A Lot of It is Luck*

I was out of town today, so I missed the opening of the Sally Mann exhibit at the VMFA.

Boo-hoo for me.

The only way I could deal with that loss was by attending the artist's reception for Mann's show "Afterlight" at Reynolds Gallery tonight.

Walking into the gallery was like seeing a who's who of the local art scene.

My only complaint was that there was so much schmoozing going on that actually seeing Mann's photographs was a challenge.

Not easily deterred when it comes to photography, I persevered and was rewarded with landscapes showcasing the eerie beauty of the south: Georgia, Mississippi, Louisiana, and naturally Virginia.

I ran into a photographer I know who works at Zeus (she'd taken the evening off for this momentous occasion) who, unlike me, had already seen and been wowed by the VMFA show.

She told me that many of the photographs in the show were her original inspiration for taking up photography back in the 90s.

In fact, she was pinching herself to believe that she was in the same room with Mann.

Not able to resist making my way around the gallery twice, I dwelt on some photographs more than others, trying to figure what about them spoke to me.

The theme of death and decay hung over most of them in the most beautiful possible black and white way.

I left with a feeling similar to that of having just finished reading Faulkner.

When I finally left the art elite behind, I took the path of least resistance and walked up a block to Six Burner.

I hadn't gotten the memo, but clearly it was the place to be tonight; every table was occupied and I heard that the next available table was in two hours.

None of which concerned me because while the bar was mostly full, a trio of guys at the corner had conveniently left my end stool free.

I slid in under the canopy of tiny white light-lit branches.

I was there to enjoy some wining, dining and crowd-watching, with the recently-back-in-action Josh as my conversational partner (bartender interrupted...by babyhood).

After ordering my Saint M Riesling and the 6B wings (done with spicy harissa butter), I insinuated myself into the conversation of the three charming guys to my right while they ate a cheese platter.

They'd come in looking for a table and had settled for a snack at the bar, so I asked what their Plan B was.

Wanting to stay parked (because, deep down, we all want to park once and party twice...or even thrice when we can), they'd decided to mosey down to Bellytimber for dinner.

I found it tough to understand how they could have had Six Burner in their sites and been willing to settle for Bellytimber, so I tried to get a feel for their restaurant preferences.

I was in full rescue mode.

After a lengthy discussion of what restaurants we all liked (and didn't), the consensus was that they should eat at Rowland's.

The butterbean cake alone was worth five minutes of discussion and if you've had it you know why.

I felt better for their change of plans and can only hope that they do too.

With any luck, they'll give me a full report back.

Another guy was telling me about when his 95-year old father was in a nursing home and his physician prescribed 4 ounces of vodka over ice twice a day, once at 4:00 and once at 4:30.

If his "Rx" hadn't arrived by 4:02, apparently his dad was on the phone questioning its whereabouts with the staff.

I can certainly understand a near-centenarian needing his meds.

My spicy wings arrived and with them, server T brought me a wad of paper towels.

"We don't usually need these at Six Burner, but here you go," he said.

The six meaty wings packed some Tunisian heat but had great flavor and crispy skin. I ate, I sucked bones and I destroyed my wad of paper towels with my buttery fingers.

6B Heaven.

Really, I kept meaning to leave but Josh kept sucking me back into a good conversation ("So how was the Sufjan show? I know you must have been there.") and interesting bar sitters kept arriving and leaving, so I stayed put.

I stayed through the uptight couple who tore through their drinks and appetizers and never once smiled at each other.

I stayed long enough for Chef Philip to come out of the kitchen and give me the opportunity to compliment his wings.

We got to talking about recently running into each other at Aziza and how much we both love that place despite the fact that so many people don't know it (Aziza? Where's that?).

"It's going to end up like Mama Zu's, where you can't get in," he predicted.

"We'd better go while we can," I agreed.

He's right. It's not big and eventually it will be discovered and mobbed.

I stayed through the discussion with Josh and a local musician about winning the lottery.

We all agreed that our needs are simple and that banking the principle and living off the interest was the way to go.

Talk is cheap, after all.

"I'm rich in spirit," Josh proclaimed. "This bartending gig is just a social experiment."

And we're the experiment's guinea pigs, the musician and I presumed.

No complaint from my cage.

This guinea pig is just fine with what she's expected to do.

 Just don't be too cocky about predicting the experiment's results.

To paraphrase Sally Mann, "A lot of it is just luck."