The Dizzy, Dancing Way You Feel

Let me tell you about my 13-year old self.

This young nerd was in eighth grade at Charles Carroll Junior High (this having been before middle school became the norm) where I was an avid reader and good student who sewed my own mini-dresses. I collected 45s, babysat for spending money and had never gotten the slightest bit of attention from a boy.

I was involved in zero after school activities, which was fine by me since I could quickly knock off my homework and either hop on my bike and ride the neighborhood or find somewhere quiet to read.

All in all, I was a very happy camper with few complaints about my life beyond my 12-year old sister borrowing my clothes and returning them unwashed with her B.O. on them, which, incidentally, was far worse than my own.

I had just started wearing braces but apparently wasn't very good about oral hygiene with them, since on my way into school one morning, Anthony Basil - an uber-nerd I could never aspire to top - pointed out that I had toast in my braces after I smiled a good-morning to him.

Naturally, I was mildly embarrassed at the comment, although the fact that it came from Anthony and not a cute, funny boy helped, but mostly I was grateful for the reminder to be more vigilant about braces-brushing. That and not to eat any more toast as I'm walking to school.

Thirteen was when I finally acknowledged how much satisfaction I got from writing. Although I'd started my first novel at the beach when I was 11, it was eighth grade when my aptitude for writing became apparent to my teachers.

In English class, we were told to write a short story about anything at all, only to be surprised when six of the 37 (helluva class size) stories were chosen to be printed, bound and distributed. I was pretty proud of myself when "Has Anybody Seen My Jiffy John?" made the cut. Later in the school year, another assignment was to choose a popular song, treat the lyrics as poetry and analyze it. I chose Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now" and with every fiber of my 13-year old being analyzed the hell out of Mitchell's tale of life experiences I'd yet to have.

All of this is just a long way of saying that my experiences as a 13-year old bear almost no resemblance to what today's 13-year olds must go through.

I got a crash course in modern eighth graders at the Basement, where TheatreLAB's production of "Dance Nation" was opening tonight. And although the play is ostensibly about a group of competitive dancers - all girls except one boy - from Ohio trying to make the finals, the dancing is secondary to the trials and tribulations of the young girls trying to navigate adolescence.

I'm here to tell you that theirs is not the adolescence mine was. Or, as it turns out, much like the coming of age of any of us now comfortably in middle age.

During a scene where one of the girls does a monologue, she howls her affirmation of her body - men and boys telling her how perfect her ass or boobs are is already normal for her - shouting about her body confidence with fierce pride. When she finished, a woman my age nearby commented, "I never felt that way when I was thirteen."

I don't remember being unhappy with my 13-year old body at all, but nor do I recall thinking of it in sexual terms at that point. And losing my virginity was definitely not a hot topic with girlfriends.

Ditto these young girls asking each other how to masturbate, which wasn't discussed in my adolescence because back in the olden days, each of us just figured it out ourselves. Honestly, it wasn't that difficult. By high school, you might discuss it with your best friend but only after you knew what you were doing.

And mind you, we didn't have the Internet for reference.

Maggie Roop's direction is flawless and knowing, and I'd guess that being a dancer herself helped immeasurably. The young cast (and stellar Chris Klinger as dance teacher Pat, played with the utmost seriousness because winning matters) nailed the insecurities, doubts and narcissism of these girls navigating a 21st century world where everyone feels fame is attainable and competing for superiority has been bred into them since toddlerhood.

Let's put it this way: when I was 13, there was no way I or any girl I knew would have undressed in front of other girls. Hell, I had five sisters and we never got naked in front of each other once we no longer had to take shared baths.

But also, I didn't participate in team activities, so my knowledge of that kind of group dynamic as a young teen is non-existent.

As someone whose early teen years seem comparatively easy to what these young characters go through, the play registered as a sad commentary on what parents have wrought in terms of child-rearing. These are girls who have felt pressures and sexual attention from many sides since before they even get their first period, which couldn't help but make me feel sad for their lost youth.

The audience skewed heavily young so it was fascinating hearing their cheering and laughing reactions to scenes that pulled at my heartstrings and those of some other nearby Baby Boomers, one of whom noted at the end, "Not for me."

Don't get me wrong, it does my estrogen-filled heart good to sit back and, for a change, watch a mostly female cast interpret a woman-written play directed by a woman.  I can't help it if my 13-year old life didn't carry the emotional weight that the 13-year olds of today must bear as a matter of course.

The beauty of TheatreLAB's "Dance Nation" is the glimpse into the now it provides, allowing people like me to consider what a monumental shift has taken place for our girls.

Now that's worthwhile theater.

Worst Pies in London

Some plays stick with you.

When I first saw "Sweeney Todd" at the Kennedy Center in 1980, it was unlike anything I'd ever seen. Dark yet humorous, mostly sung with little dialog and performed with an incredible set, the play solidified my passion for anything written by Stephen Sondheim, whom I'd first fallen hard for after seeing "Pacific Overtures" a few years earlier in the same theater.

So when I saw that upstart theater company TheatreLAB was producing "Sweeney Todd" at the Basement, I wasted no time in scoring tickets. Good thing, too, since the run sold out barely a week after opening.

Then I rallied the troops. Mr. Wright, with whom I'd so enjoyed "Sondheim by Sondheim" and a fan himself, was a given and Pru and Beau wasted no time in signing on. To make it even better, we had a new Jackson Ward restaurant to try beforehand.

So long, Rogue and welcome to the neighborhood, Adarra. When we walked in, it was to find the chef owner discussing wine with his staff, but he waved us in. I went into scan mode, deciding that the space is certainly more attractive than it was, sort of clubby feeling with warm browns and less of a bar vibe.

I've been a fan of the chef since his days at Julep (when he gave me and some friends a lesson in salt) when it was in the Bottom and right on through his tenure at Nota Bene, so I felt pretty confident we were going to have a terrific meal.

Do I sound like a braggart if I say I was right?

Choosing to start with San Venanzio Prosecco Tresio, Beau announced that my nickname should be Bubbles and I don't think he meant because of my personality. Whatevs. Mr. Wright, mindful of the future, stayed the course with Alfredo Maestro Vina Almater, a Tempranillo that got him reminiscing about pintxos versus tapas, a distinction I'm still learning.

All our selections came from the sea, perhaps wishful thinking on my part since it was supposed to go down to 31 degrees last night. Plump head-on shrimp in a bath of bagna cauda - aka garlic, anchovies and olive oil - got a second life once we polished off the shrimp when I suggested everyone use bread to sop up the rich oil.

Whole lot of moaning going on for that.

As predicted by the guy in the argyle sweater across from me, I gravitated to roasted skate with smoked butter and sauteed green onion greens (which were killer), but so did they, which was smart since I wasn't going to share with anybody but my date. Mr. Wright and I did share a large bowl of seasonal fish stew laden with monkfish, shrimp, mussels and calamari in a tomato-based broth he described as "persuasive but not overbearing."

Now that I think about it, that's probably how I'd like to be perceived: persuasive but not overbearing.

If I'm honest, I'm not entirely sure of everything Pru and Beau ordered because we were so busy chowing down with dishes arriving every few minutes that I couldn't pay attention to what went in their mouths. I know they had the roasted squash with goat cheese and verde sauce because I snagged a few bites and Beau wasn't far off proclaiming he could eat two bowls of it. It really was that good.

And while I can't speak to how wonderful the Iberico chorizo or Iberico ham were, I noticed there was none left over. But easily the most satisfying dish to land on the table was gnocchi with mushrooms and Ricotta, with its earthy flavors and melt-in-your-mouth texture. So good, in fact, that a second bowl was required.

Because, let's get real here, sometimes all you want to do is hit repeat when you get to the bottom of a truly decadent dish.

Half the table eschewed a final course (no, I don't know what planet they're from), but the dessert-devoted didn't, with Beau choosing polenta cake and yours truly having panna cotta with blood orange. With a play about murder and cannibalism in our near future, it only made sense to get any eating out of the way in advance.

When we got up to leave, I spotted a favorite restaurant couple at the bar and stopped to say hello and meet their companion. When I raved about our meal, the response was, "His food has always been great," as I know. But they also love that it's another spot in J-Ward and I'm with them on that, too.

Bring 'em on and the more, the merrier. Anyplace I can walk to suits us just fine.

And if it's a place that's only a few blocks from the Basement, all the better. We arrived early, expecting general admission seating, only to find that two stools had been reserved for Mr. Wright and I right behind the large wooden chest that the cast would use to hide the bodies.

Talk about your prime seating. Pru and Beau took stools behind us along the wall and we all settled in for a tale of vengeance, love and how to succeed in the pie business without resorting to using kitty cats for filler, all set off by plastic-covered walls.

Think of it as thrift,
As a gift,
If you get my drift
With the price of meat what it is...

Director Deejay Gray has to be commended for stripping down the set, limiting the musicians to piano and violin and choosing a ridiculously strong cast to convey the macabre story.

Every time I see Alexander Sapp in another role, I feel more certain that we'll lose him to a bigger market given his outsize talent. His Sweeney Todd managed to be heartbroken over the loss of his wife and child, while portraying his murderous impulses with real menace.

As Mrs. Lovett, Bianca Bryan portrays the woman who sees the potential in having a man around, even if he's the murderous sort. Adding dimension to the character were her moments of humor which underpinned the story because we all know comedy plays best when it comes from tension.

Awkward joke, anyone?

Audra Honaker got the award for most valuable, posing as the virginal bide, evoking pity as the beggar woman and showing off her comedic skills as Pirelli, the Italian selling hair oil. And don't get me started on Matt Shofner as Tobias Ragg, Pirelli's dim-witted assistant who becomes Mrs. Lovett's dim-witted assistant once Pirelli has been dispatched to the chest at our feet, his scarf trailing out the side. By turns devoted, hard-working and ultimately all-seeing, Shofner brought real humanity to his Tobias.

But everyone nailed their roles and there wasn't a weak voice in the bunch as the story unfolded mesmerizingly, even with full knowledge of what was going to happen. That TheatreLAB made what was old fresh attests to their ability to produce classics currently told.

All of which leads me to conclude that being exposed to Sondheim at a tender, young age is enough to make a theater-lover out of anyone, even a woman who can't carry a tune in a bucket (as my grandmother used to say about me).

As for my attraction to a play about a restaurant - okay, a place that serves meat pies - let's not forget the underlying essence of "Sweeney Todd." Everybody goes down well with beer.

Never more so than when served up in dark basement in Jackson Ward. If you get my drift...

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.

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 was drunk 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.

To Fall Down at Your Door

Language is power, life and the instrument of culture, the instrument of domination and liberation. ~Angela Carter

Let's call tonight an evening of deja-vu in the Ward.

When I saw there was a touring pop-up photo exhibit at Black Iris Gallery, I considered starting my evening there. When I saw that it was an exhibit of large-format black and white photographs by Bill Daniel, the deal was sealed. That's because back in the dark ages of 2010, I'd gone to Gallery 5 to watch Daniel show a trove of lost and found music acts filmed between 1965 and 1987 and it had been fascinating.

As much as I'd enjoyed that, why wouldn't I want to see his photographs of skateboarders, punk bands, graffiti and the like from the past 35 years?

That's a rhetorical question, by the way.

The photographs were such snapshots in time, from the airborne skater with a Circle Jerks sticker on the bottom of his board to the punk singer - Fender guitar slung to the side and guitar pick between his bad teeth - playing the cowbell. Or put another way: it was an era when so many punk musicians were wearing Black Flag t-shirts to prove their cred.

Daniel captured the punk ethos in photo after photo, never more so than in a shot of a dingy music club door with a handwritten "NO MOHAWKS!" sign on it, in front of which was a mohawked guy in mid-jump in front of it. Another showed an old VW van modified with three sails atop it, presumably to increase the van's infamously slow pace.

Gawking at a photo of two '80s show-goers (her shoulder pads and bangles, his eyeliner and piercings), I heard my name and turned to see my favorite artist/DJ couple. After chatting about the exhibit and her new baby chicks (one of which she said likes to ride on the back of a full-grown chicken like it's a pony or something), we reverted to our favorite topic: what we're reading.

After mentioning Roberto Bolano, she asked if I'd ever read the English novelist Angela Carter, a new favorite of hers. Negative, I said and we launched into one of our standard procedure book talks (like we do) that involved her recommending Carter highly for her feminist, magical realistic style of writing. Sounds right up my alley.

But it was when she asked what was new with me that I had that moment. Where do I start when I run into friends I haven't seen for a while? In this case, I may have mentioned the update to my relationship status and having just returned from a long weekend at the river.

"Ooh, I like a man with a house on the river," she enthused with a knowing smile, since they live in his house on the Chickahominy River, a charming place, complete with chickens, that I'd visited last year. So she knows.

When I departed Black Iris, it was for some theater at the Basement, where I immediately ran into Foto Boy and his betrothed, an actress/director who was looking fabulous and theatrical in a way I could never pull off. Our first stop was at the bar in search of  alcohol for her, caffeine for him and sugar for me. Hey, whatever gets you through the play, right?

We were all there for the preview of TheatreLab's production of "Gruesome Playground Injuries," a play with which I had some familiarity, having seen a staged reading of it back in 2011. I said it was a night of deja-vu, after all.

Despite the intervening years. its poignant yet disturbing story had stayed with me. Imagine two kids who meet in the school infirmary at the tender age of eight; she's throwing up non-stop and he's ridden his bike off of the school's roof. Because boys are dumb.

The hook is that they immediately bond over shared maladies, touching each other's wounds and scars, while over the next thirty years, they continue to see each other periodically, always due to one or the other's sickness or injury. And to be clear, it's a story with many, many funny moments despite the gruesome injuries.

A dungeon is a place where people can go to languish.

They're both damaged souls and whether it's a fireworks accident that causes Doug to lose an eye or Kayleen's self-medicating and cutting, the two continue to share an increasing bond of personal pain throughout their friendship/love.

I don't want my first kiss to be with you. AND I just threw up.

When I'd first seen it, I kept hoping that they would acknowledge their feelings for each other, but there were always hospital beds and comas and psychiatric institutions keeping them distracted from their true feelings.

The top ten things anyone has ever done for me were all done by you.

As with any two-actor production, it's all about the chops and chemistry of the actors and Jeffrey Cole and Rachel Rose Gilmour nailed their characters in all their dysfunction and tragedy. Cole singing in a thick Scottish brogue while trying to dance with Gilmour to the Proclaimers' "500 Miles" was nothing short of masterful. And hilarious.

One particularly clever device was that the scenes didn't play out in chronological order, so we saw them first as children, then young adults, then back to teens, then slightly older adults and so on, while music marked scene transitions and the passage of time. From Aimee Mann's "Save Me" through David Gray's "Please Forgive Me" to a cover of REM's "Everybody Hurts," the music helped with the ten- and fifteen-year jumps the script made while providing time for the actors to change clothes onstage.

TheatreLab, you never cease to impress me.

As an added accompaniment to the theatrics we'd come to watch, throughout the production we also got a symphony of jackhammers blasting Broad Street just outside the Basement's door. It was the sound of the city desperately trying to finish up the Pulse construction for the touted completion date and while the cacophony was superfluous to the story, it did add a certain city grittiness.

Punk photographs, an emotional tour de force of a play and an unexpected chance to catch up with two favorite couples along the way. Exactly what a city woman needs after languishing at the rivah for a few days.

And by languishing, I mean having the time of her life.

There is No Linear Answer

"Every decision you've ever and never made exists in an unimaginably vast ensemble of parallel universes."

It was a last minute decision that landed me at a play about how each decision we choose produces a new outcome.

No telling what might have happened if I'd made a different decision, but it couldn't possibly have been as rewarding or entertaining as seeing a play that begins with a repeated discussion of licking your elbow.

TheatreLAB's Cellar series was previewing "Constellations," an award-winning two-person play about not just meeting someone and falling in love, but all the variations in how that could play out. The beauty of the story was that with each scene in the relationship of a beekeeper and a quantum physicist, we got to see a host of outcomes based on word choice, inflection or attitude.

You better believe I saw the correlation to real life.

Besides it being the fastest hour of science and romance I've ever spent in a theater, I apparently needed to be there to up my science smarts learning about multiverses as opposed to universes. But where it really got under my skin was in thinking how we choose to respond to every single conversation can result in wholly different endings. It's all about choice.

When every scene (meeting at a barbecue, making love the first time, proposing) backs up for a replay, the characters move to an alternate universe where they have another chance to have that conversation again with different results. Tedious as that could sound, it's actually wildly compelling, all the more so for how the two seem to grow closer experiencing each possibility.

Audra Honaker played the physicist with all the nervy, repressed energy of a woman with more to offer than she'd had the opportunity to share, with beekeeper Trevor Craft's easygoing vulnerability providing the ideal complement. And I have to say, in a play where lines are repeated over and over, having two strong actors who can create entire new scenarios from the same words is nothing short of riveting.

At times I felt like I was at a tennis match, my head turning side to side to fully absorb whichever actor was speaking, though the best scenes were those where I could watch the one react to the other's lines because the interplay between them was completely engaging.

Walking out, the woman behind me said to no one in particular, "I love that play!" and I couldn't resist seconding that opinion, even though it was my first time seeing it.

Truth is, I'm sorely tempted to go back again just to watch these two flex their well-toned acting muscles creating serious onstage chemistry. Oh, sure, and to further my understanding of multiverses.

But let's be real, these days I'm also inordinately fond of being reminded of life's infinite possibilities. It is all about choice.

Closet Carpenter Fans Unite

The thing about Beau is that his eyes are always bigger than our stomachs.

Truth be told, we'd planned the evening around our all-consuming desire for Secco's legendary butterscotch pudding and worked back from there because we were both jonesing for it.

A always, the most difficult decision at Secco is what to drink (so many excellent by-the-glass choices), but Beau eventually branched out with a lemony Greek - Bosinakis Moschofilero - while I stayed true to form with Raventos i Blanc "De nit" Brut Rose because every Tuesday night should be so fabulous as to kick off with pale pink bubbles.

It was when we got to the food menu that Beau lost his head and ordered enough food for three, despite the fact that Pru had opted out of our evening's plans. She's also the one who usually reminds him to scale back his ordering, meaning his wants went unchecked tonight.

The lightest of batters made fried squid and rock shrimp over Romesco sauce disappear embarrassingly quickly, while focaccia with onion jam was an indulgent exercise in sweet/savory balance. An entree of grilled asparagus risotto was seriously elevated with pistachio for crunch, preserved lemon for piquancy and Parmesan and a perfectly poached egg for obscene richness.

To put things in perspective about the amount of food that showed up, the only dish we finished completely was the fried squid and shrimp. Pru would have reveled in saying "I told you so," but I said no such thing since such comments are the sole right of a girlfriend, not a friend.

And despite not having finished our meal and going against every dinner rule my mother instilled in us, we ordered butterscotch pudding and not one, but two so neither of us had to share while sipping our Rose course (his Italian, mine French) and mulling the quixotic nature of middle aged relationships and how differently everyone shapes theirs.

During two hours of non-stop conversation, Beau reminded me that the last time we'd been at Secco for dinner in mid-February, he'd expressed amazement that I wasn't attached, even going so far as to wonder how no man had noticed my sterling qualities. He delighted in pointing out what a difference a couple of months makes.

By the time we left Secco at 7:45, just about every seat was taken and the vibe was so lively, you'd be hard-pressed to identify it a a Tuesday evening crowd, a fact that made us both very happy.

Then it was back to my 'hood for TheatreLAB's production of "Moth," where we found seats only to be asked to move because they'd been unofficially reserved. There are worse sacrifices than having to move to the front row for an intimate spot to witness an intense two-person play, much less one starring impressive talent like Kelsey Cordrey and John Mincks.

One of the reasons Pru had given for opting out of joining us was her lack of interest in a play about millennial characters, in this case, anime-obsessed Sebastian and emo Claryssa. Beau and I, on the other hand, felt sure that a play about misfit high school students would resonate no matter the era.

The play was laugh out loud funny in parts - "They're not emos, they're artists!" - and uncomfortably cruel in others, which about sums up high school. The bluster and vulnerability Cordrey and Mincks brought to characters not all that much younger than they are ensured a fast-moving story about the nature of existing outside the cool cliques in those devastating high school years.

Since neither Beau nor I had a cool bone in our high school bodies, we could relate to those years as something to endure rather than some kind of glory days. Hell, I graduated high school a year early to escape that world and its limitations.

And like any good millennial play, it not only had young characters and abundant cell phone usage, but was extremely brief (75 minutes) and without an intermission, clearly the biggest theater trend in decades. On the plus side, that meant we were out on the streets of Jackson Ward by 9:20 and scoring caffeine for Beau at Saison Market shortly thereafter, the better to fuel our tangent-filled conversations ("Wait, what are we talking about?").

During one particularly long-winded, multi-tangential discussion of movies (yes, I walked out of "Alien" and if you know me at all, how can you wonder why?), I invoked Yoda to Beau's amazement. He did the same later when things got so deep he had to stonewall it with, "Evaluate it not," effectively ending that topic.

It was that coffee that provided the necessary jolt to keep Beau interested as I played some of my latest record finds for him - the Brass Ring, Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, Petula Clark - while he discovered a new term for such music: '60s sunshine pop. We'd already discovered a mutual love of the Carpenters, the epitome of that genre, when "Sing a Song" had played in his car and he'd admitted that he was mocked in high school for his love of their music.

I once heard Chrissie Hynde say that her biggest musical influence was Karen Carpenter and with that kind of benediction from the voice of the Pretenders, I think we can all agree that the Carpenters are retroactively cool, even if we'd never have admitted it in high school.

Of course, I also didn't go to prom, so what do I know about emo angst? Nothing that hasn't been paved over with middle-aged optimism, which, it turns out, was justified all along.

Much luck, I still have.

SO Low SO Long

They grow up so fast. Restaurants, that is.

When I'd first visited Brenner Pass last July, it was uncrowded, having barely been open a month. and some servers were still learning how to open wine bottles (ours had to call in someone more qualified). The second time, wine skills had been mastered and the food was even better.

Craving a third time, Pru, Beau and I had made dinner reservations ahead of tonight's play at the Basement. Unlike that first time, though, the hordes began arriving as soon as the doors opened. We had a good excuse for our ridiculously early reservation (an 8:00 curtain), while I'm guessing many others in the first seating were there simply because it was the only time they could get seats.

Keeping with our Jura theme from last visit, we began with a bottle of Benoit Badoz Cremant Rose and a small plate special: rillete of oil-poached swordfish with frisee, mustard and housemade chips to spread it on. The night was off to a good start.

One noticeable difference was the level of the music, meaning we could actually hear it this time (and who doesn't want to hear Slowdive?), which added considerably to the overall vibe. And when you have a restaurant as large as Brenner Pass, you really need a good sound system to overcome the din of loud talkers in an industrial space.

Beau couldn't resist the fondue burger, although I think that had to do with the ability to order it "tres epique," meaning with veal demi-glace and mushrooms. I can attest to the burger's tastiness even if the fries were a bit on the dry side.  Pru's lamb leg was swoon-worthy with prune jam and armagnac puree.

My arctic char with pickled mushrooms over barley boasted an obscene caviar cream sauce that ensured my choice of fish scored me no virtuous points whatsoever, but, man, was it memorable. And something else, too - barley is an underused grain and I'd love to see it on more menus. Along with flour, sugar and tea, my D.C. grandmother's kitchen canister set had a container for barley but it fell out of fashion by the time I was a kid, so I've only discovered my taste for it as an adult.

We were already on the second bottle of Cremant when we finished our entrees, but our server was good enough to understand that we were in no hurry for dessert and allowed us to linger before ordering.

Pru, like several other friends recently, demanded to know why I was suddenly on Instagram and where my line in the sand was when it comes to technology. Apparently it unnerves some people for me to exist in a new realm without having a cell phone.

Looks like they'll have to adjust.

Since we hadn't had time to order the souffle on our last visit, Pru corrected that this time, while Beau and I shared a salted caramel and dark chocolate ganache tart with hazelnut dragees while they explained to me the appeal of Cubano coffee and I pretended to appreciate the nuances.

By the time we vacated the premises two and a half hours after arriving, Brenner Pass was in full-on Saturday night mode, with people waiting for tables, the bar too crowded to see the staff and the music lost to tipsy conversations.

Coincidentally, the first act of the play we were seeing at TheatreLAb, "I'm Gonna Pray for You So Hard" was a drunken conversation between a father and daughter as she waits for the reviews to come out of her first play.

Alan Sader was superb as the father, displaying a restraint with his acting unlike his usual scenery-chewing ferocity. Any theater fan knows he's a master, so seeing him rein it in was all the more impressive.

TheatreLAB's theme this year is "taking sides," which means the stage is placed between two risers of audience seats, providing a view of half the audience in addition to the action on stage. It's a brilliant move, allowing us to observe what others are watching or how they're reacting in a way viewers don't often get to do.

Not gonna lie, I like to watch. Does that make me a voyeur?

Maybe, but in my present state of mind, I'm not good for much more than that. Tres triste.

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...

Feed Your Head

The math was off.

Three hours (of conversation) plus 20 minutes (intermission) divided by seven weeks (since we last saw each other) does not add up to nearly enough time to go deep with one of my oldest friends.

The nearly two months wasn't entirely my fault, though certainly my frequent gallivanting this summer played a part. Without divulging too much, sorry/not sorry.

But she'd also been busy, having just returned from a trip to New England where she was so eager for fall that she began needlessly wearing sweaters because she could. Even when they made her uncomfortably hot. Even when her friend mocked her.

So with one thing and another, tonight was out first chance to hang.

We began on my balcony, hydrating and watching twin moonflowers unfurl while trying to cover some of our recent trips. We'd both noticed how much the light has changed as September nears. Only I am sad about it.

From there, we moved on to Secco and tonight's cooler, drier weather meant that there were no seats on the patio, although once established at the end of the bar, the outdoors were forgotten anyway. Or maybe that was the German Rose.

We'd hit Secco during their happy hour, which attempts to aid customers in re-connecting with humanity by providing boxes in which to put your cell phone. That's right, if you box your phone, everything you eat and drink costs less, not to mention the thrill of real time conversation.

And while my friend did lock hers up, the owner pointed out that I was already ahead of the game by having no phone to lock up. Whether that should get me an even bigger deal or looks of scorn is up to the individual.

While dishing on family, friends and lovers, we also chowed down. A killer baba ganouch was taken over the top with the addition of sweet tomato relish and cotija, while the warm grilled flatbread more than did its part. I'd eat it again tomorrow.

It was an evening to discover (and correct) that my friend had never had fried squash blossoms, these arriving with crispy fried lemon, green beans and Romesco to seduce her. And what Rose drinker could be less than thrilled with a Spanish octopus and mussel escabeche with the thinnest of cucumber slices, basil and Thai chilis?

Certainly not this one.

We eavesdropped on a woman who claimed to look 28 (not even close), talked about the pleasures of a green Chartreuse party (not since the '90s for me) and questioned how some people define friendship. She asked for a beach replenishment update and I obliged.

And then we hightailed it to the Basement for TheatreLAB and Firehouse Theatre's production of "Alice."

You know, as in Wonderland and through the looking glass. Also as in, so full of youthful singing and acting talent that the effect was dazzling.

We were seated next to an older couple from Montross on the Northern Neck and it didn't take much prodding to get them talking. Big theater fans, both of them, they shared that they often went to Fredericksburg to see plays.

"In September, we're going to see 'Six Brides for Six Brothers," the woman told me excitedly. "It's seven brides and seven brothers," her husband informed her. "You're making up a play!"

When they asked if I was a native Richmonder, we found out that both the husband and I were Washingtonians and born in the same hospital. Small world.

I would have left it there, but then the husband starts quizzing me. What was the name of the bakery on Pennsylvania Avenue near 16th? What radio commercial went like this (and he began singing)?  I explained I had been gone 30 years and clearly didn't have the same memories he did.

The wife tells me she had 5 children, all at the same hospital, but by two different husbands. Then she giggles and said, "And none with him" and points to Mr. D.C.

Oh, they were colorful, alright. Things only went south when the subject of renaming his Arlington alma mater (coincidentally, also that of my companion) came up and we began to see that he couldn't understand why Confederate statues must come down.

But other than that, they were sweet and obviously dedicated theater fans to have driven an hour and 20 minutes for this play, so we had to like them.

They'd picked one worth the drive. The fresh-faced cast was all in, the amount of energy expended impressive and the story charmingly told with all the anticipated lack of logic expected of a tale written while on drugs.

For that matter, they'd also executed a play with as perfect a sound quality as I've heard at a play in Richmond. Granted, the Basement is small, but that's not always been a guarantee of fabulous sound and tonight every syllable and moan came across loud and clear (all the better to appreciate the cast's stellar voices) as they belted out songs (which did occasionally drift into Disney territory).

Can I just say that it is positively life-affirming to sit in a theater and see a play with an all-female cast? Casting women in all the roles - the Caterpillar, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, the Mad Hatter - ensured that every strong voice, every funny line, every dramatic moment was delivered with a healthy dose of estrogen.

Hallelujah and pass the chocolate. It's enough to make a woman giddy with the rarity of it.

And let me just say that Maggie Bavolack (in a blue bobbed haircut, sunglasses and smoking  a hookah) was so over-the-top hilarious as the caterpillar that some people couldn't take their eyes off of her. Charisma and attitude oozed from every blue pore on her body.

But she was only one of a strong ensemble cast who could toss off simple yet well-written lines ("Those muddy stockings, so joie de vivre!") and crack up the audience.

At intermission, a woman in line was all but swooning about the gorgeous harmonies we'd been hearing and although I agreed, I was just as taken with the clever dialog and its delivery. Someone had done a magnificent job of casting.

Of course, we all strive to cast our own lives just as ably. You find a good person like my friend and you offer them the role for life. You fit in a new person around the original cast.  You ensure the estrogen level stays up for sanity's sake.

And that hot pink bandana I had on tonight? So joie de vivre.

Celebrating Life and Happiness

I've apparently been mistaken for missing in action.

When I (finally after 3 years) posted a new profile photo on Facebook the other day, certain friends wasted no time in weighing in.

There you are! I've been looking for you.

Where have you been?

Well, let's see, just yesterday I was, as usual, all over the place.

In the morning I was down walking by the river, at least right up until I made a pit stop on the way home at Rapp Session for a lobster roll and an orgeat lemonade, quite possibly the most exquisite summer lunch known to woman.

In the afternoon, I was at Firehouse Theater with Mac for their collaboration with TheatreLab on "Heathers: The Musical," a riff on the late '80s black comedy classic about mean girl high school cliques.

As a card-carrying nerd in high school, I knew nothing of such popularity.

The play was a hoot, from a slo-mo fight scene to an ode to 7-11 and Slurpees ("Happiness comes when everything's numb"). Of course the '80s references were rampant: Bono at Live Aid, Air Supply, watching porn on Cinemax (or is that Skinemax?).

And when else but the '80s would a high school girl announce, "I'm, hot, pissed and on the pill?" On a fashion sidenote, in a play full of adorable '80s looks, it was the Heather played by Michaela Nicole who took top prize for most fabulous hair and cutest skirt (a split yellow skirt with a yoke that I'd love to own).

Easily the most hilarious scene concerned the fathers' reactions to the apparent suicide of their sons, two testosterone-fueled jocks.

I don't know what was funnier, the lyrics of "Dead Gay Son" sung by Billy Christopher Maupin and Eddie Webster as the fathers ("Well, I never cared for homos much until I reared me one") or Maupin's Dad shuffle dance in celebration of his new-found appreciation for the two stray rhinestones on the Lord's big purse.

Great stuff. It's no wonder the show's run has been extended.

In the evening, I was at Sub Rosa for the latest in their natural wine series of Sub Rosato pop-ups with the added bonus of Miramar playing.

Since it wasn't my first rodeo music show at Sub Rosa, I knew full well my date and I should arrive well in advance to score a good table and avail ourselves of the 8 groovy bio-dynamic wines being featured.

Rather than choose from a list created by a pro (the savvy Virginia), we opted to work our way across the list from sparkling through white, Rose and red, while noshing on every single thing on the pop-up menu: buttery tarts of goat cheese, dill and tomato, a charcuterie board, bread and olive oil and housemade chips.

Be still, my cholesterol.

Starting with Omero Moretti, an organic, unfiltered Umbrian and a classic Cremant du Jura, we moved through the wildly contrasting Sepp Moser Gruner Veltliner and Benito Santos "Pago de Xoan" Rias Baixas.

It was our loss to miss out on the Spanish Rose because it had already sold out, so we enjoyed a Virginian instead (Rosemont's unfiltered Rose) along with a faux Rose, a Kir Royale made with the Jura we'd already had.

It wasn't much of a sacrifice, I have to say.

Meanwhile, the trio of Miramar was effortlessly enchanting the room with boleros, Brazilian songs and original music, all set to the keyboard accompaniment of national treasure Marlyse Simmons, who managed to do it despite the setting sun through the window making things a tad warm for her.

Singer Laura Ann, looking fabulous in an orange sherbet-colored dress with orange pumps - because only she would have orange pumps - made sure to remind the crowded room that despite the happy sound to some songs, they were all basically unhappy.

"Here we are celebrating life and happiness through sadness, as we do," Laura said while Rei shook his maracas in agreement.

Late in the set, percussion arrived courtesy of Giustino and his bongos, making for a thrilling addition to an already sublime sound. It looked like hot work, though, and he'd pull out his handkerchief between songs to wipe sweat from his head.

That's a dedicated musician right there.

Lots of friends crowded into the bakery: the Turkish singer, her Russian guitarist and his Italian fashion blogger girlfriend, the jazz critic, the dance party enthusiast, practically the entire Dutch & Co. crew, the reporter.

It was a party for those in the know.

Back at our table, we sipped the lovely Te Mata Gamay Noir from Hawke's Bay, New Zealand, coincidentally also the home of the winemaker I'd squired around last month. I can't wait to tell him I'm still drinking his local juice.

What I can't do is provide prior notice to my Facebook friends of where I'm out and about on any given day or night.

That said, if you're looking for me, I can be found. Just ask in advance and I'll tell you where.

But MIA? Only if you don't know where to look.

Bathing Caps and Pity Sex

It was a lot to spring on a man.

When my bike-riding friend had suggested we get together, I'd suggested tonight so we could walk over to ThetareLAB and see "Dry Land." He'd offered up dinner in exchange for the play and was even willing to walk wherever I chose to dine.

We like that in our friends.

Given the balmy evening, nothing suited me better than meandering to Maya for tilapia tacos and a discussion of the best couples therapy book he's ever read. Across the street, hundreds of family members streamed into Centerstage for the Richmond Ballet's annual Minds in Motion performance.

By the time we left to walk over to TheatreLAB, the sun was waning and the night air ideal for a stroll. At this point, my friend still had no idea what he was in for, but it didn't take long to find out.

A sign by the box office was a trigger warning about the play and as strongly worded as it was, from the first scene it was clear it couldn't have been worded too strongly.

Taking place in a locker room, the story follows high school girls on the swim team dealing with the usual high school angst - you know, abortions, slut-shaming and the ugliness of female friendships.

Midway through the 90-minute play, my friend leaned in and whispered, "This is a tough play!"

He wasn't exaggerating, but it was also so well executed that you couldn't look away no matter how challenging it got.

As usual, TheatreLAB had managed to totally transform their basement space, this time into a blue-tiled locker room with wooden benches and lockers. You could practically smell the chlorine in the pool just offstage.

Like they always seem to do, TheatreLAB had also chosen a topic-of-the-moment, infusing it with veracity given the completely believable performances of leads Aiden Orr and Jessie Kraemer as the swimmer determined to abort her pregnancy and the swimmer doing her best to help her do so.

Although it was a small part, Dixon Cashwell, in a t-shirt reading "Pity sex," managed to be both awkward and sweet, a combination he always nails splendidly.

But ultimately it wasn't a play about abortion, but a play about children - because that's what high school students are - making important decisions without the assistance of the adults in their life, layered with the usual coming of age issues of how kids want their friends to see them, with a heaping helping of navigating female friendships and their mercurial nature on top of it all.

A reminder, in other words, that the high school years are exhausting.

Let's just say that by the time we'd watched the screaming agony of bloody labor, my friend was in no mood to stay for the talkback with the cast. Instead, we had our own discussion of the play as we walked home, quickly realizing that our gender disparity meant that I'd picked up on things few men, including him, would have.

"I think this is a play I'll be thinking about for a while," he observed as we sallied through Jackson Ward, thanking me again for inviting him.

Not every guy would be so gracious about seeing so much estrogen playing out onstage. Luckily, I'd asked someone just tough enough.

Whether or not he's willing to accept another play invitation from me remains to be seen.

Getting Along for Good

Have we made no progress in 25 years?

That could have been the theme for TheatreLAB's production of "Twilight: Los Angeles 1992" about the Rodney King beating and ensuing riots and also my first foray into verbatim theater, a genre I didn't even know existed.

Playwright Anna Deavere Smith had used interviews with people associated with the events - everyone from the police chief to King's aunt to a Korean woman whose husband was attacked - as a way of gathering monologues for the one-woman show.

I had gathered up a favorite photographer who also remembered the historic events so I'd have a companion to discuss the play with afterward. No point in going with someone who was in elementary school during the seminal events.

Fortunately for the audience, that one woman was Katrinah Carol Lewis, a fierce presence who with each monologue and minimal costume change managed to display a different take on the crucial events, each distinct, memorable and tragic in his or her own way.

It was while she was playing a Mexican sculptor that the audience nervously laughed when she said, "I'm not a racist. I have white friends," one of those decidedly uncomfortable moments for anyone who recognizes how common that particular justification is despite its meaninglessness.

On the other hand, it was infuriating to hear one of the white jurors at the trial (of the cops who beat King 56 times in 81 seconds) say she felt like a pawn used to get a non-guilty verdict. That the juror later got a letter from the KKK - thrilled at the verdict and inviting her to join - drove the point home most unpleasantly.

In a sign of the times, more than one character made disparaging comments about Jesse Jackson. Oh, Jesse.

Lewis' convincing Cornel West character explained the difference between "optimism" and "hope," the former being secular, and the latter based on nothing, and also predicted that if whites could experience black sadness, it would be overwhelming for them.

No doubt. As it was, the incredibly well-acted play was overwhelming for its unfortunate reminder that there can be no progress until, as Rodney King pleaded, we can all get along.

Props to TheatreLAB for the win, both in thoughtfully choosing a piece of theater that's as relevant today with #blacklivesmatter as when it was written and for the assured execution by Lewis.

Sadly, we still need all the optimism and hope we can get.

Life is a New Draft for Every Day

Rolling in the deep of Women's History month, I can't resist.

There was the "Virginia Women: Their Lives and Times" lecture at the Library of Virginia, an event attended by 36 women and 6 men about a two-volume set by that name.

Editors Sandra Treadway and Cindy Kierner explained that they'd intentionally chose women that readers wouldn't know, the better to pique their interest.

Of course Dolly Madison was there, but not the Dolly of myriad social graces we usually hear about.

Instead, this essay dealt with how the North Carolina-born Dolly spent her life denying it and trying to pass herself off as a Virginian. True, her parents were Virginians, but the essay addresses the question of why she felt it preferable to be thought of as a Virginian.

There was Jane Webb, a free mixed race woman living on the Eastern Shore who spent much of her life shrewdly and tenaciously fighting the courts to ensure that her children were free as well. Virginia wasn't the best state for following the letter of the law about freed blacks so she used the law to protect her family at a time when few blacks could read, much less write legal documents.

But the most fascinating woman by far was Grace Sherwood, a woman tried five times - five! - on suspicion of being a witch, specifically, the witch of Pungo. And why did the men think that, you wonder?

Because her husband had died and she didn't remarry, so then she was a property owning woman. Because she was assertive and known to be crabby. Because - gasp! - she occasionally wore trousers. In other words, just the kind of woman that colonial men wanted to do away with.

And the best part of that story is that not only is there a statue of her in Virginia Beach now, but when Tim Kaine was governor, he pardoned Grace.

It takes a feminist man to reach back and right a 17th century wrong.

There was also TheatreLAB's production of "My Name is Rachel Corrie," a one-woman show about the Seattle born and raised activist (who says she ended up just like her mother expected: scattered and deviant and too loud) who died in 2003 in Palestine protesting the bulldozing of innocent people's homes.

The issue is real, obviously, and Rachel's concern for the kind of evil being powered by American dollars in that part of the world resonated with truth, but at intermission, the couple nearest me were discussing how manic the first act was and whether it was even convincing.

I was convinced, but also distracted by how frequently actress Kaelie James rearranged her hair, so it was a relief to see it in a ponytail for the second act.

Granted, it's a heavy subject (Pru had declined my invitation, saying she didn't want her evening entertainment with political commentary because it was too depressing), but given that the script was an amalgamation of Rachel's journal entries and emails, it was a powerful one, too.

The entire row behind me didn't return after intermission, and once it began, I saw two guys nodding off, jerking their heads up repeatedly, a shame really because they probably missed the final point of what a tragedy it is that so many people consider Israeli policy and Jewish people the same thing.

And then, just to rip out hearts out completely, the play ended with film footage of Rachel in a 5th grade speech, passionately making a case for feeding hungry people in the middle east regardless of their religion. In fifth grade.

But by far my biggest project in celebration of Women's History month was about books.

I'd recently seen a video of a mother and young daughter going through a bookcase of children's books, removing all the ones with no female characters, then all the ones with female characters who had no speaking parts until the shelves were decimated and it got me thinking.

I've got a bookcase the length of my living room wall - 23 shelves in all - and I had no earthly idea how many of the books I owned were written by women or about women.

So I set out to find out, pulling titles and authors that had XX chromosomes.

There were the usual literary suspects: Charlotte and Emily Bronte, Edith Wharton, Harper Lee, Dorothy Parker, Sylvia Plath, Katherine Anne Porter, Ann Beattie (inside "Secrets and Surprises" I found my ticket stub to see Diana Ross at the Capital Centre..score!), Willa Cather, Muriel Spark and Anais Nin, among others.

There was the feminist element: Ellen Goodman, Marilyn French, Susan Jacoby, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Gail Collins and Erica Jong, as well as the food contingent: Judith Child, M.F.K. Fisher, Betty Fussel and Ruth Reichl.

Long a fan of non-fiction, there were plenty of memoirs, biographies and autobiographies: Diane Arbus, Vera Nabokov, Sally Hemmings, Coco Chanel, Carrie Fisher, Georgia O'Keefe, Katherine Graham and Peggy Guggenheim. Not all written by women, but all written about a woman.

Dust flying, I pulled out books on art, photography ("The Female Focus: Women Photographers") and punctuation, a graphic novel, hell, even "Our American Sisters: Women in American Life and Thought," from my first women's studies class in college.

A few did double duty, like "Secrets of the Flesh: A Life of Colette" by Judith Thurman or "First Mothers: The Women Who Shaped the Presidents" by Bonnie Angelo.

I'm not going to say I sorted through every single book in my collection because I didn't (why is it a deadline always rears its head when I'm in an organizing mood?), but I dug through enough to come up with nearly five shelves of nothing but female-centric books.

And, quite frankly and surprisingly, that's a little embarrassing. Out of 23 shelves, I only have enough tomes to fill five shelves representing the blood, sweat and tears of a woman's mind or life?

Time to preach. Ever Since Eve (also a title on my shelf), there's been an imbalance. The Possible She (yep, another one) is still just out of reach.

We may be scattered, deviant and loud, or even assertive, crabby and trouser-wearing, but that, ladies and witches, is exactly why we still need Women's History Month.

Mistaken for Friends

The powers that be long ago decreed today as National My Way Day.

Seems that today has been designated as the day when the world revolves around how you want to do things. Which is kind of how I live every day, but apparently some people need permission to do so.

Not me. When I was a kid, my Mom told me that every day was Children's Day and I took that to heart, presuming that once I got to adulthood, every day would be Grown-Ups Day and since no one told me differently, I've been going the "My Way Day" route ever since.

For others, hope you enjoyed today.

Because February is Great American Pie Month, my day began by walking to Sugar and Twine with Mac for a brown butter apple hand pie enjoyed at an outside table on an unexpectedly nice morning next to a panting bulldog.

That my backside brushed the head of a guy sitting inside - but awfully close to the door - as we walked out was not my fault, but I apologized anyway. "No worries at all," the stranger said. "I enjoyed it."

Although this week is officially National Secondhand Wardrobe Week, let's be real here, every week of my life is secondhand wardrobe week, although my recommendation would be to rename it National Recycled Wardrobe Week to make it sound groovier.

A black and white geometric knit dress - worn backwards because I like the way the zipper looks in front - was tonight's recycled choice.

In honor of today being National Cabbage Day, I took a favorite eater out - because it's also International Friendship Week - to assist my hired mouth with heaping helpings of lamb, chicken and, yes, cabbage.

In further service of said week, I took that friend to TheatreLAB to see "Grand Concourse," part of the Acts of Faith Festival, and another superb opportunity to see how The Basement space had been transformed this time.

We were wowed by what a phenomenal job set designer David Melton had done nailing every detail of a basement church soup kitchen, from crucifixes and pictures of Jesus to posters of OSHA legalities and health requirements, with all the shelving, pots and pans and stores of food that a real kitchen would require.

That the story of good and evil, love and loss, mental illness and manipulation ended with the lead character realizing that some acts can never be forgiven - nor should they ever be - made it all worthwhile.

As for February's busy calendar, I find it fascinating that while it's International Friendship Week, it's also International Flirting Week. Could it be that simultaneous celebrations are in order?

Discuss. Because that's my way every day.

Biscuits for Sale

When trying to market our fair city to visitors and new arrivals, it only makes sense to tailor the message to the intended audience.

And not in an obvious way, say, "Richmond is Rainbow-Friendly!" but in more of a "Virginia is for ALL Lovers" manner that shows a bit of subtlety. Target your audience and speak to them in their language.

So if you were attempting to attract theater-loving types, one sure-fire way to alert them to what a thriving and stellar theater scene awaits them here would be to simply say, "This is a town that produces "Mother Courage and Her Children."

Because, despite Bertolt Brecht's play being considered the greatest play of the 20th century and easily the finest anti-war play ever written, let's get real here: almost no one produces it.

Yet here we are, with the reliably adventurous TheatreLAB (because who else would have done it, a rhetorical thought I noted in chalk on the bathroom wall before the action even began tonight) leading off their season with this epic and thoroughly immersive play.

Going down the rabbit hole of the Thirty Years War began when Mac and I walked in the door and, along with a guy in line behind us, were directed to a nearby soldier (the quarter mistress) issuing "kits" - a folding chair and a list of instructions, including specifications on staying inside the green lines on the floor.

A drill sergeant hammered in directions for what to do when "About face!" "Left face!"or "Right face!" was screamed at us (it involved moving our entire chairs in that direction) throughout the show.

In the name of Style Weekly's Best of Issue, I once dubbed TheatreLAB the "most shape-shifting theater space" and tonight it could have also been labeled "most malleable focal point" for its constant shifts in action.

All that chair turning resulted in the sound of clattering empty bottles knocked over in the dark every time the group moved en masse to see what the Catholics and the Protestants ("Cooks have an intellectual bent, unlike clergy") were doing to each other next.

It was eerie how contemporary the 77-year old play managed to feel.

When one of Mother Courage's sons asked of her, "Mother, may I smack him in the puss?" about a recruitment officer baiting him, some of the younger audience members gasped at the word "puss," as if it were related to where the Republican nominee feels free to grab.

Alright, listen up, kids: the puss is located much higher on the body than that other feline-nicknamed body part. Got that?

When the lights came up at intermission, the buzz was palpable. The man next to us - who'd come from Charlottesville to see the production - the people behind us, everyone was sharing how utterly caught up and enthralled they were with what we'd seen so far.

Like me, few had seen it before.

Appropriating rap, folk and popular music to underpin Brecht's song lyrics, the play's soundtrack couldn't have felt more modern. That the actors were accompanied by piano, guitar and violin only added to the musical punch (and my theory that some people don't get handed just one talent, but many).

Boomie Pedersen was a marvel as Mother Courage, shoring up one child while praising another for being honest, if stupid, constantly focused on making a living off the contents of her cart, a fanciful looking thing that was wheeled from one side of the Basement to the other.

Director Keri Wormald made sure it was tough to like Mother's character but impossible not to be impressed with her ability to keep on keeping on, no matter how many children she lost to the decades of fighting that sustained her and her family.

A potent reminder of the price paid in war, the riveting play delivered a powerful message without beating the audience over the head with it and ended with scrolls being dropped sharing the toll of war in terms of financial cost, sexually transmitted diseases, traumatic stress disorder and more unsettling realities.

Who does that? Who delivers a fabulous performance of an important yet under-produced play and then closes it out by further stunning the audience with facts and figures about the continuing cost of war?

TheatreLAB, duh. No longer an upstart, they have fully arrived.

Can the legions of theater fans be far behind?

Artsies Fever, We Know How to Show It

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here tonight to get through this thing called the Artsies. Preferably before midnight.

Many things happened at tonight's Richmond Theater Critics Circle awards show, many of them in glittery shoes and sparkly clothing.

I wore neither, yet the man who won "Best Actor in a Leading Role, Musical" complimented my ensemble as sexy and demure ("How are you pulling off both?") and referred to his own striking suit as looking "like a couch."

For the record, few couches are that shiny.

Naturally, things got topical. There was last year's Best Supporting Actor - a child actor, mind you - playing the Donald in a blond wig and patriotic ball cap and, when challenged on his fitness to do so given his diminutive stature, responded, " My hands are the right size!"

When the cast of "Green Day's American Idiot" did a medley, it involved a figure in a Trump mask and the entire cast finishing by giving the audience the finger. I like to think they were really giving it to Trump.

Calling a spade a spade, the Best Actor in a Supporting Role, Play called Richmond Triangle Players the "best-run theater in town," and he should know having worked for almost all the others as well.

Even her move to D.C. didn't prevent last year's Best Actress in a Play from being the butt of jokes about her frequent nude scenes, from showing up as a presenter tonight and from reminding us that we are more than a piece of ass.

Winningly, the multi-talented Best Actor nominee in both leading and supporting roles sang a song with green frog hands on.

Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" became the basis for the winner of Best Actress in a Lading Role, Musical and the winner of Best Director, Play to imagine a gospel-inspired MLK musical set to the Purple One.

One of the actors who was part of the deserving group who won the Ernie McClintock Best Acting Ensemble award - the one who's leaving us after five years for a bigger sandbox to show off in  - announced, "If you're not seeing TheatreLAB's shows, you're not really paying attention."

Five awards tonight? Everybody should be paying attention by now.

Because last years's winner of Best Director, Play was unable to attend, her esteemed Shakespeare leanings became the basis for jokes involving tests, balls and cunning linguists set to iambic pentameter.

Behold a 97-year old dancer (who could have passed for 75) accepting an award for Ongoing Contribution to Richmond Area Theater who not only did a few dance movements when she walked onstage, but also said, "I'm grateful to have had a long lifetime in order to achieve so much."

The young 'uns (particularly) in the audience gasped audibly when her age was given and clapped mightily when she sashayed offstage.

Just as moving was the 87-year old actress and mezzo-soprano accepting the same award and sharing her black history in the process. When told by a restaurant server in her youth that, "We don't serve n****rs here," she had the presence of mind to answer, "We don't eat 'em."

And when she told us to hold hands with the people on either side of us, we did while she prayed for a less divisive country and better treatment of women.

One critic's reviews were mocked as too short and another as too long. Both statements were true.

The audience went nuts when nominees for Best Supporting Actress, Play and Best Actor in a Leading Role, Musical sang "Suddenly Seymour" with charm and drama to spare.

There was more Girl Power than you could shake a stick at, like last year's Best Actress winner pointing at another actor in Colonial garb a la "1776" and saying, "This is what a President looked like in the past," and then doffing her own Revolutionary costume to reveal a sexy red dress underneath.

"And this is what a President will look like in the future!" Hear, hear.

Oh, and for the record, 5th Wall does more than "plays where smart women holler at each other." Why is it "hollering" when we do it and "discussing" when men do the same?

You'd never hear the Dowager Countess say such a thing.

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.

Hello, Heat Wave, My Old Friend.

It was too hot today for me to do much more than read, eventually giving that up to take a heat nap.

Ostensibly, it was for similar reasons that TheatreLAB lowered the thermostat in the Basement to frigid for tonight's performance of "Mr. Burns: A Post-Electric Play," but now that I've seen it, I'm more inclined to think they lowered the temperature so our brains wouldn't melt from seeing such a complicated and brilliant production.

Beginning with a group of survivors huddled around a campfire with tree branches overhead to simulate the forest that has become their home, the play's cast easily deserves a best ensemble award for making their interaction throughout the play feel as natural and spontaneous as the bonfire parties my next door millennial neighbors often host on Friday nights.

Except they're not dealing with nuclear meltdown.

There are three things you may want to know about the post-apocalyptic world portrayed in "Mr. Burns:" 

First, people are not competent and, second, gay men drink more Diet Coke than straight men. No big news there, right?

Last, and perhaps most importantly, when required to start from scratch, civilization will turn to the "The Simpsons" for a cultural touchstone, specifically, to the "Cape Fear" episode, in and of itself a fascinating choice. Even the Simpsons theme wove its way through the entire production in one form or another.

Wait, now that I think about it, there's a fourth. This is a play so full of ideas, its scope so wide, that you'll leave the theater craving a second viewing just to clarify everything further in your head. My companion likened it to Charlie Kauffman's "Synecdoche, New York" for how meta it was.

But it's also the time travel aspect - the play covers 80+ years of post-global disaster life - that had our heads spinning at both intermissions. Yes, two breaks, both to allow the entire room to be reconfigured so the audience would experience each act from a different perspective.

But it had better be a smart audience, I tell you what, because this is a play that expects you to not only have a passing knowledge of "The Simpsons" and the DeNiro remake of "Cape Fear," but also Gilbert and Sullivan, Top 40 hits (yes, that was a Britney song we heard), the darkest reaches of capitalism, ole bedroom eyes himself, Robert Mitchum, life post-grid and Greek choruses.

I got them all, yet both our brains were in overdrive by the time we walked out of the ice-cold Basement, wowed beyond belief, deep in discussion about what we'd just seen and already planning to see it again.

Good thinking, TheatreLAB, cooling our brains down before electrifying them. It's what Bart would have done.

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."