Small Popcorn, Lots of Butter

I know why friends might not want to go to the movies with me: it's the movies I choose.

Tonight it was "Lady Macbeth" and while I suppose you could say that technically it was a chick flick, bodies (adult, child and equine) piled up like it was a Tarantino movie.

In either case, it was most definitely an adult movie and all four of the adults who showed up tonight to see it were of an age and not necessarily one you'd want to admit to.

On the other hand, it was very much a favorite genre: a period drama. It was set in England during the 1860s when women were literally tied into corsets and buttoned by a maid into long sleeved full-length nightgowns (except when your new husband demanded you take yours off and face the wall so he could pleasure himself).

Just looking at the layers of garments plus a hoop skirt frame made me uncomfortable.

As a film geek, my interest was piqued by "Lady Macbeth" because it was a first time effort for the director, the screenwriter (from an 1865 Russian novella) and the first major role for the actress who played Katherine, the lead, and I have a hunch we're going to see a lot more from all three once they do a more mass-appeal movie.

In one of the director's most brilliant strokes, the film has no music, so there are never any audio cues telling you how you're expected to feel. It was completely refreshing to feel so unsettled.

For a feminist, the film was an uncomfortable reminder of a time when a man could buy his shiftless son a wife (along with a tract of land so poor a single cow couldn't graze on it) and harangue her about her wifely duties despite the son having zero interest in her. A time when a husband could forbid his wife from ever leaving the house, even for a walk just to take the air, as a means of control.

Like Shakespeare's "Macbeth," there's non-stop scheming, conniving, killing, lying (and little lamenting), always with an eye on the long game, in this case, Katherine getting to live with her stableboy lover (who reminded me a lot of the singer Tom Jones, right down to his occasional smirk) in the husband's house.

Given the time period and the setting, I was impressed at the number of black actors and actresses in the film and not just as servants. Whether it's colorblind casting (hooray) or a nod to historical accuracy, I can't say, but rarely are period dramas set in England not all white affairs.

Then there's lust, which plays a huge role in the story and as the balance of power shifts between the two, the viewer has to decide who's taking advantage of whom.

I'm not going to lie, some of the violence was difficult to watch (not ashamed to just close my eyes), but in its own way, so was Katherine's evolution from wronged bride to master manipulator. Seeing blood on her hands and white nightgown only drove home the comparisons to the Scottish play.

By the movie's disturbing end, all I could think of was Lady Macbeth's words: what's done is done.

As long as you can live with yourself, honey.

I'm just sorry I couldn't talk anyone into joining me so I could discuss what's done in a little more detail.

Up the Ladder to the Treehouse

Turned out this was a two pop-up kind of day.

So let me tell you about self-restraint. Self restraint is going to a Nate's Bagels pop-up right here in the neighborhood at Charm School (an ice cream shop, not what you might expect from the name) and then walking to the river before I opened it to eat it waterside.

That's almost 25 minutes in possession of a Nate's everything bagel with a schmear of scallion cream cheese without so much as letting it cross my lips. For that pleasure, I made it down to Brown's Island, headed toward the pipeline and took a seat on a stump at the water's edge to gorge on my breakfast while watching a convoy of red rafts navigate a rapid, some better than others.

In fact, once the bagel was history (after I'd packed up my debris as well as an assortment of beer bottles, cans and liquor flasks into my bag) and I was walking the pipeline, I saw one of those rafts caught on a bigger rapid, causing three of the rafters to abandon their paddles and lean dangerously forward at the front of the raft in an attempt to loosen it.

Eventually they were successful, all except for the moment where two of them flipped out of the raft and had to be thrown a yellow rope attached to a flotation device to pull themselves out of the fast moving water.

It was a bit of post-breakfast excitement.

Walking back along Broad Street, I ran into Special K, a regular in J-Ward, who greeted me with "Good morning, beautiful!" and asked for a high five. Giving it to him was apparently enough for him to propose.

"If I could, I'd marry you! Then I'd buy you a Corvette! And I'd love you every single day, really I would!" I figured a peace sign was the appropriate response to such an offer and kept moving.

A couple blocks down, two firetrucks came screaming down Broad Street, one on the wrong side of the road before making a last-minute U-turn at the Quirk Hotel where there was a 2-alarm fire on the rooftop bar.

I wouldn't want this to get around, but I'm feeling like a bit of a disaster voyeur. That or a jinx.

Why? I've been at the scene of all four of the restaurant fires that have happened over the past month: Don't Look Back, Tobacco Company, Peking and now Quirk. Only DLB was intentional - the others I just happened to be walking by at exactly the right (wrong?) moment - but I was also at the scene of the shooting in front of the VCU police station and a block from where the cops shot the guy in a kilt with an ax and knife last week.

If they police are compiling a dossier of suspects, it doesn't look good for me. Does walking count as an alibi?

Not to go all Scarlet O'Hara on the subject, but I'll think about that tomorrow.

Tonight I was at another pop-up, this one from Southbound chef Bobo Catoe, held at the Roosevelt and dubbed the Taqueria el Tigre.

Just like this morning, there was a wait, but not a terribly long one before my date and I were shown to a table and asked what we wanted to drink from bartender extraordinaire T's pop-up cocktail menu.

My companion went for an Oaxacan old fashioned (Reposado tequila, mezcal, agave and chocolate bitters), while I couldn't resist the Iterremoto!, a magic elixir of Pipeno wine (a young Chilean wine), Italian bitter liqueur and pineapple sherbet.

He had me at sherbet.

It reminded both of us of a punch and was so appealing my date threw back his drink so he could order his own Iterremoto!, which apparently means earthquake and needs an exclamation point.

Eager to dive into something besides alcohol, we ordered six of seven things on the menu: prickly pear salad with tomatoes, pine nuts and coffee, roasted beets over avocado puree, Autumn Olive Farms pork tacos (with ranchero sauce and chicharrones), crispy catfish tacos (with peanut salsa, pickled peppers and red cabbage), braised chicken tacos (with killer peach mole, pickled peaches and crispy skin) and ceviche with shrimp, lime, jalapeno, cucumber and herbs.

There wasn't a bummer in the bunch.

Additional Iterremotos were also in order as he regaled me with the details of the outside shower he's currently building at his house and I told him in a low voice about my growing police dossier. Turns out he had a couple of good fire and shooting stories of his own in his past, so he didn't judge me, either.

We took our time about eating, while tables around us emptied and filled again. I fell in love with the food runner's shade of lipstick, a vibrant fuchsia she'd chosen to match the flowers on her tropical shirt. That's my kind of coordination.

A baby at the table behind us saw me smiling at my date and thought it was directed at him and from then on, kept looking at me to play the "who smiles first?" game. His Mom finally turned around to see who was amusing her baby so well. Guilty as charged.

When we left there, it was to go admire the outdoor shower in progress and then on to Flora for Small Talk, a new jazz improv series hosted by guitarist Scott Burton.

It went something like this: 2 musicians improvise together for 30 minutes, then two others improvise together, then all four improvise together. First it was guitar and sax, then electronics/voice and drums, then guitar, drums, electronics/voice and bass/sax.

We found a booth facing the stage and sat back to listen, the advantage being I had a musician for a date, so I got all kinds of informed commentary well beyond my musical vocabulary. But even without him saying it, I could tell what a wonderfully musical drummer Lance of No BS Brass Band is and how much his drumming brought to the overall sound.

Just like I know what two pop-ups, climbing up a ladder to a treehouse and a proposal brought to my Sunday.

But, me in a Corvette? Preposterous!

Take My Advice and Live

I'm in a coma, stuffed to the gills with more food and musical theater than one person should try to consume in an evening.

The four of us had good intentions, really we did. All we wanted was to try out a new restaurant and see a play and instead we finished the evening reeling from an obscene amount of both.

Sorry/not sorry.

It only took us three U-turns to arrive at the front door of Brenner Pass and whatever I expected it to look like, it wasn't a spacious restaurant in a glass-fronted new building, though I immediately liked the comfortable chairs and distance between tables.

To celebrate Beau's new job, I was tapped to pick an appropriately celebratory wine and don't you know I went right for pink bubbly.

Boasting the best possible description ("harmonious, fresh and youthful, sunshine and happiness in a glass," to which Pru quipped, "Sounds like you. Maybe you should put that next to your picture on your blog"), Tissot Cremant du Jura Rose was dry and lush. Beau was especially taken with the nose of red fruits.

When our server couldn't quite manage to get the cork out, a pinch un-corker showed up and did the job effortlessly, commenting that it should not be a noisy affair. I shared that Holmes says it should sound like a woman's sigh, but he said in wine circles, it was said that it should sound like a nun's fart.

"Well, whoever says that must not hang around many Catholics because some nuns' farts are anything but!" Pru corrected him. The woman is a font of information.

After toasting the man of the hour, we dove into Gruyere fondue for four - each of us with a different colored tip on our fondue forks - dipping bread, potatoes and speck, along with cornichons and pearl onions for tartness to cut the richness.

Not the lightest start to an Alpine meal, but an appropriate one.

Since it's tomato season, I couldn't resist tomato and bread soup made with heirlooms, smoked pork and the masterstroke of aromatic fennel mascarpone. I might have wished for a tad more bread, but that's just me.

Trout Grenobloise was glorious, done with vermouth, lemon and parsley with three piped stars of potatoes dauphine for garnish. Beau's paccheri bolohnese bianco was comfort food at its finest with smoked pork, trumpet mushrooms and grace notes of sage.

"I want to crawl in this bowl of pasta," he announced, but we overruled him.

I was too full to taste either the bacon and Reblochon croquettes or the Tajarin - tagliorini, chicken liver, thighs and skin with dandelion greens - but not for lack of desire.

Meanwhile, while discussing men, I'd brought up the subject of non-alpha men and Beau didn't hesitate to include himself in that group.

"I'm the alpha male in this relationship," Pru stated emphatically for the record. Duh. Nothing new here, keep moving along.

By the time we got to dessert, the dining room had completely filled up and servers - including one in cute black tights - were buzzing about like bees. We may have felt uncomfortably full, but damn if we were going to forego dessert in a restaurant with a dedicated pastry chef.

We didn't have time to wait for a souffle, so I instead chose the gianduju tart, a dark chocolate ganache with hazelnut over swipes of salted caramel, while Pru swooned over baba au rhum, a delicate sponge cake taken over the top with orange blossom mascarpone.

And there you have it, a meal that both starts and finishes with mascarpone. There ought to be a law.

We left Scott's Addition impressed and overly full with just about enough time to get to Swift Creek Mill Theater by curtain time, but only if Beau sped, which he happily did. Actually, everyone but me in that car has a lead foot, so I just buckle up and hope for the best.

Tearing down I-95, someone worried about the possibility of the law pulling us over. When someone envisioned the cop asking the speeder who's having a baby, I reminded them that there wasn't a live egg in the car and Beau roared with laughter.

You never know where your jokes will land.

We landed at the theater with a few minutes to spare before "The Musical of Musicals, the musical" began. The director explained that there'd be strobe lights but that they were startling, not dangerous. Kind of like how you want new life adventures to go.

This was a musical for fans of musical theater, divided into five scenes, each paying homage to different songwriters and rife with overt and sly references to the songwriters' plays.

To keep things simple, the plot remained essentially the same in each: someone couldn't pay their rent.

So for "Corn," a tribute to Rodgers and Hammerstein, there were references to "Sound of Music," "Cinderella," "Oklahoma," "Carousel," "South Pacific" and "The King and I" and young June being forced into marriage with her landlord because she couldn't pay her rent.

Also, ears of corn dropping down from the rafters and lots of corny songs like "I Don't Love You." So very un-Rodgers and Hammerstein.

My favorite was "A Little Complex" in the style of Stephen Sondheim, which meant mocking his way with internal rhymes, non-rhyming lines, bizarre plots and deep characters. There was plenty of "Sweeny Todd," not a little "Into the Woods" and an hysterical reference to "Specific Overtures."

"Dear Abby" paid tribute to Jerry Herman with a larger-than-life diva a la "Mame," "Hello, Dolly" and god knows what else with boas, brassy showstoppers and classic tunes like "Did I Put Out Enough?"

Define "enough."

During intermission, we got off on a tangent about the paisley zipper-front dress Pru was wearing. I told her I'd worn a  zipper-front dress to a party in the late '80s and a guy had walked up to me and unzipped it.

When I got amazed gasps, I shared that I'd once gone to a dinner party and the guy next to me had pulled out handcuffs and cuffed me to him for the evening (claimed he'd lost the key). And, no, my husband hadn't been pleased.

Somehow the discussion got off on men wearing women's clothes, prompting Pru to ask of us, "Do you know how many men have worn my clothes?"

Actually, no, I didn't, but apparently it began when she was 11 when a neighboring football player put on her pantyhose and blossomed from there. When she asked, "Do you have any idea how many men have been in my closet?" I knew I'd led a sheltered life.

Act 2 began with an Andrew Lloyd Webber's tribute couched in "Phantom of the Opera" and "Jesus Christ, Superstar" and necessarily involved mocking his penchant for spectacle (golf announcer: "The audience applauds at the set change") and hubris ("I'll do for you what I did for Jesus").

And when the phantom is unmasked, it turns out he was born a cat. Get it?

The final scene used Kander and Ebb's plays such as "Chicago," "New York, New York" and "Cabaret," all of which necessitated slutty showgirls, German (and pig Latin) accents and a song called "Color Me Gay."

Oh, yes, plus jazz hands and the most fantastical conical sequined bras ever.

The four cast members all had fine voices and excelled at a variety of roles, making for a thoroughly satisfying, if a bit overwhelming, tribute to many of the great musicals of the audience's lifetimes.

Not that this was a young audience by any stretch of the imagination, so we left thoroughly stuffed with musical theater references and tried parsing them on the drive home.

Impossible. Color us way too full on theater to think.

Nowhere to Hide

Is it wrong to covet someone's go-go boots?

Knee high, shiny white and about the grooviest thing you could possibly wear to sing back-up on songs by the likes of the Ronettes, these were go-go boots for the ages. You couldn't try to look bad dancing in them.

Janet, the friend who was looking fabulous in them, was part of the Shangri-Lords, a band I hadn't seen since they last memorably performed at a pool party in August 2014. That night, members of the band had jumped in the pool mid-song and then - wait for it - climbed out and finished the song.

Needless to say, when I heard they were playing at Hardywood tonight, I planned my evening around it.

Eager to share the thrills I knew they'd deliver, I invited a fellow music-lover of the appropriate age to appreciate a band that covers girl group songs. That would be girl group songs sung by a male singer, but that's also sort of the point.

We started at My Noodle and Bar for a quick dinner fueled by everyone's favorite picnic wine, J. Mourat Rose, listening to the oddest soundtrack, which ranged from Tame Impala and Animal Collective to Aretha to, worst of all, 80s-era Yes.

Luckily the food and wine were good enough to make up for the latter.

We got to Hardywood just as the band was taking the stage to get the dance party started. Singer Michael had done it up right in a silver sequined blazer which he shed after only a few songs ("It's not the heat, it's the humidity!" he joked) to reveal an embroidered black shirt.

The moment they started "Be My Baby," with Janet on castanets, the crowd began to sing and/or dance along, although no one could beat back-up singers Janet and Lindsey for smooth moves. Someone had been practicing their choreography.

By the time they got to "Nowhere to Run," people were screaming and flailing with abandon, sort of like children at the beach. This is a band that's all about the fun.

When they did Leslie Gore's proto-feminist "You Don't Own Me," easily half the woman in the room began singing along, yours truly included. The woman in front of me belted it out to her date while using him as a pole to dance against.

You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Do't tie me down cause I'd never stay

I don't tell you what to say
Oh, I don't tell you what to do
So just let me be myself'
That's all I ask of you

Just after it ended, the woman behind me leaned over and noted, "Most subtle coming-out song in history!" True enough.

The Shangri-Lords' momentum went out of control on "You Keep Me Hanging On," as Michael incorporated hand gestures the Supremes would have been proud of. And don't get me started on the masterful "whoa, whoa, whoas" coming from the back-up singers. Priceless.

You say you still care for me
But your heart and soul needs to be free
And now that you got your freedom, you wanna still hold on to me
You don't want me for yourself, so let me find somebody else

Set me free, why dontcha, babe
Get outta my life, why dontcha babe
Cause you don't really love me
You just keep me hangin on

There was one song that required Janet to shriek melodically on cue and my date and I marveled at her ability to do it repeatedly. You can't teach a person that kind of talent, kids, they're just born with it.

But then, she's also a wizard with go-go maintenance. Just yesterday, she'd posted, "Pro tip: magic erasers are pretty good at getting scuffs off white vinyl go-go boots."

If only I had a pair to scuff. Some girls have talent and all the luck.

Blushing Furiously

I tried going out and it didn't take.

Oh, sure, I went out for a pizza and music. I also wound up back home 45 minutes later, full but without having gone to the show.

Instead, I pulled a random book off the bookshelf, angled the fan in my direction, sat down by a window with a breeze and got lost in it.

I can think of no reason why "Maid and Wife," written in 1919 by Carolyn Beecher, sucked me in immediately.

It's not particularly well-written, though it is full of words (anent) and phrases ("I ate an apology for dinner") rarely used now. The story of Sheila, a rich young woman with frivolous interests whose father dies with nothing to leave her and her mother, is extremely dated.

And her brave move from Chicago (home) to New York City (lonely and anonymous) to look for work with no skill sets beyond finishing school is full of the usual tired tropes: unscrupulous co-workers, ardent bosses and a kind-hearted Irish landlady.

Sheila judges men by how they dance, has already been proposed to four times and turned them all down. She wants a man who thrills her but doesn't want to live in the country, which she finds boring. Curiously for a book written 98 years ago, she feels like she is years and years away from being a wife.

When I finally look up, Sheila is still a maid and nearly four hours have gone by.

I don't know whether I just needed a night alone at home or simply craved an evening of reading, but I do think I ended up exactly where I needed to be.

As Sheila would put it, isn't that jolly?

Summer in the City

Summer has arrived on my balcony with the magic of my first moonflower blooming.

Just after July 4th, I did a double take when a friend - unhappy about July's heat - tried to cheer herself up, saying, "Summer is halfway over already!"

Clearly she's the type who measures Summer by Memorial to Labor Day parameters rather than by its feel. Granted, we're on the other side of the solstice and losing a little light every evening, but you can't convince me summer is half over already.

Even technically speaking (not my strong suit), we're just over a month into a three-month season, so the way I see it, we've got plenty of summer left to savor.

Just this morning, we'd been walking down by the river and spotted a couple setting up a hammock by the water's edge. When we walked past them after putting our legs in the water, the hammock was zipped shut on top and limbs were poking out on several sides. We didn't know what was going on inside the hammock, but we had a pretty good guess: summer shenanigans.

Just the kind of thing that should accompany moonflowers, nearly daily dunks in the river and the bounty of the season.

The latter was on full display on the menu at Dutch & Co., where the owner greeted us and commented on the Miramar show at Sub Rosa we'd all attended last week.

"That was just magical, wasn't it?" she mused before marveling at the cool things that go in in Richmond when you're not paying attention (or, as is often the case with restaurant types, when you're working). It was indeed a glorious experience.

And while tonight's lacked the dulcet tones of live music, the meal was superb, beginning with a special of a fried soft shell crab posed in mid-dance over a bowl of chilled corn bisque, slurped while sipping Mont Gravet Rose.

A neighborhood couple sat down next to us at the bar and we joked about people who need the privacy of sitting at a table. Not us, not them, we laughed. But their conversation once they turned back to each other centered entirely around their jobs and employers, resulting in boring work-speak for hours.

Don't call it a retreat, call it a workshop if you want corporate to pay for it. Don't take this wrong, but here's how you should handle that situation with an employee next time. Have you ever had to put together a report you knew no one would read?

While I'm inclined to think that food this good deserves more interesting subject matter, I also know that everyone's idea of sparkling conversation is different.

A favorite server came over to talk beach trips and before long, we were trading favorite places to eat when we're on the Outer Banks. I always appreciate hearing about places on the bypass, because I seldom discover them on my own.

Good-sized Ruby Salt oysters from the eastern shore provided the same salty mouthfeel as the waves that had smacked us in the face on our Sandbridge outing Monday. My date, who'd only had his first Old Salt a few weeks back, is showing great promise as a fellow oyster hound.

Even better, rather than a discussion of work while we devoured his mahi mahi with summer tomatoes, we took turns answering questions from a New York Times article explaining how the questions and answers are meant to encourage self-disclosure because mutual vulnerability fosters closeness.

You also get to hear some really great stories.

We traded answers right through a chocolate semifreddo with a mound of blackberries that managed to feel both indulgent and light as summer at the same time before taking the rest of the questions elsewhere to answer while listening to the Hues Corporation, the Chi-Lites and the Bluenotes.

What was interesting was that the 36 questions are meant to be asked in order and we didn't always do that, yet we managed to uncover all kinds of revelations we'd never have likely gotten to without the questions.

It was also impossible not to acknowledge that we might have answered some questions very differently 20 years ago.

Because what are the long days and warm nights of summer for if not to enjoy leisurely meals and outings while getting to know someone?

The way this optimist sees it, I've got months of summer magic and moonflowers left.

Keeping You in Light

Timing is everything.

When Mac and I set out to walk this morning at 10 a.m., we were almost immediately passed by both a speeding cop and a speeding fire vehicle, but even that didn't prepare us to find several blocks of Franklin and Main closed to traffic as we walked down Second Street toward the river.

Now we know that's because at 10:05, police encountered a man in a kilt carrying a knife in one hand and an ax in the other at Third and Main Streets, tried to de-escalate the situation and wound up killing the man.

Honestly, I'm glad we were blissfully unaware of being a block from a situation, though I still feel we were a bit too close for comfort.

When we met up for dinner tonight at 8 1/2, the restaurant was as calm and serene as it had been harried and overcrowded last Tuesday.

Just when you make sure to allow extra time, it turns out you don't need it.

Not having to wait for my obscenely good turkey hero only meant that we could score a good bench and have a leisurely picnic in Scuffletown park before the music began. Mac showed off her mad picnicking skills by not only bringing cloth napkins but also a fat slice of chocolate espresso cake and two forks for sharing.

Originator of the music in the park series and tonight's featured performer Patrick arrived to unload his equipment with Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" blaring in his car and setting the evening's tone. Before long, a woman came over and asked if she could place her chair next to our bench without obstructing our view.

We welcomed the company and just before things got started, her husband showed up to join her.

The dance party king (and the man who'd once described me as "part of the fabric of Richmond") played host tonight, announcing, "Welcome to this Fall night in July," a nod to temperatures in the low '70s, before introducing Patrick and his band: violin, cello and drums.

At that moment, the woman turned to us and announced proudly, "That's our son!" and the man whispered, "He gets his talent from his parents."

Ah, that explained the young woman I'd overheard saying to them, "I heard your house was the one for jamming!" Good parents don't mind a little ruckus when their kid's got talent.

"Happy Tuesday. Finally, the weather broke!" Patrick said by way of greeting an ever-growing crowd that ignored the "Stay off the grass" signs and sprawled out on, yes, the lawn, as well as on bricks, on tables and benches. The crowds seem to grow every week.

Tonight's delightful weather was the ideal backdrop for the exquisite sounds of violin and cello played in the great outdoors to the thrum of cicada harmonies and brushes on drums.

Patrick's songs had the singer\songwriter qualities of dreamy lost '70s gems.

When he announced he was going to play a really old song, it got his parents buzzing, so I asked if they were trying to guess which song he might play. "Trying to guess the era," his Dad laughed.

Saying he was about to play some songs from the EP he put out a couple of years ago, Patrick admitted that he didn't get to play them much anymore. Why? "They're not as loud as I feel like I wanna be now."

Definitely not loud but most assuredly well-crafted and beautifully sung (and played), Before long, his parents were wondering which of his angst-y songs was next, while I was curious if he'd ever sung anything but.

"He always played angst-y songs, maybe a little less these days, but he only sang happy songs when he was little," his Mom explained as the band began what could almost surely be called a somewhat happy song.

She turned to me, palms up in surprise and grinning when she heard how relatively upbeat - "In the long run, you're going to have to help yourself" - it sounded with the strings winding their way through the rustling tree branches.

When Patrick announced that the band would do one more, someone called out, "Two!" and his devoted Mom yelled, "Three!" but he dashed their hopes, saying, "Not gonna happen" and instead inquired of the crowd who knew Suzanne Vega.

All the hands of a certain age went up and he rhapsodized about her music being the stuff of his childhood before taking on Vega's "Night Vision."

When the darkness takes you
With her hand across your face
Don't give in too quickly
Find the things she's erased

Find the line, find the shape
through the grain
Find the outline
Things will tell you their name

Some sets run long at Scuffletown, others, like tonight's, aren't nearly long enough given how wonderful the music sounds.

The consolation was that when the show broke up, the post-show mingling began and it soon became obvious that lots of people are pairing up these days.

I finally got to meet the dance king's new Queens-via-Texas squeeze, a charming woman who'd spent two hours in the river with him today and was already taken with Richmond's quirky charms.

Group discussion of architecture, history, trees and cost of living followed, with someone even nerdier than me suggesting a book she might enjoy for reference.

The scientist, whom I hadn't seen in at least a year, arrived after a Boy Scout meeting and surprised us all by announcing he now has a girlfriend and that he's "following her all over town."

Mac assured him that we love when guys do that.

As the blues harmonica player was being introduced to me, I reminded him that we'd met nearly a decade ago and he blushed to have forgotten me. I reminded him that while I've seen him play plenty, there would be no reason for him to recall one more face in the crowd. Still, he apologized unnecessarily.

As I was walking out, I ran into the traveling tailor and artist who's moving to New Orleans on Monday. In an effort to lighten his moving load, he's been selling off his paintings - at a rate of at least one per day, to his amazement - including a large piece sold to Black Sheep, coincidentally his favorite restaurant.

Talking about the move, he admitted that he hopes the time is right to do it, the consolation being that he can always come back if it doesn't suit him.

"But I've got to find out," he said earnestly about pulling up stakes.

If the timing's right, you'll know, I reassured him. And if not, heaven knows Richmond welcomes back all who leave.

As the great Fleetwood Mac oracle reminded us earlier tonight, it's not only right that you should play the way you feel, but that you listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness.

Sometimes it's the best motivator when you've just got to find out. And timing truly is everything.

Suddenly This Summer

"Good grief! Again?" a friend asks with exasperation.

Hallelujah, says I. No such thing as too much ocean breeze.

I can't help it if other people don't need as much time at the beach as I do, although I am glad that I know someone as inclined as I am to make the drive to spend even a day soaking up ever-changing breezes and bathing in the ocean.

A pro at this, I pack a cooler and a beach bag of necessities, although we have to make one pre-trip pit stop at Saison Market to score some pink: Le Fraghe "Rodon" because what would a trip to the shore be without sufficient Rose?

As my above-mentioned friend would say, "Quelle horreur!"

In my analog quest to make it to the ocean without using my date's technology, we may have chosen a rather scenic route through Pungo and environs, although who would complain about a bonus ride in the country en route to a day goofing off?

Certainly not anyone I'd want to get sandy with.

We stopped at Bandito's food truck to score lunch - enormous fish tacos and chicken burritos - from the same family who've been roadside since I began going to Sandbridge. And while the truck's location is no longer as convenient (nothing beats across the beach road), the food remains stellar.

Setting up camp squarely between two lifeguard stands not far from where the waves were breaking, we found ourselves on the international beach, with a group of German families to our right and two French couples to our left. It made for interesting eavesdropping since we could only guess at content by tone.

What was impressive were the two little German boys (one in a wide-brimmed black hat that you'd never see on an American 8 year old) who diligently spent hours building a sand castle and filling its moat bucket by red bucket, never once asking for their parents' assistance, or even talking to them.

They were all about their mission.

The ocean temperature felt cooler than our last couple forays to the beach, but not for long, forcing us to admit that we'd just been overly hot when we'd first gone in.

Or perhaps just traumatized.

Standing at water's edge, a woman and her son approached us, the kid wearing a Trump mask and making thumbs-up motions. We'd seen them earlier making their way up the beach and wondered what was up, but when they followed us into the water (we had our back to them) and stood there, he with his thumb up and she giggling like an idiot, we just turned away.

What kind of parent puts her kid in a hideous mask and trots him around to make others uncomfortable? This is childhood circa 2017?

Happily, once they exited stage right, the rest of the day was golden.

I finally finished A.E. Hotchner's "Papa Hemingway," which I'd begun at the last beach house (because a book with so many chapters set in Cuba and Spain deserves to be read seaside).

We took a mid-afternoon watermelon break because being covered in watermelon juices is just a fine excuse to get back in the water. We took a later-afternoon chips, guacamole and salsa break, causing my companion to ruminate on how he could possibly be hungry again.

According to my Mom's long-held wisdom, children eat and sleep better at the beach than anywhere else and realistically, why wouldn't the same apply to adults?

The ocean was striped with bands of color - olive green, bottle green, aquamarine and silvery blue - by the time the lifeguards blew their whistles and we took it to mean it was officially happy hour and got started on our groovy organic Italian Rose. Full-bodied, crisp and with a pleasing minerality, we took our glasses down to enjoy by the German boys' masterpiece now that they were gone.

By then, the beach had begun to empty out and my earlier prediction that we'd outlast 95% of the crowd had proved I'd learned a lesson or two since coming to Sandbridge.

It was going on 7:00 before the time felt right to walk, although that was partly the Rose and partly a comment someone made recently when they saw us walking together ("Girl, don't you walk that man to death!" - a hilarious comment Mac later attributed to my no-nonsense hat).

Our timing was perfect because the combination of the very wide beach and the McMansion houses that line it (the very same ones we mocked mercilessly as we passed them for their architectural mish-mash style, un-beachlike look and overblown size) meant that we weren't walking in direct sun and it was uncrowded, with most of the people left on the beach having arrived in the last hour or so.

I was especially taken with the large guy who'd arrived toting a load, set his young 'uns up and then walked directly into the ocean, not leaving it until near dark. The smile never left his face as he regarded them from his refreshing stance up to his shoulders in salt water.

We took plenty of ocean detours ourselves, arriving back to break up camp only minutes before the parking lot closed. You never saw two people shower publicly so quickly.

Luckily for us, Sandbridge may close its lots early, but Margie and Ray's rustic crabhouse is now open on Mondays and doesn't turn away pickled beach-lovers with sand in their hair, even when they show up at closing time to slide on to barstools.

The bartender was friendly, a local on a stool bantered with us about the fish-heavy decor and no one made us feel bad for showing up late and starving.

We discovered that one advantage of being a tardy arrival is that while plenty of people are still eating - a 16-top in the back was still picking away at mounds of crabs and two other large parties were nowhere close to finished eating when we showed up - the kitchen's not especially busy, so our mahi mahi and pound of spiced shrimp arrived in what felt like no time.

Everything was locally caught (okay, maybe not the hushpuppies) and positively delicious, but also, see: Mom's rule of thumb.

Let's just say I slept the sleep of the just. Good grief, yes again.

Fashionably Late

When it's your thing, you get to do what you want to do.

That meant my Sunday began with a rarity - hosting lunch at my house, complete with a bouquet of black-eyed Susans in the middle of the dining room table - and a nerdy indulgence: seeing the documentary "Yves Saint Laurent: His Life and Times" at the air conditioned VMFA.

That the near capacity crowd leaned 90% female mattered not to my non-alpha male companion, who, like me, is a documentary dork and was also eager to learn more about the man behind the designer.

Because YSL himself had been interviewed extensively, there were all kinds of intimate revelations, from his longing to be a beatnik (don't we all?) to the fact that his father never acknowledged his son was gay (in the interview with his mother, she says she knew, but her husband traveled a lot for business, so there didn't seem to be any point in telling him).

But the piece-de-resistance had to be the 3-year old Yves telling his great aunt to go change her dress before they went out...and she did. When he was hired as Christian Dior's assistant and his mother was coming to meet Dior, he also had final say on her ensemble.

That's talent the boy was born with.

Unlike a more typical American film, the pace was slow and measured (like YSL himself) with full admissions about his depression and addictions, with plenty of self doubt thrown in.

And always, those fabulous couture collections that he managed to design during two 2-week periods every year. In one outdoor scene, a series of models walk by, each dressed like the epitome of the swingin' modern '60s woman and so very different from the more constrained gender roles of the '50s.

It was a fascinating film that should have sent anyone in the audience who hadn't already seen the YSL exhibit (don't look at me) directly to it.

How is it this person arrived on earth so fully formed in his fashion sense? I was 40 before I had a clue what worked for me fashion-wise - and a lot of bad choices before that - and I'm still playing catch-up in some respects (jeans, scarves, jewelry) even now.

It wasn't hard to wile away the late afternoon or choose a place for an early dinner and when we pulled up to Metzger, who should we see heading in for dinner but one of the couples we'd recently shared a beach house with. Now it was a party.

Despite the shades being down, the sun had positioned itself so that all of the restaurant's windows were taking the brunt of the heat and things heated up as we sipped Anton Bauer Rose and chatted. They'd just come from Sub Rosa and seeing Miramar, which was exactly what we'd done last Sunday.

Small world.

But it was my date's first Metzger outing, so I had to introduce him to the myriad pleasures of it, beginning with Mr. Fine Wine providing the killer vintage soul soundtrack. Looking around to take it all in, he was impressed with a cleaver on the wall and intrigued by the bandoleer of Underberg singles.

The menu had been updated only the day before and maybe that's why the corn soup with crab and speck tasted like the corn had been in the field yesterday. The milky broth was sublime by itself, but in my world, everything's better with with crab and the speck provided a beautiful salty note to contrast with the sweetness of the corn and crab.

Mr. First Timer felt the siren song of a special of pork loin and I encouraged him since Metzger is magic with meat, while I had an heirloom tomato salad (the tops of the slices bruleed for a sweet note) with peaches, tarragon and seeded granola in buttermilk dressing.

In other words, a plate of summer.

Plenty of other familiar faces showed up - the IT whiz and his wife in a cute ticking jump suit, the dancer, the musician, the Italian I hadn't seen in ages - and then our beach friends moved on just as our black forest bombe (cherry ice cream over chocolate cake covered in hard chocolate with brandy cream) arrived.

A dessert so rich we couldn't finish it provided a splendid introduction for the Metzger virgin to the digestif Underberg, so we ordered two of the little single-serve bottles labeled with the promise: "To feel bright and alert" and took our dose of herbal bitters clocking in at 44%.

Those little empty bottles used to be found scattered on the floor during Mr. Fine Wine dance parties, but now that those have stopped, Underberg can be appreciated for its true purpose: settling an overly-full belly after a protracted and indulgent meal.

And while we briefly toyed with the idea of going to a show, it sounded just as appealing to sit on the balcony, listen to Brazil '66  followed by Isaac Hayes and watch heat lightening until the rain arrived.

Because bright and alert is in the eye of the beholders.

Take Door #2, Son

Sometimes you just need to take a break and catch up with friends.

That meant brunch at Helen's with the girlfriend I'd run into at several shows in the past two weeks, but hadn't sat down to dish with in eons. We'd both had too much life going on of late not to make time to debrief the other.

We timed it just right, sliding into one of the two window tables just as the early crowd was paying their checks. I'd forgotten about the charming flowered oil cloths that lend such kistch charm to the tables at the classic Richmond spot.

Because it had been far too long, we took turns eating and talking, so I got to hear about her life while diving into a well-constructed BLT with avocado on crusty sourdough toast while she listened intently to me while inhaling huevos rancheros.

In that typical Richmond-is-so-small way, when she began telling me about a guy who'd caught her eye but is looking at moving to the Big Easy, I knew who she was talking about before she even mentioned his name. When I shared details about my recent second trip to the beach, she already knew about the group house I'd gone to and with whom.

Small world.

We have no true secrets in Richmond, just the most delicate tendrils connecting us all whether we know it or not.

When we parted ways after giving each other love life advice, it was to do weekend girly-type things: go shopping for bras and flowerpots.

My evening's plans had been decided a few days ago when FotoBoy reached out to me.

I'm dateless Saturday I just found out and am wondering if you wanna do something with me?

Coincidentally, I was also dateless tonight, so I immediately suggested sharing some laughs at the Comedy Coalition, which got an enthusiastic thumbs-up from him. My idea was to meet here and walk the 6 blocks there even if it was still 97 degrees outside and he knew me well enough to agree.

En route, we passed a dozen or so people milling about and taking photos at the Maggie Walker statue and he marveled at the sheer amount of merchandise on the sidewalk in front of Circle Thrift. How do they get away with that?

Although we were greeted by a major blast of cold air inside the comedy theater, the air soon rose to a comfortable but not especially cold level once humans started filing in and soon we were joined by a third, a buddy of his, also dateless and looking for some Saturday night fun.

Turns out he'd found out 2 hours too late about "Stop Making Sense" playing the Byrd the other night and was mildly envious I'd been there, at least until he heard about the interview with Jonathan Demme and David Byrne that proceeded it and then he was hugely jealous.

I, in turn, was mildly envious he'd seen the film originally at the Biograph in 1984 when he was in 10th grade. I only became hugely jealous when he shared that he'd seen Demme and Werner Herzog interviewed in NYC and actually spoke to Herzog on the street before the event.

We put our petty jealousies aside when the show began.

Host Ryan reminded the crowd that what we were about to see would never be repeated and exhorted us to, "Breathe it in! Live in the moment!" before our evening of long-form improv began.

Ambassadors were up first and their verbal starting point was "old pants." That somehow took us to a closed Old Navy store ("I thought I had some idea of what capitalism would be like when it collapsed, but no!"), remorse about Circuit City closing and memories about the highs and lows of Orange Julius (there's a throwback).

The team was fairly young, so their comedy included references to pretentious young people, technology ("I'm swiping left and he\s still here!" about an intruder) and fluids.

Their climax involved kicking down a door, cocking a shotgun and yelling, "Biscuit!" but you had to be there to see how they got there.

Second team Da Vinci got started with a cue of "bike tires" and a couple of witches wanting to switch from brooms to bikes to save their magic.

Naturally, the witches weren't very nice. "Do you burn children?" they were asked. No, why, they wanted to know? "I have a nephew I don't like."

They made us laugh with comedy that referenced "Game of Thrones," accusations of infidelity, "Survivor" and boob sweat. There was also a cigarette-smoking bad father who needed to learn to hate less.

Big Bosses, the final team, was made up of the long-standing coalition members, the people who've been doing this since before they had a brick and mortar place to do it and were nomads.

These are the people who make it look so easy.

Their cue came from a guy in the front row after they asked the audience what our favorite soundtrack album was and the guy shouted out "Titanic." He was then mercilessly razzed about whether he knew anything else on the soundtrack besides "My Heart Will Go On" and he didn't seem to.

Naturally, their improv began on the bow of the Titanic, with passengers explaining how they got their tickets (murder, theft, death) and how they planned to find the American dream and segued into a bit about a Russian and American sub in the Arctic Ocean, each being manned by a guy who'd eaten too much chocolate and needed to poop.

One of the funniest bits concerned two passengers on a first date, one who was obsessed with his dead grandparents to the point of taking her to the cemetery to talk to the man who'd buried them.

After amusing herself playing Candy Crush while he chats up the gravedigger, she gets tired of waiting for him to finish questioning the man about them.

"Hey!  You can live in the past or come with me and at least get a hand job!" she calls out, bored and impatient.

I thought I had some idea how my Saturday night would end, but no. Hand jobs aside, I think we can all agree there's no point in living in the past.

And biscuits? Well, they'are always a good idea.

Hot Blooded

It's not the heat, it's the sweat. Mine.

A person could be forgiven for seeking out conditioned air when it's 99 degrees outside and her apartment is 96. What I'm trying to say is, I felt no shame in starting my evening out at 4:00.

My date picked me up in his air conditioned car so we could drive to an air conditioned theater and spend two glorious hours watching a work of art in the guise of a true story/offbeat love story/artist biopic, shot beautifully in Nova Scotia.

Honestly, it was so immersive I forgot where I was until a noise in the row behind us jolted me, reminding me of my present reality.

"Maudie" was glorious in every way a film should be and, once again, we got no further than the car (a/c on, naturally) before we launched our film discussion.

We were two optimists discussing how one person with everything stacked against her remained so quietly happy and hopeful.

The cinematography was magnificent (who knew the four seasons in such a stark, northerly place could be so photogenic?), matched only by the stellar performances of Sally Hawkins as the arthritic and talented painter Maud and Ethan Hawk as her taciturn, cranky employer-turned-husband Everett.

I can't speak for my date, but I do know that one point I realized that tears were rolling down my face and I hadn't even had the presence of mind to know they were coming, I was that wrapped up in what was unfolding in front of me.

All I can say is, I'm so glad I had a voluble and non-cranky companion for the film so we could parse it together - the humor, the metaphors, the symbolism - for the rest of the evening.

Too often, I see something fabulous and don't know a soul with whom I can discuss it. Could that streak finally be broken?

But I'd also heard my date's stomach growling during a quiet moment in the theater and restaurants are air conditioned, too, so off we went to Acacia where a friend who once wrote a haiku about me was guest bartending for the night.

Driving over, we saw a digital thermometer reading 100 degrees.

Anticipating just such a thing, Acacia had earlier sent out an email to those in the know, stating that in honor of triple digit heat, all bottles of wine were half off. Now there's a brilliant strategy.

I'm going to guess that all the other couples at the bar had been notified as well, giving a party feel to a sticky evening.

After the barkeep asked what we'd be drinking, he followed the question with another. "Rose?"

My companion shrugged, saying he could do Rose or bubbles. Since it was too hot to make choices, we opted for a bottle of Paul Direder Frizzante Rose, thereby killing two (alcoholic) birds with one stone.

Only problem was we were accidentally poured flutes of Anton Bauer Rose first before the error was noted. "Think of it as the gift of an apperitif!" the haiku writer joked. Or a bonus round, depending on your point of view.

Our Frizzante Rose arrived just in time for our entrees: mine of succulent rockfish with a salad of lettuces, cherry tomatoes and goat cheese in balsamic, and his of pan-roasted chicken (with a fried chicken "tender" atop it), green beans that tasted like they'd been picked from the garden this morning and a mac and cheese gratin to die for.

Behind us, the restaurant had filled up, the techno music was pumping and we felt like we were sitting in the cat bird seats, happily content with everything that had landed in front of us. A restaurant owner and his wife showed up and took the stools next to us, the better to enlarge the party vibe and hear about what DJs were playing where tonight.

Because it's never too hot to eat dessert, we soldiered through a peanut butter ice cream sundae with hazelnut ganache and pretzel bark and a second bottle of pink bubbles while discussing some of our past travel destinations. He'd done Sicily, I'd done Italy. He'd been to Thailand while I'd gone to South Africa. How much we both enjoy the beach off-season.

Actually, we talked about a lot more than that, so much so that the restaurant had all but cleared out by the time Frizzante Rose Deux kicked the bucket and we were forced out of the air conditioned pleasures of Acacia.

So we glistened a little making our way to the next air conditioned destination. Mirroring Maudie's optimism, we didn't mind much. After all, it's summer and we're supposed to be hot.

I don't mind a little sweat if you don't.

Keep On Pushing

I have many talents, but being on camera is not one of them.

That's a cold, hard fact I first learned back in college when a friend tapped me to star in his film project to wooden results.

Oh, sure, I can talk to a brick wall or any complete stranger, but a camera? Not my forte.

Before being asked to try again, Mac and I had dinner at Garnett's where we admired the recently refurbished floors, talked about her Uncle Bootsy and ate our favorite salads like we do. Both of us briefly (and foolishly) considered ordering something different than our usual, but why mess with complete satisfaction?

And speaking of that, nothing could have pleased the two of us more than seeing that chocolate chocolate cake was in the house tonight, its frosting as soft as my cotton dress trying to stand up to another dog day of Summer (my apartment was a toasty 94 degrees when I left).

Luckily, the air conditioning at the Hoff Garden was set on full blast when we arrived for Sneakpeek: 2nd Annual Afrikana Film Festival's launch. The system struggled a bit once the room filled up with other devoted movie fans for an evening of short films by directors of color and the sunset beamed its warmth through the big window, but eventually recovered.

The trio of films came across like a trilogy of up-to-the-moment commentary on race relations in the 21st century.

First was Johnny Ray Gill's difficult "Strange Fruit hanging," an emotionally charged music video shaped as a tribute to victims of police brutality. It was painful to watch because the reality for blacks in this country is painful.

The next film was black and white, produced by Ava Duvernay and titled after Common's album "Black America Again." It featured the musician rapping the title track - a protest song of the highest order - to a percussionist in between emotionally charged scenes of women in white singing and dancing on urban streets.

His message was plain: "We write our own story."

The final film, "Hell You Talmbout," had a fascinating story behind it, in part because one of the filmmakers, Denzel Boyd, was from Richmond and in the audience tonight.

It began with children in a schoolroom and roll being called, the names being those of blacks killed by cops and went on to feature a group of kids in white t-shirts with a large "X" on each dancing behind a master tap dancer (in the same shirt) performing to Janelle Monae's Trump-era protest song, "Hell You Talmbout."

During the Q & A afterward, recent VCU graduate Boyd explained how the project had come about with a grant of $8,000 and two partners (one a filmmaker, the other a tap dancer). Since his degree was in graphic design, he was tasked with the visual elements of the film, which they completed in a single day.

I have to say, for one so young who'd been part of his very first film endeavor, he handled the non-stop barrage of questions and comments from the crowd admirably, admitting that they'd seen video of a Seattle tap group dancing to the song and taken their inspiration from that.

And while he hadn't felt any particular calling to address social injustice issues before making the film, he was feeling differently as a result of it. He also admitted (to appreciative laughter) that he was hoping to hear from Janelle any day now.

Then came the announcement of the theme for this year's 3-day Afrikana Film Fest  - Black with a Capital B: Celebrations of Black Personhood and a tease about one of the festival's guests.

When Talib Kweli's name was announced, the crowd roared its approval. Can. Not. Wait.

Tonight was also our opportunity to buy early bird festival passes at a discount rate (no dummies, Mac and I both did before they sell out) and it was after we'd done so that I got tapped to take a turn in front of the camera talking about Afrikana.

When I tried to get out of it based on my skin color, the brains and beauty behind the festival was having none of it. "That's exactly why you're just the person to do it!" she told me. Clearly she had no clue how lame I present when a camera is rolling.

But I did it anyway (with Terrance Trent D'Arby playing overhead) for the cause.

I did it because I think Afrikana Film Fest represents what Richmond is trying to become in terms of race relations. I did it because I attended the very first Afrikana screening back in fall 2014 and scores of their events since.

I did it because I want cultural happenings in this town to resemble the Prince concerts I went to in the '90s: a colorful mix of black and white, old and young and everything in between.

Just don't judge me for how poorly I convey my convictions. Really, I have other skill sets.

Once in a Lifetime

What happens when two people who've never seen what's considered to be the best concert film ever made finally see "Stop Making Sense?"

After dinner at Eleven Months - a massive pork chop with chorizo cornbread and spinach and chicken thigh escabeche with red pepper and arugula - watching a fellow bar sitter eat through four different desserts (the churros were his least favorite, the tequila chocolate cake the winner), they cross the street.

There, they wind up sitting in the center section of the Byrd Theater in seats that will no longer exist after tonight. That's right, beginning tomorrow morning, the Byrd will be ripping the seats that cradled our bums out of the floor in anticipation of the new ones arriving.

A dubious honor, but an honor nonetheless.

But besides the historic last stand for the seats, the duo are so enraptured with the 1984 film that they wind up discoursing on Talking Heads and what a fabulous film it was for an hour afterwards before even driving away from the theater.

One of them, who had only heard a very small portion of their music before tonight, is stunned by their musical chops and the stellar songwriting. One of them, who seldom sees videos, is gobsmacked by what a showman David Byrne is, whether dancing with a lamp, doing back bends or running circles around the risers.

The guitar geek takes note of every model of guitar and bass used in the performance, and even notes one continuity mistake in Tina Weymouth's bass during a cutaway. The cultural historian takes note of Weymouth's oh-so-'80s jumpsuit and gold flats and the percussionist's oh-so Flashdance sweatshirt with the neck and sleeves cut off.

Because today was a national screening day for the film, our night at the Byrd begins with an interview of director Jonathan Demme and David Byrne from 2004, both looking damn fine for middle-aged men with full heads of hair.

Demme recalls Byrne asking him repeatedly, "How is this going to be any different than other concert films?"

Frustrated with the questioning, Demme finally told him, "Because I'm making it and you're in it!" which pretty much sums up the brilliance of the film.

The surprises for me were myriad. That the band had five black and four white members. That Weymouth's hair was a ringer for that of Mary Travers'. That Byrne's famous "big suit" started out much smaller at the beginning of the set.

The delights were even more plentiful. The sheer exuberance of everyone's performances. Hearing "Psycho Killer" accompanied solely by acoustic guitar and drum machine. Hearing "Take Me to the River" as a full-on gospel show. Seeing Tom Tom Club do "Genius of Love" mid-set. All that lovely synth.

And, of course, the pure poetry of a pitch perfect version of "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)" for ever and always my absolute favorite Talking Heads song.

Hi-yea, I got plenty of time
Hi-yea, you got light in your eyes
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money, always for love
Cover up and say goodnight
Say goodnight

And the most wonderful part of seeing the film in a theater crowded with fans of the band and assorted middle-aged music-lovers was the collective energy that all but engulfed it.

Spontaneous applause and cheers broke out after almost every song, as if we were actually at a live show. People began murmuring when they recognized the first couple notes of a song. I was far from the only one who sighed loudly when "Naive Melody" began or squealed when Alex Weir did his lightening fast guitar solos.

I didn't have to guess that this must be the place. I knew I was exactly where I should be. Finally.

Say goodnight.

Ruby Tuesday

Time for my rating of today's zeitgeist.

+6
Sitting on a rock in the James, our bodies submerged from the hips down, my companion spots a blue crab barely a foot away. In all my years of river walking, I've never seen a crab in the river. He's small, so maybe he's too young to know he's a tad west of the brackish water crabs prefer. Still, we saw a blue crab.

+2
When we went to 8 1/2 to get heroes for a picnic, the counter guy knocked the wind out of our sails when he said they were all out of rolls, those incredible crusty rolls. Okay, so we ordered a white pizza with spinach and onion to accompany our J. Mourat Rose.

Only problem was when we picked up the pizza, they'd made it red instead. "Want us to remake it?" they asked reluctantly. And wait another 35 minutes? Our bellies declined the offer. Still, it was a killer pizza, the meal rounded out with pasta salad and grapes.

+4
The group in front of us bought 2 bottles of wine but didn't have a wine opener. I asked if they were going to Scuffletown and when they said yes, I told them to look for my sunflower dress and they could borrow mine.

When she showed up, I learned that they were artists from NYC, down working on a virtual reality project with teens at Art 180, three blocks from my house. About 45 minutes later when he showed up to borrow it again and open their second bottle, he raved about what a cool town Richmond is. "You guys should keep this place a secret," he told me. We're trying.

+8
On a breezy July night, listening to a singing accordion player with a quietly dramatic delivery, accompanied by a Russian guitarist and a drummer playing in a park was just this side of sublime. Beginning 15 minutes before sunset, they played through the arrival of fireflies and the street lights coming on to a much smaller crowd than 2 weeks ago. Simply beautiful.

-9
Tonight's attendees were not an especially respectful bunch and many of them talked and laughed over the music being made. An accordion and acoustic guitars don't need competition from the noise made by people raised by wolves. Why come to a music show if you don't want to listen to the music?

+4
It's a who's who at the show. The traveling world musicians, just back from Vermont and leaving again in 3 days. The activist who tells me I look beautiful in my sunflower dress. The bolero singer we'd seen just Sunday night at Sub Rosato. The brains behind the kite-flying club, coincidentally also working on his own music series.  The roadie (and best hugger I know), also just back from a tour. The songstress girlfriend I'm having brunch with Saturday. My favorite jazz metal guitarist and his cowboy roommate. The guy we'd met at the polo game 2 weeks ago.

Tuesday's score: 15
And that's not counting the afterparty, set to a soundtrack of cicadas and accompanied by warm breezes wafting through open windows.

As the Smithereens would say, groovy Tuesday.

Best Laid Plans

What are we doing?

Because I seem to be everyone's default planner, inevitably when I make a date to meet someone, they count on me to decide what we're going to do (and usually, where we're going to eat). And it isn't a recent phenomena because I was always the organizer of trips and excursions as far back as my college days, when I was gifted with a shirt that read, "Social Director."

Plans "R" me, if you will.

So after a friend recently told me he was really enjoying getting to know new things through me, I laid out a simple Monday evening that began with parking once and partying twice.

Because it's only fair to revisit a place I haven't been in years, we began at Casa del Barco for happy hour.

I still love the Italianate building, the sunlight glinting off the bottles hung from the ceiling and the rustic metal light fixtures over the bar, yet I still marvel at how such a large staff can be so inattentive when there are only a dozen customers.

Heaven help us if we'd wanted food.

Still, through patience, hand signals and flagging down a manager with a headset, we were able to procure glasses of Prosecco on two separate occasions, although I have to believe it shouldn't be that challenging.

From there we walked to the turning basin to board the Martha Jefferson so my date could experience his first canal boat ride. I'd purposely chosen the last boat ride of the day, the better to appreciate the soft evening light and the sunset's reflections off the downtown buildings.

Where I was surprised - this was, after all, my fourth canal boat ride, although it had been several years since my last - was in the spiel delivered by our young female boat driver.

In addition to the standard patter about the burning of Richmond and the tobacco warehouses, we heard about how one of the bridges was modeled on Paris' Pont Neuf, the city's oldest bridge. Who knew?

Just as surprising was the story of Maggie Walker, complete with a reference to the new statue here in Jackson Ward. That definitely wasn't part of the tour before, although I was thrilled to hear it shared as just another key part of Richmond history.

On the uncrowded boat with us was an Hispanic family, the youngest son in a t-shirt with an American flag and the Dad proudly wearing a U.S. Army hat, all of them except the youngest child (who was fixated by a screen), seemingly enthralled with the history lesson they were hearing.

Depending on your politics, they could have been a poster family for American assimilation or an example of just the kind of no-good people we need to build a wall to keep out.

Don't get me started.

For my companion, who was seeing the Low Line, man-made Chapel Island and the half bascule bridge (think mules and rocks) from the water for the first time since I'd walked him over that territory, it was an opportunity to delight in an alternate vantage point.

Everything looks different from the water.

During the Q & A, someone inquired about the canal's depth and the driver said it was only up to her waist, a fact she'd recently learned when her sunglasses went overboard.

"But I don't recommend getting in because it's pretty gross," she shared. It was my first canal boat ride without a blue heron sighting, although I see them so frequently on the pipeline now that I can't really complain.

Once back on dry land, we weren't ready to return to air-conditioning, instead ending up in the brick-walled garden of Sang Jun Thai for dinner. We shared the dusky patio space with only one other table and it held friends already enjoying a meal.

Our server was sweet and incredibly young-looking, but also flummoxed when the first two bottles of wine we ordered were no longer available. Seems the wine list needs updating and no one could be bothered to do it.

Eventually, she brought out a hand-written list of available wines for us to choose from, we each ordered a glass and she returned with just one. We took it as a hint that we should abandon any hope of drinking.

But our entrees - broccoli lover with chicken and Chinese broccoli with crispy pork belly - were solid, the lanterns came on to provide ambiance and our friends moved on, leaving us the sole occupants of the charming patio.

No, I hadn't planned that part, although I might have if I'd known how.

But listening to Curtis Mayfield by candlelight on my balcony afterward while sipping Eden Imperial 11 Rose? That was all me.

I got this plan-making thing down cold. Or warm, as the night may be.

Celebrating Life and Happiness

I've apparently been mistaken for missing in action.

When I (finally after 3 years) posted a new profile photo on Facebook the other day, certain friends wasted no time in weighing in.

There you are! I've been looking for you.

Where have you been?

Well, let's see, just yesterday I was, as usual, all over the place.

In the morning I was down walking by the river, at least right up until I made a pit stop on the way home at Rapp Session for a lobster roll and an orgeat lemonade, quite possibly the most exquisite summer lunch known to woman.

In the afternoon, I was at Firehouse Theater with Mac for their collaboration with TheatreLab on "Heathers: The Musical," a riff on the late '80s black comedy classic about mean girl high school cliques.

As a card-carrying nerd in high school, I knew nothing of such popularity.

The play was a hoot, from a slo-mo fight scene to an ode to 7-11 and Slurpees ("Happiness comes when everything's numb"). Of course the '80s references were rampant: Bono at Live Aid, Air Supply, watching porn on Cinemax (or is that Skinemax?).

And when else but the '80s would a high school girl announce, "I'm, hot, pissed and on the pill?" On a fashion sidenote, in a play full of adorable '80s looks, it was the Heather played by Michaela Nicole who took top prize for most fabulous hair and cutest skirt (a split yellow skirt with a yoke that I'd love to own).

Easily the most hilarious scene concerned the fathers' reactions to the apparent suicide of their sons, two testosterone-fueled jocks.

I don't know what was funnier, the lyrics of "Dead Gay Son" sung by Billy Christopher Maupin and Eddie Webster as the fathers ("Well, I never cared for homos much until I reared me one") or Maupin's Dad shuffle dance in celebration of his new-found appreciation for the two stray rhinestones on the Lord's big purse.

Great stuff. It's no wonder the show's run has been extended.

In the evening, I was at Sub Rosa for the latest in their natural wine series of Sub Rosato pop-ups with the added bonus of Miramar playing.

Since it wasn't my first rodeo music show at Sub Rosa, I knew full well my date and I should arrive well in advance to score a good table and avail ourselves of the 8 groovy bio-dynamic wines being featured.

Rather than choose from a list created by a pro (the savvy Virginia), we opted to work our way across the list from sparkling through white, Rose and red, while noshing on every single thing on the pop-up menu: buttery tarts of goat cheese, dill and tomato, a charcuterie board, bread and olive oil and housemade chips.

Be still, my cholesterol.

Starting with Omero Moretti, an organic, unfiltered Umbrian and a classic Cremant du Jura, we moved through the wildly contrasting Sepp Moser Gruner Veltliner and Benito Santos "Pago de Xoan" Rias Baixas.

It was our loss to miss out on the Spanish Rose because it had already sold out, so we enjoyed a Virginian instead (Rosemont's unfiltered Rose) along with a faux Rose, a Kir Royale made with the Jura we'd already had.

It wasn't much of a sacrifice, I have to say.

Meanwhile, the trio of Miramar was effortlessly enchanting the room with boleros, Brazilian songs and original music, all set to the keyboard accompaniment of national treasure Marlyse Simmons, who managed to do it despite the setting sun through the window making things a tad warm for her.

Singer Laura Ann, looking fabulous in an orange sherbet-colored dress with orange pumps - because only she would have orange pumps - made sure to remind the crowded room that despite the happy sound to some songs, they were all basically unhappy.

"Here we are celebrating life and happiness through sadness, as we do," Laura said while Rei shook his maracas in agreement.

Late in the set, percussion arrived courtesy of Giustino and his bongos, making for a thrilling addition to an already sublime sound. It looked like hot work, though, and he'd pull out his handkerchief between songs to wipe sweat from his head.

That's a dedicated musician right there.

Lots of friends crowded into the bakery: the Turkish singer, her Russian guitarist and his Italian fashion blogger girlfriend, the jazz critic, the dance party enthusiast, practically the entire Dutch & Co. crew, the reporter.

It was a party for those in the know.

Back at our table, we sipped the lovely Te Mata Gamay Noir from Hawke's Bay, New Zealand, coincidentally also the home of the winemaker I'd squired around last month. I can't wait to tell him I'm still drinking his local juice.

What I can't do is provide prior notice to my Facebook friends of where I'm out and about on any given day or night.

That said, if you're looking for me, I can be found. Just ask in advance and I'll tell you where.

But MIA? Only if you don't know where to look.

Back to Mac

Despite a high of 94 degrees, it turned out to be a day for standing on the pavement.

When I set out on my walk, it was with the intention of beginning at the dedication of the Maggie Walker statue right here in Jackson Ward. When I saw the size of the crowd standing in the middle of Broad Street, I adjusted the plan.

After a walk to the river, I returned via Broad Street so I could witness the new sculpture after all the speechifying was over, snagging a fan from my favorite R & B record store, Barky's Spiritual Store, en route.

There were still plenty of folks milling around on the new plaza, but at least I could get a good look for the first time at Miss Maggie in her new Arts District digs. I'll tell you what, it certainly is refreshing to see a statue of a woman of note for a change, and even better, a woman of color.

Welcome to the 21st century, Richmond.

The second highlight of the day was being reunited with Mac after 4 long weeks of not seeing her smiling face. Life - good and bad - had intervened for both of us and I couldn't wait to spend the evening with her.

She'd chosen Dinamo (and gotten no argument from me) for dinner but we arrived half an hour before they opened, so we took advantage of 821 Cafe's empty patio to sit down on mod-looking furniture and pour out our stories from the past 28 days.

Talking to her again just reminded me how much I'd missed her company and our ongoing conversation.

Promptly at 5:30, we followed another couple into Dinamo's cool environs and chose seats at the bar behind the espresso machine. Life was good. If not for the table that came in next with 3 caterwauling children, it might have been great.

But of course the food made up for it all, from my special of crab, shrimp and corn chowder to a platter-sized flatbread with artichoke hearts and chick peas to double desserts - fresh sliced peaches and a mound of freshly whipped cream the size of a grapefruit and a Nutella cookie with sea salt that I dipped in the whipped cream.

We rolled out of there full as ticks so that we could go stand in a parking lot under the still brutal sun, something we'd only consider if the Purple One was involved.

As it happened, he was because the Trunk Show Band was presenting the tenth and latest installment of the Cover to Cover series and tonight's album was "Purple Rain."

And unlike the last nine in the series, all of which I've attended and loved, tonight's was being presented not in the hop-scented tasting room that makes me gag, but on an outdoor stage, the better to sweat to the funk.

Host Matt kicked things off onstage by announcing, "Some of you gave my outfit some looks as I was walking through the crowd like you didn't know you were going to a Prince show. I'm just going to go ahead and tell you I look fabulous." He wasn't lying.

After some applause and hollering, he went on, "I thought we got over that gender normative dressing in the '70s!"

We did. I was there. But tonight's crowd was enormous and unfortunately, some people didn't get the memo. On the plus side, just like at the two Prince shows I'd attended in the '90s, the crowd was satisfyingly diverse, a nice change for Hardywood.

Major props go to the band who began with a mixtape selection of one song from each of the nine albums they've already covered - songs like Green Day's "Basket Case,"  Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black," Paul Simon's"Graceland" and Maggie doing a terrific version of Alanis Morissette's "Hand in Pocket" - a lovely memory for those of us who'd been there and undoubtedly a cruel tease for those who'd missed those stellar shows.

Oh, well, keep up or miss out, kids.

During the break, I turned to see Foto Boy coming at me with open arms and we took a hot minute to catch up since it had been ages since our last lunch. A favorite theater lover stopped by for a hug and to get a recommendation (I sent him directly to "The Toxic Avenger") of what I'd seen that qualified as fabulous lately.

Where the crowd appropriately lost it was when the band, complete with two drummers and two guitarists, began "Let's Go Crazy." I mean, it was practically a directive. Also, it was the start of a two-hour dance party that barely left room to breathe.

"I don't know if it's the reverb or what, but y'all are making us feel like rock stars!" Matt enthused after that song ended. After "The Beautiful Ones," he called out, "Y'all should be dancing if you're not."

Please. Mac and I had started moving with the first notes. After all, this wasn't our first trunk show rodeo.

Apparently it was for the drunk guy who blocked my view of guitarist Grant (not to mention his superb guitar playing and great haircut) by  planting himself smack in front of me (a slight jab to the back moved him closer to his date and out of my way), at least until he began bobbing and weaving leaving his date to begin supporting him.

After sending him off to the bathroom, she leaned over and asked if I would recommend a restaurant nearby where he could soak up the copious amounts of beer he'd ingested. I suggested Supper and an Uber (he was from North Carolina and her car was back at his hotel) and wished her good luck.

"Do they have burgers?" she asked, sounding desperate. Yes, now go, please, so Mac and I can grind to Todd singing "Darling Nikki."

An extended version of "I Would Die for You" with Anthony singing lead became a crowd singalong and midway through, a breeze arrived to take it into sublime territory.

"Purple Rain" got the royal treatment with three vocalists and Maggie and Ali using wands to blow bubbles over the sweaty crowd, many of whom used their cell phones as flashlights subbing for Bic lighters to wave overhead.

It was over too soon.

Anticipating just that, the Trunk Show Band had rehearsed a few hits for a final set: "Kiss," "Raspberry Beret," my favorite, the masterfully metaphoric "Little Red Corvette" and then the inevitable crowd-pleaser, "1999," coincidentally the year the baby-faced bass player Pete was born.

But because the crowd was now at fever pitch, they couldn't end it there and, as Cover to Cover tradition dictates (and I've come to count on since that very first show), they did a reprise of "Purple Rain," complete with more bubbles as Mac and I basked in the purple glow.

I don't know if it was the reverb but, hot summer day or not, some shows are worth dancing on the pavement for.

Especially now that Mac is back in town.

A Burden Every Woman Shares

Are all men freaks? Discuss.

Before that became the evening's theme, I played chauffeur and picked Pru up from her manse in Church Hill, where we promptly drove to the Roosevelt for dinner before the heat wilted our enthusiasm.

When asked to pick our poison, we both chose Early Mountain Vineyards Rose (bartender T: "Because it's Summer!") while I regaled Pru and the barkeep with tales from my recent outing to King Family Winery.

Wine on wheels, what's not to like?

Dinner was putty in Summer's hands, with a mixed melon salad with blueberries, bacon and basil under a blanket of burrata, a yellow tomato gazpacho with lump crabmeat, mussels with grilled bread and a special of octopus salad with tomatoes and white anchovies.

The only way it could have been better is if we'd eaten it on a seaside patio and, as far as we knew, no one was offering us that tonight.

When we weren't stuffing our faces (or ruing the continuous stream of people allowing the air conditioning to escape by leaving the door open), Pru and I were waist-deep in girltalk, which is to say I was sharing the glorious improvements in my personal life while she was reminding me how long she's been waiting for me to get a clue.

"I never had your patience," she told me, stating the obvious. It's not a virtue I'm proud of.

We passed on dessert for more Rose before heading down the hill and back up it to the Basement's cool depths for a play about that magical place between heaven and hell: New Jersey.

That's right, tonight was a night for livin' on a prayer.

Taking seats in the second row, we were soon joined by a favorite actor and his companion for the evening and the conversation flowed like we were old friends. And perhaps all theater lovers are. Discussion immediately followed on who'd seen the original 1984 movie "The Toxic Avenger," on which tonight's musical was based.

Well, certainly not me, but naturally Pru (the film omnivore) had, although she couldn't recall a lot about it. As we discussed, that has a lot to do with her coming of age in the '80s and having been a bit too busy living life to make many mental notes.

Once we noticed that it was all '80s music playing, the actor's friend shared that she'd seen REM for $5 at the Metro back in 1982 (the best I could do was REM at the Mosque in '87), as well as the Ramones, although that ticket price escaped her now.

Don't sweat it, honey, a lot about the '80s escapes those of us who lived through those days.

I suppose it's possible that I could have enjoyed "The Toxic Avenger" more than I did, although it would probably have required someone rubbing my neck and shoulders throughout the entire play - including intermission -  to do so. It was that well executed and that much fun.

You're like Mother Theresa, if she was blind and hot.

Although I knew not a thing about the film, I was proud to say I'd seen several Troma films during last year's Troma series at Gallery 5, so I knew to expect the Troma tropes: nudity, horror, severed body parts, high camp and hilarity.

He's gonna jump my bones tomorrow at brunch.

The five-actor cast had the acting and singing skills of ten, whether it was Alexander Sapp as the lovesick environmentalist Melvin (or Toxie himself, with one eyeball perpetually dangling from its socket) or the incomparable Debra Waogoner as both mayor and Melvin's Mom, belting out songs to the rafters, oozing evil or baring her beautiful breasts.

When your face looks deranged, it's hard to get laid.

And don't get me started on the sheer range of Chris Hester as White Dude and William Anderson as Black Dude, who had more costume (and shoe!) changes than Cher. The two of them managed to convey menacing, coy, fey, simple-minded and just about every other type known to wo/man through a string of wig-wearing characters that left the audience in stitches.

So. Much. Cross-dressing.

Love isn't loud at all, it's soft and kind.

Rachel Rose Gilmour won everyone over when she arrived onstage as the stereotypical (and shallow) Jersey girl, complete with low-cut blouse, overly short skirt and a red glitter nail file. Oh, yes, and a probing cane because she was blind, always staring off into the middle distance, a feat unto itself.

If blind people can't love ugly people, who will?

The cast even tossed a bone to theater nerds in attendance when Toxie opened his mouth to roar and the sound didn't match his open mouth. "You ruined it, Joey Luck!" Toxie cried, referencing the much-awarded sound designer in the booth.

The roar that came up instead was laughter from every theater regular in the room.

The beauty of the play was that besides intestines, spleens and ripped off legs, "The Toxic Avenger" was a love story even if it did take place in New Jersey and, as with all good love stories, there were older, wiser women sharing their hard-earned lessons with young Sarah, the blind librarian.

It's been true since the dawn of time
From the Romans to the Greeks
Honey, face it, all mean are freaks, 
Sweetheart, face it, all men are freaks

Find kindness in your female heart
No need to act superior
Men need lots of therapy
Cause they were born inferior

That's wisdom for the ages right there. That it was sung by a mother, a blind girl and two cross-dressing men only proves its universality.

This wise woman is here to tell you that there's nothing wrong with finding kindness in your heart and offering a little therapy.

Let's just say what happens at brunch should stay at brunch.

The Disadvantages of You

A river is a poor substitute for the ocean.

Even so, if I had to drive an hour to do an interview today (and I did -deadlines, you know), at least it was in Tappahannock on Prince Street half a block from the Rappahannock River and with a splendid view of the bridge.

The rest of the evening was given over to meeting for dinner with friends curious about the changes in my relationship status and particularly, who I'd been at the beach with, a subject best not discussed in a public restaurant.

Waiting for them to arrive and join me, I chatted with a woman planning to catch a 7:55 plane to NYC, a conversation of soulmates when we realized how strongly we both feel about consumer waste. That was us debating plastic bags, to-go containers and the cost to the earth of making them. When she got ready to go, she even asked for a recommendation of a local cab company, the better to support the local economy.

A four-top arrived but requested a table for five, explaining that their friend Brad was stuck on 95 but would arrive soon. A Camden's regular showed up with not one but two men and later asked me sotto voce what I thought of her new boyfriend, whispering, "And he's 15 years younger!"

You go, girl, although I've lessened the age gap in my latest outing to some success, admittedly only because the age is attached to someone so nice. Still younger, just not so much.

Holmes and Beloved arrived and a bottle of Le Porte du Caillou Sancerre Rose was opened as we started to catch up after a month and a half. When the subject of my beach foray arose, we put it hold until our post-dinner listening party began.

In the meantime, I kept my beach seafood streak going with mahi-mahi over rice pilaf with yellow pepper coulis followed by chocolate pate, while the happy couple did their own damage to lamb and classic lasagna while watching the overwrought Kirk Douglas/Cyd Charisse vehicle,"Two Weeks in Another Town," and admiring the fine Corinthian leather of the film's cars.

Over a bottle of Le Porte du Caillou Sancerre, we analyzed a Washington Post article, "Five Myths about Hippies," the better to clarify that hippies were more of a '70s thing than '60s and that their legacy - casual sex, yoga, relaxed dress standards - are now utterly mainstream.

Regardless, I still think of myself as an old hippie.

When I mentioned that the Byrd had been showing "Dr. Zhivago" this afternoon but I'd missed it by being on the Northern Neck, Holmes cracked me up by describing it as the longest and most boring movie imaginable. When we moved on to the movie's theme song, he had no memory, so Beloved began humming "Lara's Theme."

Holmes winced and asked plaintively, "Can we hear it in clarinet, not kazoo?" Ouch. Personally, I couldn't even manage kazoo.

Over the two hours we lingered, I heard about their upcoming weekend plans on Solomon's Island to celebrate Beloved's birthday (a fine trip idea I may want to emulate with another beach lover), a trip that will kick off with a stop at Cap'n Billy's, a favorite crab shack of mine, too.

Before long, we moved on to Holmes' man-cave for a swinging listening party that ran from Julie London to Artie Shaw.

Holmes gifted me with some duplicate albums by the Brass Ring that he was given: "The Disadvantages of You" and "Sunday Night at the Movies" because what woman doesn't need a couple more brass band albums to add to her collection?

Conversation included a request for a full recounting of my beach jaunt - the food! the walks! the kites! - but quickly centered around a frank discussion of my last relationship, curiosity about my new attempt at one and a consideration of my overall relationship picture.

Let's just say their advice dovetailed exactly with that of the New Zealand winemaker's words of wisdom from a few weeks ago.

Because with enough Rose, friends will tell you exactly what they think of your past and present while remaining firmly in your corner.

As Holmes so sweetly put it, "I just want you to be happy."

As we said goodnight with the moon hanging high in the sky at the end of Grove Avenue, my new-to-me albums tucked under my arm, I felt lucky to have friends rooting for me and my happiness.

The disadvantages of my past are practically public record, but the potential advantages of my present and future feel like they're laid out against the bluest of skies. That those skies are filled with an assortment of clouds inspiring the two of us to share the fanciful figures we each see in them says enough.

No one tells you that the game is about to begin. You just jump in and hope for the best.

These Are Days

After recently being told I'm an evangelical for the beach, I'm wearing the title as a badge of honor.

What I hadn't anticipated was how quickly my proselytizing would land me right back there, albeit it in a much different configuration, a more southerly location and under a thunder moon.

Windows were rolled down for the drive down which was broken up with a leisurely lunch on the waterfront at the Coinjock Marina. "You'd have to know about this place," my companion observed about the unlikely location. I did.

This time the beach setting was Surf Shack #6 in Nags Head at a cottage peopled by three other couples, an obscene amount of beer and wine and crowned by a crow's nest with impressive views to the horizon and the sound.

Where we were especially clever was in arriving mid-day Sunday when the other couples had checked in Saturday and done all the heavy lifting setting up the house and porches.

Since that job always falls to me on my own beach week, it was a treat to just show up, throw on a bathing suit and be, not just on the beach, but in the ocean less than 15 minutes after arrival.

That and being back at the beach only two weeks after I left it are the kind of summer indulgences an evangelist could get used to.

And while I'd optimistically brought two books, four couples mean it's an ongoing party and not the reading kind.

Headquarters would be established on the beach every morning like magic while we walked (either beyond Jennette's Pier or past the Outer Banks Pier), so we'd come back to find the rest of the group arranged under and around a canopy while all we had to do was add our chairs and beach bags and - voila! - another day at the beach was underway.

One morning, we got back from our walk - the last half an hour listening to rumbling thunder - just as a major storm was rolling in, so we high-tailed it up to the crow's nest for a lightening and thunder show of epic proportions.

One of the guys said there'd been a tornado warning while we were gone and given the odd swirling of some murderous looking clouds, we weren't surprised when torrential downpours followed. We made the best of it with books, naps and a picnic in bed with a view out the open window of the driving rain and the ocean beyond it.

One afternoon, we spotted a plane pulling a message that read, "Amanda May Pabst, will you marry me?" and bantered about whether it was a real proposal or just a brilliant idea put forth by the plane company to entice business.

The romantic in me prefers to believe it was the first.

One evening we decided to lose the crowd and went to dinner alone at Ocean Boulevard for a gorgeously dry and zippy Rose of Sangiovese by Barnard Griffin which we sipped with a summer gazpacho piled with lump crabmeat, creme fraiche and parsley oil.

And that was before diving headfirst into a special of beer-battered monkfish over a jambalaya of summer corn, red peppers and crowder peas that was to die for and polishing off grilled shrimp over cheddar grits and black pepper coleslaw, too.

Afterward, we walked across the Beach Road and took seats in the sand to watch the waning Thunder Moon rise over the ocean, but only after making its way through bands of black clouds as elaborate as burnt velvet, behind which heat lightening put on a show.

As a bonus, fireworks were being set off in the direction of the Avalon Pier, so everywhere we looked, there was a spectacle to behold.

The two of us took lunch one day outside at the Nags Head Fishing Pier's new tiki bar, where we watched surfers, ate local grilled tuna and pondered the angry-looking guy nearby with the small American flag stuck in the sand in front of his beach chair.

Because some of the house's occupants were talented, there was guitar playing on the beach. Because the winds were ideal for it, there was kite flying so high it seemed likely we'd never get it back down. Because there was a screened porch, we had breakfast there. Because there was a crow's nest even higher,  we had happy hours and sunset-viewing there.

And because the ocean was a wonderfully warm 75 degrees (and clear as the Caribbean), we stayed in until our fingers and toes looked like prunes. Repeatedly.

Unlike the other couples, we were the renegades who slept in with windows open, a fan on and used the outdoor shower at the least provocation.

Because kicking it old school is just part of what I preach. Let's raise a glass of Rose and praise beach life.

Can I get an amen?