I'm just checking in. I see you're enjoying Chicago full on. Let me know when you're back, would love to hear more about your adventures in person. Do we need to make a porch date? ~ Pru
Um, yes.
Far be it for me to turn down an invitation to spend time blathering on the porch of Pru's manse. After a day spent trying to get back in the Richmond groove - laundry, setting up interviews, doing a rewrite, mopping floors - I was more than happy to brave the rain for an evening with friends.
Ever the hostess with the mostess, Pru soon had Beau pouring us glasses of J. Mourat Rose to accompany a dinner scored at the new Church Hill location of 8 1/2: arugula salad, white pizza and red pizza with sausage and mushrooms, savored on the porch while a light rain fell all around us.
Group consensus: 8 1/2's pizza tops Dinamo's, not that any of us would turn down Dinamo's pie.
And sure, we began the evening with a discussion of what I'd seen, done and eaten in Chicago, including my fondness for the Carbide & Carbon Building because its design resembles that of a champagne bottle, complete with dark green terra cotta tower and gold leaf accents to mimic the foil around the cork, but eventually moved on.
When Pru put me in charge of music, I asked if she had any restrictions on my choice. None, she claimed, at least until I told Alexa to play the Carpenters (a favorite of both Beau and I) and she groaned loudly. Looking for something completely different, I asked Alexa for Bon Jovi and she looked at me like I'd lost my mind. That's when Queen B stepped in and suggested Barbra Streisand and everyone finally seemed okay with the music.
Don't tell me not to live
Just sit and putter
Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter
Don't bring around a cloud
To rain on my parade
Once the music was settled, the three womenfolk united to do an intervention on Beau who has an unfortunate habit of looking at his cell phone while lively conversation is taking place around him. And lively conversation with a guest present, at that.
While he swears he can multi-task, after the second time he started asking questions that had been covered in a conversation only moments earlier, we saw no option but to insist he step away from the phone. He couldn't, of course, but settled for cradling it in his lap and periodically making longing glances in its direction. Once an addict, always an addict.
Relationships turned out to be a hot topic, little surprise given how fascinated everyone is with the turn of my love life, but for a change, the focus was on Pru and Beau. That two people could meet in college, go their separate ways in terms of marriage and children, and somehow find their way back to each other 30 years later is nothing short of extraordinary.
That when they first began dating, Pru - in her usual straight forward manner - had told Beau that he was good raw material and just needed some guidance is proof positive that you can say anything if it's to the right person.
Beau, who decided last night to name his as yet unwritten autobiography "From Under the Swoop," a tribute to his magnificent mane of hair and its come-hither swoop in the front, admitted that he'd never stopped thinking about Pru in the intervening three decades. Now that's romance.
It was going on 11 p.m. and I'd been there for over four hours when I began my exit strategy. Not so fast, Pru insisted, you were invited over to share some juice, so sit back down and start spilling.
Hadn't I raved about our meals at the Purple Pig and Marisol? Did she want me to tell her about my other favorite buildings?
"You're not gushing as much as last time," Pru worried. "What's up?"
I'm just trying to contain my over-the-top happiness and not subject everyone I see to it, I explained. You want me to gush, I'll sit back down and gush. Happily.
Speaking of, just after Beau had observed that the Rose was having far more of an effect on me than it was on him, he'd had an epiphany. "Oh, wait," he insisted. "You've got Rose on top of euphoria, don't you?"
Sure do. And I'm hoping to live out the rest of my life that way. My parade is too fabulous to be affected by rain...or anything else.
Sorry, I just can't help myself.
Showing posts with label 8 1/2. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 8 1/2. Show all posts
Thursday, May 31, 2018
Tuesday, October 24, 2017
I'd Rather Have Flowers
It's a cryin' shame when the day begins with trying to explain the sorry state of your country to a couple of Canucks.
Mac and I were headed down Second Street to Belle Isle when we saw that our assistance was needed: a couple standing on the corner holding a map. We crossed at the corner to offer our services, only to meet a charming couple from Vancouver trying to find Tredegar.
Come with us, we told them, with Mac taking the husband and me in charge of the wife. They'd been vacationing in Washington - where they'd visited the Senate and heard Bernie Sanders and Marc Rubio speaking and which they'd thought a beautiful city - and had been told to make a detour to Richmond and here they were.
It didn't take long for her to address the elephant in the non-existent room, namely our narcissist-in-chief, and how in the world had he been elected. "Who voted for him?" she mused. "We haven't talked to a single person who did!"
I reminded her that he hadn't won the popular vote and that what votes he had gotten tended to come from the heartland, not the coasts. "He's reckless," she said, stating the obvious. "We're all afraid of his foreign policy!" Join the club, ma'am.
Trying to change the subject, I asked how, of all Richmond's attractions, they'd decided to visit Tredegar. She said the hotel had told them that it was the center of the slave trade. I explained that that wasn't true. When she asked where we were headed, I said Belle Isle. "They told us Belle Isle was sketchy and to avoid it," she said, confused.
Where are you staying, I wanted to know. The Graduate, it turns out. What the hell is wrong with the staff at the Graduate that they'd be passing out so much misinformation?
When we parted ways, it was with sincere best wishes for a fabulous (and truthful) stay in Richmond for them as we made our way across the pedestrian bridge to sit on rocks and put our our feet in the (bracing, but not cold) river before that becomes impossible.
After last night's rain, today wasn't quite as warm as it's been, but the air felt scrubbed clean and it seemed like a fine evening for a picnic, so I stopped at 8 1/2 for a hero - passing a sign board that read, "Autumn is a second spring with every leaf a flower" and resenting its positive take on impending cold weather - and took it to a bench at Scuffletown Park to enjoy.
There, with my mouth full of one of the best rolls in Richmond, I chatted with a succession of friends who sat down on the bench with me for a visit.
The activist told me about being on a Greenpeace boat (a boat that used to be used for hunting seals) with scores of ruggedly handsome activists. The silent music master told me about his upcoming Halloween show and how he didn't want it to be quite as disturbing as last year's.
And the star of the evening, the puppet master, thanked me for the article I'd done about her upcoming Halloween parade and hugged me for making sense of our long-winded conversation.
By that time, a good-sized crowd had formed and with the ringing of a cowbell, the show began under dusky skies. Not long into it, the event's organizer for the past five years made the seat next to me his own.
The over-sized puppet show was downright magical, full of fascinating creatures like a fire rooster and a chicken god (aka the phoenix), along with animals - an owl, donkey, raccoon - against racist humans, set to the sounds of an accordion and drums, one played by a fox and the other by puppet master Lilly.
There was a coterie of beautifully colored butterflies who danced, the Bones of Resistance, a group elatedly celebrating that the Confederacy is dead and a group of black-clad women leading a line of song as they moved through the crowd and added onlookers to their ranks.
By then, the sun was down and another performance in the park nothing but a memory.
The evening was closed out with a reminder that the final show will be in two weeks and will feature reprise performances by some of this season's musicians. "But you're not allowed to come if you didn't vote that day!" Patrick said, to great applause. "Party at my house afterwards!"
If for no other reason, do it so the tourists will have fewer reasons to pity us.
From there, I took my car home and walked over to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque for some nice Danish modern.
The film professor introducing "Teddy Bear" explained that the director intended the 2012 film as comedic in a gallows humor kind of way (a concept he had to explain to the students), although, he pointed out, it's tough to pull off comedy in a story about Thailand's sex tourism industry.
He was also adamant that there's nothing funny about an adult child being bullied by a parent, as if it was a subject he knew well.
Meanwhile, all around me, film students looked at their phones or talked to their friends while he explained Freudian theories. If there's one thing I can always count on at these Cinematheque screenings, it's being reminded that youth is wasted on the young.
Just after the lights went down, a French guy I know unexpectedly dropped into the seat next to me, forcing me to share the arm rest. His saving grace was that he didn't titter at any scene related to sex like the 19 year olds around us did throughout.
The film's story could only be described as sweet: 38-year old Danish bodybuilder find love, or, more specifically, has no personal life and lives with his domineering mother. When his uncle returns from Thailand with a beautiful Thai bride, our boy decides to try the same, only he has to lie to Mom about where's going because she's so controlling. While he can't get interested in prostitutes, he meets a widow who runs a gym and finally feels something for the first time. Naturally, Mom wants him to forget her.
During the scene where he tells her about the woman he's fallen for, she asks, "When is she leaving?" and her emboldened son says, "She's not. I'm moving out." Immediately, the students began snapping their fingers loudly to show their approval of this massive 308 pound man finally standing up to his tiny, overbearing mother.
Once the post-film discussion began, the Frenchman looked at me and shook his head. "They don't get it," he said and he was right. They were confused about why he didn't want to have sex with prostitutes, why it was important to him to talk to women to make a connection and why he felt any obligation to his aging Mom when she was so controlling.
Sigh. And these are the future filmmakers of tomorrow? Heaven help us.
But first, heaven help us with this shambles of a government. It's so bad that innocent Canucks are worried they're witnessing the end of the democratic experiment.
That's bad.
Mac and I were headed down Second Street to Belle Isle when we saw that our assistance was needed: a couple standing on the corner holding a map. We crossed at the corner to offer our services, only to meet a charming couple from Vancouver trying to find Tredegar.
Come with us, we told them, with Mac taking the husband and me in charge of the wife. They'd been vacationing in Washington - where they'd visited the Senate and heard Bernie Sanders and Marc Rubio speaking and which they'd thought a beautiful city - and had been told to make a detour to Richmond and here they were.
It didn't take long for her to address the elephant in the non-existent room, namely our narcissist-in-chief, and how in the world had he been elected. "Who voted for him?" she mused. "We haven't talked to a single person who did!"
I reminded her that he hadn't won the popular vote and that what votes he had gotten tended to come from the heartland, not the coasts. "He's reckless," she said, stating the obvious. "We're all afraid of his foreign policy!" Join the club, ma'am.
Trying to change the subject, I asked how, of all Richmond's attractions, they'd decided to visit Tredegar. She said the hotel had told them that it was the center of the slave trade. I explained that that wasn't true. When she asked where we were headed, I said Belle Isle. "They told us Belle Isle was sketchy and to avoid it," she said, confused.
Where are you staying, I wanted to know. The Graduate, it turns out. What the hell is wrong with the staff at the Graduate that they'd be passing out so much misinformation?
When we parted ways, it was with sincere best wishes for a fabulous (and truthful) stay in Richmond for them as we made our way across the pedestrian bridge to sit on rocks and put our our feet in the (bracing, but not cold) river before that becomes impossible.
After last night's rain, today wasn't quite as warm as it's been, but the air felt scrubbed clean and it seemed like a fine evening for a picnic, so I stopped at 8 1/2 for a hero - passing a sign board that read, "Autumn is a second spring with every leaf a flower" and resenting its positive take on impending cold weather - and took it to a bench at Scuffletown Park to enjoy.
There, with my mouth full of one of the best rolls in Richmond, I chatted with a succession of friends who sat down on the bench with me for a visit.
The activist told me about being on a Greenpeace boat (a boat that used to be used for hunting seals) with scores of ruggedly handsome activists. The silent music master told me about his upcoming Halloween show and how he didn't want it to be quite as disturbing as last year's.
And the star of the evening, the puppet master, thanked me for the article I'd done about her upcoming Halloween parade and hugged me for making sense of our long-winded conversation.
By that time, a good-sized crowd had formed and with the ringing of a cowbell, the show began under dusky skies. Not long into it, the event's organizer for the past five years made the seat next to me his own.
The over-sized puppet show was downright magical, full of fascinating creatures like a fire rooster and a chicken god (aka the phoenix), along with animals - an owl, donkey, raccoon - against racist humans, set to the sounds of an accordion and drums, one played by a fox and the other by puppet master Lilly.
There was a coterie of beautifully colored butterflies who danced, the Bones of Resistance, a group elatedly celebrating that the Confederacy is dead and a group of black-clad women leading a line of song as they moved through the crowd and added onlookers to their ranks.
By then, the sun was down and another performance in the park nothing but a memory.
The evening was closed out with a reminder that the final show will be in two weeks and will feature reprise performances by some of this season's musicians. "But you're not allowed to come if you didn't vote that day!" Patrick said, to great applause. "Party at my house afterwards!"
If for no other reason, do it so the tourists will have fewer reasons to pity us.
From there, I took my car home and walked over to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque for some nice Danish modern.
The film professor introducing "Teddy Bear" explained that the director intended the 2012 film as comedic in a gallows humor kind of way (a concept he had to explain to the students), although, he pointed out, it's tough to pull off comedy in a story about Thailand's sex tourism industry.
He was also adamant that there's nothing funny about an adult child being bullied by a parent, as if it was a subject he knew well.
Meanwhile, all around me, film students looked at their phones or talked to their friends while he explained Freudian theories. If there's one thing I can always count on at these Cinematheque screenings, it's being reminded that youth is wasted on the young.
Just after the lights went down, a French guy I know unexpectedly dropped into the seat next to me, forcing me to share the arm rest. His saving grace was that he didn't titter at any scene related to sex like the 19 year olds around us did throughout.
The film's story could only be described as sweet: 38-year old Danish bodybuilder find love, or, more specifically, has no personal life and lives with his domineering mother. When his uncle returns from Thailand with a beautiful Thai bride, our boy decides to try the same, only he has to lie to Mom about where's going because she's so controlling. While he can't get interested in prostitutes, he meets a widow who runs a gym and finally feels something for the first time. Naturally, Mom wants him to forget her.
During the scene where he tells her about the woman he's fallen for, she asks, "When is she leaving?" and her emboldened son says, "She's not. I'm moving out." Immediately, the students began snapping their fingers loudly to show their approval of this massive 308 pound man finally standing up to his tiny, overbearing mother.
Once the post-film discussion began, the Frenchman looked at me and shook his head. "They don't get it," he said and he was right. They were confused about why he didn't want to have sex with prostitutes, why it was important to him to talk to women to make a connection and why he felt any obligation to his aging Mom when she was so controlling.
Sigh. And these are the future filmmakers of tomorrow? Heaven help us.
But first, heaven help us with this shambles of a government. It's so bad that innocent Canucks are worried they're witnessing the end of the democratic experiment.
That's bad.
Wednesday, September 6, 2017
Summer People
It's like the dome of post-summer/autumn/back to school responsibility has been lowered over the city.
At 8 1/2, we walked into an empty restaurant, where just a few weeks ago, there would have been an eager crowd looking to score takeout before heading to the park for music. We ordered our hoagies, sat down at one of the empty tables and waited for my date's name to be called.
I'm not going to lie, it was a little bit eerie being in 8 1/2 on a beautiful Tuesday evening an hour before sunset and not encountering a mob scene. The oddness continued in the nearby park where exactly three people sat: a couple eating at a table and a woman on a bench alternating between a book and her phone.
Where were all the usual suspects?
My guess was that they all were laboring under the misconception that the live music ended at the same moment when white shoes and clothing became verboten: Labor Day. Because no one mentioned anything about the music stopping come September.
You know what they say about presuming.
We ate our hoagies, Italian and turkey, accompanied by Cherrier "Les Chailloux" Sancerre Rose on a bench, while singer/banjo/guitar player Kia Cavallaro got set up, a little girl in a smocked dress did interpretive dance and the wind picked up, causing the massive wind chimes on the power pole to commence ringing
For that matter, we bantered about how soul satisfying the sub rolls we were eating were. Neither of us could imagine being friends with anyone who didn't worship at the altar of these rolls.
When the flies arrived en massse (another stark difference to previous nights in the park), I saved the day by wiping mayonnaise dribbles from my sub with a wad of paper napkins and laying said wad on the ground for them to feast on.
In moments, the white napkins were covered in dozens of flies. Gross, certainly; effective, absolutely.
Once replete, the whole mess went in the Supercans and suddenly nary a fly had any interest in us or our Rose. Even so, we switched benches once the book/phone reader vacated hers, mainly for the better view it afforded.
Because tonight's crowd was small and because so many of them were tardy, the show kicked off late and only after organizer Patrick reminded everyone yet again the formula for when the show begins. If you can use your device for good - to research when the sun goes down - and count back 15 minutes, you can figure it out pretty easily.
We looked up from our fruit course of grapes and clementines to see friends with whom we'd been at the beach in July, so of course they spread their blanket next to our bench shortly before the set began.
Hearing a fretless banjo accompanying Kia's distinctive little girl voice would have been pleasure enough, but several of her songs were in French and I'm an absolute sucker for lyrics I can't understand.
Coupled with air that registered as Goldilocks just right (not too hot, not too cold) and a soft breeze, it was a glorious night for live music in a park. The thing is, there are weeks of outdoor music coming for those who haven't given up on life simply because Labor Day has come and gone.
That said, it was going on dark and a huge yellow moon was making its way up in the sky when we returned to the car after the show ended at 8:15. Shoot, it wasn't that long ago that the shows were starting at 8:15.
Every Summer has its own story and with mine still unfolding, I could put off Fall indefinitely. That, or accept that Summer is a state of mind.
But live under the dome of post-summer/autumn/back to school responsibility? Never.
At 8 1/2, we walked into an empty restaurant, where just a few weeks ago, there would have been an eager crowd looking to score takeout before heading to the park for music. We ordered our hoagies, sat down at one of the empty tables and waited for my date's name to be called.
I'm not going to lie, it was a little bit eerie being in 8 1/2 on a beautiful Tuesday evening an hour before sunset and not encountering a mob scene. The oddness continued in the nearby park where exactly three people sat: a couple eating at a table and a woman on a bench alternating between a book and her phone.
Where were all the usual suspects?
My guess was that they all were laboring under the misconception that the live music ended at the same moment when white shoes and clothing became verboten: Labor Day. Because no one mentioned anything about the music stopping come September.
You know what they say about presuming.
We ate our hoagies, Italian and turkey, accompanied by Cherrier "Les Chailloux" Sancerre Rose on a bench, while singer/banjo/guitar player Kia Cavallaro got set up, a little girl in a smocked dress did interpretive dance and the wind picked up, causing the massive wind chimes on the power pole to commence ringing
For that matter, we bantered about how soul satisfying the sub rolls we were eating were. Neither of us could imagine being friends with anyone who didn't worship at the altar of these rolls.
When the flies arrived en massse (another stark difference to previous nights in the park), I saved the day by wiping mayonnaise dribbles from my sub with a wad of paper napkins and laying said wad on the ground for them to feast on.
In moments, the white napkins were covered in dozens of flies. Gross, certainly; effective, absolutely.
Once replete, the whole mess went in the Supercans and suddenly nary a fly had any interest in us or our Rose. Even so, we switched benches once the book/phone reader vacated hers, mainly for the better view it afforded.
Because tonight's crowd was small and because so many of them were tardy, the show kicked off late and only after organizer Patrick reminded everyone yet again the formula for when the show begins. If you can use your device for good - to research when the sun goes down - and count back 15 minutes, you can figure it out pretty easily.
We looked up from our fruit course of grapes and clementines to see friends with whom we'd been at the beach in July, so of course they spread their blanket next to our bench shortly before the set began.
Hearing a fretless banjo accompanying Kia's distinctive little girl voice would have been pleasure enough, but several of her songs were in French and I'm an absolute sucker for lyrics I can't understand.
Coupled with air that registered as Goldilocks just right (not too hot, not too cold) and a soft breeze, it was a glorious night for live music in a park. The thing is, there are weeks of outdoor music coming for those who haven't given up on life simply because Labor Day has come and gone.
That said, it was going on dark and a huge yellow moon was making its way up in the sky when we returned to the car after the show ended at 8:15. Shoot, it wasn't that long ago that the shows were starting at 8:15.
Every Summer has its own story and with mine still unfolding, I could put off Fall indefinitely. That, or accept that Summer is a state of mind.
But live under the dome of post-summer/autumn/back to school responsibility? Never.
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
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.
+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.
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Tapping a Vein
Seven days (or more) without live music makes one weak. Or maybe that's just me.
My plan was to correct that tonight with a picnic, a companion and an unseasonably temperate evening. That the music was served up al fresco made it all the better.
With a bottle of wine already stashed in my bag, we began at 8 1/2 to score heroes and chocolate/orange cookies. Waiting for our sandwiches to be made, we perused the DVD collection on the shelf, a motley assortment that ranged from "Castaway" to "Nirvana Unplugged in New York."
The park was only lightly populated when we got there to find "Please Stay off the Grass" signs on every plot of grass, so we made do with a wooden bench with a distinctive sag to its center, as if very heavy people had taken turns positioning themselves at the midpoint until the wood just took on a deep curve. It was kind of like an old mattress with a dip in the center that makes the people in it roll into each other all night long.
You know what I'm talking about.
Eating our Italian heroes while people watching - one adorable couple showed up with the game Scattegories, spread a blanket and immediately began playing to win (she didn't believe french fries was two words and made him Google it to check) with a friendly vengeance.
Our enthusiasm was reserved for the killer sandwiches we were eating. I swear you could put shoe leather on a roll that chewy and satisfying and it would taste good.
The crowd continued to grow while we ate and chatted from our bench perch and included a fair number of dogs, toddlers and tattoos.
We watched in amazement as a couple scored a bench and then decided to spread a blanket on the bricks and sit on the ground instead. I know, I know, it's not a real picnic for some people unless they're sitting cross-legged. Not us.
The park had filled up nicely by the time Majjin Boo was introduced and the quartet- acoustic and electric guitars, bass, male and female vocalists - began seducing the crowd with their pastiche of math rock, emo and experimental ("If they had a drummer, they'd be prog rock," my companion noted) as the sun inched toward sunset.
Despite the au naturel setting, the band was using battery-powered amps, so the music was amplified a bit more than a lot of the shows I've seen in the park. At one point, they mentioned an upcoming show at Gallery 5 and referenced their drummer, who just happened to be walking into the park at that second and waved as he went by.
After a beach week sadly devoid of live music, hearing Majjin Boo's songs with their quirky time signatures, intricate guitar interplay and two voices harmonizing acted like a tonic on my live music-deprived soul. I could sense the musician next to me enjoying the band on a far different level than I was capable of, but everyone looked happy with music playing on a cool June evening.
The woman singer did a solo turn, singing Florence and the Machine's "Dog Days are Over" not as the powerhouse anthem that band does, but as a sweetly wistful song about finding happiness, probably on a night like tonight.
As twilight set in, fireflies appeared and some of the younger children tried catching them in their cupped hands but to no avail. That's one ritual of childhood that cannot be replaced with an app or device. Or if it can be, please don't tell me about it.
All I know from sitting in the park with a fellow music lover as dusk gathered is how badly I'd been craving live music and how much like an emergency IV tonight's show felt in addressing my shortage.
When the woman doing the introductions mentioned that the music series is already five years old, I marveled at the thought since I've been attending practically since the start. Not every week, but consistently over the years. Regularly because it's an easy default on a weeknight and never disappoints.
Um, music in the park? Yes, please.
It's one way of making sure my soul doesn't fall into another music deficit. Didn't some wise woman once write that I'm only as strong as the last show I saw?
Well, if she didn't, she has now.
My plan was to correct that tonight with a picnic, a companion and an unseasonably temperate evening. That the music was served up al fresco made it all the better.
With a bottle of wine already stashed in my bag, we began at 8 1/2 to score heroes and chocolate/orange cookies. Waiting for our sandwiches to be made, we perused the DVD collection on the shelf, a motley assortment that ranged from "Castaway" to "Nirvana Unplugged in New York."
The park was only lightly populated when we got there to find "Please Stay off the Grass" signs on every plot of grass, so we made do with a wooden bench with a distinctive sag to its center, as if very heavy people had taken turns positioning themselves at the midpoint until the wood just took on a deep curve. It was kind of like an old mattress with a dip in the center that makes the people in it roll into each other all night long.
You know what I'm talking about.
Eating our Italian heroes while people watching - one adorable couple showed up with the game Scattegories, spread a blanket and immediately began playing to win (she didn't believe french fries was two words and made him Google it to check) with a friendly vengeance.
Our enthusiasm was reserved for the killer sandwiches we were eating. I swear you could put shoe leather on a roll that chewy and satisfying and it would taste good.
The crowd continued to grow while we ate and chatted from our bench perch and included a fair number of dogs, toddlers and tattoos.
We watched in amazement as a couple scored a bench and then decided to spread a blanket on the bricks and sit on the ground instead. I know, I know, it's not a real picnic for some people unless they're sitting cross-legged. Not us.
The park had filled up nicely by the time Majjin Boo was introduced and the quartet- acoustic and electric guitars, bass, male and female vocalists - began seducing the crowd with their pastiche of math rock, emo and experimental ("If they had a drummer, they'd be prog rock," my companion noted) as the sun inched toward sunset.
Despite the au naturel setting, the band was using battery-powered amps, so the music was amplified a bit more than a lot of the shows I've seen in the park. At one point, they mentioned an upcoming show at Gallery 5 and referenced their drummer, who just happened to be walking into the park at that second and waved as he went by.
After a beach week sadly devoid of live music, hearing Majjin Boo's songs with their quirky time signatures, intricate guitar interplay and two voices harmonizing acted like a tonic on my live music-deprived soul. I could sense the musician next to me enjoying the band on a far different level than I was capable of, but everyone looked happy with music playing on a cool June evening.
The woman singer did a solo turn, singing Florence and the Machine's "Dog Days are Over" not as the powerhouse anthem that band does, but as a sweetly wistful song about finding happiness, probably on a night like tonight.
As twilight set in, fireflies appeared and some of the younger children tried catching them in their cupped hands but to no avail. That's one ritual of childhood that cannot be replaced with an app or device. Or if it can be, please don't tell me about it.
All I know from sitting in the park with a fellow music lover as dusk gathered is how badly I'd been craving live music and how much like an emergency IV tonight's show felt in addressing my shortage.
When the woman doing the introductions mentioned that the music series is already five years old, I marveled at the thought since I've been attending practically since the start. Not every week, but consistently over the years. Regularly because it's an easy default on a weeknight and never disappoints.
Um, music in the park? Yes, please.
It's one way of making sure my soul doesn't fall into another music deficit. Didn't some wise woman once write that I'm only as strong as the last show I saw?
Well, if she didn't, she has now.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Speak Low
Do not lump me in with the vastness.
According to actress Helen Mirren, "The vast American public will not accept films with subtitles." That's why she was told to use accented English to play a French character in "The Hundred-Foot Journey," despite being fluent in French.
Today's article in the Washington Post about subtitles pointed out how the US gets stereotyped as a country that refuses to read dialogue, so fewer foreign language films arrive on our shores.
You know what they say: if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem.
Not me. After a stop at 8 1/2 for white pizza (as a friend who moved to food-centric Portland told me, not a single pizza there comes anywhere close to pie from 8 1/2) and watching the parade of to-go orders (including a restaurateur's wife) being claimed in rapid succession, I headed directly to the nearest foreign film for reading time.
The Criterion was showing "Phoenix," a German film about Nelly, a Jewish singer and concentration camp survivor, who was left for dead with a bullet to the face not long before the camps were liberated.
After reconstructive surgery and the rebuilding of Germany begins, she sets out to find her beloved husband, despite a friend warning her that he was the one who betrayed her to the Nazis.
What besotted woman wants to believe that?
The movie was a slow burner, unfolding a suspenseful - almost Hitchcock-like- story after Nelly (unrecognizable after surgery) locates her husband, who hatches a plan to pass this woman off as his wife and claim her inheritance, a scheme she goes along with in hopes of discovering that he still loves her.
Atmosphere, melancholy and an enormous sense of loss permeated the beautifully shot film that just about destroyed the small audience with its achingly unexpected ending.
No one does sad quite like the Germans.
And you know what? That film wouldn't have packed the same wallop in English. We needed to read subtitles while hearing German spoken for the full effect. I have to say, it was my first time hearing Cole Porter sung in German, but it felt right.
I just don't get it. What's the hang up about reading while you watch a movie? Am I wrong in thinking it's only non-readers who avoid subtitled films?
You could say that it's just the devoted reader in me, but it's also that distinctively un-American take on storytelling that we get from foreign films.
I can still remember how moved I was when I first saw the poignant "Life is Beautiful." By the time it came to the Byrd if had been dubbed in English. It wasn't the same film.
Okay, maybe I do just love to read. You know what won the Internet for me today? A meme of a pink dress-clad housewife vacuuming the floor with the caption, "Anyone who has time to clean is not reading nearly enough."
Amen, sister.
If you ask me, the vast American public who avoids subtitled films is missing out on some pretty amazing movies, not to mention things like the entire French Film Festival. Of course, they may also have cleaner houses than I do.
I can live with that.
According to actress Helen Mirren, "The vast American public will not accept films with subtitles." That's why she was told to use accented English to play a French character in "The Hundred-Foot Journey," despite being fluent in French.
Today's article in the Washington Post about subtitles pointed out how the US gets stereotyped as a country that refuses to read dialogue, so fewer foreign language films arrive on our shores.
You know what they say: if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem.
Not me. After a stop at 8 1/2 for white pizza (as a friend who moved to food-centric Portland told me, not a single pizza there comes anywhere close to pie from 8 1/2) and watching the parade of to-go orders (including a restaurateur's wife) being claimed in rapid succession, I headed directly to the nearest foreign film for reading time.
The Criterion was showing "Phoenix," a German film about Nelly, a Jewish singer and concentration camp survivor, who was left for dead with a bullet to the face not long before the camps were liberated.
After reconstructive surgery and the rebuilding of Germany begins, she sets out to find her beloved husband, despite a friend warning her that he was the one who betrayed her to the Nazis.
What besotted woman wants to believe that?
The movie was a slow burner, unfolding a suspenseful - almost Hitchcock-like- story after Nelly (unrecognizable after surgery) locates her husband, who hatches a plan to pass this woman off as his wife and claim her inheritance, a scheme she goes along with in hopes of discovering that he still loves her.
Atmosphere, melancholy and an enormous sense of loss permeated the beautifully shot film that just about destroyed the small audience with its achingly unexpected ending.
No one does sad quite like the Germans.
And you know what? That film wouldn't have packed the same wallop in English. We needed to read subtitles while hearing German spoken for the full effect. I have to say, it was my first time hearing Cole Porter sung in German, but it felt right.
I just don't get it. What's the hang up about reading while you watch a movie? Am I wrong in thinking it's only non-readers who avoid subtitled films?
You could say that it's just the devoted reader in me, but it's also that distinctively un-American take on storytelling that we get from foreign films.
I can still remember how moved I was when I first saw the poignant "Life is Beautiful." By the time it came to the Byrd if had been dubbed in English. It wasn't the same film.
Okay, maybe I do just love to read. You know what won the Internet for me today? A meme of a pink dress-clad housewife vacuuming the floor with the caption, "Anyone who has time to clean is not reading nearly enough."
Amen, sister.
If you ask me, the vast American public who avoids subtitled films is missing out on some pretty amazing movies, not to mention things like the entire French Film Festival. Of course, they may also have cleaner houses than I do.
I can live with that.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Thus Do All Women
This post is going to make a good friend very happy and more than a little amazed. But I'll get to that shortly.
As much as I wanted to make the Three Stooges Festival at Movieland this morning, I didn't wake up until 11:20 (it started at 11), so that wasn't happening.
Good thing the friend I'd invited to join me had told me at 1:56 last night that he couldn't go ("I'm not the Stoogey type"), so I didn't have to feel guilty about standing him up.
Out on my walk, one of my VCU regulars saw me, looked at his watch (12:35) and noted, "A little late for you today, isn't it?"
Good thing he's not keeping track.
"Late night," I explained.
"Ohhhh, out partying were we?" Or you could just call it a Saturday night, friend.
Besides, I had no time to discuss my schedule because I had to be back in time to get cleaned up and to Center Stage for Virginia Opera's production of Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutte (and, no, we don't all do thus, Wolfie).
I had the pleasure of sitting next to a former Virginia first lady and president of Virginia Opera's Central Virginia Board of Governors.
We compared notes on the acoustic improvements at the Carpenter Theater and she filled me in on the upcoming renovations at the Landmark Theater.
It was a beautiful production, the young actors strong of voice and with loads of charisma and the story of women having their fidelity tested by their men naturally full of saucy dialogue and disguised identities.
A reference to "making love like ferrets" got a big laugh as did a scene where the "doctor" pulled out a giant pair of scissors to treat the males laying on the floor, pretending to be poisoned.
She snapped the scissors open and closed and their legs snapped shut a split second later.
During intermission, I discovered that James, he of the nerdy pastimes that so closely mirror mine, was sitting directly behind me.
He'd been running late and didn't have time to change clothes, so when buying a ticket at the last minute he'd been offered a student discount based solely on his appearance.
Nice trick if you can pull it off.
My seatmate had gone off to see about raising the theater's temperature during the break; both of us had about frozen during the first act (I used my coat as a blanket).
Not surprisingly, she'd succeeded in having the temperature raised five degrees so the second act was a much more temperate one.
It pays to know people...and sit by people who know people.
The charm of Cosi Fan Tutte is the dated and yet timeless look at the roles of the sexes.
When the women are trying to decide whether or not to betray their men with the impostors, the more convinced one pleads, "A woman's chance for happiness is so rare, we must grab it where we can."
Luckily, it's not quite so rare these days, if sometimes more delayed than some of us would like.
But James cracked me up after the finale, leaning down to say, "See you at the next misogynist opera here."
You can count on it, James.
Here's the problem with an opera matinee, though.
You arrive in sunny mid-afternoon and by the time the three-hour-plus production has come to a satisfactory conclusion, it's nighttime.
It was dark, I was cold and my stomach was growling.
So I drove to 8 1/2 for a white pizza with onions, waited for half an hour for it, brought it home and poured a glass of Domaine Bila-Haut Cotes du Roussillon Viallges 2008, a tannic blend of Grenache, Syrah and Craignane perfect for thickening my blood.
It was 7:00.
I had writing assignments due, laundry to fold, e-mails to answer and the Sunday Washington Post to read, so I did not go out tonight.
So to you, Andrew, I dedicate this evening.
You said you were waiting for the day when I just stayed in and, at long last, it has arrived.
And now the necessaries are finished, so I will spend the rest of the evening with the Post, repeated listenings of some new Violens music and perhaps more of that lovely Bila-Haut.
But just so you know Andrew, it's all in your honor.
Thus do all women...when they feel like it.
As much as I wanted to make the Three Stooges Festival at Movieland this morning, I didn't wake up until 11:20 (it started at 11), so that wasn't happening.
Good thing the friend I'd invited to join me had told me at 1:56 last night that he couldn't go ("I'm not the Stoogey type"), so I didn't have to feel guilty about standing him up.
Out on my walk, one of my VCU regulars saw me, looked at his watch (12:35) and noted, "A little late for you today, isn't it?"
Good thing he's not keeping track.
"Late night," I explained.
"Ohhhh, out partying were we?" Or you could just call it a Saturday night, friend.
Besides, I had no time to discuss my schedule because I had to be back in time to get cleaned up and to Center Stage for Virginia Opera's production of Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutte (and, no, we don't all do thus, Wolfie).
I had the pleasure of sitting next to a former Virginia first lady and president of Virginia Opera's Central Virginia Board of Governors.
We compared notes on the acoustic improvements at the Carpenter Theater and she filled me in on the upcoming renovations at the Landmark Theater.
It was a beautiful production, the young actors strong of voice and with loads of charisma and the story of women having their fidelity tested by their men naturally full of saucy dialogue and disguised identities.
A reference to "making love like ferrets" got a big laugh as did a scene where the "doctor" pulled out a giant pair of scissors to treat the males laying on the floor, pretending to be poisoned.
She snapped the scissors open and closed and their legs snapped shut a split second later.
During intermission, I discovered that James, he of the nerdy pastimes that so closely mirror mine, was sitting directly behind me.
He'd been running late and didn't have time to change clothes, so when buying a ticket at the last minute he'd been offered a student discount based solely on his appearance.
Nice trick if you can pull it off.
My seatmate had gone off to see about raising the theater's temperature during the break; both of us had about frozen during the first act (I used my coat as a blanket).
Not surprisingly, she'd succeeded in having the temperature raised five degrees so the second act was a much more temperate one.
It pays to know people...and sit by people who know people.
The charm of Cosi Fan Tutte is the dated and yet timeless look at the roles of the sexes.
When the women are trying to decide whether or not to betray their men with the impostors, the more convinced one pleads, "A woman's chance for happiness is so rare, we must grab it where we can."
Luckily, it's not quite so rare these days, if sometimes more delayed than some of us would like.
But James cracked me up after the finale, leaning down to say, "See you at the next misogynist opera here."
You can count on it, James.
Here's the problem with an opera matinee, though.
You arrive in sunny mid-afternoon and by the time the three-hour-plus production has come to a satisfactory conclusion, it's nighttime.
It was dark, I was cold and my stomach was growling.
So I drove to 8 1/2 for a white pizza with onions, waited for half an hour for it, brought it home and poured a glass of Domaine Bila-Haut Cotes du Roussillon Viallges 2008, a tannic blend of Grenache, Syrah and Craignane perfect for thickening my blood.
It was 7:00.
I had writing assignments due, laundry to fold, e-mails to answer and the Sunday Washington Post to read, so I did not go out tonight.
So to you, Andrew, I dedicate this evening.
You said you were waiting for the day when I just stayed in and, at long last, it has arrived.
And now the necessaries are finished, so I will spend the rest of the evening with the Post, repeated listenings of some new Violens music and perhaps more of that lovely Bila-Haut.
But just so you know Andrew, it's all in your honor.
Thus do all women...when they feel like it.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Picnicking 2 with Shakespeare
Do you not know I am a woman? When I think I must speak.
How fortunate is Richmond that local actor Joe Carlson decided to stage Shakespeare in Battery Park? The free five-night run of As You Like It has been on my calendar since I first heard him talking about it at Lift Coffee back in May. We followed his advice to the letter: "So unfurl those blankets, break out the lawn chairs and stuff your picnic baskets for an evening of theater in historic Battery Park."
We let 8 1/2 stuff our picnic basket with an Italian hero, an arugula, fresh mozzarella and proscuitto sub, potato wedges, house salads and sfagliatelles. Then we headed to northside for my first visit to Battery Park, a fact of which I am now ashamed. What a lovely spot! The stone walls and terraced hills are a far cry from my neighborhood's Abner Clay Park. Yes, I understand its issues drainage-wise, but but on a clear, dry night like tonight, it was truly an oasis.
I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.
Down a long flight of stone steps and nestled into a corner of the park, the improvised stage area was up against a curtain of trees. Later, when the stage lights came up, the front row of trees were highlighted against the tangle behind them. It was the perfect backdrop for a play mostly set in the Forest of Arden.
A diverse cast of various ages and ethnicities provided the hilarity, romance and melancholy of one of Shakespeare's simplest plays. The three musicians who provided music beforehand were also incorporated into the cast, playing minor speaking parts and supplying music when appropriate. Their location at the back of the "stage" under an umbrella and with candles burning around them made them both blend in and remain a focal point.
Toward the end the characters Touchstone and Audrey began dancing a two-step and the rest of the cast appeared in the audience and grabbed partners of their own. It was the faithful servant Adam who extended his hand to me and asked me to join him in dancing. And what was I just saying in my last post about being among the rhythmically-challenged?
By the time the play ended with the marriage of the four loving couples, darkness was as complete as the audience's satisfaction. Hats off to Joe for having the artistic inspiration to conceive of, much less carry out, such a gift to the city. I only hope this is the first of an annual summer event in a beautifully historic area under-served by the arts.
It was a tough act to follow, but I stopped at Tarrant's on the way home to enjoy some conversation and a beverage.I wanted to tell my bartending friend about the play, but I also got roped into a discussion of dating younger men. One of the servers (28) is dating a 21-year old and on occasion feeling the frustration of dealing with his youth (while definitely enjoying the benefits). She asked for my opinion of whether to fish or cut bait.
And although I've had several younger guy relationships in my life, I am the last person to be offering relationship advice. The best I could do was to tell her, based on my experience, to weigh the good and the frustrating. "You'll know," I assured her.
I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Maybe it's not youth but wine-made promises she should be worried about.
How fortunate is Richmond that local actor Joe Carlson decided to stage Shakespeare in Battery Park? The free five-night run of As You Like It has been on my calendar since I first heard him talking about it at Lift Coffee back in May. We followed his advice to the letter: "So unfurl those blankets, break out the lawn chairs and stuff your picnic baskets for an evening of theater in historic Battery Park."
We let 8 1/2 stuff our picnic basket with an Italian hero, an arugula, fresh mozzarella and proscuitto sub, potato wedges, house salads and sfagliatelles. Then we headed to northside for my first visit to Battery Park, a fact of which I am now ashamed. What a lovely spot! The stone walls and terraced hills are a far cry from my neighborhood's Abner Clay Park. Yes, I understand its issues drainage-wise, but but on a clear, dry night like tonight, it was truly an oasis.
I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.
Down a long flight of stone steps and nestled into a corner of the park, the improvised stage area was up against a curtain of trees. Later, when the stage lights came up, the front row of trees were highlighted against the tangle behind them. It was the perfect backdrop for a play mostly set in the Forest of Arden.
A diverse cast of various ages and ethnicities provided the hilarity, romance and melancholy of one of Shakespeare's simplest plays. The three musicians who provided music beforehand were also incorporated into the cast, playing minor speaking parts and supplying music when appropriate. Their location at the back of the "stage" under an umbrella and with candles burning around them made them both blend in and remain a focal point.
Toward the end the characters Touchstone and Audrey began dancing a two-step and the rest of the cast appeared in the audience and grabbed partners of their own. It was the faithful servant Adam who extended his hand to me and asked me to join him in dancing. And what was I just saying in my last post about being among the rhythmically-challenged?
By the time the play ended with the marriage of the four loving couples, darkness was as complete as the audience's satisfaction. Hats off to Joe for having the artistic inspiration to conceive of, much less carry out, such a gift to the city. I only hope this is the first of an annual summer event in a beautifully historic area under-served by the arts.
It was a tough act to follow, but I stopped at Tarrant's on the way home to enjoy some conversation and a beverage.I wanted to tell my bartending friend about the play, but I also got roped into a discussion of dating younger men. One of the servers (28) is dating a 21-year old and on occasion feeling the frustration of dealing with his youth (while definitely enjoying the benefits). She asked for my opinion of whether to fish or cut bait.
And although I've had several younger guy relationships in my life, I am the last person to be offering relationship advice. The best I could do was to tell her, based on my experience, to weigh the good and the frustrating. "You'll know," I assured her.
I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Maybe it's not youth but wine-made promises she should be worried about.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
A Morning of Italian Fim and Food
It wasn't my first time at the Italian Film & Food Festival, but it was the first time I attended the first showing of the day.
I met a friend (and his friend) there, someone who works in the restaurant business and wouldn't normally choose to be anywhere at 10:30 in the morning and who desperately needed wake-up caffeine.
Luckily for him, one of the sponsors of the fest was Caffe Espresso so he ordered an Italian coffee from the very Italian proprietor (dark curly hair, dashing scarf). When asked what I wanted, I declined, saying I don't drink coffee.
"You don't drink coffee?" he asked, clearly appalled. "That's not Italian!" Even given my Irish heritage, I somehow felt like a failure to this man.
The food part of the morning was a surprise since I'd always gone to later screenings and they couldn't very well serve dinner before noon. We were treated to two kinds of soup, one a veggie lentil and the other a chicken stock-based soup with egg and Parmesan; both were terrific. Accompanying that were Prosciutto and cheese on rolls, smoked salmon and cream cheese with capers on crostini, hard-cooked eggs in a tuna cream sauce and a rich little dessert, which I was told consisted of an almond cookie dipped in egg and covered in phyllo dough and baked.
It was a perfectly lovely Italian breakfast.
We were seeing Fists in the Pocket directed by Marco Bellocchio from 1965. Made at a time when post-war Italy was still adrift, it was a very dark film. It was Bellocchio's first film, made on an extremely slim budget by a young anarchist searching for his way in the film world. The movie about a highly dysfunctional family was all about subverting institutions: the family, marriage, the church, even the confessional.
Considered part of the Second Italian Renaissance, the film was considered at the time to be the start of a new era in Italian film. Given the heavy plot, complete with epilepsy, blindness and murder, it must have been shocking when it came out.
But it was 1965, so there was a 60s party scene, complete with stylish young people dancing to current music and clearly part of the "in" crowd.
The last minute of the film was completely improvised by the lead actor, the anti-hero who was considered an Italian Brando. It was an incredibly powerful way to resolve the family drama and no doubt difficult for audiences at the time. Bob Ellis from VCU introduced the film and said that when he first saw it, he found it to be the most excruciating and depressing film he'd ever seen.
That said, it was absolutely worth getting up early to see on a Saturday morning. Bourgeois dysfunctional families may not be a new topic, but in the hands of a serious Italian talent like Bellocchio, it was riveting.
Breakfast from the kitchens of Mam Zu's. Edo's Squid and 8 1/2 only made it more irresistible. It truly was a feast for all the senses.
I met a friend (and his friend) there, someone who works in the restaurant business and wouldn't normally choose to be anywhere at 10:30 in the morning and who desperately needed wake-up caffeine.
Luckily for him, one of the sponsors of the fest was Caffe Espresso so he ordered an Italian coffee from the very Italian proprietor (dark curly hair, dashing scarf). When asked what I wanted, I declined, saying I don't drink coffee.
"You don't drink coffee?" he asked, clearly appalled. "That's not Italian!" Even given my Irish heritage, I somehow felt like a failure to this man.
The food part of the morning was a surprise since I'd always gone to later screenings and they couldn't very well serve dinner before noon. We were treated to two kinds of soup, one a veggie lentil and the other a chicken stock-based soup with egg and Parmesan; both were terrific. Accompanying that were Prosciutto and cheese on rolls, smoked salmon and cream cheese with capers on crostini, hard-cooked eggs in a tuna cream sauce and a rich little dessert, which I was told consisted of an almond cookie dipped in egg and covered in phyllo dough and baked.
It was a perfectly lovely Italian breakfast.
We were seeing Fists in the Pocket directed by Marco Bellocchio from 1965. Made at a time when post-war Italy was still adrift, it was a very dark film. It was Bellocchio's first film, made on an extremely slim budget by a young anarchist searching for his way in the film world. The movie about a highly dysfunctional family was all about subverting institutions: the family, marriage, the church, even the confessional.
Considered part of the Second Italian Renaissance, the film was considered at the time to be the start of a new era in Italian film. Given the heavy plot, complete with epilepsy, blindness and murder, it must have been shocking when it came out.
But it was 1965, so there was a 60s party scene, complete with stylish young people dancing to current music and clearly part of the "in" crowd.
The last minute of the film was completely improvised by the lead actor, the anti-hero who was considered an Italian Brando. It was an incredibly powerful way to resolve the family drama and no doubt difficult for audiences at the time. Bob Ellis from VCU introduced the film and said that when he first saw it, he found it to be the most excruciating and depressing film he'd ever seen.
That said, it was absolutely worth getting up early to see on a Saturday morning. Bourgeois dysfunctional families may not be a new topic, but in the hands of a serious Italian talent like Bellocchio, it was riveting.
Breakfast from the kitchens of Mam Zu's. Edo's Squid and 8 1/2 only made it more irresistible. It truly was a feast for all the senses.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Amazing Party with Amazing Ghost
I want to make it perfectly clear that I did not participate in tonight's dance-off, despite being actively recruited and repeatedly cajoled.
What were they thinking, asking me anyway?
The invitation-only party, while held at Ipanema, featured an array and abundance of delicious food from 8 1/2 and the music of Amazing Ghost, whom I'd missed at Balliceaux just a few weeks ago due to prior plans.
Someone asked me if I was familiar with the band and I admitted that I knew of them, but hadn't actually heard them live.
But the fact was that I recognized members of the group from Fight the Big Bull, Bio Ritmo and the Great White Jenkins, so I could honestly say I'd heard over half the band play live before.
This was a group of excellent musicians with songs demonstrating a hilarious sense of humor.
Before they started, we ate ourselves silly and did the mingle thing.
I ran into Amy, whom I hadn't seen in years, and that alone yielded a long catch-up chat filled with love life advice.
I met a friend's new girlfriend, whom he'd met through a dating site, and they both enthusiastically supported the whole online method of finding someone good, even giving countless examples of friends who've met their future spouses that way.
I remain unconvinced, but wish them well.
One of the best conversations I had was with Dan about the difficulties of dating when you have atypical interests.
He's made peace with remaining solo, though, and I can't say that I have.
I got a terrific ego boost from Hunter, who reads my blog regularly late-night and told me he really likes my "city view;" apparently my off-kilter take on RVA keeps him coming back to read at all hours.
Hunter was definitely the star of the dance-off, with his alternately smooth and frenetic moves, not to mention endless energy, so it was kind of like being complimented by the prom king (well, except I didn't go to my prom, but that's another story).
And a man who can cook and dance is a force to be reckoned with, in my humble opinion.
As for me, I'd be more than satisfied if I could eventually find someone who shared some of my nerdy interests.
If he can cook or dance or anything else, it's all gravy.
Of course, first I'd have to be willing to start dating and maybe that would be easier with someone I already know.
Hmm, there's a thought...
What were they thinking, asking me anyway?
The invitation-only party, while held at Ipanema, featured an array and abundance of delicious food from 8 1/2 and the music of Amazing Ghost, whom I'd missed at Balliceaux just a few weeks ago due to prior plans.
Someone asked me if I was familiar with the band and I admitted that I knew of them, but hadn't actually heard them live.
But the fact was that I recognized members of the group from Fight the Big Bull, Bio Ritmo and the Great White Jenkins, so I could honestly say I'd heard over half the band play live before.
This was a group of excellent musicians with songs demonstrating a hilarious sense of humor.
Before they started, we ate ourselves silly and did the mingle thing.
I ran into Amy, whom I hadn't seen in years, and that alone yielded a long catch-up chat filled with love life advice.
I met a friend's new girlfriend, whom he'd met through a dating site, and they both enthusiastically supported the whole online method of finding someone good, even giving countless examples of friends who've met their future spouses that way.
I remain unconvinced, but wish them well.
One of the best conversations I had was with Dan about the difficulties of dating when you have atypical interests.
He's made peace with remaining solo, though, and I can't say that I have.
I got a terrific ego boost from Hunter, who reads my blog regularly late-night and told me he really likes my "city view;" apparently my off-kilter take on RVA keeps him coming back to read at all hours.
Hunter was definitely the star of the dance-off, with his alternately smooth and frenetic moves, not to mention endless energy, so it was kind of like being complimented by the prom king (well, except I didn't go to my prom, but that's another story).
And a man who can cook and dance is a force to be reckoned with, in my humble opinion.
As for me, I'd be more than satisfied if I could eventually find someone who shared some of my nerdy interests.
If he can cook or dance or anything else, it's all gravy.
Of course, first I'd have to be willing to start dating and maybe that would be easier with someone I already know.
Hmm, there's a thought...
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Eating at 8 1/2, Seeing Pirate Radio
I have never been the slavish fan of Mama Zu's and Edo's Squid that most of Richmond is. Chalk it up to my compromised palate or perhaps my lack of appreciation for good Italian, but I would not put either restaurant on my top 5 list, nor tell an out-of-towner that they were required eating. Since I'm in the minority on this, clearly I am the misguided one.
But I'd never eaten at 8 1/2 and not because of anything to do with the other restaurants; it's just not often I'm over on Strawberry Street. I corrected that tonight and ended up quite pleased with my simple meal. I got the Italian Hero, which was served on a proper crusty roll and loaded with peppers and more meat than anyone needs on one sandwich; the accompanying potato wedge was an unexpected treat. To justify my meat feast, I got an order of broccoletti, which was divine. I'd have ordered a dessert, too, but they were sold out of everything. Ah, the perils of going for takeout on a Sunday evening. Now I need to go back and try their white pizza... and I will definitely go back.
After stuffing myself, I was looking for a lazy way to spend my evening. I'm an admitted documentary dork and "Pirate Radio" is not a documentary, but I very much wanted to see it anyway. It's based on real events, it has a huge and talented cast and the soundtrack contained dozens of songs, albeit ones I've heard a million times at this point in my life, but which serve the movie well. I went, too, because of Philip Seymour Hoffman and while he was great, as always, the ensemble cast was the true highlight of the film. The idiosyncratic characters came alive with strong performances by every single member of the cast.
The movie is a tribute to music lovers and especially the die hard DJ's who made Radio Rock possible back in 1966, when the BBC was refusing to play the "new" music, even as 25 million people were tuning in every day to the pirate radio ship. The movie is raucous and fun, women definitely play all secondary roles and it's impossible not to get caught up in the story. And the 60s costumes are way cooler than I can describe; they alone are worth seeing.
I'd recommend 8 1/2, but I'm undoubtedly the only person in rva who doesn't already know and love it. So, instead, I'll recommend "Pirate Radio" as a excellent amusement and a fascinating glimpse at a brief but shining time in radio history.
But I'd never eaten at 8 1/2 and not because of anything to do with the other restaurants; it's just not often I'm over on Strawberry Street. I corrected that tonight and ended up quite pleased with my simple meal. I got the Italian Hero, which was served on a proper crusty roll and loaded with peppers and more meat than anyone needs on one sandwich; the accompanying potato wedge was an unexpected treat. To justify my meat feast, I got an order of broccoletti, which was divine. I'd have ordered a dessert, too, but they were sold out of everything. Ah, the perils of going for takeout on a Sunday evening. Now I need to go back and try their white pizza... and I will definitely go back.
After stuffing myself, I was looking for a lazy way to spend my evening. I'm an admitted documentary dork and "Pirate Radio" is not a documentary, but I very much wanted to see it anyway. It's based on real events, it has a huge and talented cast and the soundtrack contained dozens of songs, albeit ones I've heard a million times at this point in my life, but which serve the movie well. I went, too, because of Philip Seymour Hoffman and while he was great, as always, the ensemble cast was the true highlight of the film. The idiosyncratic characters came alive with strong performances by every single member of the cast.
The movie is a tribute to music lovers and especially the die hard DJ's who made Radio Rock possible back in 1966, when the BBC was refusing to play the "new" music, even as 25 million people were tuning in every day to the pirate radio ship. The movie is raucous and fun, women definitely play all secondary roles and it's impossible not to get caught up in the story. And the 60s costumes are way cooler than I can describe; they alone are worth seeing.
I'd recommend 8 1/2, but I'm undoubtedly the only person in rva who doesn't already know and love it. So, instead, I'll recommend "Pirate Radio" as a excellent amusement and a fascinating glimpse at a brief but shining time in radio history.
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