Andrew Weems grew up as the child of a State Department official and an inscrutable, chain-smoking mother. Namaste Man is a series of elliptical stories about his childhood in Zambia, Virginia, and Nepal—tales of hippies and hash bars, yak dung and betel nuts, and a few bleak scenes from his adulthood in New York. Weems leaps through his stories with a sprightly, almost impish, energy. For an autobiographical solo show, Namaste Man is surprisingly generous: Weems seems to care, primarily, about other people. (Intiman Theatre, 201 Mercer St, 269-1900. 2 and 7:30 pm, $10–$48.) BRENDAN KILEY