that Late Night Lip Sync is extremely good for relationships.
In February 2015, I invited a friend to join me at the Basement to see my first ever Lip Sync contest and he brought along the brilliant and beautiful young woman he'd been dating for less than a month. Both had a fabulous evening and agreed that they'd never in their lives laughed so hard. Ever.
Those two crazy kids got married last week. Coincidence? I don't think so.
When I got the invitation for tonight's Late Night Lip Sync, I naturally invited them to join me, but with plans to leave for their honeymoon Monday, they weren't sure they'd make it, so I signed on a friend and his main squeeze, only to learn that - wait for it - she'd been part of the very first Lip Sync event at Rare Old Times.
Oh, and by the way, they moved in together last week and they're getting married next summer. Is anyone seeing a pattern yet?
All of which is just prelude because I arrived with the latter couple tonight after a shared meal, got situated in the front row with them and moments later was greeted by the former couple, who'd done just enough packing and preparation for their trip to feel justified in having a raucous night out laughing before they vacate the 804.
Once again, I was surrounded by my people, all of them madly in love and incidentally major fans of Late Night Lip Sync. But then, who wouldn't be?
Certainly not me considering one team was named Team Karen (Caring?) and the other Team Not This Winter Body, both made up ofactors hams with familiar faces, boundless energy and extensive props.
That they're all marvelous singers only makes it more improbable since they can't use their voices. It's people like me who can't carry a tune in a bucket who should be lip syncing, but we're not big enough hams.
As usual, there was shit-talking ("Their team is so scared, they ran away"), classic Madonna ("Holiday"), $1 Monopoly bills thrown at the audience, and beer-guzzling to determine who went first.
Another time, who went first was determined by which contestant could find and don full winter attire first (I supplied my gloves to help Team Not This Winter Body come out on top). Yet another time, a Kleenex box of ping pong balls tied to two contestants' backsides were emptied via booty popping.
They're a creative lot, that's for sure.
The friends I'd brought were good sports, not to mention fully invested, with her getting up to tell a groan-worthy Christmas joke (when Santa asks the Mrs. about the weather, she says, "I see rain, dear") during a technical difficulty and him obligingly blowing bubbles once they'd been handed off to him so the team could finish their dancing and fake singing amid a cloud of bubbles.
The cheers were almost deafening when Chelsea did "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend," complete with striptease that included yanking a guy in Santa pajamas from the audience to use as her plaything. He turned out to be part of the act, no surprise given his wildly hilarious mannerisms and admirable agility.
During intermission, the newlyweds regaled me with their month-long itinerary for South Africa, which would be enviable enough simply for the fantastic location, but crossed into full-on jealousy territory upon hearing that the first week is solely devoted to massages, yoga and sex.
This, too, can be yours, with enough Late Night Lip Sync, my friends.
During the improv round, teams alternated sending someone to the center for each unexpected holiday song played, but most of them were bested by holiday hits that predated them.
Witness Elvis' "Blue Christmas" that was more pelvic thrusting than lip syncing, a complete blank on Elton John's "Step into Christmas" and an audience member who laid down onstage for "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer," although again, there wasn't much attempt at the words, just the action.
Anyone can run over Grandma, it's singing about it that's hard, that's all I'm saying.
Without a doubt, the pinnacle of the evening was when Team Not This Winter Body - clad in awful Christmas sweaters and antenna headbands - did their choreographed finale, which managed to touch down on every possible holiday laugh using scores of props in the process.
Want proof? "All I Want for Christmas" segued seamlessly into "Dick in a Box" (gift-wrapped, natch), before "The Christmas Song" began (wherein a team member squatted over a felt fire for the line, "Chestnuts roasting, yada, yada), only to become "Santa Baby" followed by an updated "Mr. Grinch."
In what may have been my favorite moment of the entire mash-up, it was the two male members who appropriately nailed "Sisters" from "White Christmas" (as only men can do), while Mannheim Steamroller's overwrought "Carol of the Bells" had the entire team dramatically playing imaginary classical instruments before becoming a Rockettes-like kick line for "We Need a Little Christmas."
Good as Team Karen/Caring's boy band tribute was, and it rocked, Team Not This Winter Body took home the imaginary prize.
Meanwhile, Santa only knows how many relationships were born tonight out of so much talent providing so much hilarity. Study results will be out in a year or so.
In February 2015, I invited a friend to join me at the Basement to see my first ever Lip Sync contest and he brought along the brilliant and beautiful young woman he'd been dating for less than a month. Both had a fabulous evening and agreed that they'd never in their lives laughed so hard. Ever.
Those two crazy kids got married last week. Coincidence? I don't think so.
When I got the invitation for tonight's Late Night Lip Sync, I naturally invited them to join me, but with plans to leave for their honeymoon Monday, they weren't sure they'd make it, so I signed on a friend and his main squeeze, only to learn that - wait for it - she'd been part of the very first Lip Sync event at Rare Old Times.
Oh, and by the way, they moved in together last week and they're getting married next summer. Is anyone seeing a pattern yet?
All of which is just prelude because I arrived with the latter couple tonight after a shared meal, got situated in the front row with them and moments later was greeted by the former couple, who'd done just enough packing and preparation for their trip to feel justified in having a raucous night out laughing before they vacate the 804.
Once again, I was surrounded by my people, all of them madly in love and incidentally major fans of Late Night Lip Sync. But then, who wouldn't be?
Certainly not me considering one team was named Team Karen (Caring?) and the other Team Not This Winter Body, both made up of
That they're all marvelous singers only makes it more improbable since they can't use their voices. It's people like me who can't carry a tune in a bucket who should be lip syncing, but we're not big enough hams.
As usual, there was shit-talking ("Their team is so scared, they ran away"), classic Madonna ("Holiday"), $1 Monopoly bills thrown at the audience, and beer-guzzling to determine who went first.
Another time, who went first was determined by which contestant could find and don full winter attire first (I supplied my gloves to help Team Not This Winter Body come out on top). Yet another time, a Kleenex box of ping pong balls tied to two contestants' backsides were emptied via booty popping.
They're a creative lot, that's for sure.
The friends I'd brought were good sports, not to mention fully invested, with her getting up to tell a groan-worthy Christmas joke (when Santa asks the Mrs. about the weather, she says, "I see rain, dear") during a technical difficulty and him obligingly blowing bubbles once they'd been handed off to him so the team could finish their dancing and fake singing amid a cloud of bubbles.
The cheers were almost deafening when Chelsea did "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend," complete with striptease that included yanking a guy in Santa pajamas from the audience to use as her plaything. He turned out to be part of the act, no surprise given his wildly hilarious mannerisms and admirable agility.
During intermission, the newlyweds regaled me with their month-long itinerary for South Africa, which would be enviable enough simply for the fantastic location, but crossed into full-on jealousy territory upon hearing that the first week is solely devoted to massages, yoga and sex.
This, too, can be yours, with enough Late Night Lip Sync, my friends.
During the improv round, teams alternated sending someone to the center for each unexpected holiday song played, but most of them were bested by holiday hits that predated them.
Witness Elvis' "Blue Christmas" that was more pelvic thrusting than lip syncing, a complete blank on Elton John's "Step into Christmas" and an audience member who laid down onstage for "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer," although again, there wasn't much attempt at the words, just the action.
Anyone can run over Grandma, it's singing about it that's hard, that's all I'm saying.
Without a doubt, the pinnacle of the evening was when Team Not This Winter Body - clad in awful Christmas sweaters and antenna headbands - did their choreographed finale, which managed to touch down on every possible holiday laugh using scores of props in the process.
Want proof? "All I Want for Christmas" segued seamlessly into "Dick in a Box" (gift-wrapped, natch), before "The Christmas Song" began (wherein a team member squatted over a felt fire for the line, "Chestnuts roasting, yada, yada), only to become "Santa Baby" followed by an updated "Mr. Grinch."
In what may have been my favorite moment of the entire mash-up, it was the two male members who appropriately nailed "Sisters" from "White Christmas" (as only men can do), while Mannheim Steamroller's overwrought "Carol of the Bells" had the entire team dramatically playing imaginary classical instruments before becoming a Rockettes-like kick line for "We Need a Little Christmas."
Good as Team Karen/Caring's boy band tribute was, and it rocked, Team Not This Winter Body took home the imaginary prize.
Meanwhile, Santa only knows how many relationships were born tonight out of so much talent providing so much hilarity. Study results will be out in a year or so.
Monday, August 29, 2016
Are You Feeling Lucky?
My windfall amounted to what the Dutch paid the Native Americans to buy Manhattan.
After an abbreviated walk, a monster brunch and a semi-thorough reading of today's Washington Post, I sallied forth to TheatreLAB in the Basement, pausing only to chat up the handsome Gallery 5 curator along the way.
The Basement was bare bones tonight, sporting no more than a table with four silver Art Deco sconces, a mic stand and what looked like someone's AV Club set-up with a movie screen, podium with projection device and chair with laptop.
Next to me was a student quartet who aspired to do comedy and lived in Carver, undoubtedly a rich source from which to pull comedic material. The one next to me was a sophomore from Staunton, his major still undeclared.
I reminded him that few guys know what they want to do at his age. "So true!" he said seriously.
Tonight's host was Mary Jane French, whose comedy sprawled somewhere in the gender politics arena (vulva versus vagina was patiently explained), hardly surprising given MJ's birth as a girl in a boy's body.
Now on estrogen, she proudly showed off her new assets ("These are the newest breasts you'll see on a 22-year old") in a very familiar-looking black and blue polka-dotted dress.
"Does it count as privilege for a lady comedian to be able to talk about her dick?" she quipped. Yes, yes I believe it does.
Ken, a delivery guy for an unnamed Mom and Pop pizza joint, spent his time pacing while making jokes about 9/11, Kid Rock and Michael J. Fox having Parkinson's disease (his most offensive joke, he claimed).
"People don't like when I talk about tragedy onstage," he admitted. Not entirely true since we laughed at some of it.
Dimpled Mary Jane returned to show off her many talents, including playing harmonica and doing impressions.
Brandon wanted to dissect people who had both Trump and UR bumper stickers (both are good at spending their Dad's money) and praised meth as a hipster drug because it was made in small batches and crafted locally.
I thought that exceptionally funny.
He steered clear of white girls with dreadlocks, he said, because "they've already shown they make bad choices." Tell me about it.
During intermission, I went outside to warm up and it was there, in the stairwell, that MJ asked me and some other people if we wanted to buy raffle tickets.
A dollar a piece, ten for $5 or $10 for tickets stretching the length of MJ's leg (considerable, I can assure you, but also recently denuded by laser hair removal), so I dropped $5 on ten chances.
More importantly, I shared with MJ that the polka dot dress she was wearing was identical to one I wore in Aruba in '86. I have photos to prove it. "Did you donate it to Diversity Thrift because that's where I got it?" she asked. Negative.
Still, she liked the retro angle. "But that thrills me to know that."
The duo next to me were debating spicy options for his birthday dinner tomorrow, so I passed on some of my eating expertise. All in all, I think it was intermission time used wisely.
Back inside, the students in my row were talking about their band-in-the-making. One crowed about how they could all trade off instruments, but the one in the torn overalls demurred, saying he could only sing and write songs. His friend was quite sure he could also play bass.
"I could sing and play bass, but nobody does that," he said, admitting his lack of musical history knowledge. Um, hello Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy? Paul McCartney? Sting?
He was properly chastened. Once he learns bass, he's all set.
Next up was Sensible Comedy of which MJ was a part, but tonight her sole role was running AV. So we'd watch a brief film called, say, "The Homophobe" on the screen and then see a live skit about a game show featuring a young couple answering questions about each other.
For example, "Sarah, how many times has Alex come home and been distant to you?" was followed by, "Every day!" and they got 100 points. When asked if Alex still loved her (both said no), they won the grand prize for matching answers.
After a film called "The Bisexual," the skit featured a guy tasting a flight at a craft brewery, with each beer style described as this, that and "extra hops." The final taste came in a bucket and featured beer filtered through the brewmaster's kidneys, with the addition of a sweaty wife-beater and, you guessed it, extra hops.
Needless to say, it was served warm.
Chris from Ruckersville ("Twenty miles north of and 50 years behind Charlottesville") targeted the guy in the overalls next to me, inquiring of him if he was an Amish hipster. He tried for a quick butter joke and failed.
Since he was black, he could make jokes about Monticello glorifying its slaves quarters to make a buck ("They offer an emancipation fast pass for only $38 and I'm wondering where the friends and family discount is?") and when they got laughs, could say, "Ooh, lot of white guilt in this room."
Hilarious with great delivery, he talked Trump, throwing in some political references including mentioning Dukakis, which struck me as particularly funny. "Thanks, ma'am, for laughing," he said and turned to the crowd. "He was from the '80s, guys."
The only thing left to do by that point was for Mary Jane to pull a raffle ticket winner and it wound up being mine, making me the proud recipient of $24.
Not a bad score for an undeclared evening spent laughing.
After an abbreviated walk, a monster brunch and a semi-thorough reading of today's Washington Post, I sallied forth to TheatreLAB in the Basement, pausing only to chat up the handsome Gallery 5 curator along the way.
The Basement was bare bones tonight, sporting no more than a table with four silver Art Deco sconces, a mic stand and what looked like someone's AV Club set-up with a movie screen, podium with projection device and chair with laptop.
Next to me was a student quartet who aspired to do comedy and lived in Carver, undoubtedly a rich source from which to pull comedic material. The one next to me was a sophomore from Staunton, his major still undeclared.
I reminded him that few guys know what they want to do at his age. "So true!" he said seriously.
Tonight's host was Mary Jane French, whose comedy sprawled somewhere in the gender politics arena (vulva versus vagina was patiently explained), hardly surprising given MJ's birth as a girl in a boy's body.
Now on estrogen, she proudly showed off her new assets ("These are the newest breasts you'll see on a 22-year old") in a very familiar-looking black and blue polka-dotted dress.
"Does it count as privilege for a lady comedian to be able to talk about her dick?" she quipped. Yes, yes I believe it does.
Ken, a delivery guy for an unnamed Mom and Pop pizza joint, spent his time pacing while making jokes about 9/11, Kid Rock and Michael J. Fox having Parkinson's disease (his most offensive joke, he claimed).
"People don't like when I talk about tragedy onstage," he admitted. Not entirely true since we laughed at some of it.
Dimpled Mary Jane returned to show off her many talents, including playing harmonica and doing impressions.
Brandon wanted to dissect people who had both Trump and UR bumper stickers (both are good at spending their Dad's money) and praised meth as a hipster drug because it was made in small batches and crafted locally.
I thought that exceptionally funny.
He steered clear of white girls with dreadlocks, he said, because "they've already shown they make bad choices." Tell me about it.
During intermission, I went outside to warm up and it was there, in the stairwell, that MJ asked me and some other people if we wanted to buy raffle tickets.
A dollar a piece, ten for $5 or $10 for tickets stretching the length of MJ's leg (considerable, I can assure you, but also recently denuded by laser hair removal), so I dropped $5 on ten chances.
More importantly, I shared with MJ that the polka dot dress she was wearing was identical to one I wore in Aruba in '86. I have photos to prove it. "Did you donate it to Diversity Thrift because that's where I got it?" she asked. Negative.
Still, she liked the retro angle. "But that thrills me to know that."
The duo next to me were debating spicy options for his birthday dinner tomorrow, so I passed on some of my eating expertise. All in all, I think it was intermission time used wisely.
Back inside, the students in my row were talking about their band-in-the-making. One crowed about how they could all trade off instruments, but the one in the torn overalls demurred, saying he could only sing and write songs. His friend was quite sure he could also play bass.
"I could sing and play bass, but nobody does that," he said, admitting his lack of musical history knowledge. Um, hello Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy? Paul McCartney? Sting?
He was properly chastened. Once he learns bass, he's all set.
Next up was Sensible Comedy of which MJ was a part, but tonight her sole role was running AV. So we'd watch a brief film called, say, "The Homophobe" on the screen and then see a live skit about a game show featuring a young couple answering questions about each other.
For example, "Sarah, how many times has Alex come home and been distant to you?" was followed by, "Every day!" and they got 100 points. When asked if Alex still loved her (both said no), they won the grand prize for matching answers.
After a film called "The Bisexual," the skit featured a guy tasting a flight at a craft brewery, with each beer style described as this, that and "extra hops." The final taste came in a bucket and featured beer filtered through the brewmaster's kidneys, with the addition of a sweaty wife-beater and, you guessed it, extra hops.
Needless to say, it was served warm.
Chris from Ruckersville ("Twenty miles north of and 50 years behind Charlottesville") targeted the guy in the overalls next to me, inquiring of him if he was an Amish hipster. He tried for a quick butter joke and failed.
Since he was black, he could make jokes about Monticello glorifying its slaves quarters to make a buck ("They offer an emancipation fast pass for only $38 and I'm wondering where the friends and family discount is?") and when they got laughs, could say, "Ooh, lot of white guilt in this room."
Hilarious with great delivery, he talked Trump, throwing in some political references including mentioning Dukakis, which struck me as particularly funny. "Thanks, ma'am, for laughing," he said and turned to the crowd. "He was from the '80s, guys."
The only thing left to do by that point was for Mary Jane to pull a raffle ticket winner and it wound up being mine, making me the proud recipient of $24.
Not a bad score for an undeclared evening spent laughing.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Lean In to Discomfort
When the world around you seems to be falling apart, you do your part to start knitting it back together.
By the time I got the notification about the RVA Roundtable on Race, it was full. I felt lame until reading that it filled up in less than an hour. My name went on the waiting list, along with enough others that a second session was scheduled.
My fist thought was to invite Mac to join me since we'd just been discussing this subject a few nights ago. What are inherently privileged white women going to do to make things better? Both of us were willing to join a roomful of strangers to find out.
We set out from my house, she with a fetching straw hat and me with an umbrella, intent on joining Stoplight Gelato for today's grand opening celebration. This long-time J-Ward resident has had to schlep to Carytown for ten years for her ice cream fix.
No more. Love you, Bev's, but sometimes a girl only wants to walk three blocks for frozen dairy product.
The place was bustling, the case full of appealingly rich-looking gelato and within no time, a tiny woman came over to thank us for stopping by. I reversed the thanks, happy to have a source in the 'hood. And unlike some places, portions are sized right, prices are just as fitting and the place oozes charm.
I got a cup of mint chip with chocolate bourbon sauce and Mac went with a sugar cone of coconut to enjoy as we sauntered over to the Black History Museum and Cultural Center for the roundtable, passing by the usual Sunday neighborhood characters in place, some under the shade of large Crepe Myrtle trees with coolers and a radio blaring a soul station, others sweating it out playing basketball in the bright afternoon sun.
Once inside the new museum, we joined participants, taking chairs in one of the small circles already occupied with a black man and woman. A younger white woman soon joined us and we were complete.
Like many facilitated discussions I've attended at the Valentine, the idea was to get us talking, first in our small groups, then together as a larger whole. A few rules- let one person speak at a time, use "I" not "you," but most importantly, "lean into discomfort."
About damn time.
The first questions involved our names and their significance, a subject that provided more fodder for discussion than you might thing.
When asked how many people have had their name mispronounced in their life, probanly close to 90% of the room raised their hand. My name is too basic for that, so I was one of the holdouts.
A woman in the back raised her hand and talked about frequent garbling of her names. "We took phonics out of learning years ago and it messed up the whole world!" she said. Preach it, sister.
Another woman said she'd married a Bobbit, with all the baggage that brought, and a round of laughter erupted. I looked at the young woman in my group and leaned over to ask her if she knew the reference. She didn't.
He was the first man most people read about whose wife had lopped off his member, I explained as her eyes grew wide. We elders have to pass on our knowledge to the young.
Moving through questions and discussions, it was startling to hear some of the stories. One man recalled confusion as a child about the races. "But, Daddy, that man ain't white, he's Jewish!" One woman told of her father having to pay a poll tax to vote. A SW Virginia resident said the KKK is still very active near where she lives today.
And it wasn't just native Richmonders, either. There were people who came up in the Bronx, Queens, Bed-Stuy and the southside of Chicago, all with interesting experiences when it came to race. One woman spoke of a brother who consistently broke the law, disrespected policemen and never got in any real trouble. Because he was white.
"White privilege means getting second chances," one white woman succinctly said.
After brainstorming how to move forward collectively, we cleared the room, so session number two could convene. It's a start and that's something.
The only logical thing to do was to march our privileged white butts over to the Basement to participate in their "Haikus for Change: Poetry to your legislators" event. I'd already scribbled out a first effort and I talked Mac through creating her own as we walked over to Third.
I was inspired by the scene- some people were being filmed reading their haikus, others quietly writing on the carpet or at high-top tables. All purposeful. I wrote my haiku on a sheet of paper and then wrote another. Name and address of registered voter. Boom. Done.
Seventeen simple syllables each about things that matter to me. They're graciously taking care of the enveloping and mailing to our lawmakers.
We, the people, right? Emphasis on "We."
By the time I got the notification about the RVA Roundtable on Race, it was full. I felt lame until reading that it filled up in less than an hour. My name went on the waiting list, along with enough others that a second session was scheduled.
My fist thought was to invite Mac to join me since we'd just been discussing this subject a few nights ago. What are inherently privileged white women going to do to make things better? Both of us were willing to join a roomful of strangers to find out.
We set out from my house, she with a fetching straw hat and me with an umbrella, intent on joining Stoplight Gelato for today's grand opening celebration. This long-time J-Ward resident has had to schlep to Carytown for ten years for her ice cream fix.
No more. Love you, Bev's, but sometimes a girl only wants to walk three blocks for frozen dairy product.
The place was bustling, the case full of appealingly rich-looking gelato and within no time, a tiny woman came over to thank us for stopping by. I reversed the thanks, happy to have a source in the 'hood. And unlike some places, portions are sized right, prices are just as fitting and the place oozes charm.
I got a cup of mint chip with chocolate bourbon sauce and Mac went with a sugar cone of coconut to enjoy as we sauntered over to the Black History Museum and Cultural Center for the roundtable, passing by the usual Sunday neighborhood characters in place, some under the shade of large Crepe Myrtle trees with coolers and a radio blaring a soul station, others sweating it out playing basketball in the bright afternoon sun.
Once inside the new museum, we joined participants, taking chairs in one of the small circles already occupied with a black man and woman. A younger white woman soon joined us and we were complete.
Like many facilitated discussions I've attended at the Valentine, the idea was to get us talking, first in our small groups, then together as a larger whole. A few rules- let one person speak at a time, use "I" not "you," but most importantly, "lean into discomfort."
About damn time.
The first questions involved our names and their significance, a subject that provided more fodder for discussion than you might thing.
When asked how many people have had their name mispronounced in their life, probanly close to 90% of the room raised their hand. My name is too basic for that, so I was one of the holdouts.
A woman in the back raised her hand and talked about frequent garbling of her names. "We took phonics out of learning years ago and it messed up the whole world!" she said. Preach it, sister.
Another woman said she'd married a Bobbit, with all the baggage that brought, and a round of laughter erupted. I looked at the young woman in my group and leaned over to ask her if she knew the reference. She didn't.
He was the first man most people read about whose wife had lopped off his member, I explained as her eyes grew wide. We elders have to pass on our knowledge to the young.
Moving through questions and discussions, it was startling to hear some of the stories. One man recalled confusion as a child about the races. "But, Daddy, that man ain't white, he's Jewish!" One woman told of her father having to pay a poll tax to vote. A SW Virginia resident said the KKK is still very active near where she lives today.
And it wasn't just native Richmonders, either. There were people who came up in the Bronx, Queens, Bed-Stuy and the southside of Chicago, all with interesting experiences when it came to race. One woman spoke of a brother who consistently broke the law, disrespected policemen and never got in any real trouble. Because he was white.
"White privilege means getting second chances," one white woman succinctly said.
After brainstorming how to move forward collectively, we cleared the room, so session number two could convene. It's a start and that's something.
The only logical thing to do was to march our privileged white butts over to the Basement to participate in their "Haikus for Change: Poetry to your legislators" event. I'd already scribbled out a first effort and I talked Mac through creating her own as we walked over to Third.
I was inspired by the scene- some people were being filmed reading their haikus, others quietly writing on the carpet or at high-top tables. All purposeful. I wrote my haiku on a sheet of paper and then wrote another. Name and address of registered voter. Boom. Done.
Seventeen simple syllables each about things that matter to me. They're graciously taking care of the enveloping and mailing to our lawmakers.
We, the people, right? Emphasis on "We."
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Highway to the Danger Zone
So, those 18 years of near daily walking? Paid off in spades by 10:30 this morning.
"You've got a badass walk," a guy informs me on Cary Street as I walk toward Can Can to have an apricot scone while my companion destroys a half baguette, the sausage of the day and a French Press.
Badass, you read that right.
Fittingly, I end the day with Mac, who never seems to have an umbrella on a rainy day (you have to appreciate a person's idiosyncrasies) despite prodigious walking skills but who doesn't mind borrowing or mocking one of mine (what's a few broken spokes between friends?).
Umbrellas in hand, we made it to Saison Market before the deluge was unleashed on J-Ward. There was an appropriately groovy alternative soundtrack while we ate the Springiest of Spring salads: asparagus, fresh peas, pea shoots, radishes, carrots, pickled onions and goat cheese lovingly drizzled with a practically perfect coriander vinaigrette.
Because how much help, really, do Spring vegetables need?
Fact is, I've been craving asparagus since spotting bunches of local Northern Neck asparagus on the counter at Ellen's store yesterday.
We followed our salads with oxtail sopas, which looked so enticing that a woman who sat down next to us asked what they were as if she might order them. Originally from Mechanicsville, she'd worked at an Applebee's there, which had proved to her that she needed to escape Mechanicsville ignorance and move into the city (her words).
A trip to the loo resulted in a memorization exercise when I flipped on the light switch and found the bulbs burnt out, but I only had to open the door once to determine the position of the essentials. Mac's subsequent visit benefited from me alerting the staff to the darkness problem and only then did I learn that the chalkboard wall in the loo had become a tribute to Prince. Sorry to have missed that.
I didn't even need the purple umbrella for the trek to The Basement, but the front had changed dramatically while we were eating, making it far cooler and drier than it had been pre-rain.
On Broad Street, we ran into some theater types "taking a walk" which they said was code for "sharing some gossip and talking about people," and isn't that one reason why having a walking buddy is essential sometimes?
Down the steps to the Basement we went, only to be greeted by the Prince station playing - although naturally there was no actual Prince music - but who's going to whine about Sheila E. and MJ?
My only complaint was when a Marvin Gay song came on and someone (Mags, was that you?) skipped it forward to Earth, Wind and Fire, whom I have nothing against (in fact, everything for) but seriously, no one at any time should ever be allowed to skip Marvin.
While the music was Purple-themed, the Basment's loo read, "Have you kissed a Canadian today?' with a drawing of a maple leaf beneath it. And you know what? I hadn't.
Tonight's comedy show was called "The Set Up" and featured four of Richmond Comedy Theatre's finest doing long-form improv on the set of TheatreLAB's current production of "Venus in Fur." For the uninitiated, this gave them access to a lounge chair (the kind psychiatrists had in their offices in Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies in the '50s and '60s), a desk, a radiator, two metal folding chairs and a fur coat.
Oh, yes, and a flip phone that was touted as a "brand new $800 Nokia phone" and got tons of laughs.
Using a bad Uncle Cracker song (redundant, I know) as a starting point, the first two actors took the lyric, "Swim through your veins like a fish in the sea" as their starting point for a riff on a shaky marriage ("I told you marrying me was a big mistake"), a Caddyshack-themed wedding ("Remember when the priest came out of the hole in the ground?") and a deluded attempt to arrange for more couple quality time to get the magic back by having their daughter kidnapped ("I have to come home every night and clean up my life!").
The crowd wasn't large but most everyone was doubled over with laughter watching masturbation under a fur coat and frustration with putting shoes on ("Double knots!").
Two people in the audience became part of the show with their non-stop commentary ("Oh, no, he did not just do that!") and reactions (hand slap to forehead, shaking head in disgust) as the drama and comedy unfolded.
Intermission gave everyone time to refill their glasses and give their face a rest from cracking up. Those of us huddled under a windbreaker were thrilled when the artistic director dialed back the A/C and put the warmth back in May.
For the second skit, the jumping off point was a song called "Nobody's Darlin' But Mine" - somebody in the audience's wedding song, awwww - with a line about, "Come lay your sweet head on my brow."
Somehow, this took us to the Founding Fathers' penchant for rye whiskey ("That's how they balled out") and getting the McGillicuddy contact ("Mama's gonna eat a lobster tonight!"). Maybe you have to be there to understand the transition, but it made perfect sense at the time.
What soon became clear was that when someone gets a grant to map the genome of a human squirrel, it's just a hop, skip and a jump to her injecting herself with squirrel venom containing squirrel genome.
The only problem with someone admitting, "I'm going to level with you, I'm 75% squirrel now," is that it also means they now have strong, furry thighs to climb a tree and that's not everyone's cup of tea (or bag of nuts).
With a cohabitation clause stipulating, "And they lived happily ever after" in her work contact, the squirrel woman finds out that contractually, she has to live in a tree with her coworker.
When he offers to inject himself with squirrel venom, she tells him, "I'm not attracted to squirrels," but she does sit him down to school him on what is and is not acceptable to say to squirrels.
She didn't mention it, but I'm pretty sure it's always okay to tell a human squirrel that she has a badass scamper. It's all in the furry thighs.
"You've got a badass walk," a guy informs me on Cary Street as I walk toward Can Can to have an apricot scone while my companion destroys a half baguette, the sausage of the day and a French Press.
Badass, you read that right.
Fittingly, I end the day with Mac, who never seems to have an umbrella on a rainy day (you have to appreciate a person's idiosyncrasies) despite prodigious walking skills but who doesn't mind borrowing or mocking one of mine (what's a few broken spokes between friends?).
Umbrellas in hand, we made it to Saison Market before the deluge was unleashed on J-Ward. There was an appropriately groovy alternative soundtrack while we ate the Springiest of Spring salads: asparagus, fresh peas, pea shoots, radishes, carrots, pickled onions and goat cheese lovingly drizzled with a practically perfect coriander vinaigrette.
Because how much help, really, do Spring vegetables need?
Fact is, I've been craving asparagus since spotting bunches of local Northern Neck asparagus on the counter at Ellen's store yesterday.
We followed our salads with oxtail sopas, which looked so enticing that a woman who sat down next to us asked what they were as if she might order them. Originally from Mechanicsville, she'd worked at an Applebee's there, which had proved to her that she needed to escape Mechanicsville ignorance and move into the city (her words).
A trip to the loo resulted in a memorization exercise when I flipped on the light switch and found the bulbs burnt out, but I only had to open the door once to determine the position of the essentials. Mac's subsequent visit benefited from me alerting the staff to the darkness problem and only then did I learn that the chalkboard wall in the loo had become a tribute to Prince. Sorry to have missed that.
I didn't even need the purple umbrella for the trek to The Basement, but the front had changed dramatically while we were eating, making it far cooler and drier than it had been pre-rain.
On Broad Street, we ran into some theater types "taking a walk" which they said was code for "sharing some gossip and talking about people," and isn't that one reason why having a walking buddy is essential sometimes?
Down the steps to the Basement we went, only to be greeted by the Prince station playing - although naturally there was no actual Prince music - but who's going to whine about Sheila E. and MJ?
My only complaint was when a Marvin Gay song came on and someone (Mags, was that you?) skipped it forward to Earth, Wind and Fire, whom I have nothing against (in fact, everything for) but seriously, no one at any time should ever be allowed to skip Marvin.
While the music was Purple-themed, the Basment's loo read, "Have you kissed a Canadian today?' with a drawing of a maple leaf beneath it. And you know what? I hadn't.
Tonight's comedy show was called "The Set Up" and featured four of Richmond Comedy Theatre's finest doing long-form improv on the set of TheatreLAB's current production of "Venus in Fur." For the uninitiated, this gave them access to a lounge chair (the kind psychiatrists had in their offices in Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies in the '50s and '60s), a desk, a radiator, two metal folding chairs and a fur coat.
Oh, yes, and a flip phone that was touted as a "brand new $800 Nokia phone" and got tons of laughs.
Using a bad Uncle Cracker song (redundant, I know) as a starting point, the first two actors took the lyric, "Swim through your veins like a fish in the sea" as their starting point for a riff on a shaky marriage ("I told you marrying me was a big mistake"), a Caddyshack-themed wedding ("Remember when the priest came out of the hole in the ground?") and a deluded attempt to arrange for more couple quality time to get the magic back by having their daughter kidnapped ("I have to come home every night and clean up my life!").
The crowd wasn't large but most everyone was doubled over with laughter watching masturbation under a fur coat and frustration with putting shoes on ("Double knots!").
Two people in the audience became part of the show with their non-stop commentary ("Oh, no, he did not just do that!") and reactions (hand slap to forehead, shaking head in disgust) as the drama and comedy unfolded.
Intermission gave everyone time to refill their glasses and give their face a rest from cracking up. Those of us huddled under a windbreaker were thrilled when the artistic director dialed back the A/C and put the warmth back in May.
For the second skit, the jumping off point was a song called "Nobody's Darlin' But Mine" - somebody in the audience's wedding song, awwww - with a line about, "Come lay your sweet head on my brow."
Somehow, this took us to the Founding Fathers' penchant for rye whiskey ("That's how they balled out") and getting the McGillicuddy contact ("Mama's gonna eat a lobster tonight!"). Maybe you have to be there to understand the transition, but it made perfect sense at the time.
What soon became clear was that when someone gets a grant to map the genome of a human squirrel, it's just a hop, skip and a jump to her injecting herself with squirrel venom containing squirrel genome.
The only problem with someone admitting, "I'm going to level with you, I'm 75% squirrel now," is that it also means they now have strong, furry thighs to climb a tree and that's not everyone's cup of tea (or bag of nuts).
With a cohabitation clause stipulating, "And they lived happily ever after" in her work contact, the squirrel woman finds out that contractually, she has to live in a tree with her coworker.
When he offers to inject himself with squirrel venom, she tells him, "I'm not attracted to squirrels," but she does sit him down to school him on what is and is not acceptable to say to squirrels.
She didn't mention it, but I'm pretty sure it's always okay to tell a human squirrel that she has a badass scamper. It's all in the furry thighs.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Sunday: A Post-Electric Day
Rooting around Clay Street, that's what the pig was doing.
Walking over to The Basement for TheatreLAB's Roast and Toast, I came to a gray pig rooting around in the upturned dirt of a tiny front yard two blocks down the street.
Wait, a pig?
A guy was riding down the sidewalk on his bike, earbuds in, but that didn't stop me from tapping him on the shoulder to get his opinion on spotting a farm animal in J-Ward. He stopped, stared and looked at me incredulously. "It is a pig!"
Call us agog because we were.
From across the street, a woman called to ask if the pig was upsetting us. Please. It was easily the most unexpectedly charming thing I could have come upon strolling down the street and I told her so. She looked relieved.
Almost at the Basement, I fell into step with a woman who said hello and looked at my feet. "I like your toenail polish," she says of my silver polish, a leftover from a disco party I went to over a year ago but keep using. "It looks like you're really jammin'," she tells me.
Oh, honey, if you only knew.
At TheatreLAB, I found the usual theater suspects - during intermission a girl took selfies with her tongue stuck out Gene Simmons-style - along with breakfast items suited to a noon start to the party: mimosas, yogurt, fruit and granola and, most importantly, doughnuts. When I saw a young woman reach for yogurt, I let her know that doughnuts lurked just on the other side of the group of people next to us.
Putting her bowl back on the table, she looked at me incredulously. "Then why am I wasting my time with this?" she asked rhetorically. I'm here to help, kid.
Taking the stage, Deejay, Evan, Maggie and McLean proceeded to poke fun at everyone from theater critics to play choices to themselves. They played Pictionary with one theater's season, "Gay Family Feud" for another's and "Two Truths and a Lie" with yet a third.
No one was spared spoofing
Categories for Theater Jeopardy included "Actors drunk at other people's plays," "Name that Naked McLean Jessie play" and "Napping during Cat in the Hat Plays," a sweeping indictment of both CAT Theater and HATT Theater.
"Did anyone actually see that play?" our hosts joked. From the front row, a guy said, "I directed it." Ouch.
Such was the nature of all the barbs - sharply observed, honest whether politically correct or not and laugh-out-loud worthy - that eventually every theater type in this town had been skewered. It was easy to miss a crack still laughing from the last.
McLean's big announcement that she's off to DC to get her master's had her lamenting, "It's like I'm leaving just when we have money to finally pay ourselves!"
With visibly shaking hands trying to read from a piece of paper, creative director Deejay ("It's like I never spoke up here before") announced the new season, "Women at War," causing spontaneous applause because they'll all be women-directed performances. The Cellar series will all be one-woman shows.
From the back of the room, McLean had the afternoon's best line: "If all you guys just got disappointed hearing that, that's how it feels."
Right on, Sister Bogeywoman (look it up, kids).
Interspersed with announcements, we saw monologues from the upcoming plays, hearing from directors and actors.
Second best line: director Keri Womald, saying, "This company is the shit." I couldn't have said it better myself.
Walking home with the intent of checking on the neighborhood pig, I passed friends sitting outside enjoying beverages on this delightful afternoon. We spoke through the bars of their fence until they invited me in to chat about their experience at the new Quirk rooftop bar Friday night. Like me, they're hoping to make it a neighborhood stop during off hours when the mobs are elsewhere.
Expecting to impress them with my pig siting, I was thrown off when they said they'd seen someone with a pig on a leash in Abner Clay Park. He'd spotted it and called her over so he had a witness. Crazy.
Back at home, I dipped into today's Washington Post, out on my porch reading about a 70-year old who'd just this February had sex reassignment surgery after a lifetime of knowing he was a girl in a boy's body. Best of all, his wife of all those years was 100% behind him on it. It's gratifying to know that 70 is not to late to change your life and that love extends beyond a previously-defined set of genitals.
Taking advantage of the gorgeous day, I walked over to Cask Cafe late, late in the afternoon (early evening?) because Lucy's was doing a burger pop-up, grilling out behind the restaurant. So, yes, I was walking two miles to eat food from a nearby Jackson Ward restaurant.
Not the point.
Walking through campus, I complimented a student on a pair of high-waisted jean shorts that looked identical to a pair I had in 1979, but it was her friend in hip-hugger jeans who wanted to chat about how shallow young people today are.
"I listen to classic rock, like the stuff my parents listen to because I fell like all the current music is so shallow and meaningless. No one knows what came before them." She also thought that vintage fashion beat out today's mish-mash of trends encompassing the past half century, showing me the four pieces she'd just scored for $15 at a pop-up vintage shop. "Everything was better before we ruined it."
Out of the mouths of babes.
The natives (students, mostly male) were restless as I walked up Cary Street past houses with porches crowded with guys smoking, drinking, bullshitting and playing loud music in the late afternoon sunshine.
Cask was buzzing with people, windows up and energy high. Lots of familiar faces - the woman I always see there who once bought a Fitz & the Tantrums ticket from me, the shorn beer geek, a favorite chef not long off a brunch shift, the uber-Mom and practiced server, the bearded and bubbly front of the house manager, the town's best bagel-maker - and plenty of raves for the massive burgers.
Hmm, pork bacon or housemade beef bacon? There's a first world problem for you.
A woman complimented my skort and then noticed my top, ecstatic when she realized it was a Spoon t-shirt. "Ohmygod, I saw them at [insert obscure club I never heard of] and they were a-maze-ing!" she gushed.
"You like Spoon?" she asks nonsensically. Are there people who wear band shirts but haven't seen the band? Recognizing a teachable moment, I shared exactly why they appeal to me: his distinctive voice, decidedly clever lyrics, the unaltered guitars so rare these days.
She high-fives me not once but twice about our shared admiration for Spoon. "You're a-maze-ing!" If she only knew.
It wasn't easy getting a bartender's attention to order, but the subsequent cheddar-dripping burger satisfied me into submission about the wait. Lucy's couldn't have asked for a better grilling out day or me a finer perch than the counter at the rolled up garage door facing the old depot and its pastiche of street art.
"I've decided not to worry anymore about first world problems," I overheard a young woman tell her friends. You'll be a much happier person for it, I told her and she lit up. "Really? I thought so! But it works, right?"
Please, let my life experience work for you and save yourself the trouble.
A woman showed up with sprigs of lilacs, my favorite flower, and questions about how best to do Mama J's, a subject on which I am an expert. The chef sat down next to me, bringing gossip about the rebirth of a classic restaurant and disdain for overly fussy food when the subject turned to sculptural Cesar salads.
It was fairly late in the game when I finally saw tonight's menu and realized I had ice cream sandwich options. How had I missed this? Not for me chocolate chip between sugar cookies (makes my teeth ache thinking about it) but I certainly couldn't resist housemade vanilla between thick, chewy chocolate cookies, now could I?
There's a reason it's the classic, the standard-bearer of all ice cream sandwiches.
Even when I'd polished that off, I stayed on, chatting with friends about the new film "Elvis and Nixon," about customers who don't feel bound by waiting for a hostess to seat them and how, unbelievably, some people have never gone to the Byrd Theater. I can only suggest reasons to correct that, I can't make them sit in those seats.
By the time I said my good-nights, the sun had slid into setting mode my back as I wandered back up Cary, far quieter now than it had been four hours earlier. For the record, I did not make a third visit to check on the local swine, secure in the knowledge that he's apparently a Clay Street fixture.
At home, a message awaited from hours earlier. "Leaving Norfolk now. I come bearing fresh oysters. Meet me at my house?"
There's a reason I wear this toenail polish, friend. Word on Broad Street is that I'm really jammin' so I'm bound to miss a last minute invitation here and there. Thank you for asking, though.
A great burger can make you cocky like that.
Walking over to The Basement for TheatreLAB's Roast and Toast, I came to a gray pig rooting around in the upturned dirt of a tiny front yard two blocks down the street.
Wait, a pig?
A guy was riding down the sidewalk on his bike, earbuds in, but that didn't stop me from tapping him on the shoulder to get his opinion on spotting a farm animal in J-Ward. He stopped, stared and looked at me incredulously. "It is a pig!"
Call us agog because we were.
From across the street, a woman called to ask if the pig was upsetting us. Please. It was easily the most unexpectedly charming thing I could have come upon strolling down the street and I told her so. She looked relieved.
Almost at the Basement, I fell into step with a woman who said hello and looked at my feet. "I like your toenail polish," she says of my silver polish, a leftover from a disco party I went to over a year ago but keep using. "It looks like you're really jammin'," she tells me.
Oh, honey, if you only knew.
At TheatreLAB, I found the usual theater suspects - during intermission a girl took selfies with her tongue stuck out Gene Simmons-style - along with breakfast items suited to a noon start to the party: mimosas, yogurt, fruit and granola and, most importantly, doughnuts. When I saw a young woman reach for yogurt, I let her know that doughnuts lurked just on the other side of the group of people next to us.
Putting her bowl back on the table, she looked at me incredulously. "Then why am I wasting my time with this?" she asked rhetorically. I'm here to help, kid.
Taking the stage, Deejay, Evan, Maggie and McLean proceeded to poke fun at everyone from theater critics to play choices to themselves. They played Pictionary with one theater's season, "Gay Family Feud" for another's and "Two Truths and a Lie" with yet a third.
No one was spared spoofing
Categories for Theater Jeopardy included "Actors drunk at other people's plays," "Name that Naked McLean Jessie play" and "Napping during Cat in the Hat Plays," a sweeping indictment of both CAT Theater and HATT Theater.
"Did anyone actually see that play?" our hosts joked. From the front row, a guy said, "I directed it." Ouch.
Such was the nature of all the barbs - sharply observed, honest whether politically correct or not and laugh-out-loud worthy - that eventually every theater type in this town had been skewered. It was easy to miss a crack still laughing from the last.
McLean's big announcement that she's off to DC to get her master's had her lamenting, "It's like I'm leaving just when we have money to finally pay ourselves!"
With visibly shaking hands trying to read from a piece of paper, creative director Deejay ("It's like I never spoke up here before") announced the new season, "Women at War," causing spontaneous applause because they'll all be women-directed performances. The Cellar series will all be one-woman shows.
From the back of the room, McLean had the afternoon's best line: "If all you guys just got disappointed hearing that, that's how it feels."
Right on, Sister Bogeywoman (look it up, kids).
Interspersed with announcements, we saw monologues from the upcoming plays, hearing from directors and actors.
Second best line: director Keri Womald, saying, "This company is the shit." I couldn't have said it better myself.
Walking home with the intent of checking on the neighborhood pig, I passed friends sitting outside enjoying beverages on this delightful afternoon. We spoke through the bars of their fence until they invited me in to chat about their experience at the new Quirk rooftop bar Friday night. Like me, they're hoping to make it a neighborhood stop during off hours when the mobs are elsewhere.
Expecting to impress them with my pig siting, I was thrown off when they said they'd seen someone with a pig on a leash in Abner Clay Park. He'd spotted it and called her over so he had a witness. Crazy.
Back at home, I dipped into today's Washington Post, out on my porch reading about a 70-year old who'd just this February had sex reassignment surgery after a lifetime of knowing he was a girl in a boy's body. Best of all, his wife of all those years was 100% behind him on it. It's gratifying to know that 70 is not to late to change your life and that love extends beyond a previously-defined set of genitals.
Taking advantage of the gorgeous day, I walked over to Cask Cafe late, late in the afternoon (early evening?) because Lucy's was doing a burger pop-up, grilling out behind the restaurant. So, yes, I was walking two miles to eat food from a nearby Jackson Ward restaurant.
Not the point.
Walking through campus, I complimented a student on a pair of high-waisted jean shorts that looked identical to a pair I had in 1979, but it was her friend in hip-hugger jeans who wanted to chat about how shallow young people today are.
"I listen to classic rock, like the stuff my parents listen to because I fell like all the current music is so shallow and meaningless. No one knows what came before them." She also thought that vintage fashion beat out today's mish-mash of trends encompassing the past half century, showing me the four pieces she'd just scored for $15 at a pop-up vintage shop. "Everything was better before we ruined it."
Out of the mouths of babes.
The natives (students, mostly male) were restless as I walked up Cary Street past houses with porches crowded with guys smoking, drinking, bullshitting and playing loud music in the late afternoon sunshine.
Cask was buzzing with people, windows up and energy high. Lots of familiar faces - the woman I always see there who once bought a Fitz & the Tantrums ticket from me, the shorn beer geek, a favorite chef not long off a brunch shift, the uber-Mom and practiced server, the bearded and bubbly front of the house manager, the town's best bagel-maker - and plenty of raves for the massive burgers.
Hmm, pork bacon or housemade beef bacon? There's a first world problem for you.
A woman complimented my skort and then noticed my top, ecstatic when she realized it was a Spoon t-shirt. "Ohmygod, I saw them at [insert obscure club I never heard of] and they were a-maze-ing!" she gushed.
"You like Spoon?" she asks nonsensically. Are there people who wear band shirts but haven't seen the band? Recognizing a teachable moment, I shared exactly why they appeal to me: his distinctive voice, decidedly clever lyrics, the unaltered guitars so rare these days.
She high-fives me not once but twice about our shared admiration for Spoon. "You're a-maze-ing!" If she only knew.
It wasn't easy getting a bartender's attention to order, but the subsequent cheddar-dripping burger satisfied me into submission about the wait. Lucy's couldn't have asked for a better grilling out day or me a finer perch than the counter at the rolled up garage door facing the old depot and its pastiche of street art.
"I've decided not to worry anymore about first world problems," I overheard a young woman tell her friends. You'll be a much happier person for it, I told her and she lit up. "Really? I thought so! But it works, right?"
Please, let my life experience work for you and save yourself the trouble.
A woman showed up with sprigs of lilacs, my favorite flower, and questions about how best to do Mama J's, a subject on which I am an expert. The chef sat down next to me, bringing gossip about the rebirth of a classic restaurant and disdain for overly fussy food when the subject turned to sculptural Cesar salads.
It was fairly late in the game when I finally saw tonight's menu and realized I had ice cream sandwich options. How had I missed this? Not for me chocolate chip between sugar cookies (makes my teeth ache thinking about it) but I certainly couldn't resist housemade vanilla between thick, chewy chocolate cookies, now could I?
There's a reason it's the classic, the standard-bearer of all ice cream sandwiches.
Even when I'd polished that off, I stayed on, chatting with friends about the new film "Elvis and Nixon," about customers who don't feel bound by waiting for a hostess to seat them and how, unbelievably, some people have never gone to the Byrd Theater. I can only suggest reasons to correct that, I can't make them sit in those seats.
By the time I said my good-nights, the sun had slid into setting mode my back as I wandered back up Cary, far quieter now than it had been four hours earlier. For the record, I did not make a third visit to check on the local swine, secure in the knowledge that he's apparently a Clay Street fixture.
At home, a message awaited from hours earlier. "Leaving Norfolk now. I come bearing fresh oysters. Meet me at my house?"
There's a reason I wear this toenail polish, friend. Word on Broad Street is that I'm really jammin' so I'm bound to miss a last minute invitation here and there. Thank you for asking, though.
A great burger can make you cocky like that.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Give Peace a Chance
Some intersections are once-in-a-lifetime experiences.
I seriously doubt I will ever again listen to a poet laureate and living legend on the same night I witness a woman in a mini-trench coat lip sync-ing to "Man, I Feel Like a Woman."
The great January snowstorm Jonas had caused "An Evening with an Icon: Sonia Sanchez" to be rescheduled, allowing even more anticipation for it, so waiting in line for 40 minutes just to get in to the Grace Street Theater despite having bought my ticket two months ago shouldn't have surprised me.
Inside the theater, I sat down between two men, both wearing Bernie buttons (one of whom who had been a Sanders' HQ this afternoon when a 4' cutout of Bernie being arrested during a '60s demonstration had been delivered) and both dedicated jazz nerds.
My only value in the conversation was when it came to current jazz cats (their term) in the local scene, many of whom I've seen play at Balliceaux. The Bernie fan to my right, formerly very active in Detroit's jazz scene and a come-here eight years ago, even asked for a list of local acts to check out.
In return, he gave me a book recommendation, so we're even now.
When he found out I'd done the piece in Style about Sanchez, he leaned in and said, "I wanna thank you for writing that article because otherwise I'd never have known about this." Interestingly enough, he had seen her read her poetry back in the '80s.
First we saw the recent documentary about her, "BaddDDD Sonia Sanchez," a fascinating look at her life as an activist, member of the Black Arts movement, teacher and poet as well as the challenges she'd faced - FBI, being a single mother, recriminations from her father, lack of tenure - for being politically active.
When she was introduced, suddenly scores of phones were held up to capture her arrival and a lot of what she had to say, so I could barely see her onstage for the first ten or so minutes..
Asked about being poet laureate, she told a story of neighborhood children about to fight in front of her house and teaching them how to breathe to unwind. She then surprised everyone in the audience by telling us to stand and do deep ten deep breaths with her as a way of calming, a practice she teaches her students.
"That's what I've been doing as Poet Laureate," she said to much laughter.
She also said many meaningful things, such as, "Each generation has to continue the struggle of the generation before," and "It always comes back to peace," but the most significant admonishment was, "Don't tell me you came and enjoyed this film and you're not going to go back and do something."
I think that's why my seatmates were wearing Bernie pins.
When one man, during the Q & A, asked how his generation could come together in the same way the '60s and '70s generations had, she corrected him, explaining that that only happens once people begin working toward what's important to them and finding like-minded individuals.
Another man asked how to clear his head of negative energy so he could write better and she became my hero by asking, "Do you walk? Walking frames you for the day. It clears the brain," and went on about the benefits of daily walking. As an 81-year old, she would know.
All I can say is, major props to the Afrikana Film Festival for bringing such a culturally important woman to Richmond to share her life and stories with a sold-out audience. This city's cool points were off the charts tonight.
The only way to follow something so wonderfully high-brow was with, um, something quite the opposite?
Tonight was Late Night Lip Sync Battle at the Basement and it's impossible to convey how much fun it is to watch teams of local theater types compete for nothing but bragging rights.
Tonight's battle was even more special because both teams - the Velvet Rope and Cats Don't Care - were all women teams who, as Sonia had proven, are fearless and brilliant (one, a doula, had participated in the delivery of a 9 1/2 pound baby yesterday). They can even dance.
So much estrogen at battle also opened the door to multiple costume and wig changes, a lot of pumps and lipstick as prop.
You have to understand, there's a million points at stake for each round and three million for the final round. That's millions of meaningless points.
In between, there are erotic vegetable poses, scavenger hunts (Sarah won because I gave her my ballpoint pen, the requested item) and beer chugging to determine who goes first.
The Velvet Rope killed it with their opening song, "Alexander Hamilton," complete with whisky bottle and umbrellas to further the story and followed strong with Mary singing lead on Beyonce's "Formation," performed in camouflage jackets while tossing out packets of hot sauce.
Pretty impressive, right?
But then Cats Don't Care retaliated with a song from Disney's "Hercules," which Sarah had never heard before yesterday, having been a late addition to the team and having had parents who didn't let her watch Greek mythology.
Or maybe that was just her story and she was sticking to it.
The Improv round is always terrific because the teams don't know the upcoming songs and have to decide on the spot who will handle each. Their consternation is part of the fun of watching.
Watching these woman take on gems like "Man, I Feel Like a Woman," and "What's Love Got to Do With It?" and "Don't You Want to Dance?" and "My Heart Will Go On" was like a primer in the classic gay karaoke repertoire, pure emoting and overacting that worked the crowd into a drama kid frenzy.
The big finales took it even further with TVR doing "Hey, Now" in fur coats and hats and CDC doing "Bang, Bang" complete with black banged-bob.
For those keeping score at home, Cats Don't Care took home the non-existent prize, but, of course, they didn't care and a dance party ensued.
Mind and body got a workout tonight. Tomorrow, like the icon Sonia Sanchez, I will walk to clear the mind.
Only then can doing something follow.
I seriously doubt I will ever again listen to a poet laureate and living legend on the same night I witness a woman in a mini-trench coat lip sync-ing to "Man, I Feel Like a Woman."
The great January snowstorm Jonas had caused "An Evening with an Icon: Sonia Sanchez" to be rescheduled, allowing even more anticipation for it, so waiting in line for 40 minutes just to get in to the Grace Street Theater despite having bought my ticket two months ago shouldn't have surprised me.
Inside the theater, I sat down between two men, both wearing Bernie buttons (one of whom who had been a Sanders' HQ this afternoon when a 4' cutout of Bernie being arrested during a '60s demonstration had been delivered) and both dedicated jazz nerds.
My only value in the conversation was when it came to current jazz cats (their term) in the local scene, many of whom I've seen play at Balliceaux. The Bernie fan to my right, formerly very active in Detroit's jazz scene and a come-here eight years ago, even asked for a list of local acts to check out.
In return, he gave me a book recommendation, so we're even now.
When he found out I'd done the piece in Style about Sanchez, he leaned in and said, "I wanna thank you for writing that article because otherwise I'd never have known about this." Interestingly enough, he had seen her read her poetry back in the '80s.
First we saw the recent documentary about her, "BaddDDD Sonia Sanchez," a fascinating look at her life as an activist, member of the Black Arts movement, teacher and poet as well as the challenges she'd faced - FBI, being a single mother, recriminations from her father, lack of tenure - for being politically active.
When she was introduced, suddenly scores of phones were held up to capture her arrival and a lot of what she had to say, so I could barely see her onstage for the first ten or so minutes..
Asked about being poet laureate, she told a story of neighborhood children about to fight in front of her house and teaching them how to breathe to unwind. She then surprised everyone in the audience by telling us to stand and do deep ten deep breaths with her as a way of calming, a practice she teaches her students.
"That's what I've been doing as Poet Laureate," she said to much laughter.
She also said many meaningful things, such as, "Each generation has to continue the struggle of the generation before," and "It always comes back to peace," but the most significant admonishment was, "Don't tell me you came and enjoyed this film and you're not going to go back and do something."
I think that's why my seatmates were wearing Bernie pins.
When one man, during the Q & A, asked how his generation could come together in the same way the '60s and '70s generations had, she corrected him, explaining that that only happens once people begin working toward what's important to them and finding like-minded individuals.
Another man asked how to clear his head of negative energy so he could write better and she became my hero by asking, "Do you walk? Walking frames you for the day. It clears the brain," and went on about the benefits of daily walking. As an 81-year old, she would know.
All I can say is, major props to the Afrikana Film Festival for bringing such a culturally important woman to Richmond to share her life and stories with a sold-out audience. This city's cool points were off the charts tonight.
The only way to follow something so wonderfully high-brow was with, um, something quite the opposite?
Tonight was Late Night Lip Sync Battle at the Basement and it's impossible to convey how much fun it is to watch teams of local theater types compete for nothing but bragging rights.
Tonight's battle was even more special because both teams - the Velvet Rope and Cats Don't Care - were all women teams who, as Sonia had proven, are fearless and brilliant (one, a doula, had participated in the delivery of a 9 1/2 pound baby yesterday). They can even dance.
So much estrogen at battle also opened the door to multiple costume and wig changes, a lot of pumps and lipstick as prop.
You have to understand, there's a million points at stake for each round and three million for the final round. That's millions of meaningless points.
In between, there are erotic vegetable poses, scavenger hunts (Sarah won because I gave her my ballpoint pen, the requested item) and beer chugging to determine who goes first.
The Velvet Rope killed it with their opening song, "Alexander Hamilton," complete with whisky bottle and umbrellas to further the story and followed strong with Mary singing lead on Beyonce's "Formation," performed in camouflage jackets while tossing out packets of hot sauce.
Pretty impressive, right?
But then Cats Don't Care retaliated with a song from Disney's "Hercules," which Sarah had never heard before yesterday, having been a late addition to the team and having had parents who didn't let her watch Greek mythology.
Or maybe that was just her story and she was sticking to it.
The Improv round is always terrific because the teams don't know the upcoming songs and have to decide on the spot who will handle each. Their consternation is part of the fun of watching.
Watching these woman take on gems like "Man, I Feel Like a Woman," and "What's Love Got to Do With It?" and "Don't You Want to Dance?" and "My Heart Will Go On" was like a primer in the classic gay karaoke repertoire, pure emoting and overacting that worked the crowd into a drama kid frenzy.
The big finales took it even further with TVR doing "Hey, Now" in fur coats and hats and CDC doing "Bang, Bang" complete with black banged-bob.
For those keeping score at home, Cats Don't Care took home the non-existent prize, but, of course, they didn't care and a dance party ensued.
Mind and body got a workout tonight. Tomorrow, like the icon Sonia Sanchez, I will walk to clear the mind.
Only then can doing something follow.
Friday, November 20, 2015
What a Little Moonlight Can Do
The working for the weekend crowd was in full force tonight. In costume, no less.
Walking toward Vagabond to eat, Pru and I pass three women already in line (and in '80s attire) two hours before the sold out Legwarmers show.
Who stands in line for hours to see a cover band?
Inside Vagabond, it gets worse. The dozens of people inside and obviously going to the show are dressed like a parody of the '80s. One guy looks like Doc from "Back to the Future," a movie that just happens to be playing at the Byrd tonight.
Don't these people remember the reality of the Reagan years?
Never have I seen so many lace fingerless gloves or, yeesh, legwarmers. Yes, Madonna wore a net skirt to sing "Like a Virgin" on the MTV music awards, but tonight women are walking around with net skirts like it was a thing back then. It wasn't.
Seated at the edge of the bar, we have a bird's eye view of people coming in to pre-game before the show. The bartender tells us people have already sat down and ordered a drink and a dessert to satisfy the $15 minimum that qualifies them for early entry to the National next door.
"They leave the dessert," he says, shaking his head. "What possible difference does it make to get in a little early for a show like this?"
Beats the hell out of me.
That said, in spite of himself, he says he's been singing along to every song that's come on the '80s station they're playing tonight in the restaurant. "I grew up listening to this music," he says half-reverently. May Bow Wow Wow forgive you.
Another staff member comes over to share an anecdote with us, a look of astonishment written all over his face.
"These people called to ask about our corkage fee and I told them it was $15 as long as we don't carry the bottle," he said, still shaking his head. "Pretty standard for the industry, right? They just showed up...with a box of wine. That's like three bottles! I've never seen anything like it in all my years working in restaurants."
So not only are they costumed poorly, but they're crass as well. Or maybe they still think it's hip to be square.
As the bar fills up with more concert-goers, I tuck into spicy goat tacos with Thurston Wolfe Pinot Gris, followed by an exquisite Italian take on rockfish collar prepared with basil cooked in olive oil and a little Thai salad that eats even better than it smells, an amazing feat considering the aroma that announces the dish's arrival.
As if that weren't delightful enough, Pru casually mentions, "You're not gonna believe it but I'm on YouTube," explaining that she was roped into playing bells onstage at a recent performance of "Forever Plaid" and naturally, Beau filmed it. She's right, I don't believe it.
The world's gone mad tonight. Or should I say Madge?
Fleeing the former kids in America crowd, we make for the Basement and Theatre LAB's production of "Lady Day at Emerson's Bar & Grill," where, mercifully, the crowd is less hungry like the wolf.
Yet again I am impressed with how the malleable Basement has been transformed, this time into a small Philly jazz club with a postage stamp-sized stage, a piano off to one side and low tables for drinks for those with a front row view of Katrinah Carol Lewis as Billie Holiday.
Just as impressive is how much more diverse the crowd is than typically. I especially enjoy the couple sitting nearest me because they don't hesitate to react to what's said onstage.
When Lady Day is talking about how much she likes cooking, she says, "I cook pigs' feet real good. I boil 'em, then I bake 'em till they're crispy like potato chips," I hear him mutter appreciatively, "Mmmm, mmm!" almost licking his chops.
Clearly he appreciates a woman who can cook a mean mess o' pig's feet.
Set in 1959, the year she dies, the play portrays her after her prime, as a drug user (thanks to a man, natch) and post-jail time, but as a singer who can still move people with her voice and poignancy, albeit while moving through a bottle of booze onstage.
Between songs, she talks to the audience about her life and tries to get her pianist to interact with her.
For me, it was fascinating seeing local musician Larry Branch play the part of pianist Jimmy after years of seeing him play keys around town in various ensembles. Besides being seriously talented, his taciturn demeanor and valiant attempts to keep her on track added a note of pathos to the show.
Of course, with a one-woman show, you need a hell of a woman to pull it off and Katrinah is that woman, alternately (deservedly) disparaging white people and then breaking your heart with her back story.
Except when she's hilariously telling the story of a white restaurant hostess who refuses to let her use the whites only bathroom. Holiday solves the problem by pulling up her dress and taking care of business on the woman's sequined shoes and then Lewis goes into her breathtakingly beautiful rendition of Holiday's classic "Strange Fruit."
Past performances have proven what a gorgeous and robust singing voice Lewis has, so it was all to her credit that she managed to sound so much like the life-weary Lady Day as she moved through her repertoire, needle tracks on her arms evident.
No question, Billie Holiday's story was a tough one and by the time it finished, my interest had been piqued to find a good biography of the woman to further flesh out my understanding of her now that I knew bits and pieces.
When the lights came up, I heard the guys behind me tell friends that they'd "snuck out to the bar halfway though to get another bottle of wine."
Why not? I feel sure Lady Day would have approved.
Walking toward Vagabond to eat, Pru and I pass three women already in line (and in '80s attire) two hours before the sold out Legwarmers show.
Who stands in line for hours to see a cover band?
Inside Vagabond, it gets worse. The dozens of people inside and obviously going to the show are dressed like a parody of the '80s. One guy looks like Doc from "Back to the Future," a movie that just happens to be playing at the Byrd tonight.
Don't these people remember the reality of the Reagan years?
Never have I seen so many lace fingerless gloves or, yeesh, legwarmers. Yes, Madonna wore a net skirt to sing "Like a Virgin" on the MTV music awards, but tonight women are walking around with net skirts like it was a thing back then. It wasn't.
Seated at the edge of the bar, we have a bird's eye view of people coming in to pre-game before the show. The bartender tells us people have already sat down and ordered a drink and a dessert to satisfy the $15 minimum that qualifies them for early entry to the National next door.
"They leave the dessert," he says, shaking his head. "What possible difference does it make to get in a little early for a show like this?"
Beats the hell out of me.
That said, in spite of himself, he says he's been singing along to every song that's come on the '80s station they're playing tonight in the restaurant. "I grew up listening to this music," he says half-reverently. May Bow Wow Wow forgive you.
Another staff member comes over to share an anecdote with us, a look of astonishment written all over his face.
"These people called to ask about our corkage fee and I told them it was $15 as long as we don't carry the bottle," he said, still shaking his head. "Pretty standard for the industry, right? They just showed up...with a box of wine. That's like three bottles! I've never seen anything like it in all my years working in restaurants."
So not only are they costumed poorly, but they're crass as well. Or maybe they still think it's hip to be square.
As the bar fills up with more concert-goers, I tuck into spicy goat tacos with Thurston Wolfe Pinot Gris, followed by an exquisite Italian take on rockfish collar prepared with basil cooked in olive oil and a little Thai salad that eats even better than it smells, an amazing feat considering the aroma that announces the dish's arrival.
As if that weren't delightful enough, Pru casually mentions, "You're not gonna believe it but I'm on YouTube," explaining that she was roped into playing bells onstage at a recent performance of "Forever Plaid" and naturally, Beau filmed it. She's right, I don't believe it.
The world's gone mad tonight. Or should I say Madge?
Fleeing the former kids in America crowd, we make for the Basement and Theatre LAB's production of "Lady Day at Emerson's Bar & Grill," where, mercifully, the crowd is less hungry like the wolf.
Yet again I am impressed with how the malleable Basement has been transformed, this time into a small Philly jazz club with a postage stamp-sized stage, a piano off to one side and low tables for drinks for those with a front row view of Katrinah Carol Lewis as Billie Holiday.
Just as impressive is how much more diverse the crowd is than typically. I especially enjoy the couple sitting nearest me because they don't hesitate to react to what's said onstage.
When Lady Day is talking about how much she likes cooking, she says, "I cook pigs' feet real good. I boil 'em, then I bake 'em till they're crispy like potato chips," I hear him mutter appreciatively, "Mmmm, mmm!" almost licking his chops.
Clearly he appreciates a woman who can cook a mean mess o' pig's feet.
Set in 1959, the year she dies, the play portrays her after her prime, as a drug user (thanks to a man, natch) and post-jail time, but as a singer who can still move people with her voice and poignancy, albeit while moving through a bottle of booze onstage.
Between songs, she talks to the audience about her life and tries to get her pianist to interact with her.
For me, it was fascinating seeing local musician Larry Branch play the part of pianist Jimmy after years of seeing him play keys around town in various ensembles. Besides being seriously talented, his taciturn demeanor and valiant attempts to keep her on track added a note of pathos to the show.
Of course, with a one-woman show, you need a hell of a woman to pull it off and Katrinah is that woman, alternately (deservedly) disparaging white people and then breaking your heart with her back story.
Except when she's hilariously telling the story of a white restaurant hostess who refuses to let her use the whites only bathroom. Holiday solves the problem by pulling up her dress and taking care of business on the woman's sequined shoes and then Lewis goes into her breathtakingly beautiful rendition of Holiday's classic "Strange Fruit."
Past performances have proven what a gorgeous and robust singing voice Lewis has, so it was all to her credit that she managed to sound so much like the life-weary Lady Day as she moved through her repertoire, needle tracks on her arms evident.
No question, Billie Holiday's story was a tough one and by the time it finished, my interest had been piqued to find a good biography of the woman to further flesh out my understanding of her now that I knew bits and pieces.
When the lights came up, I heard the guys behind me tell friends that they'd "snuck out to the bar halfway though to get another bottle of wine."
Why not? I feel sure Lady Day would have approved.
Monday, October 19, 2015
Gems from the Jitney
Good vibes carried me into a Sunday evening.
When I walked into Saison for dinner, there was a friend I hadn't seen in months but who'd apparently been thinking about me earlier this week. He'd tuned in to the blog to see what I'd been up to and it made him want to see me.
Wishing had apparently made it so.
We took so long catching up that by the time I got to the bar and ordered my quarter chicken, the bartender told me it would be a while because an order for four whole chickens had just gone in, so the fryer was full.
It was well-timed news after all, because a guy walked in, sat down in the stool next to me and began chatting like we were old friends. It was his first time at fried chicken night and he was unsure about all of it, but finally put on his big boy pants and ordered a half chicken.
Minutes later, he looks at me and asks, "What do you wager I can't finish a half chicken?" Are you kidding? You're a grown ass man, of course you can finish half a chicken, I assure him. When he sees my quarter chicken delivered, he feels more confident about his order.
When it arrives, the bartender asks if he wants another cocktail. Gesturing at my Mexican Coke, he says, "She's got the right idea. I'll have one of those."
As we eat together, I learn that he's a restaurant worker, leading us down the rabbit hole of the nature of the hospitality industry and those inhospitable people who have no business in it (he works with a few). He obviously loves it, with an eye on opening his own place someday.
When I comment about what an appropriate Sunday supper fried chicken is, he looks at me askance. "Maybe here, but not in my family," he announces. "My family's from Maryland, Italian Catholics, and we always have lasagna for Sunday dinner."
Next, as if the dish is foreign to me, he explains the arduous and multi-hour process of lasagna making - "...and then there's the bechamel..." - and how anyone who thinks ground beef belongs in lasagna has a screw loose. These are things he clearly feels strongly about.
Saison's chicken, as usual, shatters into crispy bits with every bite of the moist meat and this week's sides are classically southern: braised greens and a biscuit with sorghum butter, all of which which beats pasta any day in my book. Don't talk to me about lasagna when I've got fried yard bird in hand.
We chat so long I have to suddenly pay and leave when I realize my play starts in ten minutes. It's only at this point that we finally introduce ourselves and he insists that I come by the restaurant where he works for more conversation and, he assures me, an excellent meal by their new chef.
Will do.
Then it's on to the Basement for the second night in a row, except this time it's for a one-night performance of "Blacklist: August Wilson," a night devoted to spotlighting the works of this most significant black playwright.
Since it was general admission, I found a single seat, conveniently located next to a talkative guy who turned out to be a park ranger by day and a playwright by night. Considering I'd spent an hour listening to a park ranger earlier today - and everyone knows Mike Gorman - it was like we had multiple things in common from the get-go.
Where he far surpassed me was in his August Wilson scholarship, having read most of them and already certain that "Joe Turner's Come and Gone" was his favorite. I'm not completely Wilson illiterate because I recognized the names of three of the plays, although I'd never seen one produced. I wasn't proud of that.
Introduced by Mary Shaw, who along with Carolyn Meade had conceived of and created the event, she made a point of saying, "There were murmurs around town that if you do this kind of work, people won't come. Thank you."
The beauty of it was that she was saying it to a full house.
A group of twenty talented black actors had come together to learn scenes from Wilson's "Century Cycle," a group of ten plays, one for each decade of the 20th century black experience, with musical segues featuring music from the appropriate decade before each scene.
Not knowing the plays, I could glean a little from the monologues and scenes we saw, and the benefit of this was that it was all about the acting. And, holy cow, what acting!
So many times tonight, I found myself dazzled by an actor I'd never seen before. Scenery was chewed by talent I'd never so much as heard of and I'm a regular theater-goer. If there are this many extremely talented black actors in this town, shouldn't more of them be cast more often?
I got a kick out of one scene from "Joe Turner's Come and Gone" because it involved a fried chicken dinner ("Now, my Mom, she could fry some chicken!") like the one I'd just enjoyed, but "The Piano Lesson" told a heartbreaking story of a piano traded for a slave and a half, a horrific concept.
It wasn't surprising to read that "Fences" had won the Pulitzer and a Tony because the scenes we saw were electrifying (Father to son, "Liking your black ass wasn't part of the bargain").
The audience responded to the stories within the scenes viscerally and loudly. When a wife finds out her husband has cheated on her, she says, "Where was "we" when you was rolling around with some god-forsaken woman?" or, "You're not the only one with wants and needs," and a spontaneous chorus of "Mmm-hmm" and "That's right" went up from the people in the seats around me.
"Two Trains Running" appealed to me because it dealt with the '60s, the height of black power, and the different reactions blacks had to the changing social climate, but, honestly, I'd happily see any one of these ten plays produced in full.
Do you know the last time I saw an all-black cast in a play? This will date me, but it was when TheatreVirginia did an all-black casting of Tennessee Williams' "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." And while it was a fascinating thing to experience, it's not the same as seeing parts written for blacks by a black playwright.
As I told one of my favorite artistic directors tonight, Richmond has a terrific theater scene but the casting could better represent the city's demographics. He heartily agreed. Tonight's performance proved that we have more than enough talent to do that.
Seems like it's about time to do the right thing.
When I walked into Saison for dinner, there was a friend I hadn't seen in months but who'd apparently been thinking about me earlier this week. He'd tuned in to the blog to see what I'd been up to and it made him want to see me.
Wishing had apparently made it so.
We took so long catching up that by the time I got to the bar and ordered my quarter chicken, the bartender told me it would be a while because an order for four whole chickens had just gone in, so the fryer was full.
It was well-timed news after all, because a guy walked in, sat down in the stool next to me and began chatting like we were old friends. It was his first time at fried chicken night and he was unsure about all of it, but finally put on his big boy pants and ordered a half chicken.
Minutes later, he looks at me and asks, "What do you wager I can't finish a half chicken?" Are you kidding? You're a grown ass man, of course you can finish half a chicken, I assure him. When he sees my quarter chicken delivered, he feels more confident about his order.
When it arrives, the bartender asks if he wants another cocktail. Gesturing at my Mexican Coke, he says, "She's got the right idea. I'll have one of those."
As we eat together, I learn that he's a restaurant worker, leading us down the rabbit hole of the nature of the hospitality industry and those inhospitable people who have no business in it (he works with a few). He obviously loves it, with an eye on opening his own place someday.
When I comment about what an appropriate Sunday supper fried chicken is, he looks at me askance. "Maybe here, but not in my family," he announces. "My family's from Maryland, Italian Catholics, and we always have lasagna for Sunday dinner."
Next, as if the dish is foreign to me, he explains the arduous and multi-hour process of lasagna making - "...and then there's the bechamel..." - and how anyone who thinks ground beef belongs in lasagna has a screw loose. These are things he clearly feels strongly about.
Saison's chicken, as usual, shatters into crispy bits with every bite of the moist meat and this week's sides are classically southern: braised greens and a biscuit with sorghum butter, all of which which beats pasta any day in my book. Don't talk to me about lasagna when I've got fried yard bird in hand.
We chat so long I have to suddenly pay and leave when I realize my play starts in ten minutes. It's only at this point that we finally introduce ourselves and he insists that I come by the restaurant where he works for more conversation and, he assures me, an excellent meal by their new chef.
Will do.
Then it's on to the Basement for the second night in a row, except this time it's for a one-night performance of "Blacklist: August Wilson," a night devoted to spotlighting the works of this most significant black playwright.
Since it was general admission, I found a single seat, conveniently located next to a talkative guy who turned out to be a park ranger by day and a playwright by night. Considering I'd spent an hour listening to a park ranger earlier today - and everyone knows Mike Gorman - it was like we had multiple things in common from the get-go.
Where he far surpassed me was in his August Wilson scholarship, having read most of them and already certain that "Joe Turner's Come and Gone" was his favorite. I'm not completely Wilson illiterate because I recognized the names of three of the plays, although I'd never seen one produced. I wasn't proud of that.
Introduced by Mary Shaw, who along with Carolyn Meade had conceived of and created the event, she made a point of saying, "There were murmurs around town that if you do this kind of work, people won't come. Thank you."
The beauty of it was that she was saying it to a full house.
A group of twenty talented black actors had come together to learn scenes from Wilson's "Century Cycle," a group of ten plays, one for each decade of the 20th century black experience, with musical segues featuring music from the appropriate decade before each scene.
Not knowing the plays, I could glean a little from the monologues and scenes we saw, and the benefit of this was that it was all about the acting. And, holy cow, what acting!
So many times tonight, I found myself dazzled by an actor I'd never seen before. Scenery was chewed by talent I'd never so much as heard of and I'm a regular theater-goer. If there are this many extremely talented black actors in this town, shouldn't more of them be cast more often?
I got a kick out of one scene from "Joe Turner's Come and Gone" because it involved a fried chicken dinner ("Now, my Mom, she could fry some chicken!") like the one I'd just enjoyed, but "The Piano Lesson" told a heartbreaking story of a piano traded for a slave and a half, a horrific concept.
It wasn't surprising to read that "Fences" had won the Pulitzer and a Tony because the scenes we saw were electrifying (Father to son, "Liking your black ass wasn't part of the bargain").
The audience responded to the stories within the scenes viscerally and loudly. When a wife finds out her husband has cheated on her, she says, "Where was "we" when you was rolling around with some god-forsaken woman?" or, "You're not the only one with wants and needs," and a spontaneous chorus of "Mmm-hmm" and "That's right" went up from the people in the seats around me.
"Two Trains Running" appealed to me because it dealt with the '60s, the height of black power, and the different reactions blacks had to the changing social climate, but, honestly, I'd happily see any one of these ten plays produced in full.
Do you know the last time I saw an all-black cast in a play? This will date me, but it was when TheatreVirginia did an all-black casting of Tennessee Williams' "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." And while it was a fascinating thing to experience, it's not the same as seeing parts written for blacks by a black playwright.
As I told one of my favorite artistic directors tonight, Richmond has a terrific theater scene but the casting could better represent the city's demographics. He heartily agreed. Tonight's performance proved that we have more than enough talent to do that.
Seems like it's about time to do the right thing.
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