By the time slacker Bradley is crawling, semi-chasing Vince through the house in an attempt to recover his prosthetic leg, the family is in full blown exorcism mode. The rain falls harder. Cleansing is underway.

There's a neat trick involving puppets at the beginning of the show, which repeats at the end under a striking moon lit evening sky. Once again, there's no shortage of creativity on Addison.

Gloria McDonald and Sara Luna lead a superb cast of four that capture the just the right tone of comic desperation without ever lapsing into annoying caricature.

Exquisite costumes, imaginative lighting, and video artistry evidence the incredible work poured into this production. Particularly compelling were the set designs, which were dominated by architectural components.

The staging is right out of Architectural Digest. Minimalist, with soaring frosted glass flanking an austere hardwood stage, the juxtaposition against sun-soaked scenes in Israel alongside the Sea of Galilee, make for striking visuals, imagined and otherwise.

After the show, walking down Sutter on a too-good-to-be-true "winter" evening in San Francisco, I reflected in awe at the guts that it must take for a solo performer to put it all on the line like that. Graham Gremore has crafted something special, that many will no doubt relate to.

Frank dialog reigns supreme. We eavesdrop on some eye-opening stuff; masturbation, vaginas, penises ("beautiful") and oral performances extraordinaire are anything but off-limits.

Actors run around half-dressed, smoke weed, punk out, pour wine over their heads, make out. It might all sound insane -- and at times it approaches the threshold of what I'd consider mainstream storytelling -- if it weren't for the fact that it's so raw, entertaining.

To be a good president, I fear a man cannot be his own mentor. He cannot live the Sermon on the Mount. He must be a Machiavelli, Caesar, Borgia, an unctuous religio, a liar, a what-not, to be successful.

It's mostly guilt free, and at the SF Playhouse opening night Becky Shaw reminded me perhaps of the last (only?) good reason to be married: so I don't need to play the dating game.