As I drove north on 89 yesterday evening, bobbing my head along with the Eliot Morris sampler I'd recently received (good stuff, I recommend checking it out), I noticed a white car zooming up from the passing lane behind. With sparks flying out from behind.

Having just seen the trailer for "Ghost Rider" earlier in the day, I half-wondered if Nicolas Cage's demonic alterego was going to lean out of the vehicle as it passed, lashing a fiery chain whip at my innocent little spark-free vehicle. He didn't, I'm pleased to report. But the car did flash by me, probably going about 80 or so (for once, I wasn't speeding myself), its muffler dancing along the pavement as it clung precariously to the car's metalwork.

Four thoughts went through my mind:

- Thank goodness that wasn't Nic Cage. I don't like him much.
- Who speeds along the highway that fast when there's a MUFFLER SPARKING AS IT DRAGS BEHIND YOU?
- That muffler is going to fall off the car and smash into my windshield. It is going to suck and I'm going to be pretty pissed off. Or hurt.
- That driver probably had a pretty lousy weekend and just wants to get home. I did not.

I was worried though, standing beneath the rain-drenched awning on Stuart Street on Friday evening. Everything that could have gone wrong with the trip up to that point had - capped with a walk from South Station to the theater with no umbrella (left behind at the T station from which I'd departed) and plenty of rain.

The part of V would be played that night by A Drowned Rat.

That's when things turned funny. I'd arrived at the theater ready to take in a friend's show, accompanied by another friend and a whole bunch of people I didn't know.

By the time the house lights dimmed, I was sitting with L, a new acquaintance (hello, Nicole!), M's parents, another acquaintance and a whole bunch of people I didn't know.

And my friend was walking out on stage with the other four ladies of "I'm the Rhoda."

Now, I know I mentioned the show last week. And you can naturally assume that I would get a kick out of being anywhere a friend - let alone one of my best - is debuting a show, so I would come back to you with glowing things to report about the performance.

And it's true. I knew that the odds were good that I was going to enjoy myself and be thankful that I was there. But if anything, my expectations were even higher than they might be for another show. I knew who the Rhodas were and I knew of what they were capable of accomplishing.

They rocketed right up and through the high bar. Seriously. If you're in the area, you should just trust me and go to see that show while you can (the next three Friday evenings). If you're a woman, you'll connect with the funny-because-it's-true-but-the-truth-also-hurts frankness of the piece. If you're a man, you'll hopefully get a clue. And if you at all appreciate seeing vulnerability beautifully shown on stage, you'll want to hug all of the women by the end of the night.

I found myself wiping at my cheeks a few times - some because I laughed so hard, but also because I was just so incredibly proud of everything that The Rhoda Five accomplished.

I felt my grin beaming through the darkened house as I watched Michelle lean forward in her chair and describe a Sunday brunch in Southie, with four friends assembled to share, laugh and sigh.

L's face shone as she listened to the same description and remembered the experience.

And M, shortly before wrapping up her piece, looked at the two of us and blew us a kiss.

Turns out that all of us were misty-eyed at the same time.

But I did NOT spill that candy bowl, thank you very much.

Celebration turned to Cambridge, a shot of tequila (brief dalliances with Jose Cuervo always turn out well, it's the serious relationship-caliber encounters that leave me with two-day hangovers), and 80s night. Dancing like mad, hair in face, arms raised, livin on a prayer.

I'll get into Saturday tomorrow.

Consider this intermission.