The Things You Do

Sunday, that day when you showed a swell friend how to really enjoy what's out there.

First, you go to Scott's Addition where print collective Studio 23 is having their grand opening. You have to understand, I first visited Studio 23 eight years ago when they were ensconced in 600 square feet in Plant Zero, so I've been a fan for a while.

The new 7,000-square foot space was throwing a hell of a party, one the artistic friend and I weren't about to miss. The building was a former industrial wonder with skylights, a mezzanine and something like 20 artists' studios, all of which we walked through (one artist's to-do list included "Test lithograph press. Skateboard"). Fans of action could watch screen printing demonstrations (t-shirts of a map of Virginia with a heart for Richmond were being printed).

We wandered around, both running into people we knew, ogling inventive sculptures made of screening (the monkey was a wonder, wrapped around a lamp), sipping Ardent Brewery Saison (brewed two blocks away) and lemonade made on the spot, buying a print for their upcoming film screening (not the first print I've bought at S23) and being gifted with a fragrant fabric sachet filled with lavender by artist Elizabeth Cogar.

Ooh, we hadn't expected presents.

The place was packed with artistic types (like my friend), a DJ just starting to spin out back through the garage door (required to bring the presses in and out) and fans of the print format (such as me) mingling and admiring the machinery and the abundance of art on walls and tables.

Not to sound too new agey, but it felt like there was so much good energy inaugurating the sun-filled space.

But we weren't finished yet.

From there, we headed to Manchester to Crossroads Coffee to hear Samantha Pearl play music while enjoying late afternoon ice cream. Despite having met her ages ago and seeing her often since, I'd never heard her play.

My loss.

From the opening notes of her driven guitar playing (a beat-up-looking Fender with a red heart stuck on it), it was obvious we were being graced by a serious talent. Everything she played for the small crowd - "Under a Spell," "Daddy's Boy," "Gazing at the Stars" - was rendered spellbinding because of her intricate guitar chops and stellar voice.

Midway through her set, one of the Crossroads employees (the one who'd already told me that Samantha was "super good") stood beside us on the bench to roll up the garage door and allow the warm, sunny air into the coffee shop. It made for even better listening to have the late afternoon sun beaming in from behind us.

At one point, I leaned over to Samantha's boyfriend and whispered, "Holy crap" to express my amazement at the scope of this woman's talent and he smiled beatifically, saying, "Uh huh." In other words, you're a little late to the party, Karen.

My friend concurred, describing it as "that angelic sound over such a driving guitar."

Even on songs without vocals where she was just tearing up the guitar, there was none of the usual male "guitar face" business, just a calm certainty as she coaxed amazing depths of sound from it. Her effortless cool was mesmerizing to watch.

When she broke a string and needed to replace it, the inimitable Dave Watkins and his dulcitar took over for a few songs, enchanting my friend who knew him but had never seen him play with his dense layering of sound as he looped and improvised.

I love watching first-timers fall under the spell of Dave.

When Samantha returned to the stage fully strung, she did "If You Come Driving By," a song about street performing, something she regularly does by the White House. "The Secret Service guys always tip me. They're bored, so they like the distraction." I'd be willing to bet they'd tip even if they weren't bored simply because she's so talented.

We left before she was finished playing, not because we wouldn't have loved hearing more but because we had dinner reservations for the Jackdaw Chinese pop-up at Shoryuken.

Walking in, my friend asked if my evenings always started so early (we'd met at 3:30). No, I explained, it varies night to night. It's simple, you start whenever you need to so that you can make it to all the interesting things going on that day/night.

If I was trying to introduce my friend (a former 9 to 5-er now free to enjoy a life of reinvention) to some of the pleasures of my life, food had to be a part of it. And not just any food, but a one-night only chance to taste the newest project of two local chefs.

Before we could even sit down, the king of the dance parties came over to greet me, recommend the evening's cocktail, a gimlet, and hear about our afternoon of music. Additional greetings came from a favorite cocktail ninja and the front of the house queen in her sassy new bangs.

We slid into a corner table with a view of the entire room and ordered cocktails - including the gimlet - made sublime with the kitchen's pickled scallions, as well as the E. Honda Civic, a subtle beauty with Hangar One Budda's hand citron, muddled pear, lemongrass syrup and sparkling. Hello non-stop laughter and storytelling.

From there, it was all about the food and lots of it. The hostess had praised the congee, a rice porridge (surprisingly and perhaps a tad overly sweet) rendered decadent with pork belly, toasted crullers, egg, ginger and scallions but we also had to have the fried chicken made sticky with barrel-aged soy, ginger, five spices, chilis and peanuts.

Around us, we watched as couples came and went in less time than it took us to discuss her latest dinner party (where all the drunk 30-somethings congregated at one table, causing her to dub it "the kids' table") and the few who lingered sat in silence staring vacantly at their cell phones.

What the hell happened to dinner conversation, we wondered aloud, which led us to a major blather about the whole millennial dating situation, because neither us see swiping left or right a la Tinder as a suitable way to decide who to sleep with. Now, demonstrating smarts and laughter, that's a whole different story.

Laughter abounded at our table as I listened to the story of a spacey trip to Lowe's that climaxed with rows of toilets and a need to escape.

By the time we got to steamed buns of barbecue duck hot dog, peanuts, red onion and cilantro, it was dark outside and we were getting full. But not too full to make plans, so I pulled out my datebook so we could make some commitments before the summer gets much further along. I was even invited over for a sleepover next month (PJ party alert).

Despite the fullness of multiple cocktails and dishes, we surrendered to a final course called "Just because we can," a sort of Chinese riff on a chocolate tart with a fortune cookie crust and delectable orange sauce. The portion was small, our delight in it great.

After agreeing we were on the fast road to Hell, not because of anything we'd done today, but because of how we think/speak/behave in general, we threw in the towel, admitting to the Jackdaw contingent that we couldn't take any more.

Fortunately by that time, Friend had a fine buzz from the intoxicating combination of seven hours of art, music, conversation, food and drink. She's new to the pleasures of a life well-lived, but I can already tell she's catching on quickly.

Our to-do list is as random as that artist's. Holy crap, it was a great day.

Uh huh.