Can't Tango, Won't Fort

The plan was to keep Friday simple with fairies, food and film at the VMFA, only the drip was missing.

I barely made it to Amuse before the sun set, a shame given the wonderful western skyline visible through the wall of windows, but darkness is coming so early now.

Taking a seat at the end of the bar put me inches from where the absinthe drip should have been but wasn't.

An inquiry revealed that with the hordes descending for the "Hollywood Costume" exhibit, the drip was exiled for the sake of room for waiting customers.

I understood and I'm thrilled the show is so popular right out of the gate, but Amuse has got to understand that they're the ones who created green fairy junkies and they're the ones who've got to be able to feed those habits even now with the ruby slippers in residence.

Translation: they retrieved the drip from the kitchen and started one for me STAT, albeit not intravenously.

Well, that was a close one.

I moved down a stool to allow a fresh-faced trio to sit together and listened with amusement as they looked at the Hollywood-themed drink menu and began discussing alcohol.

The guy in the group said he wanted no part of the Lion's Roar, a cocktail of Old Overholt rye, Strega, Luxardo Maraschino, bitters, black peppercorn essence and Dolin dry vermouth.

Why not, you ask? Because it had vermouth.

"That was the first thing I stole from my parents' bar when I was sixteen and I drank the whole bottle," he said with clear distaste.

The bartender explained that A) it was undoubtedly cheap vermouth and B) vermouth, like wine, goes bad fairly quickly.

"You mean it doesn't have to taste like urine?" he asked earnestly, causing the bartender and I to exchange glances. What in the world?

"I wouldn't really know what urine tastes like. I don't think most people would," the bartender said diplomatically.

"Well, then you've never been in a frat house," he said, as if that explained everything.

I just took another sip of my absinthe drip and kept my eyes straight ahead.

For dinner I had a bowl of Tuscan kale and potato stew with house-made lamb sausage and two bites in, a server I know came over to tell me there was Billy bread in the house.

Now, I already had Amuse's superb herb focaccia in hand and thickly buttered, but she was thinking the Billy bread would be a better sopping vehicle with its crunchy crust. Right she was.

By the time the drip and stew were history, it was the bewitching hour for me to scuttle downstairs to the theater for the James River Shorts, an evening of the best of a juried competition for short form films.

On the way down, I heard about how fabulous my tights were and then stopped next to a security guard to admire the tangoing couples in the atrium below.

I have the tights, possibly even the legs, for the tango, but not the coordination.

Once in the Cheek theater, I found a good seat and settled in to be impressed.

"Anna Walks In" had a girl smoking (unconvincingly, I might add) and telling a strange story from her childhood in front of a clock that never changed time.

The audience laughed throughout "Return to the World of Dance," a parody about instructional dance videos.

This one taught the viewer how to make a post-modern dance with a few simple steps and their easy kit.

Just so you know, creating a manifesto was one of the steps, as was smearing butter on toast in one stroke.

"We will keep you posted on new developments in dance as they occur," the narrator intoned hilariously.

"Nitro" was the tragic story of a small town by that name in West Virginia's chemical valley (something I didn't know they had), which had been founded in 1919 and peaked in the '50s and '60s, with companies like Dow and Monsanto employing most of the town.

Using old footage, the film told the story of an explosion of Agent Orange which coated the town in the toxin, causing health problems ever since.

"Daybreak" was a series of animated drawings telling the story of a character laying in bed observing everything in his room - the cracks in the walls, the radiators, the windows- and the imaginary world he imagined through them.

The story ended with the character getting up to start his day, but the surprise came during the credits.

"This film was made on paper this size," it said, showing paper smaller than a Post-It.

"We're not kidding," the next frame read and showed a storyboard of dozens of little pieces of paper.

Knowing that now, I wanted them to restart the film so I could appreciate it all over again on a whole new level.

"Steak" took place in Richmond in a typical Fan-looking apartment with two guys who were convinced one of their roommates was a murderer.

On the plus side, he was cooking dinner for them.

When it became clear they needed to discuss the matter, one said, "Fort!" and they built one out of blankets in the living room so they could talk in privacy.

I'm inclined to think that only guys would yell "fort" to signify meeting time.

After a brief intermission, we saw the saddest film of the night and the one that took the People's Choice award, "Take Me Home," about a husband with a wife who had dementia.

The patient husband tries to accommodate her wishes but she clearly has no sense of reality, asking to go home whether she was at the nursing home or at home.

At the end, he erases her voice from their answering machine and replaces it with his own. Cue lump in throat.

And the soundtrack by Recluse Raccoon was a haunting accompaniment.

"Dwell Dig Shake" was the longest film by far at 29 minutes and told its black and white story in three parts.

The protagonist, an epileptic, finds an old VHS player in the trash and returns to his childhood home to dig up a time capsule he buried in 1998.

Back at home, he looks at a tape from the capsule made in 1995 showing him as a little boy. His roommate comes in and watches for a bit, commenting about the era.

"I miss the '90s," he whines. "Fatboy Slim and Nintendo 64 were the only good things about the '90s."

As if. A comment like that makes it easy to guess the age of the filmmaker.

The final film was "Puppy Dreams" about a high school girl trying to adjust to living with her Dad, finding out she has mono and that her friend is hot for a boy she once made out with.

The young actress playing the lead had a face you couldn't take your eyes off of and the film was one of three first prize winners tonight, along with "Anna" and "Daybreak."

Leaving the screening, everyone around me was talking about how fortunate we are to have the James River Film Society and events like this shorts competition.

Tell me something I don't know, people.

I made one last unplanned stop on my way home at my neighborhood joint, Bistro 27, for a nightcap.

Like last night, I had Graham's LBV 2008 porto, only this time with chocolate mousse and a Portuguese-speaking graduate student in broadcasting and journalism.

Asking me about my career path through radio, publishing and webcasts, he wondered how I'd gotten into broadcasting and journalism.

Not being particularly post-modern, I explained that I'd done it by going to school for art history.

I'm not kidding. You should see my storyboard.

Sparks on My Heels

The best friends give the best advice.

I started my evening at Bistro 27 after a friend e-mailed requesting that we meet there for a drink.

Over a glass of Vinho Verde with "Love is Blue" playing in the background, he tells me about his love life and looks askance when I update him on mine.

Keep up, darling, or you'll miss something.

I inhale just enough calamari to tide me over until my dinner date, while eavesdropping on a conversation between two gallerists.

UVA's art gallery has a socialist slant, I hear, but it's now being countered by a new professor espousing a more populist view.

How did I get so lucky to hear art geek talk while sipping wine?

All at once I look up and find two good friends out front waving to me, no doubt on their way home from Tarrant's to their flat.

It's a scene we've replayed many times, but I never tire of seeing them slightly buzzed and always happy to spot me a few doors down as they head home.

After discussing my friend's love life (and the romantic card he found in his bag after his beloved left on a business trip to Ireland), he inquires about mine, necessitating an update and resulting in a raised eyebrow.

When I leave 27, it's to make my way to Rappahannock to meet a favorite couple.

Holmes has forgotten his wallet and must return home, but his girlfriend joins me inside where we order a bottle of Villa Wolf Rose, a lovely pink wine made from Pinot Noir while we await his re-arrival.

Nearby, a solo bar-sitter engages us and next thing we know, he's laughing at our jokes and hinting that he wants to know more about me.

Okay, not even hinting, just flat-out complimenting me and trying to glean information about me.

Soon Holmes returns and unexpectedly accommodates him to a surprising degree.

My admirer is a banking lawyer who lives in Windsor Farms, so he seems an unlikely interest for me except he is also a writer and passionate about reading and the arts.

When he goes to the loo, Holmes takes a moment to give me some love life advice and advises more discretion on the blog.

I couldn't be more surprised at his suggestion for how to share my life.

Still, we've been friends for almost a decade and I know he cares about me, so maybe he knows what he's talking about.

Because Holmes and the little lady are new to Rappahannock, I show them the map and explain where the various oysters come from, trying not to influence their choices based on my own preferences.

Nevertheless, they get half a dozen Old Saltes and half a dozen buttery Rappahannocks, in other words, both ends of the spectrum.

I am more inclusive, choosing not only Rappahannocks and Olde Saltes but also Witch Ducks  to deliver all my salinity needs.

The shucker, a mere 16-year old named Grayson, tells me that his Mom works at Merroir.

When I tell him that that is my preferred RRO venue, he makes me promise I will ask for her next time I'm out there.

With Lou Reed playing, Holmes and my newest fan decide we need to switch from Rose to tequila, never a stretch for me.

Herradura silver arrives and I sense a new respect from our bartender.

I follow my bi-valve course with Heritage Oaks Grange pork terrine over a slice of brioche and served with house pickles, walnut oil vinaigrette, greens and a soft quail egg.

It is rich, earthy and the pickled green beans a real treat, so I finish it all before trying Holmes' Hanover tomato gazpacho.

The beauty of the soup is the addition of watermelon (the color alone is to die for) and Virginia deep sea red crab, making for a sipper that is not only flavorful but exquisitely colored.

And the Zombies play on.

My admirer is bemoaning the fact that he loves our company but worries that he may not run into us again and Holmes mollifies him with another round of agave.

I don't complain.

By the time we reach the dessert course, the bar is beginning to clear out, Holmes is telling stories of a long-ago Janis Joplin concert and the lawyer is laughing at everything.

The female contingent orders a chocolate ganache buckwheat crepe cake, a twelve-layer wonder that pairs savory buckwheat with the richest ganache and real whipped cream.

It is my undoing because when my admirer comes around to my stool and asks how he can contact me, I eventually supply an e-mail address.

To keep myself in check going forward, I ask Holmes to reiterate his proposed dating strategy.

I can do this.

By now it is pouring rain so my gallant friend goes ahead to retrieve the car for his main squeeze while we womenfolk wait at the door.

As usual, I've had a stellar time with these friends and, as a bonus, met a new man who has already made his interest clear.

Moving on is turning out to be far easier and more pleasurable than I anticipated.

Especially with a good friend offering insightful advice on it all.

Perhaps those who know me best know what's best for me.