Arriving at The German House early on Friday night, in hopes of getting a meal before the Paula Poundstone show, I was surprised to see The Keg's dining area packed. Apparently, this is status quo before the larger shows. Informed of a 45-minute wait, we scooted across the street to Beale Street. There was a long wait there also, but the kind hostess directed us to a bar-side table that was just about to free up. We slipped in and were out in record time.

Back at The German House, it was filled to capacity. Some extra chairs were brought out, but even so, many people were left standing. No one seemed to mind. Paula stepped on stage right on time - "What a cool little place!" - and held us captive for the next two hours. She said that some referred to her shows as a "hostage crisis," but we were all very willing prisoners.

I've always liked Paula. I find her intelligent, and how she expresses her intelligence comically, brilliant. I love how she illustrates how illogical much logic is. For instance, she was explaining how hard it is for her to get her kids to take some school subjects seriously. Like Newton's Law. It's never come up in her life, she said.

She did quite a lot of material relating to parenting. And aging. She's still searching for the answer to how aging benefits nature and what part her jowls play in the circle of life. And politics. Where was Hillary's voice before she found it?

A good deal of the show was adlibbed with an "ass-kissing" property manager - complete with sound effects - and a City of Rochester event planner who had spent the day doing "pretty much nothing." But what was brilliant about this chatter was how she directed them to answer in a way that served as her springboard, seamlessly weaving in stories she wanted to tell.

My only disappointment was that the press release hadn't stated that there would be a book signing following the show. "There's Nothing in This Book That I Meant to Say," released last fall, is Paula's memoir, as spun off of the biographies of legendary historical figures. Perhaps it's an expression of her particular form of self-diagnosed OCD: when someone tells his or her story, it always reminds her of one of her own, and she's off...!

Next up: Gardenscape.