Just the Night in My Veins

It's my legs and mouth that give me away every time.

My evening began with a drive to Williamsburg (going way back for David Gray's "White Ladder" and the Pretenders' "Last of the Independents") that required navigating through three major thunderstorms and trying to stay out of the way of maniacs going 70 mph when visibility was so bad that I couldn't see the cars' lights in front of me.

Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to slow down when I'm driving blind.

My destination was a cocktail party at one of those fake town center kind of places (didn't even know Williamsburg had one, to be honest), not that I knew that when I set out. I'd been invited by the magazine I write for down there, meaning I'd know exactly one person: the publisher.

Fortunately, she was good enough to introduce me around as her "favorite writer," which made me feel a bit like a show pony being trotted out, but what do I care as long as she gives me interesting assignments and pays me well?

Among the more interesting local business owners I met were a European chef, a woman who owns an independent feed and seed store ("Tractor Supply is my enemy") and a guy who gives flying lessons and air tours.

There was also a woman who'd adopted a Pekingese-poodle mix from the SPCA at 5:00 and had to immediately park the mutt with her son so she could come to the party. The guilt was killing her as she downed ham biscuits and Sauvignon Blanc.

The one kind of person I hadn't expected to meet was someone looking for freelance writers to write for her Tidewater magazine, but then maybe this is what they call networking. It felt more like stumbling into a lucky break.

When a couple of businesswomen found out I lived in Richmond, they were thrilled. Would I be willing to accompany them on a night out on their dime so I could show them some of my favorite places? Well, sure, I might be able to fit that in.

I waited for a break in the black sky and pouring rain to say my goodbyes so I could hopefully make it back in time to be part of the inaugural Second Thursday in Scott's Addition, or at the very least, catch the opening of Juan Perdiguero's show at Ghostprint Gallery's new location on the Boulevard.

Ghostprint was hopping when I arrived and everyone was raving about the new space. What was striking for me was that I'd last seen it in May when owner Geraldine had first taken the gritty space, so I'd yet to see her renovation of the former motorcycle business.

It's such a tremendous space - incredibly high ceilings, enormous windows fronting the Boulevard, brick walls painted a clean shade of white - and one ideally suited to Perdiguero's large-scale black and white paintings of eagles caught in mid-flight.

Exquisitely rendered with detailing of the contrasting dark and light of the birds and their movement, the technically flat surfaces gave a sense of birds flying around the outside of the room.

The first familiar face was the philosophy professor and former neighbor who'd been named-checked at the Cornel West talk last week and I paused to give him props on being recognized. He tried to act like it was no big deal but since he'd written a book about West, I knew perfectly well it must have been a huge deal.

It was satisfying making him admit that. No shame there, my friend.

"What are you doing here?" said a deep voice from behind me and it was the music promoter with the ubiquitous toothpick in his mouth and perpetually-raised eyebrow. We quickly got off on a discussion of art, editors and vision when I heard a second voice.

"I'd know those legs from across any room," said the blue-eyed politician and former neighbor (what was this, a Floyd Avenue reunion tonight?), hugging me and joining the discussion, which soon morphed from art to bad city fiscal policy (the mayor had "checked out" despite having a year left on his term), how to keep the creative class in the city (hint: improve the schools) and the folly of the Redskins training facility (the city pays $500,000 per year?).

Somehow that led us to a sports round table and, yes, I was able to keep up. I knew about duckpin bowling - a teenage favorite of the promoter - because my Dad used to be a duckpin champ (although I didn't know Richmond had had lanes), although I had to admit I'd never heard of candlepin bowling. I'm happy to say I'm now up to speed on the sport.

Talking about how it would be no skin off the city's nose if the Redskins abandoned Richmond (much the way they once did Frostburg, Maryland) led to talk of the Baltimore Colts sneaking out of town in the middle of the night back in 1984 since all three of us remembered it happening. Johnny U, you're breaking people's hearts here.

Oh, the tangled tangents we wove while the art opening swirled around us.

By the time we broke camp, the opening was winding down and the rain had let up a bit, so it was a good time to take my hugs and slide on out into the night.

Only problem was, I had no other plans. I'd eaten at the party, seen the art I'd come to see, and now what? Second Thursdays was over. I wasn't in the mood for a drink, I was in the mood for ice cream, which I didn't really need.

Or so I thought until I got home to a message from a friend saying he was in the neighborhood.

I'm home. Can we get ice cream? I quickly messaged back. "I have to stop at the drug store and get Lactaid first," he responded. "Leaving now."

This is what happens when you have old people for friends. Okay, he's actually younger than me, but he looks older, moves slower and has a host of things wrong with him that I don't, so he may as well be older.

But now I had a partner in ice cream, so I was happy. I grabbed my umbrella and went outside. It was 74 degrees with a light but steady rain falling, making for just the kind of night to wait outside for a friend and enjoy the weather.

Once he finally arrived, I directed him to Castanea where I'd had a stellar lobster roll followed by gelato for lunch the other day. The new spot is part restaurant, part gelateria and all good.

Once there, we oohed and ahhed over the flavor choices and my friend asked what paw paw was. "It's like mango fornicated with papaya," the server said, offering him a taste. Now there's a description for the ages.

When he asked what I wanted, I explained that I was trying to will myself to have something other than what I'd had the other day: chocolate double with coconut sorbet.

"Well, that's a new batch of chocolate double and it's got 45% more cocoa than last week's batch," he said, pretty much sealing my fate. "Have you tried it with the coconut sorbet? It's like a Mounds." Tried it? I thought I'd invented it.

That's right, same order, different week. I can be so predictable sometimes. My friend did chocolate double with hazelnut, pronouncing it fabulous as we ate at a front table.

Nearing the end, I warned him I was going to lick my bowl in public and he laughed, saying he'd recently come across the picture of me he'd taken a few years back of me attacking a cream puff at Aziza, a close-up shot of mostly my mouth and the chocolate-covered puff.

In other words, he's seen it all before.

All except for the fruits fornicating, I don't think he's ever seen that. Another night, old man.