Amazingly, Mr. Shepperd and his cast have managed to recreate the joyous abandon of that show, along with the satisfaction quotient of a full-scale Broadway musical, on the postage-stamp sized stage of Celebration. Mr. Shepperd’s philosophy seems to be, if you’re in a small space, don’t scale things down – make ‘em bigger! It’s a great philosophy, and the result is brash and loud and over the top – in other words, a triumph. Go.

“Dinner at Home between Deaths” bills itself as “A Pitch Black Comedy.” While it’s well-done and handsome to look at, the color of the completed dish turns out to be less pitch-black than one of the fifty shades of grey. The whole thing is much too polite; if only there were more enthusiastically rude touches, this show might have fulfilled its pitch-black promise.

People who work in the theatre generally start out with high hopes and great expectations, good intentions and contagious enthusiasm. They work hard, do their best, and strive, with a goal of creating a work of art which will entertain, move, and perhaps even enlighten an audience. I applaud all of them, and count myself proud to be among them. Which is why it pains me to say that I found “Dirt,” now playing at the Raven Playhouse in NoHo, awful in just about every imaginable way.

I commend Lisa Dring for her bravery – and bravura – in walking onstage and sharing her own very personal experiences with death, as well as her feelings of inadequacy in its face. Paradoxically, however, this deeply-felt memoir left me dry-eyed and unmoved.