Theater of the Field

It feels like summer is slipping away.

I figure tonight's outdoor movie may the last of the season. After last night's 3 a.m. bedtime, I thought I'd take a quick nap before the film, only to wake up at 7:15 to fading daylight. Given the cooler temperature, I made sure to bring a sweater to the movie. Say it isn't so, summer.

I stopped by Tarrant's to-go on my way to Tredegar, in need of some fried chicken for a movie snack and wound up running into the new bride of a favorite bartender. We lamented August's rush to September and how we still want more time at the beach and river.

From last month's Starry Night Cinema Lawn Chair Series I'd learned that I didn't need to tote along my lawn chair and instead took one of the folding chairs set up in the grassy field above the iron works to enjoy my chicken dinner and the lights of downtown.

Last time, it was after 9 before it was dark enough to begin the film but not so tonight (sniff), I'm afraid. I'd barely wiped the grease off my fingers when the documentary "Evolution of a Criminal" was introduced.

I've been an avowed documentary dork for longer than I can remember, but I've never seen a documentary where the filmmaker (Darius Clark Monroe) is also the subject of the film. It can be a tad disconcerting to watch as subjects in the film answer Monroe's questions about his youthful bad behavior directly to him.

And what bad behavior! By age 16, his parents are in such dire financial straits that the teenager decides to get a couple friends to help him rob a bank to help his family's situation. Only a teenager could decide on such a foolish plan and not see the million red flags waving.

So of course they're eventually caught and Monroe is sentenced to five years in jail at age 17. It's tragic, but it's only right. The kid did rob a band, terrorizing customers with a gun and leaving with $140,000.

Interviewing his parents, grandmother, cousins, schoolmates and teachers, he asks the hard questions about who he was and if they ever expected such behavior out of him (no one had). One aunt admits that six people in their extended family have been to jail, so maybe it's in the kid's blood.

Still, it's unnerving to have a subject talk to the camera using the pronoun "you" as they share their memories with Monroe. When he talks about his time in prison, he says it's the mundane stuff he misses: washing dishes, taking out trash, smiling at his parents. It's intensely moving stuff.

But the best part of the story is that he gets his GED while in prison and when he gets out, he applies to NYU, having decided he wants to be a filmmaker and tell his story. For the record, he does not mention his prior convict status when he applies to the school.

Later he interviews some of his film professors, asking if they'd have treated him differently if they'd known. Sadly, they say the answer is probably, yes. The white, Texan district attorney who prosecuted him says she's happy he's turned his life around for now, but she won't believe it's true until he's 50 and still out of trouble. Ouch. Talk about racial profiling.

Call me gullible, but I saw a straight A kid who took honors classes and was psychologically affected by his family's poverty, making a stupid uninformed decision to "fix" the situation at a point in his young life when he wasn't capable of making truly thoughtful choices. After tonight, I also saw a gifted filmmaker, one I'm curious to see develop other stories beyond his own cautionary tale.

Afrikana Film Festival had chosen another outstanding offering by a black filmmaker, one I wouldn't have seen if they hadn't brought it to town.

Part of the charm of an outdoor movie is not being hemmed in by four walls while watching. Midway through tonight's film, fireworks began exploding over near Oregon Hill. A long freight train chugged along the river, its screeching competing with the movie's soundtrack. Someone sent four lit sky lanterns burning orange and sparkly soaring into the black sky.

Walking back to my car, I saw people walking along the riverfront under a clear sky and a yellow wedge of a moon. Realizing that nights this lovely are to be enjoyed while we still can, I joined them.

Gather ye summer nights while ye may. Color me wistful to see another warm season on its way out.

Haunted 'Hood

'Tis the season for horror movies, none better than the one considered the first ever made.

Silent Music Revival was showing the 1920 classic, "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari," with improvised musical accompaniment by Bermuda Triangles, the only quartet I know of with three drummers and a sax player.

Interestingly enough, I'd already seen the film at a Silent Music Revival years ago as well as having seen Bermuda Triangles perform many times, including at a SMR when "Poor Mrs. Jones" was shown back in 2010.

Even so, the combo of the crazy doctor and the pulsing drums was just too tempting, perhaps all the more so since it was at Gallery 5 a few blocks from my house.

With a history of going to the SMR that dates back to 2007, I know the drill: it starts at 8:00 sharp so don't be late. Accordingly, I stopped by Gallery 5 about 7:20 to deposit my bag on a chair in the front row, knowing full well that the place was going to be filled to overflowing tonight.

Seat procured, I chatted with Jameson and Laney who put on the event, all of us asking how it was possible that we'd not seen each other in months. Our conclusion? There are so many things to do on any given night these days that friends can be scattered all over town at multiple places.

It's a great problem to have, we agreed.

Promising I'd be back, I wandered down the street to Tarrant's back door, planning to score a big slice of pizza for dinner. Approaching the back door, I saw a trio of kitchen employees on a smoke break, so bored that they chatted me up on my way in.

"How's your night going so far?" one inquired. Can't complain.

Looking at the chalkboard, I revised my pizza plan and ordered a couple of fish tacos instead. Waiting for them to be made, I overheard the counter girl tell one of the servers that she was letting her go because they were so slow tonight ("Already?" the cut staffer asked). Neither had any idea why the entire week has been deadly. Umm, summer-like weather perhaps?

Dinner in hand, I returned to G5 and my front row seat. Tucking into the tacos, I was pleasantly surprised to find each filled with a tortilla-length piece of grilled mahi mahi under a flurry of corn relish and guacamole. Tarrant's isn't my thing, but this was a better than expected, inexpensive back door meal.

The place kept filling up with more unfamiliar than familiar faces, but you want new people. Besides, I had plenty of people to talk to.

The friend I'd seen at Monday's show but hadn't spoken to, the world traveler thinking of finally making the leap and buying a house here, a guy from Bread and Puppets, in town from Brooklyn working on Halloween parade puppets (and wearing a fabulous black and gold sweater).

So many people came that the floor became the only seating option and I was gratified to see a guy who'd arrived as early as I had to secure a front row seat offer it up to an older woman on the hard, concrete floor in front of him. Somebody's mother raised him right.

When Jameson introduced the film, he talked about its lasting influence on movies and the horror genre, saying we'd see a lot that influenced Tim Burton. It was even obvious in the crazy, angular sets with shadows as much a part of the scenery as objects.

He also said he'd edited out some of the movie to bring it down to under an hour. Excised had been scenes where they think they've found the murderer but they haven't. "So, nothing that changes the story, but that took them like 16, 17 minutes," he said about an era when everything wasn't quick cuts.

As usual, he'd chosen the absolute perfect band for the movie, with Bermuda Triangles' relentless soundtrack only increasing the tension as the story unfolded and dead bodies began stacking up. Three drummers make for a whole lot of intensity.

When the movie ended, the screen was pulled up so we could finally see the band, who'd been hidden behind it, playing for another few minutes. One musician, Jason, appeared to be running a drumstick against the metal grate of a grill, a small mic held up against it to capture the sound. Crazy.

There really is nothing like seeing a band improvise music for a silent movie as they watch it along with the audience.

Or if there is, it's happening somewhere other than where I am. Now, that doesn't seem very likely.

Moon River

I saw the whole of the moon.

Surely that was what delivered such a mind-blowing show tonight.

It was going to be just a Monday night in the 'hood - a walk to the pizza door at Tarrant's for several slices eaten in a booth listening to employee chatter from behind the unseen counter before a show.

Whoa, what? 
And that's all that I got.
What's that address again? 
And it's fully erect!
Dude, wait.
True story.

Halfway to Gallery 5, I heard Canary Oh Canary's distinctive drumming, telling me the show had begun.

Inside, a small crowd was watching them do their usual intense set and I spotted several familiar faces.

Next came Horsehead with their straight ahead rock and roll enlivened by the dapperly-dressed Kevin on guitar, keyboard and slide.

"I just got word back from the bouncer that it's okay to come to the front," the lead singer implored. "You won't be thrown out for coming closer."

The crowd was tenative at best about getting too close.

During the break before Ken Stringfellow came out, a woman came over to grab her coat from a chair near me and I smiled at her.

"People are so friendly in Virginia!" she exclaimed, clearly surprised."I could live here!"

A Floridian, she's up here on business training and had decided to get out and hear live music.

Right there, she got major points. What a good visitor.

She was impressed at the age range of the show attendees and shared that she'd already eaten at Comfort and Tarrant's.

I suggested Bistro 27 for tomorrow since it's also within the orbit of her hotel.

Someone's got to steer the tourists right.

Before Ken Stringfellow started, a friend came over and expressed surprise that it was clearly going to be solo show.

He'd expected at least a small band but it was looking like Ken with guitar and keyboard.

Fine by me.

We agreed that it was an exciting prospect.

When he took the stage, it was to tell us how stuffed he was. "I ate at Comfort and I know what that's short for - uncomfortably full. It was so good."

He promptly grabbed his guitar and harmonica, walked down the stage's steps and began singing amongst us little people.

Reality is subject to cancellation.

Because the crowd was embarrassingly small (come on, people, do the Posies or Big Star mean nothing to you?), it was like being at a house party with Ken in the center.

Ken Stringfellow in the center.

Very cool.

The guy's got a stellar voice, standout songwriting skills and a genuine charisma and obvious delight in performing, making us a most fortunate audience.

At one point, my friend Gregg, a drummer, leaned over and remarked on what a terrifically intimate thing we were experiencing.

"This is the best show I've been to in years. I'm glad you're here too or no one would believe me when I told them about this," he whispered.

True story, to quote the Beavis and Butthead troupe behind the Tarrant's counter.

After singing a few songs while wandering among us, he returned to the stage to play keyboards for a few more.

Maybe he anticipated being lonely up there on stage by himself, so when he invited us to join him onstage, I was one of the dozen who did.

Sure, some people stayed on the floor where they could see him head on, but not me.

For all I know, no musician may ever again invite me to join him so this wasn't an opportunity I could pass up.

Best of all, he kept swiveling around to look at us and smile like he was plumb tickled to have the company.

Eventually we all migrated back down to the floor and Ken took up his guitar again.

He also said he'd plucked a feather from the Richmond bird and invited local songbird Julie Karr to join him for a few songs.

Julie's husky voice matched or harmonized with Ken's for four songs, including Neil Young's achingly beautiful "Birds."

Singing inches from each other while Ken played guitar and Julie kept time with her hands, it gave me chills and, judging from those around me, they felt the same.

Once they finished, he did an exquisite version of "Moon River," taking it in directions Henry Mancini could never have imagined but would have found beautiful.

When he headed back up on stage, he motioned us to follow and many of us did.

There, he enlisted assistance from the singer of Horsehead to sing Big Star's "Thirteen," surely one of the most beautiful songs about the teen angst years ever written and suddenly an audience member jumped onstage to sing along.

Would you be an outlaw for my love?

Pretty soon, half the audience joined in so he followed that with the Posie's "Solar Sister" and even more people knew every word.

You thought you could defeat her
You're lucky you could meet her

There was even shoulder holding and swaying while the crowd sang onstage.

Time was running out but the crowd was having none of him ending his set, so he caved, saying, "I only pull this out for special occasions...and when I don't see a jail."

It only took a couple of notes to recognize the Beach Boys' "God Only Knows" and the singalong was now complete.

Gregg had been right. "Without you blogging about it, it's like it never happened," a friend had chided me after missing his show last night.

So here's my proof that the Ken Stringfellow-in-the-round show happened.

And if I can be in a converted firehouse on the night of a full moon listening to a man's voice I have swooned to since 1993 sing, "I'm crossing you in style someday," you can bet I've got a mile-wide smile on my face.

Who couldn't live here?

Take It Easy

So, Holmes says and the night is on.

I am curious about Dutch and Co. and he and his beloved agree to go along for the ride.

I'd tempted Holmes and Co. out to Church Hill to check out the handiwork of Aziza's former chef, whose food I'd introduced them to almost three years ago, here.

We arrive to find three bar stools empty, although they are not three adjacent bar stools.

The hostess makes an adjustment and we are seated together, not surprisingly near someone Holmes knows..

Initial impression: it looks surprisingly like the Roosevelt, right down to the ceiling and chandelier.

My small group requests  Brandbourg Pinot Noir, all the more enthusiastically when we hear that its limited distribution means Dutch & Co. is one of the few local places offering it.

Who doesn't like to be exclusive? Some of us are so easily led.

SubRosa Bakery (mere blocks away) bread arrives in a napkin charmingly closed with a clothes pin stamped D & Co.

Second impression: the vibe is low-key and there is no need to be cool here.

Like we could if we tried.

Even Holmes had to admit that the vibe was terribly comfortable, demanding nothing more than admiring the tin ceiling, slurping the Pinot Noir and savoring every bite that came from the kitchen.

I couldn't resist beginning with what the kitchen called porridge.

Please, sir, more.

It was a savory/sweet concoction that involved malted barley, smoked maitake mushrooms, roasted pear, kale and almond cream.

The mushrooms are so earthy as to be like chewing dirt, a much tastier thing than it probably sounds.

As someone who eats oatmeal every day, let me just say that this porridge was the exact opposite of oatmeal.

Predominantly savory, the dish had occasional flashes of sweetness with the pear and almond cream, but mostly stuck to the savory side. Every bite delivered savory where I expected sweet, an exquisite play on my taste buds.

It didn't taste like anything else in Richmond.

Both my companions had the perfect egg (a former Aziza staple and aptly named) with cured salmon, herbs, sprouted quinoa, braised cabbage and cumin yogurt.

As Holmes pointed out, it sounds like a lot, but once you break it down, it's mighty satisfying, especially that buttery salmon.

Tonight's special was three Anderson's Neck oysters for five bones, so Holmes generously ordered oysters for everyone.

It's been a good week for tasting brine, that's all I'm saying.

After another bottle, I ordered the pork and winter squash rillette with honey-roasted nuts, pig skin cornbread, cabbage and cumin yogurt.

Creamy rillette and hot and dense cornbread were a match made in heaven.

Meanwhile, the hanger steak and smoked pork belly with celery root, persimmon, bitter greens and ginger herb sauce impressed Homes and the missus no end.

"I thought those were carrots," Holmes said of the brightly-colored persimmons.

At one point, Holmes turned to me and had to admit, "I like the relaxed vibe here. They didn't spend a million dollars redecorating and it's comfortable."

True that and the food was just as impressive as when I'd first taken them to Aziza.

For our next course, we looked at the dessert menu, deciding on the honey pot and the chocolate.

The winter's honey pot was made of warm milk, honey, pound cake, lavender ice cream, assorted citrus and candied nuts.

Holmes' beloved had spotted it before she'd even decided on dinner; it was that appealing and unique.

It arrived in a little ceramic honeypot decorated with bees. When the guy next to us ordered it, his came in a straw-colored honeypot sans bees.

I forsook the caramel waffle (for which our server gave us hell) for the chicory chocolate toffee cake with orange ginger Chantilly, candied fennel and olive oil anglaise.

By the time we finished, most of the room had cleared out and we had little desire to be the "campers" of the room.

Abandoning Church Hill, we headed back downtown for a nightcap.

By default, Tarrant's won out, offering one last glass and a couple of sassy barkeeps.

A bottle of Prosecco greased the wheels for a discussion of the 130 herbs in Green Chartreuse, reminding me of covering that topic recently with another bartender.

This one suggested we add the Green Chartreuse to our bubbly, an unlikely but totally doable combination.'

"Green Chartreuse is like Lalique glass," my comrade-in-art-history observed.

Well put, my friend, even if no one else besides me knows what you mean.

We sipped the 130 herbs in a very un-monk-like fashion, but quite appreciative of the unusual flavors.

It was almost as satisfying as finding a relaxed vibe in a trendy, new Church Hill eatery.

Fact was, I owed them one after our last meal out a few weeks ago where I'd chosen a dud and we'd all paid the price.

You ebb and you flow, my friends. It's all an experience, right?

Waiting on a Moment

My lunch buddy was waiting for me when I walked outside for our 12:30 date (I prefer a later lunch).

Getting in his car, he tells me that he's been there since noon.

"Why didn't you call me?" I ask logically.

"Are you kidding?" he asks incredulously. "Call you?"

Reaching over me, he goes to unlock my door.

"Get out!" he playfully instructs, making it clear that he's known me long enough to know better than to call.

To make it up to him, I agree to pizza with red sauce (I prefer white) with pepperoni and sausage (with an  onion concession to me) at Tarrant's.

Dropping me off, I suggest we meet up for another lunch soon.

Nodding and waving goodbye, he says, "See you on the Internets."

I prefer it to calling.

Code Orange Emotions

If I wrote down all that happened to me today, my head would explode. We'll leave it at discombobulated.

Aside from that, on my walk this morning, a guy smiled at me and asked, " Has anyone told you today what a fine-looking woman you are?"

I thanked him for being the first, especially considering the sheen I was sporting on a Code Orange day (pleading e-mail from my mother; "PLEASE don't walk today").

My parents came to town for lunch at Tarrant's and we were seated in the window table that used to seat the stuffed dolls.

I tried  a new salad, the tarragon chicken with apples, strawberries, grapes, tomatoes, cucumbers, candied walnuts, golden raisins and craisins in a  raspberry vinaigrette. It was the perfect lunch, full of water, on a miserably hot day.

One server asked if I remembered her from Acacia (I did) and another said she'd waited on me at Bobette; my parents inquired if I ever ate at home.

But they also wanted to discuss my absent love life, so there was a lot of ground we didn't cover. One hesitates to tread on TMI territory with the parental units.

My only plans for the evening involved  a close friend, her wedding plans and my recent unexpected cosmic gifts.

We began at Six Burner, where a man walked in and recognized me, saying, "It's my pinotage fan!"

What does it mean when I'm being remembered for my grape preferences? Fortunately, I think, he was a wine rep by trade.

Tonight's preference was the Broadbent Vino Verde because, as the bartender reminded  me, "That's some summer drinking." Indeed. And if isn't actually summer, it certainly feels like it.

We had an especially talkative evening, she telling me her three-month plan and me sharing my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants plan (there are some things I can only tell her).

 As long as we both end up happier, I figure it's just different routes to the same goal.

Because she'd not yet had softshells this season, we had to have the tempura fried soft shells with chunky guacamole and rainbow cherry tomatoes.

I've had any number of variations of this dish already this year and this was definitely the most creatively delicious.

I heard one girl order it minus the guac ("I don't like avocado," she whined to the bartender. Your loss, honey) and thought the same thing the chef probably did when he got the order.

The crispy tempura, the creamy guacamole and the colorful and fresh-tasting tomatoes came together for a standout variation on a theme.

When my friend finally had to leave, I chose to stay because the bartender had morphed into his musician persona so we could talk about his upcoming show, as well as the Nissan Pavilion's ignorance and the Arcade Fire's video brilliance.

At the end of the evening and much vino verde, he thanked me profusely for my company and indulging his musical nerdiness.

I didn't leave any less discombobulated, but I'd certainly benefited from the bubbles and the distractions.

Any random sighing heard tonight will likely  be coming from Jackson Ward.

As Sad as You Want to Be

Tarrant's is a half a mile from my house, but we went the long way, the three mile way.

A good friend had suggested a walk and an early lunch, so she came to Jackson Ward and we began walking east. At her request, our first stop was Lift because she badly needed coffee.

"You totally dissed me Saturday night," the counter girl said to me the moment she saw me. What? When? Seems she'd been waving madly to me at the Firehouse show Saturday and I never even saw her. I pleaded myopia and smiled as sincerely as I could. Honestly, never saw her.

Rock god Prabir (minus the Goldrush) walked up to the counter behind us, jarring my memory. "I had a dream about you last night," I blurted out. He shrugged nonchalantly.

"He hears that so often, it's no big deal," my friend pointed out. He wasn't a major part of the dream, but you'd have thought he could have been a tad more surprised to hear he'd made mine. Nope (yawn). Just another day for Prabir.

Life-giving coffee in hand, my friend and I headed down Broad Street, passing all the school buses in front of the Empire Theater for "Honk," passing the many buildings being rehabbed into apartments and condos, passing the colorful crowds waiting for buses.

She was enjoying every minute of our discovery mission, not having walked this stretch of Broad in years. We paused at the National box office to peruse the schedule, but nothing caught her eye. Eventually, we crossed over to Grace Street for a change of scenery.

We marveled at the Honey Shop (how long has that place been there?), peered in the windows of Jason Alley's new venture, Pasture, abuzz with construction activity, and admired hats at Chic Chapeaux. She showed me her favorite empty storefronts and I showed her mine.

Eventually we were almost back to Belvidere and and definitely in "early lunch" range, so we backtracked to Tarrant's for salads. They really do have an impressive selection of interesting salad choices. And a table next to a sunny window is a delightful thing.

The Cobb salad spoke to her and I got the Pear and Goat Cheese salad, a filling bowl of those two plus strawberries, grapes, cucumbers, tomatoes, mixed greens, and candied walnuts in a creamy sesame dressing. Since it had only been two hours since breakfast for me, it was astonishing that I ate as much of it as I did (98%).

Walking back, we made an art stop at Quirk Gallery to check out Shelly Klein's whimsical paintings on white canvasses. Her new show, "There's No Free Lunch." explores themes of sadness and forgetting the negatives that underpin happiness, about caring too much or not enough, about the sadness connected to the things that make us happy.

Frankly, when I'm walking, talking and eating with a close friend, sadness is the furthest thing from my mind. Without so much as an inward glance, I prefer to enjoy experiences as they happen.

Sorry, Shelly, but there just may be a free lunch, figuratively speaking, as long as you stay in the moment.

Just Another Prisoner of Love

I knew it was going to be a challenging night to find something to do that didn't involve being surrounded by endless couples.

Comfort put it best on their Facebook status just before the dinner rush: "And so they begin, arriving as if to the ark, 2 by 2." Reservations divisible by two only tonight.

But I'm clever, so I figured it out. No one eats Chinese for Valentine's Day, making it the perfect night for Full Kee (and, yes, I ventured outside the city limits, but there was a reason for that). As a matter of fact, I was the only non-Asian person in the restaurant, which was nowhere close to full.

I skipped the Chinese New Year menu and had the hot and sour soup followed by shredded pork and bean curd with black bean sauce, making for heat followed by pungency. But I was so stuffed by the time I stopped eating that I couldn't even think of taking the leftovers home, much to my server's dismay.

After dinner, I went to Crossroads Art Center, a place I had heard of, but never been. Let's face it, I don't spend a lot of time on Staples Mill Road. It's sort of like Plant Zero or Artspace with all kinds of artists showing in alcoves throughout the space.

But I was there for the 9:00 singles showing of Slash Coleman's "Prisoners of Love;" the couples showing had been at 6:30, presumably so that the happy couples could go out to dinner afterwards. And while most of the 9:00 crowd were singles, a few couples slipped in with the onesies.

I heard the guy behind me say to his beloved, "I feel sort of conspicuous here." Perhaps that's because this was the singles showing, my friend, and you came with a date. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see why you feel so obvious.

Numbered Valentines were passed out to the audience for the sake of prize-winning while a duo played standards on upright bass and saxophone (think "Girl from Ipanema" and such). Then the MC came out and the night's entertainment began.

Right off the bat, they gave away a prize, which yours truly won. Moments after I claimed it, another person with the same number spoke up. I offered to give it back, but the MC decided that he who hesitates is lost so I got to keep it.

The show was a series of vignettes, beginning with Jennifer Lemons, aka the Checkout Girl blogger (they never look like you expect, do they?), telling us about her first boyfriend, a Chuck E. Cheese employee, and how that ended in heartbreak because she didn't want to French kiss.

Comedian and dancer Becca Bernard was next, doing mime and then a tap dance to "It Had To Be You." Slash told us about the first time he had sex, a story that included nudity at a party and projectile vomiting.

Slash's father Mike told of falling in lust on a bus to Michigan and giving up on the priesthood for the sake of getting beyond first base (this was the 50s). There was even hugging of strangers, but I'm not going to go into detail on that.

Slash read from the compilation Robot Hearts, to which he contributed a story about a relationship that began online. Jennifer closed with a story of an online date who showed her the stuffed animal with which he'd had sex. You get the idea.

The show was funny and sweet and, I think, meant to be a reminder that the course of love never does run smoothly, not that everyone in the room didn't already know that.

My last stop was at Tarrant's to welcome Ben to his new bartending gig, see how he was doing and to check out the bar's expansion, which looks great.

I was excited to hear that part of the plan is to have late-night hours and start doing live music in the back room; it'll be terrific to have both of those options right in the neighborhood.

As long as I was there, it seemed foolish not to have dessert (chocolate covered cannoli) and chat with a painter who also bartends to get source material to spark his creativity. Needless to say, we had quite the connection on that topic.

Let the record show that I spent most of my evening west of Thompson Street, a rarity for me, but proof that I can leave the city when it's warranted.

Like when there's a show about why it's impossible to give up on love. And, yes, I'm well aware of that fact, Agnes, but it never hurts to be reminded, especially amidst a shower of red rose petals.

All American Southern Fried Italian

It was me, Jimmy, Billy and Skip against the suits.

And by suits, I mean men and women in earnest corporate dress having polite chit-chat at a post-work gathering (immediately overheard, him to her: "You don't look like the beer type.") because it was expected of them, not because they wanted to.

When I walked into Stronghill Dining, the bar area was full of mingling people, but with a private party vibe. And when I asked the bartender if it was okay to sit at the bar, he said it was. You don't have to tell me twice.

I ordered a glass of wine, noting that the music was a full-on 80s mix (I was told that "women of all ages love it"), but the conversation between the bartender and the three gents to my right was centered on Slayer and Motley Crew (their drug use and music).

There was a brief digression about how difficult it is to listen to Cyndi Lauper or, as had apparently happened recently, Pat Benatar all night, and then they were right back to heroin.

At the Whisky Grill last night, the cook and I had somehow ended up talking about the importance of a cast iron skillet when frying chicken (my grandmother's first rule of chicken-making) and I had been thinking about fried chicken ever since.

There it was on the menu: two pieces of buttermilk-fried chicken with house made sausage gravy. Hallelujah and pass the biscuits.

After perusing the sides, I concluded that the house made applesauce would be the perfect sweet to accompany my salty chicken. The bartender asked me, "Thigh or leg?" which made no sense to me, but I picked thigh.

Meanwhile, the party swirled around me. At one point, a woman walked up to a group of women and announced, "Stop talking business. This is supposed to be fun." Thank god she reminded them is all I can say. It can be hard to stay on track without a memo from the top sometimes.

My fried chicken arrived looking like a Southerner's wet dream, with a crispy thigh and half breast under and over a generous serving of sausage gravy. Having had Stronghill's superb sausage for brunch, I knew I was in for some gravy goodness.

But the bowl of "house made applesauce" bore a striking resemblance to Mott's out of a jar. Eyeing it suspiciously, I tasted it; it tasted like supermarket Mott's. "Is this really housemade?" I asked the bartender with a laugh and a look.

Glancing at it, he said, "Well, I'm sure somebody's mother made it...Yes, it's house made." Yea, yea, I moved on to that delicious thigh (and then breast) and that gravy full of flavorful sausage. As I ate, it occurred to me that it was my first chicken and gravy; better late than never, but also about frickin' time.

The bartender came over and made a great, polite show of asking me, "Aside from not believing that the applesauce is house made, how's your chicken?" Smartass niceties aside, I told him it was stellar. I may even have had gravy on my chin when I said it.

It was then that the guy sitting next to me asked how I was liking the fried chicken and introduced himself and his two business partners. I found out they were regulars at the bar since their (body) shop was a couple of blocks away. Jimmy was the instigator, Billy was the stressed-out one and Skip was the shy one. They knew a lot about cars. I don't.

After licking my plate clean, the bartender asked if I wanted coffee. "No, thanks," I said, so he offered me hot tea. "I don't do hot tea," I told him.

"Crack? How about some crack then?" he suggested, barely looking up, and getting points for quickness. Crack before a concerto? I don't think so.

It was getting on toward 8:00 and I had a show to see, so I asked for my check ("Sorry, you can't leave"), said good-bye to Skip (his friends having departed to go home to the "little women") and made my way down to the Singelton Center.

The VCU Symphonic Orchestra was promising me an American composer fix and I didn't want to be late. Ever since reading Joan Peyser's biography of Leonard Bernstein and Aaron Copland's two-volume autobiography (with nary a whiff of any sort of sexual life at all...really?), I have been on a mission to hear as much of Bernstein and Copland's music live as I can.

Tonight it was Bernstein's overture to Candide and selections from Copland's Rodeo and The Tender Land. Rodeo I've heard because I've seen the ballet, but the others would be firsts live for me. The other pieces being played, Mozart, Enescu and de Falla, were bonuses.

I'm anything but a pie-eyed patriot, but I find something absolutely stirring about classical American music. It just sounds so...American. Yes, of course, partly it's that incorporation of American folk music into the works, but beyond that, it's just our un-European interpretation of classical music.

And since I know nothing about music, that's merely my way of trying to explain how I could sit there happily with my eyes closed enjoying the music of these two extraordinary 20th century men being played by VCU students. Is this a great town or what?

The only possible thing to do after the performance was find someplace open for dessert and all-American Tarrant's fit the bill, but just barely. They didn't have any actual customers, but they were busy doing all the end-of-the-shift stuff so they had to be there anyway. I was in.

"For you I'd suggest the chocolate cannoli," my friend Danny said and I didn't argue. Owner Ted explained what the cannoli dough was made of (the coffee was a surprise) and then pointed out that putting chocolate on it was desecration and that, "No real Italian would eat such a thing."

As it happens, I'm Irish so that didn't affect me. And when Ted brought it out and offered me whipped cream on top, I took it. Probably just as sacrilegious.

While I scarfed it down, one of the servers shared the story of asking a customer if he wanted a second martini tonight and him replying, "I dare not. This one is way too good." She couldn't get over the use of the word "dare," repeating it in her distinctive NY accent. "I da-uh not!"

I'm pretty much over the dare not stage and reveling in the dares. Again, about time.

Watch Me Open Doors

Alert the media: I got taken to the Joanna Newsom show. An invitation was extended, I accepted and for the first time in almost two years, someone took me to hear music.

Of course the only person who would invite someone to a Joanna Newsom show is a serious fan because no one goes to her shows except the devoted.You have to want to hear a harpist/pianist with a little girl voice; it's not the kind of thing one randomly decides to check out on a lark.

The problem for the Broad Street restaurants tonight was that is was also opening weekend for White Christmas at the Empire Theater. Between the National-goers and the theater types, Tarrant's was pretty much mobbed when we got there.

Fortuitously, a couple of bar stools opened up as if by magic and the hostess introduced us to, "Danny, the best bartender. He'll take care of you." If Danny and I weren't already such good friends, I'd never have given him so much crap about being "introduced" to him like that.

Because the show was going to be a seated one, we wanted to eat and get going and Danny expedited that. Well, we were also starving, so that might have moved things along a tad, too.

My companion had the Reuben, which he raved about, and I had one of tonight's specials, a vegetable tart (asparagus, onion, mushrooms, olives, tomato, goat cheese on a thick crust). It was just the thing with a glass of South African Faraway Farms Chenin Blanc.

Walking out to leave behind three women and a child, the little girl stopped in awe and said, "Ooh, it's cool at night in the city. It lights up!" Between the headlights, stoplights and store lights, I imagine it must have been pretty impressive for a suburban child. One can only hope they bring her back downtown often.

Once at the National, I was surprised and pleased to see signs everywhere saying that this was a "Quiet Show" and asking people to refrain from talking or using cell phones or they would be asked to leave. In my perfect world, this would be the policy at every show I attend.

We found many chairs already taken, but happily settled into two not far from the stage. There was an overwhelming sense of expectation in the room of rabid fans.

When Newsom took the stage, fans broke the rule right off the bat, though. I actually heard a couple of sighs and more than a few squeals as she sat down behind her harp. I don't think any if them could help themselves; they were just genuine reactions of adoration.

In a ruffly purple dress and with a braid almost down to her waist, Newsom and her band (2 violinists/vocalists, a drummer, a trombonist who played mouth harp and a guitar/mandolin/banjo player) proceeded to played two hours of beautiful, offbeat music.

During her between-songs banter, a fan yelled out, "I drove 300 miles to see you!" and she asked him where he'd come from. "Pittsburgh," he yelled back from the balcony. "We like Pittsburgh," she answered congenially. Do we?

"I came a mile!" a guy humorously then offered. Hey, I'd come a mile, too, but I wasn't bragging about it, now was I?

The song "Peach, Plum, Pear" made a lot of the audience very, very happy and resulted in a standing ovation. Newsom came back for one piece solo with her harp and then the band returned for one last epic song.

Another standing ovation and it was all over. And while the spell should have been broken, most of the audience was walking on air as they left. Favorite lyric: What a woman does is open doors.

Outside I ran into Herschel ("Of course I'd be here if you're here. We're soulmates!" he reminded me), the only familiar face all evening. But that was fine because I had a companion for a change. Random conversations weren't necessary because I had built-in company with whom I could enjoy the show.

I think I could get used to this being asked thing.

Your Unofficial Tour Guide

I may not look like a VCU tour guide, but I spent the day so far playing one. A friend had e-mailed me yesterday (subject line: short notice) asking if she could bring her daughter down today for a tour of VCU.

I'm not exactly an expert, not having gone to school or taught at VCU, but between lectures, music, films, plays, demonstrations, interviews, and even just walking, I've spent my fair share of time on campus, so I graciously agreed to do what I could.

I like to think that my spiel had a unique twist to it ("This is Monroe Park, where the annual Halloween parade starts.") and included some pertinent facts not normally shared during the official school tours ("Whether or not you like Ethiopian food, don't miss the dance parties at the Nile."). Hey, I did my best.

To be complete, I did do some actual touring, taking them into the library, the student commons, the dance building, the Singleton Center and the Grace Street Theater and pointing out any number of other big buildings.

Naturally I had to take her into Rumors so she'd know where to shop (she bought a jacket), resulting in owner Marche and I crowing over our recent shared photo taken at Ipanema, another place the potential student needed to know about.

I explained the compass, the Village, Strange Matter and Plaza Art as we headed east for lunch, making a brief stop at Lift. We heard a trumpet player near the theater and a bongo player near the dance building. I've got to tell you, showing her everywhere she might want to hang out or spend money was getting exhausting.

We lunched at Tarrant's for the variety of menu (mother and daughter were in completely different food moods) and with my infrequent daylight presence there, the staff greeted me enthusiastically (Friend: "Do they know you everywhere?"). We took a discreet table on the new side (Owner Ted on our way out, "I saw you hiding over there.").

The student was most impressed by two things on the menu: fresh-squeezed lemonade and meatloaf; apparently these aren't common menu items at home. Welcome to the south, I guess?

I went with the Monte Cristo with the hand-cut chips, which I highly recommended to my friend, who added them to her Cubano sandwich, much to her eating pleasure. The student got a cheeseburger that looked like it weighed more than she did and devoured it. She'll do well as a starving student.

We stopped by Gallery 5 on our way home so they could get the feel of a local gallery space. Leaving, my friend spotted the sign on the door saying, "No alcohol beyond this point."

"But why would there be alcohol in a gallery?" she inquired earnestly. Maybe I hadn't covered everything I needed to cover about Richmond.

"Let me explain a few more things, " I said as we headed down the street...

Cinnamon Worship

The monthly Live at Ipanema show is a regular event on my calendar and, whenever possible, it's preceded by dinner with a fellow Gemini music-lover. Because it had been a while since we'd gotten together, we added in an extra stop just to have more time to talk before the show.

When I'd suggested Bistro 27 to her for dinner, she wrote back, "Can we have a cocktail at Tarrant's too?" Had she forgotten who she was dealing with? I replied, "We can do it all, honey!"

And it wasn't cocktails we had, either. The bartender, a good friend and one who knows both our habits, had suggested Vino Verde upon our arrival and we allowed him to twist our arms into drinking our favorite summer grape. We took our time sipping and sharing what had been going on since we last met. Let's just say men occupied the bulk of the conversation.

When we asked for our bill, my bartending friend mentioned that a nearby bar sitter, new to the area, had asked him for suggestions on what to do in RVA and he'd recommended my blog (turns out he does this frequently).

It was at that point that the woman introduced herself to me, saying, "You write really well," as she continued to scroll through some recent posts. Glad to be of service and welcome to Richmond, stranger.

Dinner was just down the block at Bistro 27 because my friend is a huge fan of their Ceasar salad and thinks they have the best Italian-style polenta in town (it comes under sauteed calamari). In addition to those two prerequisites, we also shared the Rappahannock oysters gratine and I got the rabbit and veal sausage with Manchego over potato cakes.

My friend declined to share that dish with me because she doesn't eat rabbit. "I'm not as adventurous as you are," she claimed, missing out. Too bad for her because as our server had warned me, "You're going to love that" and I absolutely did. It's new to the menu so it was the first time I'd had it, but it won't be the last.

By the time we'd finished those four taste delights, it was time to make our way to Ipanema for coconut cake and the Cinnamon Band from Staunton. From the second they opened their mouths, the crowd closed theirs. A foursome walked in and one looked at the other and loudly asked, "Why is it so quiet in here?" Well, my friend, perhaps it's because the band is knocking the socks off of every person in the overcrowded room.

Guitarist John led with, "Actually we're electric, but tonight you're privy to something extra-special." That was the colossal understatement of the evening. These guys are known for being loud, all shimmering chords and bone-shaking drums, but that aesthetic was tamed tonight and the result was magical.

My friend thought that of all the talented bands that have played Live at Ipanema, the Cinnamon Band sounded most likely to be the breakthrough act. Their voices blended beautifully and lyrically the songs were stunning, It was easy to lose sight of the fact that all that sound was coming from only two guys, a guitar and drums.

And while their usual M.O. may be loud, tonight's show was a thing of subdued melodic beauty, created by the slow build that defined their songs. I don't know that I've ever seen so many rapt fans at a Live at Ipanema show and I've been to all but one.

Favorite lyric (of many): Easy does it doesn't cut it when you want someone.

We had to sit outside afterwards just to talk to other people about how impressive the show had been. To a person, everyone was blown away.

That's why Live at Ipanema is a non-negotiable entry in my datebook. And yes, I still carry one of those artifacts, those relics of another era. Make fun of me all you like (everyone does when I pull it out) but I don't miss much, now do I?

Front Row for the Silent Music Revival

I'm a regular at the Silent Music Revival, so much so that I get called out if I miss a month. I was at the beach for the June installment and my absence was duly noted. The next morning, I got an e-mail from Jameson, the organizer of the event, checking to make sure everything was okay with me. He assumed something had to be wrong because I hadn't been there.

The Silent Music Revival is a can't miss event for me for several reasons. The combination of a vintage silent film and a band improvising a score is irresistible to a film and live music lover such as myself. The event is free. It's held at Gallery 5, within walking distance of home. And Jameson is one of my favorite people, a knowledgeable film geek and talented musician. That's a lot to draw me in.

Tonight's screening began with an animated Prohibition short, espousing the evils of drink. Tonight's band, Amazing Ghost, provided a rousing score to this hilarious morality tale. Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be drinkers or they'll dance and carouse instead of attending temperance lectures at Soda Pop Hall. It's true.

The main feature this evening was Erno Metzner's 1928 film Uberfall, about the string of events that befall a German man who finds a counterfeit coin, only to have a run of bad luck from then on. Although considered avant garde, the film does have a narrative, albeit a depressing one (it was banned by German censors in 1928 for being so demoralizing).

Downer or not, Amazing Ghost did an amazing job creating a soundtrack to the series of unfortunate events that overtake the main character. The keyboard and other-worldly vocals provided just the right touch of tension to match the visuals. When the film ended, they continued to play for a while longer, as if refusing to release the audience from their spell.

I'd gone alone but found plenty of friends in attendance, so four of us (including one of the guys in AG) headed to Tarrant's afterwards for some liquid refreshment at the hands of a familiar bartender ("Vino verdhe?" he inquired on arrival) and to discuss upcoming music events. We were momentarily distracted when Sly and the Family Stone's "Everyday People" came on; it seems to be one of those songs everybody reacts strongly to. Interesting, that.

Two of us cut loose and began a leisurely walk back through the Ward, enjoying temperatures that had to have dropped 20 degrees since earlier. It occured to me that I'd been to movies three times in the past 35 hours, probably a record for me, like this heat.

But the fact is, I'd have gone to the Silent Music Revival even if it hadn't been in air-conditioned comfort. It's that good.

And now I know: Jameson takes attendance.

Get Me Started and It Just Spills Out

For the second time this week, a guy told me that he liked my passion. In this case, the comment came from a Dallas transplant (originally a New Englander) whom I'd met at Tarrant's when I went there to eat dinner and visit with a favorite bartender friend.

He was the only other bar sitter when I arrived and was busy doing something with his phone, so I didn't pay him any mind. Seeing me, he put it down and said, "I shouldn't be on my phone out on a Friday night." Given my phone feelings, that was an opening too wide for me not to jump in, so I did, eventually convincing him to bury the dreaded device under a menu and start enjoying Saturday eve.

Apparently I wasn't too overbearing because he soon began his incremental move around the bar to eventually sit next to me and pick my brain about what to do in Richmond. He's only been here since January, so his feelings about RVA are still mixed. As the bartender knowingly informed him, "You're talking to the right girl."

It's a bit challenging to just launch into what a newcomer should check out here without first getting some sense of his interests and dislikes. With a little probing, I discovered that he appreciates art, including local work and has already found a piece at Davis and Main that he plans to purchase. He'd also planned to visit the VMFA tomorrow, so I gave him my four-visit take on it.

As I made recommendations for what to see and do, I tucked into my fish tacos (grilled Mahi-Mahi, pepper jack cheese, corn relish, and guacamole with black beans), having ordered them because of a rave I'd recently heard. After having had my photographer friend over for a chatty happy hour earlier (Inama Soave Classico), I was in need of some grub to fill in the cracks and they seemed ideal for that purpose. Luckily, my transplant friend didn't seem to mind listening to a girl with guacamole dripping down her chin.

Because I was on a limited time budget (I wanted to make a show at Gallery 5 and, specifically, see the opener), I cut right to the chase and told him about my blog, suggesting he peruse it and let me know which activities I mentioned might be of interest to him and from there I would make further recommendations about what to see and do. He then graciously insisted on paying for my dinner and assured me that he'd be in touch about things to do. J-Ward girl strikes again!

The bill at Gallery 5 consisted of Long Division, Seas and Autocue, and I'd already seen the latter two, which is why I'd been determined to make it in time to see the first. Simply put, Long Division made my night. For the second time in one week, I got an excellent set of post-rock, full of swelling guitars, intricate interplay and the added pleasure of a trumpet in parts.

As much as I love a good lyric and I absolutely do, I am a complete sucker for post-rock. The band said that their influences were Sonic Youth and Radiohead, but, I'm telling you, I heard Explosions in the Sky and Yndi Halda. I can't wait for this Norfolk band to come back through town: I will insist on some of my music geek friends joining me to hear them.

Seas played next and I'd heard their 70s-influenced sound at Live at Ipanema back in March. They said tonight's show was only their 8th or 9th, so they were still working things out. They sounded terrific, though, and I think a big part of the crowd was there for them. I wanted to tsk-tsk the drummer, I'm afraid, when he admitted that he'd lived in RVA for three years and this was his first time in Gallery 5. Sorry, kids, I just can't get to everyone and tell them what to do, although clearly my efforts are sorely needed.

Last up was Autocue, they of the massive and expensive stage-filling equipment (last time I saw them at G5, their abundance of high-end gear blew out all the power in the place, not once, but twice). I'd already heard that they'd done an extremely long sound check, but the vocal was still too low in the mix, at least in my musically-challenged opinion. I ran into a guy who remembered talking to me at the last Autocue show (I'm ashamed to say that I didn't recognize him at all) and we enthusiastically compared notes on the first two bands before Autocue got started .

You might even say we had a passionate discussion. As has been duly noted of late, my passion does tend to show itself when I get to talking.

Restaurant Revelry at the River

So happy I was invited
Give me a reason to get out of the city
~The National "Lemonworld"

A friend who works at Tarrant's gave me a reason to get out of the city today when he invited me to join him and the rest of the restaurant staff, not to mention part of Bistro 27's staff, for a cookout on Mobjack Bay.

Their tradition is to close Tarrant's for Memorial Day and spend it at the river and I was happy to be part of that.

When my friend came to pick me up, he spotted a book in my bag.

 "You're bringing a book? You, the person who never met a stranger?" he mocked me.

I wasn't sure what to expect and it's a really good book (The Wild Vine) , but given a game plan of eat, drink, frolic, it did seem extraneous now that he mentioned it.

And frolic we did, with kayaks, canoes, floats and more beverages than a group of 100 should be able to consume.

Meats of all kinds were being cooked practically non-stop by Carlos, but then, who better than a Brazilian to do meat?

I started with a steak, but after a while I just did what the smart ones did and hung around the grill, snagging pre-cut pieces of whatever was fresh off the grill and put onto the platter.

It was a lot like the man meat dinner I attended a couple of years ago: course after course of endless meat.

Only the source animal, degree of doneness and seasonings changed.

My friend had been right about my social skills; I knew loads of people and met plenty more. In fact, my stock line of the day became, "Didn't expect to find me here, did you?"

One girl I knew greeted me with, "I'm a little tipsy already," but she loudly complimented my legs to the surrounding crowd, so I was fine with her loose lips.

Another familiar face was a former neighbor and blogging pioneer who reads my blog with a keen eye.

He particularly mentioned my response to a commenter with an attitude about my spending choices, here, seeing it for what it was: an explanation of the philosophy behind my blog.

It's satisfying to hear that there are people who read me and get me.

Like practically everyone else, we spent a fair amount of the afternoon in the water, which seemed unnaturally warm for May.

One guy, when offered the use of a kayak, declined by holding up his beer.

"Friends don't let friends drink and kayak," he proclaimed.

Unfortunately, it was walking that was his downfall and he later cut his foot on a mollusk (or so he said) and when he went to catch himself, cut his hand as well (same mollusk? I don't know).

Friends don't let friends drink and...move?

Later we ate watermelon and spit seeds, scored cookies and cannolis and listened to competing boomboxes.

Happily for me, I was nearest the one playing Daft Punk.

I gave my thumbs up to the guy who put it on and he asked, "Really, is there anyone who doesn't like Daft Punk?"

Sadly, I had to tell him about my friend Corey.

Some things are just beyond comprehension.

It was a day of good one-liners, like "Is that a seed on your ass?" topped only by "I've got corn pubes in my teeth."

Personally speaking, the highlight came after I aimed a super squirter at someone and missed.

The trio turned around to see who had such poor aim.

"Do I look like a super shot?" I shrugged.

Best line of the day directed at me: "With those bangs and those sunglasses, yea, I would have totally bought into you. Now, not so much."

Sigh.

I just need to stick to words.

First Fridays: Smile Like You Mean It

The crowds flocked to Jackson Ward night, not because I willed them to, but undoubtedly because of the best First Fridays weather in 2010.

I saw so many new faces and heard so many people talking about this being their first art walk. I also saw a lot of females shivering in cute summer attire as the evening wore on.

I walked right up Henry like I was going to the Belvidere and ducked into Henry Street Gallery for a group show of "Richmond Artists of the 80s."

It was probably my favorite show of the evening. I came to RVA in the late 80s, so I didn't recognize the artists' names, but stylistic ally, I was fascinated.

It didn't look dated, but it didn't look like current work, either. It definitely reflected a different era.

As I was leaving, the guy sitting by the door with a camera asked me stop and smile.

He may have been feeling a little guilty since his job was actually to warn people about the step down as you walk in the door and I'd tripped coming in.

Or maybe he could tell I really liked the show.

At ADA gallery, both John Coburn and Gian Pierotti had created objects that almost, but not quite looked like something in the real world.

It was interesting to dissect my first impression of each piece; no matter how I'd first interpreted it, upon closer inspection it wasn't exactly like it should look if it were that object. It felt a little like a mind f*#k, challenging your perceptions.

Of all things, it was horse-themed art at Ghostptint Gallery.

Some were in full color, but my favorites were in monochromatic shades of brown; they almost resembled Degas drawings for his racetrack paintings.

The show was "What are the Odds?" and Neal Iwan's brushstrokes were a thing of beauty.

Over at Lift, I ran into a friend who lost his front tooth this week to a bungee cord snap-back. He's heard a lot of West Virginia jokes the past few days, but the doctor said most people lose an eye when it happens, so he's actually pretty lucky, if a bit backwoods-looking until the reconstruction process begins.

Cue banjo music.

For anyone who saw the first InLight exhibit in 2008, the star of the show was back tonight.

The "Jackson Ward House," outlined entirely in light tubes was up and attendees were wandering through it in amazement, probably many of them seeing it for the first time.

You can tell that the creator, an Englishman, was as taken with the architecture of the Ward as yours truly.

Art 6 had a group show, all by women and using various formats, including poetry, which I found especially cool.

I believe it was part of the Minds Wide Open initiative currently going on.

I know better than to try to visit my neighborhood restaurants on the first Friday, but I plastered my face to the door at Tarrant's to give my bartender friend a big smile and before I reached the end of the block, was accosted by two of the Bistro 27 staff coming out to say hello and kiss my hand (and no doubt escape the teeming masses inside).

It was a big night for Gallery 5 because they're celebrating their fifth birthday, an enormous accomplishment for any gallery who doesn't receive outside funding.

They have begun their first membership drive and I can't think of a better cause to support than the arts.

It's an ongoing drive, so there's till plenty of time to jump on the G5 bandwagon and do good.

Downstairs was hung with posters made for many of the events at G5 over the past five years.

It was a walk down memory lane, full of reminders of the excellent art, music, poetry, burlesque, dance and film that has come through there.

Upstairs, the theme continued with dozens of photos taken over the last half-decade. Let's just say there were a lot of familiar faces.

Then it was time for music and a four-piece called Haints in the Holler took us on a bluegrass odyssey complete with washboard.

They were followed by Prabir and the Goldrush, usually a three-piece, but recently graduated to a quartet with the addition of a drummer.

Don't worry, they're still a rock band with classical musicians and loads of hooks.

I should mention Prabir's magnificent mane, but he complained to me tonight that the media always does, so it's trite for me to do so.

Consider it done with a smile.

Women as Advertisements

Tonight I was the poster girl for eating out, apparently. My plans were for later, so I intended to have a leisurely dinner at Tarrant's, knowing I'd have to wait until after the pre-Wicked/Symphony crowd cleared out. I could tell by the harried looks on the staff's faces when I arrived that it had been a crazy day. Between Saturday Stroll, drunken post-Irish festival attendees and then the theater crowd, they'd already been through the wringer.

Need proof? By 7:30, Tarrant's was out of their renowned garlic knots, those yeasty rolls they make and douse in oil and garlic. I know people who go there just for those rolls. I sat at the end of the bar and made it simple by just getting a Cobb salad and while I say "just," I think their Cobb is the best in the city. The bands of bacon, red onion, avocado, tomato and bleu cheese are generous and rest on top of a varied array of mixed greens.

Moments after my salad came, a foursome entered and one of the girls immediately stepped over to me and said, "That looks amazing. What is it?" I told her and she ogled it for a while until her date grabbed her arm and pulled her away. Not even five minutes later, a group of six came in and a girl looked at me, looked at my Cobb and said, "Omigod, that looks so good. It's like you're an advertisement for this restaurant looking so content with that salad in front of you! What is it?" So if you haven't had it, it's a big, beautiful-looking salad that's perfectly delicious.

As I was winding down, local artist and noted character Nate Motely came in for coffee and pliers (don't ask) and insisted on giving me one of his drawings. We see each other a lot around town (821 especially) and he loves to talk art with me; I'm guessing that's why he gifted me with this piece out of the blue. I'll admit, it made my night.

Then it was on to Plant Zero for another night of the James River Film Fest and to see Patti Smith: Dream of Life. Shot over a decade, the film was as interesting visually as it was for its content. It began with Smith saying, "Life is an adventure of our own design, intersecting fate in a series of lucky and unlucky accidents," and went on from there to show her in concert, on the road, visiting grave sites and at readings and protests. Directed by Steven Sebring and for the most part black and white, it was a compelling look at a fascinating woman.

In an elevator scene, she comments on someone asking her what it feels like to be a rock icon. "When they say that, it makes me feel like Mount Rushmore," she wryly notes. With her androgynous face and strong bones, she'd actually be a magnificent addition to that monument.

Her 1931 Gibson guitar was a gift from Sam Shepard and she named it Beau. Naturally, it had a lot of allure to musicians and she told of how when they came over, inevitably they'd compliment the guitar. She'd ask them if they wanted to play it, of course they'd accept and begin by tuning it. "And I'd get my guitar tuned!" she said gleefully. Even the mighty Bob Dylan tuned Smith's guitar this way.

Sebring had originally been scheduled to talk after the film, but scheduling conflicts prevented it. I would have liked to have heard the discourse afterwards because it appeared that the audience members were long-time devotees of Smith and undoubtedly would have had questions and information to share with the man who filmed her for ten years.

The documentary was fascinating for me because I didn't know enough about this seminal female figure in music history. Her one-upmanship stories of her skill at peeing in unusual places endeared her to me; I've been there myself, all urge and no place to go.

I came away feeling like Smith could be an advertisement for women carving out their own path in life. I wouldn't mind being thought of in that way myself.

More Snowed-In Serendipity

"I work today at 2, so if you know anyone in the hood looking for an open place..." read the (hint, hint) invitation from my bartending friend at Tarrant's, so my postponed music was replaced with a stroll through the neighborhood to see him, eat dinner and enjoy some conversation.

As I was getting cleaned up to go out, a friend with cabin fever called to see if I was willing to venture out and since I was already planning to do so, I told her she could meet me there if she wanted to brave driving the roads.

Noting the desperation in her voice, I felt sure I'd end up seeing her.

Lots of people had the same thought apparently so we had plenty of company.

I had the half rack of baby back ribs and cole slaw, the perfect un-winter-like meal on a snowy Sunday night.

By the time I finished, I don't know what was stickier: my hands or my sauce-smeared napkin.

Mission accomplished!

My friend played copy-cat and got the ribs too, but also a small onion pizza and as we finished up our meal, she began a conversation with another regular sitting nearby.

He was a New Yorker, who consults down here four days a week and was snowed in for the weekend.

He immediately scored points by insisting on buying us dessert and non-stop conversation ensued.

Since he eats out every night he's here, he was great fun to discuss the Richmond restaurant scene with.

I had to give him credit, he's been to a lot of restaurants here; in fact, more than me because his hotel is in the west end, so he occasionally eats outside the city limits, unlike me.

As an astute wine geek, he knew all the best lists around town, as well as where to get a Kobe beef burger at lunch and which places to avoid for one reason or another.

The owners of Bouchon came in on a rare night off, so they joined us for conversation too.

My bartending friend kept things lively with wisecracks, whipped cream and wild tales (turns out the bar is made from the marble in the former urinal stalls at the Jefferson).

It was only my friend's second time at Tarrants' but she's completely smitten with its combination of extensive menu, quirky ambiance and colorful clientele.

As for me, I always appreciate an engraved invitation.

Open and Inviting at Tarrant's

All is quiet on New Year's Day, at least in the restaurant biz it seems. But it's Friday night and girls just want to have fun, so it was up to me to find someplace smart enough to be open. When I realized that my friend had not yet been to Tarrant's, it seemed like a golden opportunity to break her in and chat up my favorite friendly neighborhood bartender.

Of note for those of us who like to sit at the bar at Tarrant's is the change in the door orientation so it no longer opens onto the poor bar stool-sitting patrons. Even so, I chose stools near the end of the bar, the better to distance ourselves from what cold air did make it in and position ourselves to get maximum chat value from the barkeep.

We drank local with a bottle of the White Hall Viognier. a grape new to my friend but a favorite of mine. When the bartender asked her if she liked it, she responded, "I like wine." He laughed, saying he appreciated her directness.. I went with the grilled Mahi-Mahi sandwich with tartar sauce and house-made chips and she went the comfort food route with a bacon grilled cheese sandwich, mashed potatoes and creamed spinach. My sandwich was way large and hers was way thick so we both had a lot to eat.

Afterwards, we admired some of the old photographs of Tarrant's, a quaint reminder of its long-time presence in the neighborhood. We got a big kick out of a couple of old prescriptions written when it was still a drugstore back during the days of Prohibition; each was for a gallon of beer, to be taken a s directed. One Rx stated that the beer was for the treatment of diabetes. Riiiight. They're framed and hung, so history nerds like me can admire them.

Our gracious bartender presented us with the enormous brownie a la mode and shortly afterwards one of the waitresses insisted we taste the bread pudding a la mode. Delicious, both of them. We did what we could, but by this point we'd been there for three hours and were close to rolling off our stools, so we had to say when.

Our big topic of the evening was karma and the wait for what comes around to go around; it was the ideal conversation to have over a New Year's Day meal. One of the pleasures of Tarrant's has always been their daily schedule and tonight we appreciated how good of them it was to be open so we could begin 2010 within their cozy confines.

Shooting Below the Belt

A few weeks ago, a blogging friend wrote and told me straight up that I needed a new profile picture and who better to take it than him?

When he's not teaching English to the masses, he is quite the talented photographer, so naturally I took him up on his generous offer.

He already had a concept in mind, one of his strengths being art direction, so we made arrangements to meet at the library and discreetly shoot.

It didn't really matter how big of a hot mess I looked, because the plan was to shoot low, and by that I mean my lower extremities.

Accordingly, I rummaged through my better than average tights collection to find just the thing for my new profile pic and decided on the Berlin tights.

They're funky, they're attention-getters and they're not something a person sees every day in RVA.

How do I know this?

I left the apartment to go to the library and as I crossed my own street, a guy on a bike said hello, followed by, "I LIKE your tights!...A lot!"

Arriving at the library two guys just leaving turned a full 180 degrees as I passed them on my way towards the door.

I couldn't resist turning around and flat out asking them, "It's the tights you're looking at, isn't it?"

One mutely nodded and the other just gave me a goofy grin.

After shooting, we went to Tarrant's for fried food, a requirement of our get-togethers; we quite happily shared fries and fish tacos, dishing all the while.

We were in that limbo time before the dinner rush begins, affording us an opportunity to bounce off the staff.

Our server explained to us why Rhode Island, her home state, is called the Ocean State.

Ron folded napkins like a pro and quoted lines from the movie "Arthur" to our amusement.

We both made a pilgrimage to the other dining room to admire the new carpeting and inhale its new rug smell.

As we were leaving, my friend asked Ron the Napkin-Folder why he hadn't commented on my great tights.

"I didn't want to say something filthy," he claimed.

Or maybe he's just waiting for the picture.