Dorian Hargrove 8 p.m., Dec. 11
I hate washing dishes. And I’ll bet that’s what hell is too, doing whatever it is you hate the most, forever. Probably every time I finished washing a huge countertop of dishes and thought to myself: Well, “that’s” done, now I can relax, a demon would come up behind me, poke me on the buttocks with a pitchfork, say, “What do you think this is—a rest home? Get back to work!” and laugh maniacally as another huge countertop of dirty dishes then appeared ready for me to begin my chore anew. But to be honest, if a demon said that to me after poking me on the buttocks with a pitchfork, I’d laugh too, but probably only after the first million times.