No Way to Keep the Beat

It's my week to catch up with everybody after the holidays. Tonight it was a former work buddy and we met at Xtra's, just to see what it had to offer in the evenings, since I'd only had lunch there.

It was pretty empty when we arrived but continued to fill up steadily, despite 30-plus year-old music. When I walked into a Journey song, I kind of felt like the tone was set, if you know what I mean.

On the other hand, the wine list was varied and very much suited to my taste. Any list that carries two Charles Smith wines is fine in my book (Boom Boom Syrah, yum, yum) plus they had several South African choices.

Wanting to start white given the evening ahead, I ordered the Graham Beck unoaked Chardonnay (twice), surprising even myself.

My friend had summoned our meeting because he was seeking guidance from me about some new job responsibilities with which he's not entirely comfortable. I understood his concern, but could offer no real solace since I think it's a bad idea for both his personal and professional selves.

He wailed when I didn't offer the direction he was so desperately seeking from me. I got the sense that I was supposed to make everything better for him and didn't. Hey, a bad idea is a bad idea, no matter how it's couched.

We munched on fish taquitos (grilled mah-mahi, carrots, cabbage, and cilantro wrapped in spring roll wrappers and fried, with roasted pineapple vinaigrette), causing my friend to recommend 7-11's taquitos after my next late night of partying.

Duly noted and filed, I told him, except I don't eat at chains, much less ones with gas stations and lottery tickets.

Like all my other friends lately, he had to know what was up in my personal life and he didn't hesitate to offer criticism of my nerve and suggestions for improvement in the future. Everybody knows how to carry on better than I do, or so they think.

I left him strolling down Cary Street and went to the museum for the Jazz Cafe; the Lawrence Olds Quartet was playing and there's nothing wrong with some old-school jazz and blues standards on a Thursday night.

The crowd was so different from a few weeks ago when I was there for Hotel X. Tonight was a mix of an older crowd and a much younger swing-dancing crowd.

Two girls next to me were in the latter group; I overheard one say, "And then when he starts twirling you, there's just no way to keep the beat," while the other nodded seriously in agreement. Yea, I knew that.

Olds' voice is deep and silky smooth and he was backed by guitar, keys and upright bass. Both crowds kept the dance floor hopping all evening and most dancers ended every song with a low dip, not something you see every day (hair-brushing-floor-low). I was sure this one guy was going to drop the girl, but he heaved mightily and brought her back up, thank goodness.

There was a cool swing vibe going on and I stayed and listened for a good while before leaving to do the art thing. The new exhibit "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection" was open, so I took the time to see it and compare it to the concurrent UR exhibit I'd seen last week.

Like that one, it contained a wealth of imagery of both battles and the daily life of a soldier. "Drumming Out a Coward" taught me what the phrase "drumming out" meant.

In addition to the coward having his sword broken and his buttons and rank ripped off his uniform, he wore a neck sign saying "coward" as the drummers marched him out of camp. Now I know.

A drawing of "Crow's Nest Signal Station" at Dutch Gap showed an elaborate treehouse-like contraption that wound its way up a tree with a series of ladders; it would have been the delight of any adventurous child.

I found "Negro Worship in the South" fascinating because there had been a similar drawing in the UR exhibit, except that this one was done post-war, so the blacks had been emancipated. They looked far more dignified and less cartoonish than they'd been depicted in the earlier drawing I'd seen.

After the security guard had warned me that the museum was closing in fifteen minutes, then five minutes and then just keep hovering about, I finally left him locking doors as he wished me a good evening. I can take a hint.

It wasn't very late, so I decided to stop by Six Burner and arrived to a pretty dead room - one booth occupied, one bar regular, and a server's girlfriend.

Bartender Josh greeted me with, "You're the first real customer I've had all night." He said it had been really slow, but graciously poured me a glass of wine and cranked the music up.

I asked if the kitchen was still open and he went to check, coming back to say, "Sorry, nothing but stainless steel back there. I guess they gave up cause it was so slow." It was okay, I told him, conversation and wine were enough.

Server T. spotted me and came over to ask, "Aren't you usually in here a little earlier? Where you been?" I gave him the rundown and he put me in my place with, "Squeezed us in, huh?" Ooh, I love places where the staff verbally abuses the customers.

Chef Philip came out dressed to go and stood at the far end of the bar smiling at me. "I see you eating everywhere," he said. "I saw you at Comfort Sunday." Josh kindly pointed out that I wanted to eat his food tonight but the kitchen had been closed. He winced. I felt better.

While listening to an NYC artist Josh is currently recording, we discussed poetic men who have a way with words, the realities of fatherhood ("It used to be martinis at a bar after work and now it's canned beer in a cup"), and the beauty of capturing everyday sounds.

By then, I was starting to feel as guilty about keeping Josh as I had about the security guard, so I said my goodnights.

Hey, what happened to Thursday being the new Friday anyway? Come on, weekend.