Audio Voyeurism

I love a good story; hearing someone else's secrets is a guilty pleasure.

Which is why I never miss a Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story night at Balliceaux.

Tonight's theme was music stories, so all the storytellers were musicians and each played a song after spilling their guts.

And by "spilling their guts," I mean all manner of things.

Herschel Stratego talked about girls he lusted after and how he didn't have the body type to be romantic; his song was about tall, handsome men who won the girls.

Best of all, he named names.

Chris Milk showed off his recent bike accident injuries before singing, specifically mentioning his bruised, ahem, private parts.

Lest he be doubted, he said he had cell phone pictures of the black and blue injured parts should anyone be interested. Um, no thanks.

Charlottesville's Browning Porter did an amazing rap to "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," forcing me to find the one literary geek I knew in the room and lock eyes.

That's not a pleasure a reader gets every day and I had to share it with someone.

Probably the most fascinating story came from Lydia Ooghe before she sang "Topsy," a song about a  dead elephant.

The saga involved Nicholas Tesla, an arrogant Thomas Edison, A/C and D/C current and an Asian elephant that killed three men after being fed a lit cigarette.

What I learned was that an electrocuted elephant causes a lot of smoke; I found the mental picture most unsettling.

It was a lively crowd that came to hear music stories tonight, so I got to hear about RVA Music Fest from a DJ, the new school year from a recently-shorn teacher's perspective and how popular tonight's topic was from an organizer.

You just can't imagine how satisfying it is to listen to the stories of strangers and friends in a public setting until you do it.

After story time hour(s), I left to meet a new friend at Lemaire to have my brain picked.

He's working on a project and needed input from someone he considers "in the know" since he's a recent transplant.

Let me assure you, I did not claim to be in the know.

Upon walking in, I heard my name called and not by he who had invited me.

It was some of the usual suspects: bartender and wife, restaurant owner, man-about-town. I hugged, I kissed, I said hello.

My new friend was enjoying a Sazerac, so I jumped in to join him and listen to the details of his project.

After the business portion of the meeting we moved on to more colorful topics like Le Tigre, catfish at Comfort and the pleasures of working for oneself.

As a Brooklyn transplant, he can't get over how gosh darn friendly folks are in these parts. Or how good Virginia smoked peanuts are.

In keeping with the evening's theme, I told him a radio story (he accused me of being part of a "Morning Zoo" team) and he told me a metal-working story (from what I've seen of him, it was hard to imagine him doing such).

We performed no music after our stories were finished, but we had no audience either.

In-the-knows know never to spill your guts on a full moon.