Planes, Trains, and Automobiles: How Michelle Came to Make Philadelphia Her New Home

The following takes place between the hours of 3:00pm and 4:00pm.
Somewhere between Chicago and Washington D.C. And Philadelphia. And Norfolk...

3:00PM: Clear-eyed and optimistic, I roll out of Chicago. Flight doesn't leave for hours, but it's always good to build in a window, right? Riiiiiiiight...

3:30PM: The train is crowded, and a fight breaks out on the Blue Line back to O’Hare between a guy clearly looking for a fight, and what appeared to be an older, (possibly) mentally challenged man. Directly in front of me. I could’ve thrown a punch, were I so inclined. The guy who picked the fight jumps out at the next stop, while the older man lays bleeding and unmoving on the ground. The train is stopped - medics come - guy eventually walks out on his own, with the help of more than a few other people. I discuss our ringside event with a lovely middle-aged Chicagoan woman. She encourages me to visit again.

6:20PM, 6:30PM, 6:45PM: The first leg of my flight is delayed. Repeatedly. Firstly… because of reasons unknown. Secondly by lightning. Then by a mechanical issue. We will eventually take off, but suddenly the hope of making a connection, while not abandoned, is beginning to look bleak.

9:40PM: Somewhere in the air over DC, we begin to circle the block for a while, delayed by something mysterious on the ground. Even the pilot doesn’t seem to know. We fly endlessly in circles. My connecting fight departs at 10:10… I’ve already heard rumors that there are no more flights to Norfolk until the following afternoon. I clench my teeth and begin scanning the plane for people in front of me small enough to knock out of the way.

9:55PM: We finally land. My exit gate is 35 - I look around, 32, 33, 34… There IS no 35! I run up to the counter and ask if it’s even possible to still make my flight - and WHERE, in God’s name, is gate 35?! The slowest, oldest man in the world eventually croaks out, “Well, it hasn’t left yet… So it’s possible. But it’s all the way in the next terminal.”

9:57PM: I take off running. Flip-flops clacking obnoxiously on the tile, my wheeled suitcase flying behind me in defiance of physics like a 75 lb. banner of panic. Pedestrians leap from my path, clearly terrified of the snorting, panting, redheaded hurricane hellbent on reaching her destination with no obvious regard for the fact she is clearly never going to make it.

10:07PM: There is a SECOND security check-point between me and my destination. What. New. Hell. Is. THIS?! I stop cold for only a second, then hurl my suitcase and backpack onto the conveyer belt. I unpack nothing. I toss my shoes and my cell phone into a box. The security guard shrieks, “MA’AM! YOU HAVE TO TAKE YOUR LAPTOP OUT OF THE BAG!” so I yank it out of my backpack and fling myself through the gate. Running again, I briefly reflect on the number of times I’ve exercised really excellent caution when heading through airport security - and how it obviously was all for naught, since they clearly don’t give a crap. So long as you take out your laptop.

10:13PM: My gate is empty. The plane is gone. In a shameful display of defeat, I cry a little. Tears of failure. Tears of homesickness. Tears of being grossly out of shape and having just run through an airport in flip-flops.

10:40PM: My options are these. I can take a flight to Charlotte the next afternoon. And… Then live there. All the flights from Charlotte to Norfolk are overbooked. The kind girl behind the counter, who finally realizes the futility of trying to send me to Charlotte, has a discussion with her manager. They can get me there - first class to Philly, then Philly to ORF. In theory, I might eventually make it home. She hands me a hotel coupon (discounted, not comped… they cannot control the weather. This is a fair argument) and directs me to a shuttle headed that way.

10:48PM: I call Tim, who had every good intention of coming to get me, but the more we discussed it, the more ridiculous driving all hours into the night began to seem. It was too late to rent a car and just as expensive anyway. I book the hotel and attempt to hop a shuttle. In keeping on theme, the last shuttle of the night took off at 10:45.

11:00PM: My Uber driver, Bockrie, arrives. Bockrie, a very friendly but terribly confused young man from Sierra Leone of the tender age of maaaaaaybe 18, begins to make some questionable choices. Wrong turns. U-turns. General bewilderment. Muttering to himself about which way to go. At one point I find myself yelling, “NO! NO! DON’T GO DOWN THAT STREET! IT’S ONE-WAY!”

11:15PM: I fall into a fit of hysterical laughter in the backseat of Bockrie’s Toyota Camry. Hungry, tired, and frustrated, Bockrie is just the adorable, confused cherry on my travel sundae. Eventually, he will drop me off at the hotel. By pulling in through the exit gate.

12:00AM: I’m settled into a room at the Old Crown Plaza hotel in Alexandria. The water pressure is terrific, and the bed is comfortable enough, but the smoke detector has been detached from the wall, and I had to rearrange all the lamps in the room just to find one without a loose connection port that will actually charge my nearly-dead phone. But these are minor issues... At least I have a room. Roland, the super friendly desk clerk, tells me when I check in that many of the people the airport sends to them get sent BACK to the airport when they run out of rooms.

12:10AM: I ask Roland, the super friendly desk clerk, if there’s anywhere I can get a bite. He directs me to a bar about 4 blocks away. It’s a safe neighborhood - I hoof it. They don’t serve food. But they do have beer. This is more or less acceptable.

3:08PM (The following day): Zipping past the uneventful morning of shuttles, first legs and exceptionally chatty lawyers from Albany, here I am. 24 hours from the start of my journey, sitting in an empty airport terminal in Philadelphia on the world’s longest layover. There’s one more leg to this trip, and then I’ll be home. Of course, I still remember about 17 hours ago when that was also the case… But,  still... I remain optimistic. It is, after all, always sunny in Philadelphia. And there’s plenty of brotherly love and such. And besides, if Tom Hanks can live at JFK, I can surely live here if I need to, right?

Good thing they have beer.

"boom / OR," OR... The Best Thing No One Ever Saw

"I won't have one of those 'OR' titles... one of those greedy, get-it-all-in titles. 'The something-something OR what-you-something...' I don't care if the Great Man did it, they take up half the poster, and the typesetter charges by the word. Make up your mind and pick one, thank you." - Lady Davenant

In a near-impossible 3-page hulked-out monologue in OR, by Liz Duffy Adams, that line is mine. It arrives wedged in near the end - a breviloquent lesson on naming plays twice; a practice I became well versed in watching episodes of Rocky and Bullwinkle as a kid. So, it's not without irony that I wrote my own title the way that I did.

We opened a show last night. boom by Peter Sinn Nachtrieb. A genius little 3-person one-act (though to be fair, it runs about 80 minutes - it just doesn't have an intermission) about the end of the world. A straight up comet-explosion, apocalyptic, civilization-destroying end of the world comi-tragedy. And tonight, we'll open another - OR, - Liz Duffy Adam's even sexier, albeit somewhat ridiculous, Restoration Era door-slamming farce about spy/playwright/poetess Aphra Behn. And we'll do it with the same 3 cast members. Intriguing? Sure. But for an actor, the concept was all but mind-blowing.

When Generic Theater announced their season last year, I was taken in by a few things.

1.) A partnership with Double Dog Theater on this (these) show(s). Double Dog does undeniably interesting work, is run by some amazing, truly creative, and fun-to-work-with folks. Point boom/OR,. They also have a profit-sharing model for paying their actors and crew, which, let's face it, is a major bonus. Time = money, and if any of that comes back your way, it's basically like winning the lottery. Another point boom/OR,.

2.) The concept of 1cast/2plays was just difficult enough to understand that you can read the heightened concentration on Jeanette Rainey's face in the video as she struggles to make sense of what this event actually IS. Complicated theater that can't be readily explained by a cue card? Color me curious. Point boom/OR,.

3.) It looked like a CHALLENGE. I'm choosy about the shows I audition for - they're time consuming and I have a day job. And a significant other who eventually wonders where I've run off to. So, the things I ultimately audition for are things I know I will KICK MYSELF for not being a part of. And this was, without a doubt, exactly that. Great writing. Multiple roles on different sets. Repertory theater, which is essentially unheard of in this area. And repertory with the same actors and crew? Point boom/OR,. Basically all the points. I sucked it up, hauled that giant sack of points into an audition and laid them at the feet of our now-director Brendan Hoyle, who I'd recently declared a creative genius. (Don't tell him this, his head will swell, and we'll have to revoke the title and that will be the end of it.)

So, cut to now. Weeks of rehearsals and hundreds of lines memorized and nearly a dozen characters developed (well, hey there, multiple roles in one show!), we open. To a warm, receptive, engaging crowd. Of about 20 people. And that little red warning light that had been quietly blinking in the back of my head since before I even auditioned suddenly comes into focus. This show is a TOUGH SELL. While conceptually brilliant, well marketed (read about us here... and here... and here!) and doing everything it needs to be amazing... the fact remains. It's going to be a hard sell! The plays are basically brand new. Consider theater years in terms of dog years - the oldest of the shows was written only in 2008, which means most people have yet to even HEAR of this title yet. It's a gamble to pay for a ticket to a show you've never heard anything about. On top of that, there's a good chance you might not KNOW anyone in the cast... There are only 3 of us. And while that's a huge part of what makes this so conceptually amazing, I'm as guilty as anyone of not seeing local shows when I don't know anyone who's in them. Never heard of the show and no one's gonna be mad if I don't see it? I'll keep my $17, thanks. Maybe I'll go see a movie... I don't know Matthew McConaughey personally, but he looks like he could use my money. And those Hollywood studios are really struggling to make ends meet...

So, begins my point. (Did you see it coming...? I know, it nearly slipped right by in the subtlety, there.) There are amazing things happening that need your support, and boom/OR, juuuuuust might be one of those amazing things. And, oddly enough, this isn't about me for once! (WHAT?! I know!) Whereas I'm having a total blast, and I want people to come and be impressed with my ability to put on a bunch of different wigs and hats really fast (isn't that why people go into acting in the first place?), this is about something else. It's about recognizing something special... Something different... Something that might expand the definition of what art and theater is in this town. Something that's good for everyone! Support it now and you'll get to see more interesting things down the road. Actors and techies alike will be provided bigger and better opportunities to do things that stretch them, because it's already been proven that the community will hold up the ticketing end of the bargain.  

This might not be a life-altering experience... You'll see a play (two, if you like what you see and decide to catch them both), and you'll be hella entertained - because, let's face it, they're comedies and it's near impossible not to get a laugh or two out of it. BUT, support for something like this will benefit everyone. Actors, directors, crews, audiences... the whole flipping City of Norfolk and then some! But you have to come. Suck it up and drop the cash, because it's going to make all the difference in the world.

I can't encourage you enough to come out... Whether you want to (somewhat dramatically) change the course of history or not. :) We run for 3 weekends at Generic Theater down under Chrysler Hall in Norfolk, through February 15. I promise you will kick yourself for missing it.

#foodnotfood

(I'm gonna get a little rant-y here. So bail now if you're not feelin' it. I don't actually make a point in the end... it's just observational whining.)

I have a lot of problems with food. And not necessarily the ones you'd think. (Though, take a good look at my curves and you can safely guess I've got those, too.) My biggest problems with food come in a form of impatience. I don't care enough about it to deal with it. It's a hassle to figure out. And shop for. And cook. Tim and I have a long-time understanding that, should something ever happen to him, I will likely die of starvation. I'll live off whatever cereal we have in the house until it's gone... and then I will just slowly allow myself to fade away. The autopsy will reveal cause of death as "Apathy."

So, last night, I allowed myself an experiment. I went to the store, and wandered the aisles. Slowly. Really considering what I would actually be interesting in eating, come lunchtime the following day. On any ordinary trip, my impatience would get the best of me, and not finding anything immediately to my liking, I'd give up and leave - assuring myself another lunch of whatever-looks-least-processed-in-the-vending-machine. But since I had nothing to do and nowhere to be, I forced myself to take a little more time.

The siren's call from the cereal aisle eventually proved too strong to ignore, so I veered my cart-ship down the row, absentmindedly wondering when the American public had decided they needed 47 varieties of Special K. And that's when I saw it.

It wasn't the first time I'd been annoyed by food-disguised-as-other-food, but for some reason, this time it really gave me pause. Cap'n Crunch is a great cereal - though, health food, it is not. Was it really necessary to take a perfectly unhealthy sugared breakfast cereal and repackage it as an even UNHEALTHIER dessert? While the crotchety old man in my head prepared his angry remarks on childhood obesity, the physical me kept slowly cruising the aisles. And like the breakfast cereal that broke the camel's back, suddenly it began to occur to me how much STUFF was in these grocery aisles. And none of it was food. Oh, it was edible, alright. But 90% of it had been manufactured from chemicals and by-products and dyes and cardboard and donut flavoring. I began to recall articles I'd read about American grocery stores being "impossibly well-stocked," and how surprising it must be to foreign travelers to see aisles and aisles of food available. In every variety imaginable.

But the problem being... it wasn't food.

I'm going to gently fold my star-spangled trio-of-eagles t-shirt and set it aside for a moment to simply ask the question, "WTF, America?" What are you trying to accomplish here? Does anyone really benefit from this much variety? This many choices? Are we really such terrible consumers that this is what it takes to get us to keep buying? We've oversaturated ourselves with glossy, nacho-cheese flavored, 99% processed, family-sized bags of crap, and it's become so commonplace, no one even sees it anymore. And being alive long enough to know what bags of crap I like, I didn't even notice how many new bags of crap had sprouted up while I wasn't looking.

I know this is the point of the story where an ordinary person might make a great life change. They'd abruptly decide to grow all their own food. Or only shop at Whole Foods. Or buy only locally-sourced, no-GMO, organic, biodynamic, permaculture grown, sustainably raised chickens whose names they already know. But, for someone who can barely decide they might like to eat a sandwich sometime later in the week, that seems pretty overwhelming.


I'm not really looking for an answer here. And I'm not going to turn into a person whose entire Facebook feed is devoted to telling people their favorite foods are poisoning them. (Yes, we know. Don't be smug.) But it was a pretty revelatory evening. And I sense there may actually be small changes in my future - be it the occasional trip to Whole Foods. Or finally weeding out our garden in the backyard and planting a few veggies. (I will never eat a chicken whose name I know, however... at that point we're friends, and I'm not ready to go vegan.) But I might actually read a few of those your-food-is-poisoning-you articles people love to shove in my face, because I've finally noticed for myself that, while they're still smug, they may be true.

Wouldn't it be interesting if the market research that gave us Sprinkled Donut Crunch went into Keeping the American Public Trim, Happy and Not Full of Chemicals? I know it isn't a new thought, but daaaaaaaamn it would be super convenient for us impatient, careless foodies if the FDA had public interest truly at heart.

Story of a Veteran

Because it's Veteran's Day, and I love to talk about my father, a story.

"My dad was in Vietnam." And for most of my life, those five words summed up pretty much everything I knew about it.

It surprised me a little. Dad was a great storyteller. I mean, the man really knew how to work a room. If I ever needed to find him in a crowd, it was only a matter of following the people laughing the loudest. I always knew he'd be at the center of it, telling some Big Fish tale of how he killed a river snake with a rock from the shore hundreds of feet away, or how he'd been dragged down the hallway by the ear by countless Catholic school nuns, or how he hit his brother in the back with a dart playing William Tell and how, "He would've been fine if he just hadn't moved!"

The stories were great. (And to the chagrin of his brothers and countless Catholic school nuns, all true.) But on the subject of Vietnam, he was surprisingly quiet. He had stories of joining the army, and stories of the army's plans for him - which were pretty lofty, from what I understand. But he said almost nothing to me about his time in the war, and in the naiveté of childhood, I found that very strange. Vietnam seemed like a fascinating place, and enough time had passed by the time I came along that I assumed he'd be wide open to talking about his "adventures" in the war.

As I grew up, my father did begin to open up a little more. In my late teens/early twenties I think he began to see me less as his child and more as a friend, and it was only then that I managed to ask him the right questions about Vietnam. He recounted a few tales - but even then, only things I always considered to be on the fringe of the whole story. About people he met and things that happened - one particularly poignant story of how his platoon killed an elephant, which even though he shared the story in an entertaining manner, I could tell it was something that never sat right with him. My father, reluctant admirer of creatures big and small.

It was finally my mother who opened my eyes to how deeply the war had affected him. On a visit to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in DC, she told me, he had cried openly at what he found there. I could count the number of times I'd seen my father cry on one hand - one FINGER, if I'm being honest. And yet, this thing, decades after the fact, could still bring that man to his knees. It was no real wonder he never talked about it... An entire other lifetime couldn't erase what had happened there.

My father was so young when he entered the war. It's so easy to forget that. I'm more than 10 years older now than he was when he joined the army. And though he's not with us any more, I personally credit his death in small part to that nightmare of a war. Exposure to Agent Orange left him with a wealth of health problems that followed him his entire life. As though the mental scarring weren't enough.

I am proud of my father still for his time served. He joined the army of his own volition, did well, and got out. He went on to create a family and another life for himself outside of the military, but he could have easily stayed on and been a success. He taught me respect and appreciation for those who continue to serve, and it's nothing but respect and appreciation that I have. "Happy" Veteran's Day seems like a flippant thing to say when I consider those who fought alongside my father, whose names he found on that wall. So, instead, a "Respectful" Veteran's Day, and a heartfelt thank you for those serving where many of us could not.

When Books Hurt Your Feelings

When you're already on the fence about a piece of literature you're engaged in, it can come as quite a shock when that book somehow manages to damage a piece of your psyche so hard that you're STILL thinking about it the next day.

Truth be told, I cried myself to sleep last night. Tim was already long asleep by the time this embarrassing scene went down, and thankfully, too. Much like the time he walked in on me sobbing to the end of "Marley and Me" (a movie I had previously sworn never to subject myself to), and cried, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO YOURSELF?!" while (unsuccessfully) trying not to laugh at the masochistic heap of crying wife he'd cheerfully left only a few hours before, I couldn't even begin to explain this sudden and horrid onset of emotion.

But what I can tell you is the one thing those two moments had in common - they were both about a dog.

I've never felt more betrayed by a book. Betrayed by a protagonist who, up until then, had been likeable enough. Betrayed by a protagonist who, upon falling in love with a man she'd only just met, abandoned her only "family" - Weeds, the dog - to fend for himself. It was sweetly written - she would visit him every day. She would continue to care for him in secret, because (for some reason I have yet to read) this man doesn't allow dogs in his life. But, it doesn't change the fact that she LEFT this dog. And there is no way to make a dog understand why he'd been neglected. It's the teddy bear at the end of A.I. It's Harry and the Hendersons. It's that terrifying episode of MacGyver where the petri dish of culture gets spilled and kills the lady scientist's adorable little collie. (And the lady, too, but WHO CARES?! SHE WAS CONSUMED BY HER DESIRE FOR SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERY!!!)

You brought this upon yourself, Dr. Sandra Millhouse!

I dropped that book like it was fire in my hands. And I've been terrified to pick it up since. Because I know there's going to be more about this dog. And it's going to hurt my feelings. This overreaching, self-indulgent novel full of psycho-babble and meandering modernism that I can't even decide if I like IS ACTIVELY HURTING MY FEELINGS. AND I DON'T CARE FOR IT.

It might be time to "Little Women" this thing.

*Books are neat, aren't they? :)
**The book is Iodine - a novel by Haven Kimmel. Though truly one of my favorite authors, this particular book is a bizarre departure, and one I probably couldn't recommend to anyone not already heartily basking in her literary grandeur. (Or to anyone who pointedly overreacts to fictional dog abandonment.)

"I'm never more myself than when I'm being someone else."

I said this to a cast mate last night after another hysterically fun, sold-out performance of Avenue Q at the Little Theater of Norfolk (running for two more weeks, and yes, that was my sales pitch). He grinned in agreement and said, "You need to make that your Facebook status."

I laughed, because it's definitely one of those well-phrased, quippy plugs I tend to make on Facebook - actor friends would appreciate it, people who know my sense of humor would get it. It's easy and brief and just relateable enough to make people click "Like," before moving on with their lives.

But here's the thing. The raw truth in that statement has eaten at me since the moment I said it. And not just because it skews a little on the "emotionally unhealthy" side - I mean, those aren't cards I've ever held that closely to the chest, anyway. It's more about perception. About the image I put out into the world. About the way people are perceiving other people - and how they're almost always wrong.

Someone recently referred to me as "popular." As "the popular girl." It was an off-putting assessment - not an insulting one, by any means - just surprising. But, it's not untrue, I guess. I surround myself with people I love, and I try to be kind and as funny as is humanly possible so they continue to want to be around me... But, it can feel like a calculated maneuver. I've referred to myself as a "personality chameleon." If the person I'm being doesn't seem to meld with the person that you're being, then I can make adjustments. I can make you like me. Or I can certainly put a lot of time and energy into TRYING to make you like me. I try not to do hateful things, like talk about other people behind their backs, even when it's popular opinion. (Which is not to say I don't do  it - I just don't like myself when I do it.) I try to stick up for the little guy. I even (often unsuccessfully) try to wipe the knee-jerk snotty look off my face when people are saying things I find completely inane. I generally don't talk about my bad days. I know what makes people unlikeable, and those are the things I avoid.

But what people tend to forget, or simply not realize, is that I spent the better part of my life being painfully shy. Literally running away from any scenario that made me uncomfortable. And if you think that doesn't still happen, you'd be so very wrong. Only now, there's the added benefit of getting to berate yourself afterwards for being a "31-year-old woman who just ran away from a group of enthusiastic high school students who were trying to get your autograph," because you couldn't wrap your head around the fact they might actually want to talk to you, and not just your six other, better cast mates.

But the "perks of being a wallflower," so to speak (thank you Stephen Chbosky), are actually this: I see it. I recognize the hesitancy. The running away. The thought that you might like to say what's on your mind, but you're so choked up in your own thoughts that nothing ever comes out of your mouth. And that's the reason perception is a terrifying thing. The amount of energy people spend wishing they were more like someone else, when they're probably not even grasping the reality of who that person is in the first place. You like me because I get you. I get you because I WAS you. I still am you. And that's why I put my energy into drawing you out in the first place.

Actors are insecure. I'm insecure. It's not groundbreaking news. But perception is the devil.
You become a chameleon because you hope to avoid drawing attention to yourself - and sometimes that disguise is bright and colorful (or kind and funny), but it suits the surroundings and you blend in. "I'm never more myself than when I'm being someone else," is always going to be true for me. Onstage, offstage... Even popular girls don't always know who they are.

And now for something completely different...

I stumbled onto this video again while researching another band we have coming to the Discovery Music Series - it's the Mountain Stage interview with The Weepies.

It's been a few years since The Weepies played the stage at the Attucks Theatre, but I remember that concert like it just happened. The Weepies were my favorite band before they came to the Attucks, and they continue to be long after. It's not something I even have to think about. "Michelle," you might say, "You listen to a freakin' crapload of music. Who's your favorite?" "The Weepies," I'll reply. Instantly. I won't even launch into a long, hipster diatribe about it, because A.) it's easy truth and B.) you've already stopped listening. But, it was frosting on the cake to meet them in person and learn that they are as down-to-earth and friendly and engaging as you want your favorite band to be. They were magical on stage AND off.

Tonight, the Wheeler Brothers are playing our stage. And no one in Norfolk has any idea who they are. I know this because in spite of the marketing dollars that were thrown far and wide at this series, we've sold less than 100 tickets to this show. And I didn't know who they were either. But, here's what I can tell you about them: their YouTube videos are great. They post really funny animated gifs to their Twitter feed. Oh! And they were also just voted Austin's Best New Band of 2012. Wait... That last part seems important. They're TALENTED.

No one is guiltier than I am about not buying tickets when I've never heard of the band. I mean, why would you? Money's hard to come by, and what a crapshoot that could turn out to be. But, the thing I love about the Discovery Series (and why I mention The Weepies) is that it doesn't often matter WHO the band is. The venue is an experience all it's own. The sound quality is brilliant, new and amazing bands are playing new and amazing music, and CREATIVELY, too (can we talk about how the Alternate Routes incorporated a tool box into their percussion arsenal last show?)... You get to know the band. The venue is intimate. The bands are little known. Some of them are still manning their own merch stands. They WANT to meet you. They tell stories on stage. You connect to them. You love their music. You buy their CD's. You find out that the band you loved on stage is just as down-to-earth and friendly and engaging as you wanted them to be. You become a fan for life. You go to their sold-out arena concerts and say, "I liked them so much better at the Attucks." (Remember the Avett Brothers? Yeah. We're STILL saying that about them.)

The Attucks is in a dismal neighborhood. You've never heard of the group. The show is on a Thursday night. It's raining. There are about a million reasons NOT to go. But forget all that stuff for a minute. Open yourself up to this theater. It's one of my favorite spaces in Norfolk, and it's not because of the building. (Which is beautiful, by the way.) There's a warmth that comes from intimately engaging with musicians that's a completely different animal from the hype of a standing, sold-out concert in a sweaty, smoky venue. Which is probably where the Wheeler Brothers are headed on their next tour stop. I don't devalue those places - I like a loud, sweaty concert as much as the next girl - but, this. THIS. This is something different. Something really, really, really good.

And you should go there.