Better Yet, How Was Your Night?

One of these things was not like the other. Namely, me.

I was at Rappahannock alone at the end of a work day spent solely in my own company while all around me I could hear people talking about their days and, to a one, all their conversations centered around the annoying other people they work with.

Given the time, we were undoubtedly also all there for happy hour oysters, but I found myself surrounded by people answering the "How was your day?" question with their seatmate or mates, most sounding less than satisfied.

Without so much as glancing at the menus, I ordered my usual and sat back to watch others dissect their days, drink and eat oysters. It was easy to get lost in the minutiae.

Three trays of oysters headed to a four-top and I knew without looking that they'd all go to the worker bee males, leaving the buttoned-up looking woman to turn up her nose. Nearer to me, a guy thoughtfully ordered two beers and a dozen oysters in anticipation of his date's arrival. A guy at the bar sat patiently listening to a woman explain why she cares more about her customers than what her boss tells her to do.

Once the oyster trail opened up and trays of bivalves began appearing everywhere, I watched as the bar and nearby table populations got theirs while I was left still sipping my orgeat lemonade.

With nothing better to do, I discussed the greater brininess of Tangiers over Rappahannocks with a couple who were sure the Rapps were saltier (it's basic geography, do you understand which one is further east?), although they had a tendency to douse all of them in hot sauce which may have affected their judgement.

But it was when the couple near me got their second tray that I gave my affable bartender the "look" and he sheepishly assured me my Old Saltes would be up momentarily.

Mm-hmm, and Old Saltes take this much longer to be shucked? "Actually, they do have tougher shells..." he tried, trailing off.

"You got all Old Saltes?" a guy asked incredulously, as if I'd ordered twelve salt licks. Everybody's got their preference, sir. Mine is to feel like a wave knocked me down and I came up with a mouthful of salt water. What's so wrong with that?

When the bartender came over to check on me, he didn't bother asking anything after I did nodded contentedly, just giving me the smile and saying, "Glad to hear it."

Minutes before happy hour ended, he graciously inquired of everyone at the bar if they'd be needing more oysters, but I told him I thought a dozen would do it for one woman and he had to agree. It wasn't as if I'd worked up some big appetite writing by myself all day.

As luck would have it, sociability was addressed by a message from a musician friend awaiting me, inquiring if I wanted to meet for a drink before seeing Brunswick tonight. "Been too long!"

I could be impressed that she'd somehow intuited that Balliceaux already was my final destination tonight or I could accept that she knows it was likely since we'd seen them together before, not that I haven't gone behind her back and seen them without her.

But not tonight.

Since I had a couple hours before she was to pick me up and I'd just finished reading Charlottesville resident Charles Shields' "Mockingbird: A Portrait of Harper Lee" last night, I figured I'd go start Martin Amis' memoir "Experience" on the balcony, at least until sunset, but it was too close to dusk and the mosquitoes were hungry.

Time to move the party inside.

I'd read about 40 pages when I heard her calling my actual name (so often, it's "Stellaaaa..."), brought her upstairs and, talking a mile a minute, left together for Balliceaux. Things immediately got deep on the drive over when she asked if I thought it was possible to keep romance alive in a long-term relationship.

Ever the optimist, I answered in the affirmative. She's determined to try.

All that was dashed once we were at the bar talking to a music-loving regular I know, one who admitted he liked some people solely because of how they looked. Did he mean women, I wondered.

"Well, yes, all the men look the same," he said with typical male tunnel vision. So he admitted to being shallow.

But he also insisted to us both that love comes and goes and sometimes we're glad when a relationship ends. She looked at me for reassurance of what I'd said in the car, but he was faster, making a toast.

"To love coming and going!" he said clinking glasses with us both. Talk about your Debbie Downer, I watched my friend's face sink as we abandoned him to find seats in the back.

With their standard 11 horns plus drums, bass and percussion, Brunswick delayed any further conversation with their high energy blast of originals and covers while a lone girl danced non-stop to whatever they played.

Touchingly, in honor of the passing of the one and only Gene Wilder, they played the "Willy Wonka" theme and, because they could, their version of Frank Ocean's "Super Rich Kids" from "Channel Orange."

Now that's range, kids.

Range! I hear that's exactly what you need if you want to keep love from coming and going. Full report to come.

Putting the Wet Stuff on the Red Stuff

The stories begin when you're standing in line waiting for the doors to open.

"Have you seen No BS? Omygod, you've never even been here before? But you've been to RiverRock, right? No? Once you've been here a year, you'll know everyone by two degrees of separation."

Somehow I am fortunate enough to be standing in front of the Oracle of RVA.

The newbie tries to redeem herself by stating that she really like female rappers and name-checking a few. With no irony, he says he likes Beyonce. "Is that all you got?" she asks in disgust.

Welcome to Secretly Y'All at Balliceaux where tonight's storytelling theme is "Starting Fires."

Historian Josh, who works at the Civil War Center at Tredegar, plans to give us some historical context about the burning of Richmond at the end of the Civil War but does it in an entirely entertaining manner.

Like a report from the Bureua of Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco, he cleverly uses anecdotal evidence about drinking (everyone, including kids, was), pre-set fires setting off munitions factories and tobacco warehouses being set ablaze to deliver what is essentially "The Compleat Story of the Burning of RVA, Abridged."

No exaggeration, his performance was right up there with local historian master, Mike Gorman. When I tell him this after the show, he asks if I'll tell Mike that myself.

Grace tells about setting her first pine cone fire at age 4, notable because her hippie parents don't punish, they use it as a teachable moment by taking her to the firehouse to learn about fire safety. The chief asks her if she wants to ride in the fire engine and the lesson ends abruptly.

Life can't be easy when you join Boy Scouts solely so your Dad will like you, nor when that same Dad signs up his easily-brought-to-tears young son, Richard, to play "Cotton" in the camp skit.

Because it's a role that requires him to be naked in front of the entire camp, he runs away from camp alone to spend the night outdoors. Happy ending: by college, he over-compensates by getting naked in front of others at the drop of a hat (or a party) and eventually surprising strangers by jumping on their beach towel unexpectedly on a dark night (before running away).

Kristin tells a story about an early summer fling when her criteria had been young (because she was 20), hot (because. "I was shallow") and stupid ("Because that's what I was into then").

At the end of August when he reminds her it's over, she bags up the souvenirs of their brief love (compartmentalizing) and later burns them in a bonfire (moving on).

She admitted to a lot of over-sharing.

Local firefighter Charlie had a just-the-facts delivery (pressure levels, hose weights when filled, lots of numbers), even though his story involved a fierce fire and a suicide by immolation.

Explaining his role as pump man, he said, "I'm the guy who gets to put the wet stuff on the red stuff," got a few laughs, looked up sheepishly and smiled when he got more.

I'd say he'd worked on that one.

Ending on a highly philosophical note, he questioned whether the suicide would've happened if the victim had known two nesting birds would die in the process.

For pure heart-wrenching childhood drama, nothing compared to Alhaji's saga of living through Sierra Leone's rebel uprising as a 6-year old, an endeavor that involved being locked in and escaping his school, finding a shelter and escaping that, only to return for others and find the shelter ablaze after the rebels have left.

He and his family members laid on the ground among dead bodies so that when the rebels returned they wouldn't be killed. His two year old sister never made a peep.

When he got to this country, he was placed in a foster home where his parents locked him and another child in a basement room. He escaped that, too, followed by sleeping on the steps of Social Services to plead his case and finally get a good home.

It was a hell of a note to end the first half with, profound, moving and far more real than most people came prepared to hear.

During intermission, I made a beeline for the front bar, only to spot two fire trucks, lights on, parked outside. It was so unexpected that people treated it like a mirage...were they really there after all those fire stories?

Dunno. I ordered a housemade root beer which, for the first time in all the times I've ordered it, arrived with a fat pretzel atop the foam. It was practically an intermission snack and I loved it.

A comedian friend stopped by to tell me that he'd been too busy playing with someone's phone during the first story to pay any attention to it (his loss). All he remembered was that it was about George Washington (close, it was about the end of the Civil War).

Like always, the second half's stories were far looser about sticking to the theme.

We heard about post-traumatic party disorder after a high school party went wrong (he called the cops on his own party to get everyone off his parents' property) and about how Iranian families cultivate tradition by celebrating pagan holidays jumping over fires, a ritual some then miss as an adult ("The horrible becomes normal").

Adding to the atypical additions to tonight's programming - history lesson, firetruck log, refugee story - was a PSA about eschewing burial for cremation so you could become a plant, say a rose or a tree.

We heard about how arson runs in families. First Mom sets Dad's morning newspaper aflame so he'll listen to her at breakfast and next thing you know, Brother is starting a fire with his Pokemon cards.

At hippie camp during an aura-cleansing ritual using sage, counselor Rainbow accidentally sets pretty little Stephanie Smiley's long locks afire (none of the other girls are sad).

Which was an ideal segue to the big finale, Josh's story about catching his own teen mane on fire with a creme brulee torch, thus ending the indoor portion of the storytelling evening.

Walking the six blocks back to my car, I found myself a half block ahead of a guy checking in with Mom and Dad, reeling off his class schedule (he was theater major, hence the excellent projection skills) and impressions.

"And then I have voice and speech and today the teacher used the word "sensual" in class, so I think he's going to be really cool." Apparently this young man has not had enough exposure to advanced vocabulary in his young life.

Pause. "Get this! We won't be able to sit together as a family after all. No, no, it's going to be like a lot of the award shows and all the nominees get to sit in the front row, so that's where I'll be. That's gonna feed my ego," he crowed and disappeared down a side street.

Some nights, the stories don't end 'til you get back in your car and drive away.

So Happy

By the second primal-sounding song, just about everyone in the room was moving, if not dancing.

The Malian Blues Quartet, dressed in traditional, bright-colored garb, attracted a crowd that ranged from old hippies to jazz musicians and fans to a young guy dancing enthusiastically in a presumably ironic black t-shirt with big white letters that read "Hall and Oates."

Familiar faces and conversation came from the jazz critic (who shared a hilarious story about Hitler), the DJ, the sax and clarinet player, the woman who works on film costuming/make-up, the banjo player. A guy with a white buzz cut did the Mr. Roboto dance non-stop.

By the fourth song, the room had gone from cool to warm with no signs of changing direction.

Although the band spoke almost entirely in French, after most songs, the band's leader would smile broadly and say, "Thank you very much. So happy!" He didn't appear to be making that up.

By the time we got to the shank of the show, the band would start playing another song with unusual and shifting time signatures and the crowd would struggle to find a beat to dance to while the group's singer played guitar and gazed out at us with a beatific smile that seemed to say, "Don't sweat it. Let your body go anywhere it wants to."

Kudos to the band for taking what has to be the shortest break on record before returning us to our trance-like dancing to Malian music.

During intermission, while others danced to a DJ playing "Groove is in the Heart," a world music fan and Balliceaux regular I'd met a few years back found me to discuss the set.

"It's the first time I've heard the sound of Celtic music come through in African music," he said. "If you listen, that guitar could be a fiddle and it would be Celtic!"

Of course, once he pointed that out, I could hear nothing but how much of Celtic music had a direct link to the music we were hearing.

It was after intermission that late arrivals - like the guy in a deep blue v-neck t-shirt with a gold chain worn without irony or the guy in the Richmond football jersey almost to his knees - began showing up, making just another post-midnight stop on their Saturday night rounds.

More than a few of that type walked in, made a loop and decided a closed-eye crowd trance dancing was apparently not their thing. It was ours.

By 1 a.m., the four members of the Malian super-group were dancing off the stage one by one to end the show to wild applause.

Walking up Lombardy, the world music lover caught up to talk about how excellent the show had been, how they'd played a lot of songs by a noted African composer. "You should look him up," he tells me. "You should know about him."

I shared that after his intermission observation, I'd been unable to listen without hearing what Celtic music had pulled from what we were hearing tonight. We paused at the street corner to go different ways.

"When you come down to it, all music is African music," he reminded me before smiling, waving farewell and walking off.

When you come down to it, all summer nights spent dancing, much less to Malian music, are excellent nights.

Pie in the Sky

I hope he's slurping oysters in the sky.

That semi-retired judge I'd met when I walked out on the sandbar, the one who was collecting oysters from his oyster beds in the Rappahannock behind my parents' house and gave me the Cliff's Notes version of his life while we stood in the river, the one who then directed me to a bushel basket under a nearby dock to help myself to two dozen freshly-caught oysters, just died.

It was one of the first things my parents told me when I arrived yesterday and I was truly sad to hear it. Many's the time since that first encounter that I'd gone down to the river to see if he was out in it collecting and always when he was, he'd wave and if I was willing to wade out, stop to chat with me.

I'd have gone down there yesterday to look for him if they hadn't showed me his obituary first.

Other than that, it was a beautiful day to be at the river, my purpose being to help Mom get ready for a bridge luncheon Wednesday, which involved things like cutting flowers for vases, sweeping the driveway and getting the big screened-in porch in tip-top shape for the "girls," all of whom are at least septuagenarians.

At that age, who's got the eyesight to notice a little cobweb action in the corner or a dead bug behind a chair? When I'm an old lady, I won't worry about any such things, I can assure you.

When I'm an old lady, I'll probably be less inclined to walk two miles in platform espadrilles (oh, the blisters this morning!) like I did last night, managing to hit Lapple - zero ambiance but solid Chinese food from Peter Chang proteges - and Ipanema - where on a trip to the loo I heard the kitchen inexplicably blasting  "Home on the Range" and "Que Sera, Sera" - for black and white cake ("But that's not pie!" the mutton-chopped manager said in surprise at my choice) and wine before making it to Balliceaux for music.

It was good to see so many people out for a show on a Monday night - the global DJ, the newsman, the guitarist, the Bijou crew, the former neighbor - even if it did make for a slightly airless room until the air conditioning kicked on to save us all.

My bell bottoms elicited both shock and advice, with three different guy friends asking me why I would ever intentionally cover up my assets. "I've spent plenty of time thinking about those legs," one shared. "I'd rather see 'em," another informed me, effectively voting down any future pants-wearing.

For the record, a friend long ago informed me that my legs are not my greatest asset, but he wasn't around to make a case for what was, either.

After Gary Kalar opened the show with his Ottoman empire music, Yeni Nostalji took the stage for what was being billed as guitarist Evrim's last show. Hardly a surprise since baking and music-making are hardly compatible past times.

Referencing the last Balliceaux show when Evrim's capo went missing, he joked that he'd stashed six of them around the room with different friends so as to ward off a possible capo emergency again.  I like a man who learns from his mistakes.

But, my god, they're so hard to find.

Painting the Town

I excel at being the extra woman.

When friends need an extra body (whether warm or hot) or some estrogen to balance out a dinner party's numbers, I'm that person who gets invited to fill the role and it's one I dispatch with great enthusiasm.

Get to know strangers? Entertain visitors? I got this. Years ago, when I was trying to right the capsizing ship that was my life, a friend (seriously) suggested that I offer just such a service to visitors, showing them places to eat, hear music and do fun things they might not otherwise uncover.

Because selling my time sounded just short of selling my body, I didn't pursue it, although I saw the wisdom of her idea. Now I happily accept invitations to share me.

This time, it was Pru and Beau doing the inviting and the occasion was two male house guests, a seasoned one from Phoenix and a young one one from Fredericksburg, and the destination was Can Can.

I got assigned to the male car, meaning three men called for me (complete with a glass of Miraval Rose - a stellar "car wine," I have to say - awaiting me in the back seat) while the other two womenfolk took another car. My kind of odds.

Beau scored heavily in the parking lot when he complimented my ensemble as "adorable," precisely the vibe I'd been going for with the Berlin tights and a more subdued palette than usual.

Brasseries are noisy places and Can Can is no exception, making for a lot of leaning in and repeated remarks while sipping Cotes de Provence Rose "Terra Amatta" and nibbling zucchini fritters and a cheese/charcuterie plate. A Languedoc Rose showed up with dinner - mine a demi plateau of oysters, clams, shrimp and mussels and a forest of greens mounded into a salad - along with an opportunity for the Phoenix visitor to be more vocal.

When Pru, presuming naturally, asked what I'd planned to do after dinner wound down, I copped to plans to go to Balliceaux to hear K-Pop and the visitor immediately let it be known that he loves to dance. I couldn't ask the young visitor to join because he was a month shy of being legal, so my contribution to his RVA experience was introducing him to some new cheeses during our first course.

So the male car dropped Phoenix and I off at my house so I could swap cute shoes for dancing shoes before heading to Balliceaux. I tried but failed to convince my guest that we should walk, but despite being a native Philly boy, a biking enthusiast and in shape, he resisted.

Next time.

The back room was pretty crowded on arrival and only grew more so with each new wave of K-Pop devotees who wandered in throughout the night. He was struck by their solitary dancing habits, their group movements rather than couple movements, but I'd seen it too many times for it to even register.

Last time I'd gone to a K-Pop night, I'd fallen hard for the Asian take on pop music from the '60s and '70s, but tonight's selections drew from the '90s and hip-hop, filtered through a Korean sensibility, sure, but less compelling to ears that remember music before Auto-Tune.

I was barely a couple sips into my Espolon before he was nodding toward the dance floor and why would I say no? Unlike some of the crowd, we couldn't sing along to any of the songs, but we found enough we could dance to to join the throngs in a room that continued to feel hotter, more crowded, more like Friday night.

On the way out, he admitted that he couldn't remember the last time he'd been dancing, never mind that it was his first exposure to K-Pop. See, this is why some people need to meet me.

Dropping him back at his hostess' house an hour after I'd promised to get him home, we solidified morning plans. He'd seen some night life, he'd claimed to be a fan of walking, so the plan was to show him some of my daytime Richmond.

This is where I get good. I wowed him with notable architecture, historic locations, and river views. I led him along the Pipeline Trail, over to Southern States for the Street Art RVA Festival, up to Tricycle Gardens' urban farm and back across the Lee bridge to admire Belle Isle and the river from a bird's eye view.

Lagging slightly behind me coming up Belvidere, he informed me that this was the longest walk he'd been on in ages. Someone needs to get out of the house more or maybe just out of Phoenix more.

As a thank you for the outstanding walkabout and tour, he offered to take me to lunch, so we detoured to 821 Cafe, found two stools at the bar ("You can't sit there!" a male voice growled at me, but it was only the handsome bass player/server razzing me) and let a soundtrack of '80s music (Hall and Oates-based) wash over us while sharing life stories.

"Are you the marrying kind?" he asked me. "Why did you get married?" I asked him. How hard is it to find your passion and follow it? It's fascinating what you can discuss with someone you didn't know 24 hours ago.

The extra woman tells all, but never judges. Also, she has a ball doing it.

Hot Sex and Banana Hammocks

So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
Oh, but these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to...

Man, when I heard Brandi Carlisle sing that song at Groovin' in the Garden back in May 2009, I was still reeling from having been through the wringer that year. A lifetime later, I heard it on the radio tonight after spending a day hearing stories.

Tanisha Ford had some terrific ones, gleaned while researching her new book, "Liberated Threads: Black Women, Style and the Global Politics of Soul," and shared them at a lecture at the VCU Depot.

Saying she was introduced to the soul generation by her Mom, she began by showing us a picture of her mother in her dorm room in 1972. Everything about the photo screamed '70s soul, from her Mom's gorgeous Afro to the poster of Angela Davis to the beaded curtain to the African print bedspread and pillows.

From there, she cleverly tied together the way black women dressed and the development of the modern Civil Rights movement, using everything from Blue Note jazz album covers to photographs of people such as South African singer Miriam Makeba (the very one I'd seen at the VMFA in the South African photography exhibit "Darkroom" at the VMFA in 2013) and covers of "Drum" and "Ebony" magazines to illustrate her point.

A 1973 article in "Drum," a South African tabloid, warned young women that they'd be fined or even jailed if they were caught in a mini-skirt.

Sorry, but having come of age when I did, I've always felt that mini-skirts were my birthright.

Perhaps most fascinating was how African Americans had first looked to Africa for inspiration, but once the notion of "soul" became a global concept in the '60s and '70s, the rest of the world looked to the U.S. for what was deemed to be modern and soulful.

Being part of that first generation who were offered women's studies classes in college all but guaranteed that I'd have a life-long interest in women's cultural history, so I was totally into Dr. Ford's history lecture with fashion on top.

Less women-centric, but still fine entertainment for this audience member, was tonight's installment of Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, with the theme "through the wringer." Because who among us hasn't been at some time or another?

Waiting to get into the back room at Balliceaux, I chatted with a woman who'd come in from the east end while maintaining my place at the front of the line. Sitting down in a folding chair, I heard my name called by an artist I'd met at Crossroads a few months ago and when I looked to see who was down next to me, it was the vintage queen I'd seen at Mr. Fine Wine the other night.

"Oh, you again?" she joked, as the handsome chef with her handed her a bourbon cocktail.

So, the show. A blind man, a formerly homeless woman and a Senate intern walk into a bar and they're limited to true stories lasting no more than 5-7 minutes. Holy cow, that bar was Balliceaux!

I'm not sure if it was the theme or if the stars were just in alignment, but tonight's stories were stronger than they've been in some time, with some real heart breakers and major life affirmations thrown in for good measure.

Elaine explained how she'd lived in 30 different places, including her Honda Accord over the course of a year during which she continued to assure herself that she wasn't homeless (homeless people have bad teeth, smell funky and have drug habits, or so she thought). She became an expert in doing laundry in any sink she could find.

Henry was a Senate intern during the government shutdown a few years ago, taking complaints and threats from voters back home, experiencing a shooting just outside the senator's office and being rewarded with a pizza party for his effort. He's till trying to dig out of the hole that experience left in him.

Bill shared the tragic story of an abused woman friend who got a restraining order against her abusive husband, who then showed up anyway and beat her to death with a gun in front of her kids and sister, leaving behind "blood mud." His point was that her death sent out a ripple that affected so many others.

Richard called his move to Portland after his divorce a "hail Mary pass," but was grateful to land in the home of his friend Cheryl and her husband Ed, whom he described as the nicest heroin addict he'd ever met. After taking a room with another Cheryl, he was kicked out for putting a non-dishwasher dish in the dishwasher (horrors!), but found a good home with a nice Asian man, but only after pretending to be someone else.

Elizabeth grew up in a strict family, got engaged after three dates, then got married and went to prom. Unfortunately, her young husband robbed a house - "That's a felony" - just as she found out she was pregnant. "He came in shackles to see the birth." She raised her son without him and was very happy with how life had worked out.

Kristin was a career-oriented VP in finance by age 30 and then another skier ran into her at Wintergreen and she wound up with a brain injury where she couldn't remember names, places or much of anything about her life for months. Now back at work part-time, she's regained her sense of humor. "This brain injury thing, it's all in my head." Ba dum bum.

Anya's story was about her brother in Poland who'd been cross country skiing at night when a truck overtook him. Luckily, it was high enough that he could lean back and go under it, although he arrived home bloody and disoriented. At the village hospital circa 1995, the only bed was in the psychiatric ward, where the very old man in the bed next to him decided to stab himself with a fork to the wrist, causing spurting all over her brother. Anya was good enough to bring the fork for proof.

By the time intermission rolled around, I think it's safe to say that we were all gobsmacked with the stories we'd heard. What could possibly top any of those through-the-wringer moments?

Taylor could. He walked onstage, cane in hand, joking that, "The good thing about speaking in front of a crowd is I have no idea how many of you there are."

Seems he'd been coming home from helping his girlfriend assemble a Barbie car on Christmas eve when he feel asleep and hit a house. One TV newscaster pronounced him dead on the air (he wasn't). He woke up from the coma exactly two years almost to the minute that his Mom had died, but everything was dark.

He was told he was blind, "you won't be able to move the left side of your body and it's doubtful you'll ever walk again." Taylor responds by getting out of bed, walking over to the doctor, shaking his hand with his own left hand and thanking the man for saving his life.

He's still blind, but he says he's better at everything else now. Damn.

Donna found Tree Farm Guy on Craig's List, happily dated him for years ("We had hot sex!) but he didn't want her to move in and they broke up. Sniffing around on Craig's List, she creates a profile for herself (DICK4U@gmail.com) and answers Tree Farm Guy's ad looking for men. She's still hopeful about finding a nice guy, but TFG wasn't it.

J. Michael's story was about forsaking good friends for the shallow allure of a social fraternity, only to learn that his friend had died in the interim and he never got to re-connect with him. His advice was to keep good people in your life (TFG was not good people, not to mix stories or anything).

Mark called his saga frivolous after the preceding blockbusters and he was right. It began with a trip to the Chilean desert, a difficult bike ride after a pedal fell off and an ass-numbing four-day jeep ride during which the driver was eating cocoa leaves non-stop and ended with a Frenchman improbably named Jeff coming out in a thermal shirt, a fleece vest and what Mark called a "banana hammock" before disappearing.

Brandi was wrong, these were stories that did mean something, whether you had someone to tell them to or not. And, despite being asked several times, I'm not going to be sharing my "through the wringer" story, either.

But let me assure you, it's how I got to where I am.

Not a Hiking People, Either

I ♥ oceans, but I accept that some people ♥ mountains.

For them, there was Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story at Balliceaux tonight. Or, excuse me, Kampot at Balliceaux, as the re-formulated kitchen is now called.

That's right, stories about mountains at what amounts to an entirely new restaurant concept inside a mostly familiar setting.

Decor or art installation? Three small vintage TV (2 black and white, 1 color) sets mounted over the bar showing an endless loop of retro bike footage, interspersed with a fake snake (head rearing back) between TVs and a nearby pastel statue of Mary (with picaresque garland). You make the call.

But what to eat, what to drink at this new spot with the likes of Miguel playing overhead?

When I heard they had housemade root beer, I was thrilled, doubly so when a tall glass of creamy, foam-covered root beer showed up. I've had housemade root beer before - I'm quite fond of Weeping Radish's - but never with a head like this on it.

It was such terrific root beer I'd go back just for that.

But they didn't only score in the libations department because everything we ordered was pretty tasty. Our server began by explaining the tapas concept to us (hopefully that bit of unnecessary speech-giving will cease and desist soon) and we wasted no time making check marks next to ones that sounded promising on the menu.

Fried chicken skins because yes (the drier texture beginning uninterestingly but becoming more appealing after several bites). Caramelized boneless chicken thigh (because we wondered about a connection between those skins and thighs and inquiring minds wanted to know) with a piquant boost from pickled cabbage.

Grilled, marinated pork shoulder (because some judge a kitchen by its pig) with a sassy jaew sauce that, if it got too hot on the tongue, could be cooled down with iced yu choy leaves brought at the same time.

I didn't need it, but some people did.

One of the brightest tastes was the lobster and local greens Siam-wich (clever, sort of) with Kampot lemon vinaigrette. My unintended brilliance was in ordering cabbage 3 ways - Thai basil, chili, and Virginia peanuts - which provided a perfectly balanced plate of crunch and flavor to complement all the protein courses.

As the dance party king commented later when I told him about the meal, "We used to have no great Asian and now it's exploding everywhere." They say it's all about timing and I suppose that applies as much to restaurant trends as to romance.

The crowds began arriving for storytelling, so we moved to the back (on the way a woman stopped me and said, "I love your metal straw." Cue Jackson Browne story), where chairs had been set up in rows all the way to the back wall, the first time I'd seen that. Even so, plenty of people wound up standing or sitting on the floor.

With larger, younger crowds come more younger storytellers and tonight's group proved that in spades. With a theme of "mountains," we heard from more than a few hikers and mountain-huggers.

Taylor had gone to Alaska to find herself, as told in her story "Fire Weed," in which she para- glided (or, as she put it, jumped off mountains with strangers) in the rain. Metaphors followed.

Richard, a semi-regular legend at Secretly Y'All (also, co-organizer Colin's father, but that's not why we enjoy his stories so much), turned out to be a native of West Virginia (hence his story's title, "The Mountain State"), with the funniest bit being about how being a newsboy delivering in the hills gave him strong, muscular calves.

"Still the strongest part of my body," he bragged, lifting his legs. "Wanna feel them?" Awkward on purpose is always funny.

Joe's story, "I Guess I Like Hiking" concerned him being shorter and fatter as a teen. "But what I lacked in height and cool, I made up for in succumbing to peer pressure." He scored points by pooping in the woods on a hike because this is what impresses 15-year old boys. Succumbing naturally led to his first pot-smoking experience, which involved Dads who hiked slowly, a Bic pen and tin foil.

I don't pretend to understand.

Another story involved taking a selfie on Mount Everest after being able to only (only!) climb 18,198 feet. What was dire wasn't that she was oxygen and sleep-deprived - though she was and apparently a girl doesn't look her best when she is - but that her phone was at 4% power when she began her selfie attempts.

For the curious, she was willing to show the photo afterwards. Extra points for show and tell.

Charlie's "Slow Step Saji and the Sermon of the Switchbacks" began on a balcony on Monument Avenue waiting for the sun, moved on to a two-month backpacking trip through Utah and eventually to the end-of-hiking day pleasure of a Snickers bar and stripping off his clothes on top of a mountain.

Can I have the same kind of Snickers bar he's having?

We got a Hiking 101 lecture from Kylie who impressed us with her knowledge of hiking hunger, as in the sheer amount of calories she consumed on the trail (9,000 per day) and the heightened senses that come with being in that state.

Woman claims she smelled detergent in the middle of the wild, only to run into a pack of day hikers in (ah ha!) freshly-laundered clothes 20 minutes away. That's some nose.

Alicia said she was a writer but before we could romanticize that notion, she informed us she works for Capital One, about the least romantic job imaginable.

Her saga involved escaping Giles County and the lifestyle that has sucked her mother and sister back in to its mountainous clutches.

Ain't nothin' romantic abut that.

There was a story about a six month road trip that involved three weeks without a shower, seeing an eagle flying overhead after outdoor sex and a 12-year old being obnoxious on a Sea-Doo (or maybe that's redundant).

They decided to end the trip the day after the high school musical theater group stayed up all night practicing next to their campsite.

Remind me again why people think hiking and camping are fun?

Margaret was very nervous, but not so nervous she couldn't tell us her trail name ("Murder Worm") and that she found family in other hikers.

I liked John's style - he carried his PBR in his shirt's breast pocket for easy access - and gumption. Speaking of his relationship, he said he'd reached the point where it was time to shit or get off the pot.

"This was a shit I wanted to take," he said to explain his decision to propose to his girlfriend. The mystery was why he decided to do it near a mountain (as his GF put it, "We're not a hiking people" Indeed. They moved here from Brooklyn).

Among the highlights of his story: he planned the proposal with his parents (no comment), he did it on Black Friday (a high holy day in his cheapskate family) and after proposing, she grabbed the ring from him, effectively stealing his thunder.

You had to feel for John and his Mickey Rourke sausage fingers.

I didn't have the ♥ to tell him that real romance is David proposing to his girlfriend Maggie on the dance floor after a cheesy '80s cover band plays Journey's "Faithfully" in Urbanna Saturday night.

Oh, yes, that did, too, happen. I saw it on Facebook. But there are no mountains in the northern neck, so they couldn't share that story tonight. Pity.

With three beers in her already, Kathleen attempted to interweave two stories of why she and her girlfriends now qualify as mountain women.

A year after their first camping experience, they decided to re-wild. You heard right, re-wild.

Despite using Air BnB to score a sketchy RV and relying on a case of Coors Light and a bottle of Jack Daniels to sustain them, she believed that the one-time camping trip in Colorado during a hail storm was preparation for anything.

Two things came out of re-wilding: coffee brewed using a sports bra and an empty Coors can and the satisfaction that all the mountain women involved had "worked some shit out," probably about relationships, she guessed.

Unlike past Secretly Y'Alls, I really didn't have a theme-appropriate story to share tonight, even if I were brave enough to try, which I'm not.

My lone pseudo-mountain story involved a date suggesting we hike Humpback Rock. I remember two things from that day: we listened to the new John Mayer record "Heavier Things" on the drive there and that my Witty Fuchsia lipstick melted in the car while we were hiking.

Needless to say, after that kind of trauma, I knew it was time for me to get off the mountain pot. Mercifully, I've never felt the need to re-wild.

Oh, and did I mention I ♥ oceans?

Give It Up, Turn It Loose

"Whoa RVA. You probably have nothing better to than go to this lecture tonight. Sweet."

That gentle reminder was from Nelly, a Richmond musician currently on the road, referring to the Cornel West talk at VCU tonight. She must have posted it just after I left my apartment to walk over to the Seigel Center.

There, I joined a line that snaked the length of the building, overhearing comments as we filed into the auditorium such as, "I fell in love with him because he's chairman of the Democratic Socialists of America," and "I haven't contacted Bernie Sanders' campaign yet, but I need to because that's where he needs help: the South." The first came from a guy who appeared to be about 18, the second from an aging hippie who probably voted for LBJ.

Knowing I'd have to wait once seated, I'd brought a book, "The Thurber Carnival," a delightful collection of James Thurber's essays and drawings from 1932-49.

Let's just say it was jarring reading dated descriptors such as, "with a colored woman like Della" and "Mrs. Robertson, the aged colored washerwoman" as I'm awaiting the start of a lecture by a major black intellectual in a series entitled, "Race, Citizenry and Memory in the South."

But that was then and this is now.

The crowd was diverse and just kept growing until the moment West walked out (accompanied by the man who introduced him) and began bowing to massive applause and then a standing ovation. Before he'd said a word.

But of course, we knew he'd have plenty of interesting points to make and he did, using the cadences and occasionally the rhetoric of a preacher on the pulpit. Meanwhile, people kept showing up although 95% of those who arrived after West was already speaking looked to be students (obviously raised by wolves).

He began by warning us that, "I move with the spirit so I don't move in calendar time," before moving through a one-hour talk and another hour spent answering audience questions.

In between, the audience testified when he said something profound, clapped when he hit a nerve and generally gave themselves over to the gospel of Cornel. Okay, there was one girl who sat plastered against her seat back, eyes wide, as if affronted by the passion of his commentary, but she was the exception.

Music and especially jazz were woven into his analogies. Talking about how Hoover had kept track of the goings-on of black literary and art figures, he roared, "Ever kept track of John Coltrane? How are you going to keep track of a love supreme?"

He talked about the inaccurate black worlds Disney created in films. "Yes, Disney enriched my childhood. I had to deconstruct it later."

Beginning with a Socratic note, he challenged everyone to decide what kind of human they'll choose to be. Running through his points and anecdotes was an entreaty to invoke our collective memory and examine preconceived notions.

Referencing people from Donny Hathaway ("He did not need a pat on the back") to Curtis Mayfield to Martin Luther King, Jr ("55% of blacks disapproved of him when he died but he didn't care because that's who he was"), he explained, "We love Lincoln, not because he was always right, but because he was willing to grow."

In an hour, he managed to address white supremacy, ecology, the 1%, "vanilla" suburbs and "chocolate" neighborhoods and the commodification of churches ("Not the titillation of praise choirs looking for a record deal").

He of course got political, with comments about the milquetoast neo-liberalism of the Democratic party, the donor-based and the corporate sponsored Presidential candidates ("The problem with Brother Trump is...well, that's another lecture").

Over the course of the evening, he admitted to two things. First, being a redeemed sinner with gangster proclivities, or, as he said, "I"m not being evangelical tonight telling you to become a Christian - it is a good idea - but that's not what I was doing."

Secondly, that he'd choose Aretha over Beyonce (while MLK had been devoted to Mahalia Jackson).

I feel sure I'm not alone in saying that it's always satisfying to spend time listening to a smart, funny man.

Once the Q & A ended, lots of people rushed the floor, no doubt eager to touch the man or ask for an autograph. He was quickly surrounded by a crowd.

For what? Far better to absorb what the man was saying and apply that to your life going forward than fawn, kids. Just do it.

The truth is, Nelly, I could have been satisfied at that point. I'd gotten to hear a brilliant man rail against not just the staus quo for blacks, but also for women, Latinos, the working class and poor and the prison population.

My mind had been stimulated and I'd gotten to hear an excellent orator.  But why not more?

Why not also go to Balliceaux for their first night with live music since closing at the beginning of the summer and just reopening two nights ago?

Why the hell not?

As I told several people tonight, I'm just happy to have one of my music venues back. I'd have felt the loss just as strongly if it had been Gallery 5 or Strange Matter that had closed for three months.

Bopst had booked Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess ("I love how her voice sounds like a 78 record. I wanna play scratching in the background," he says to me), a quartet of guitar, upright bass, clarinet/sax and washboard/cymbals, to re-inaugurate the back room and they were just beginning their first song when I went back there and found a place near the side.

Within moments, two couples were up and swing dancing, their perfectly synchronized moves an inspiration to the rest of us.

It's at least my third time seeing the band whose music is a pastiche of Dixieland, Tin Pan Alley and neo- bluegrass, with their secret weapon Jessy's voice, part little girl, part crooner and always full-bodied.

Once the band started "Old Fashioned Love," Bopst was on the floor in front of them, snapping pictures for the Internets (probably "Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess, Balliceaux, first set, NOW").

Near me, a guy slid his hand discreetly under the dress and up the leg of his girlfriend while continuing to look in her eyes and talk to her.

A barback returning from the side door by the stage where liquor is stored, two gallon bottles in each hand, did a nimble side step twice as he minced his way through the three couples dancing on the floor.

The lights were low, Jessy's voice was sultry and the band was swingin'.

Balliceaux was back to normal.

A very tall woman - maybe 5'10" or 11" - walked in wearing a cute dress and four-inch stilettos. Next time I saw her, the heels had been traded for white Keds and she was swing dancing.

During the band's second set, Jessy moved to the front of the stage to belt out a song without the mic, her voice carrying all the heartache of an old blues woman to the back of the room.

After another raucous number, she told her band, "Okay, let's do something easy. What's easy on that list?" Whatever it was, it got a few couples slow dancing.

Familiar faces dotted the crowd, all people I felt certain wanted to show their support for the return of live music: the organizer, the DJ, the former neighbor, the nattily-attired barkeep.

The last song was so fast-tempo that the three couples who staked out the floor were soon flummoxed. One stopped dancing and began clapping instead, another moved to the side and the third couple tore it up, changing out one partner for another throughout the fast part until all three were back to dancing with their partners by mid-song.

Yep, you read right. The evening was capped off with a dance-off to live music.

So, Nelly, don't worry. I went and heard Dr. West speak and then I went out for live music. I'm keeping the RVA flame burning in your absence. But come back soon because there is so much sweet stuff happening.

I just don't know how anyone had anything better to do tonight.

City Fixes, Women's Stories

The evening promised several things, but I never saw the urban brilliance or oral sex coming.

I'd begun at the Virginia Center for Architecture's opening of "Reprogramming the City," the latest exhibit. All I knew was that it involved re-imagining city systems and structures, which didn't sound like it had a lot of razzle-dazzle to it.

Turns out I couldn't have been more wrong. This wide-ranging overview of global brilliance sucked me in with clever, thought-provoking ways to make city living better.

First off, I learned something. You know why there's always so much scaffolding in NYC? Because they have an ordinance requiring every building have a facade inspection every five years. What that means is that scaffolding will always be a fact of life in the city.

Along comes someone with the idea to make the most of this necessity. Added to the scaffolding are counters for eating, pull-down seats and planters, making something formerly purely utilitarian now pleasant and inviting, a reason to linger, even.

In Sweden, where sunlight is at a premium during winter, many people experience seasonal affective disorder. So what do those smart Swedes do but install sunlight-simulating lamps in the bus shelters to allow people to grab rays while waiting for the bus. P.S. Bus ridership is way up.

Or how about the brilliance in St. Petersburg, Russia where they've installed "lampbrellas," light poles with umbrellas built in that sense rain and open automatically. People caught outside without an umbrella have a dry place to wait it out.

You know how seriously Parisians take their food, so they came up with tables that can be grafted onto plaza steps of buildings to create tables where people can eat sitting across from each other. The tables are easily put up and taken down. So civilized.

Even those airheads in Los Angeles showed off by converting former billboard frames into air-cleaning bamboo gardens. Do you know how much more attractive a billboard structure looks with bamboo growing out of it instead of some smarmy marketing message? Gardens in the air, beautiful!

In Vienna, Austria, phone booth usage was down but more people were buying electric cars, so what do they do? Add charging stations for cars to the phone booths.

As I walked around the exhibit, I was repeatedly blown away by how cities are re-purposing existing objects for 21st century lives.

It was the kind of show where complete strangers would be looking at something with you and then turn and begin discussing some aspect of it. It happened to me several times.

Best of all, they had a big glass bowl for suggestions for ideas to improve our own fair city. I say we start by copying L.A., Russia or Paris and move on from there. No sense reinventing the wheel right off the bat.

When I left there, my intellect was fully stimulated as I let my mind consider the marvelously creative ideas I'd just witnessed.

My next stop (yet again) was Balliceaux and this month's edition of the Noir Cinema series, one of my new favorite events. This month, they'd brought in director/actor Ka'ramuu Kush to screen his short, "And Then..."

After finding a seat in the third row, I looked around for someone I recognized besides the woman who runs the event. Not a soul. A few minutes later, a guy I see at shows took the chair next to me, immediately asking what I thought of last night's New Orleans band, The Naughty Professor, and, just like that, I had company.

But woman can not live by conversation alone, so I also enjoyed a Scotch egg, something new from the kitchen. The soft-boiled duck egg was covered in sage and thyme sausage, rolled in cornbread and deep fried before finding a home on a bed of shiitake mushrooms and beef demi-glace. Oh, yes, and there was a bit of shaved truffle on top.

It was obscene and I mean that in the most complimentary way. A couple of those at brunch and you wouldn't want to do anything but spend the day napping. I shared part of it with the guy next door lest I fall asleep during the film.

I needn't have worried. Even with an hour delay in starting due to technical difficulties and plenty of spirited conversation with strangers (about the history of the Moors, "Selma" and British actors doing American southern accents), enthusiasm for the film stayed high.

In fact, it probably grew when L.A. filmmaker Kush (originally from Detroit) introduced the coming of womanhood film, saying he was glad there were no kids present because, "This is a film for grown folks."

It begins with a close-up of feet dancing and moves up to where we can see two very attractive people dancing together (he was one of them). From there, we go to the bedroom where she's screwing up her nerve to tell him she didn't like something he'd done in bed while they were having sex.

When she tells him, it leads to a wonderfully honest scene between them as they discuss what they do and don't like - about sex and relationships. His key point is, "Hurting you can never make me feel good." You could almost hear the women in the room swoon when he said it.

But it was the denouement that caught everyone by surprise and not just because it involved obvious oral sex, although that part had some in the audience reacting very vocally.

Given a title of "And Then..." you can probably guess that no answers were provided at the end of the film. Each viewer was left to decide what may have happened next. For a lot of women watching, there was some serious fanning going on after that final scene.

If the DJ had begun playing at that point, there would have been no telling what might have happened on the dance floor. Instead, Kush took  the director's chair in front of the screen and the audience unleashed a torrent of thoughtful questions on him.

Mostly it was women, curious about his take on relationships, communication and ego. Many times, he commented on what good questions were being asked, but I think it was mainly a case of women (because 98% of the questions came from women) wanting to discuss the points his film raised.

Namely that certain conversations need to be shared in a relationship, even if the man's ego is on the line. Even if they're difficult conversations he doesn't want to have. He almost got cheered when he said that because men have the privilege in a relationship (like whites over blacks or rich over poor), it's up to them to try harder to talk about the things that matter to a woman.

Before long, we were discussing deep stuff brought up in the film. At what point in a relationship does having sex become making love and when do you talk about which you're doing? How valid is marriage realistically? How far should you go to accommodate someone you love?

Because Kush chooses to make films that tell women's stories, he took a lot of questions about how he gets in the head of the other sex. In the case of this one, he and a female friend traded off, each writing one page of script and then turning it over to the other for another page. "These are conversations that need to happen between couples in real life," he said.

In this case, it meant that he got to write some women's parts and she some men's, making for a distinctive viewpoint that resonated with the audience. Women just kept asking him questions, not just about the film but about men and relationships.

When one asked how old he was (41), he laughed and asked why she wanted to know that. "Because you seem really thoughtful and intuitive so I figure you must not be too young since you've figured out so much already." One woman asked if he got handed panties and phone numbers after he screens the film (head shots and bios mostly).

The Q & A went on for well over an hour, an obvious indicator of how many women in the room related to the issues raised. He's shooting his first full-length feature this summer and it'll also deal with sex and gender issues. We even got his word that he'll screen it here for us.

And then...we'll probably have another fascinating discussion about coupling. Why? Bamboo on billboards: easy. Men and women: still a work in progress.

Just ask any grown folk in the room tonight.

Foie Gras and Philosophy

Oh, yes, I have been ridiculed for my eclectic taste.

A friend used to joke about it, saying things like "Who are you off to see tonight? Portuguese hula hoop chanters? Norwegian midget clown poetry? Senegalese haiku dancing girls?" As if.

One friend who does not mock me for my varied interests was more than happy to make plans to meet at L'opossum tonight, although she had one concern. "Supposed to be oh-so very cold on Thursday. Not sure your legs will make it out of your apartment!"

Assuring her that my legs always make it out of the apartment, we were welcomed warmly as the bar's first occupants. You have to appreciate a bartender who remembers an infrequent customer.

Since it was our first 2015 get-together, we decided to begin with glasses of the oh-so dry Treveri Brut de Blanc to toast our nearly 20-year friendship and the new year. And, let's be honest, because we just plain like sparkling.

Because it was my friend's first visit, we took some time for her to get the lay of the land, surveying the visual splendor that is L'opossum. As an artist, she couldn't help but be taken with the colorful light fixtures, the Andy Warhol wallpaper-covered bar, even the beautiful votive candle holders along the bar. No detail escapes the owner's discerning eye, making it a pleasure to behold, no matter where your eye lands.

After admiring the most unique menu design in town (she and I originally met when she was making her living as a graphic designer), we got down to ordering so we could move on to social intercourse.

Like me on my first visit, she was understandably immediately drawn to the el Dorado low rider, a lobster taco with truffled guacamole, although, unlike me, she decided we needed to splurge and have the chef's surprise (silky foie gras) added on.

Since that combination was guaranteed to close our arteries mid-conversation, we balanced it with the polyamorous hippie three-way because the two of us are, after all, products of the '70s (which should not necessarily be construed to mean that we were polyamorous...or that we weren't).

Eating the plate of toasted papadoms with quinoa tabouleh, hummus and baba ganouche first, the bright, fresh flavors made it difficult to keep in mind that this was our healthy choice.

And while I knew how flavorful and well balanced the lobster and tomatillo taco was, the addition of the foie gras pushed it into all new territory, something at once obscene and glorious. And with the Treveri, an absolute indulgence.

Several times while we ate, my friend paused and cocked her ear toward the speaker, taken by the noticeably well-chosen music playing. I assured her it's always that good. It's no exaggeration to say that there's no more unique or compelling restaurant soundtrack in this town.

Midway through eating, a friend came up to say hello and I almost didn't recognize her. She was dressed to the nines and looked absolutely fabulous, but I'd never seen her in anything but jeans or a bathing suit. You just never know how beautifully some people clean up, I teased her. For that matter, her happy husband looked tres dapper in a suit, something else I'd never seen and I've known him far longer.

Not long after, the couple who'd taken up residence next to us at the bar, turned to my friend and greeted her by name. He was someone who used to date a co-worker of hers and his companion was the set designer for a local  theater company's upcoming production.

Always in Richmond you may be guaranteed that even in a tiny restaurant on a freezing Thursday night, people will know you and say hello.

Rather than leave our palates hanging on a savory note, we closed out with la petite mort au chococlat en flambe (because what woman doesn't want to die by chocolate?), admiring the finesse of our server as he poured 151 rum over the chocolate brick and ignited it for a bit of dessert pyrotechnics.

That left us no choice but to inhale the cayenne-infused delicacy and moan a little.

By the time we reached for our coats, the dining room was full and we were up to date on each other's lives. My dressed-up friends were still waiting on the couch up front for a table, so we paused to chat, meeting their charming friend who's about to embark on a two-year motorcycle trip through South America. Last year, it was the Yukon.

My only question was, "You don't have a girlfriend, do you?" He grinned and said no. With his accent and winning smile, I doubt he'll lack for company south of the border.

As she is wont to do, heading out my friend inquired what my next stop would be.

Duh. What else but Balinese Wayang shadow puppetry with Master Gusti Sudarta and musical accompaniment by members of the Gamelan Raga Kusuma?

Laugh all you want, but the back room at Balliceaux was crowded with spectators when I arrived. It was a diverse group - I spotted three berets in the room - from a child to a very old-looking man. The shadow screen was set up in the center of the room, with people sitting on both sides of it for very different views.

Those in front saw a traditional Balinese shadow play. Those behind could see the master as he chose colorful cardboard figures to manipulate behind the screen, as well as the three musicians playing behind him. Those on the sides could see bits of it all.

I began on the side next to the sax player I know, listening to the Gamelan leader explain what would happen and that it was okay to move around during the performance for varying views. He said we could expect everything from fart jokes to philosophical observations, meaning the narrative was going to be as wide-ranging as the audience.

During the "overture," I chose to move to the bar and take a yellow stool so I could watch from the traditional view, while still having a clear shot of two of the musicians playing. It was ideal for me, but plenty of people moved around throughout.

Parts of the story were in Balinese with others in heavily-accented English, such as when one character called out, "Happy New Year, everyone!" to the audience. There were traditional Balinese songs followed by cracks about Mick Jagger and Michael Jackson. During a fight scene, there was a crack about Bruce Lee.

It was after our hero, the prince, had gone to the woods for enlightenment that we got to see the creatures of the woods: giraffes, kangaroos, frogs (with background mouth harp accompaniment), big cats and rabbits. At one point, a character pulled out a cell phone puppet, to the crowd's delight. My favorite element was the hair ponytail on certain "devil" puppets because it flew around wildly when they were fighting.

At the end, the moral seemed to be that life was happy in the forest because there was no stress.

While some people in the audience looked at their phones throughout, most people seemed pretty into the performance and there was lots of applause when it finished. The master came out to take a bow, wearing only one sock, the other foot barefoot.

Maybe this is an ancient Balinese custom.

Holy cow, maybe I'd just seen semi-barefoot Balinese Wayang shadow puppetry, an even more culturally rarefied way to spend an evening.

I don't care how frigid it is, I'd have to have the stupidest legs in Richmond not to leave my apartment for that.

Building a Dynasty

You think you know how things will go, but you never really do.

I thought I'd sleep in like I always do, but I awoke at 7:44 and never got back to sleep. Might as well get up.

My reward for not getting up at my usual time was a day already so gorgeous that I opened all the windows before I even made breakfast.

I got dressed for my walk as if it were December 1st, got as far as the front door and came back upstairs to change into shorts and a t-shirt. With the sun already making me warm, I headed over to Oregon Hill to pick up the North Bank trail to Texas Beach.

For a change, I came back not along the river but on South Lombardy Street, a stretch I'd never been on. Of note was a street where every street light had a solar collector, a pile of fragrant new wood-smelling roof trusses in front of a house being built and the elaborate Petronius Jones Park which I'd never laid eyes on.

Walking back toward J Ward, I was plotting how to best use this gorgeous day. A drive to Merroir for lunch? A book in the park? Some gardening? How to make the most of 71 degrees in December?

It didn't matter. I got home to e-mails from three editors and spent most of the afternoon addressing their needs. "Stamping on ants," as a former boss used to call it. By the time they'd been satisfied, it was time to shower and go do an interview.

But when that was finished, I was free. My first stop was 8 1/2 for dinner - roasted red peppers and Mozzarella followed by a white pizza - which I did get to eat outside to enjoy the last of today's warmth.

With serious garlic breath, I headed to Balliceaux, parking five blocks away (parking restrictions until 9) but enjoying every step of the walk to get there, even if I did pass far too many houses already decorated for Christmas. The sidewalks were alive with dog walkers and joggers sweating almost as much as I had this morning.

Inside, I joined the line to pay my five bucks (to be donated to Richmond Conexiones) to hear strangers and friends over-share at Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, with tonight's theme being "Plot Twist."

You have to understand, I go to this event because I am fascinated to hear strangers (and occasionally friends) share stories I have no business hearing. Simply put, I am nosy.

The crowd was huge although I saw very few people I knew. Okay, less socializing than usual. But as a long-time regular, I know enough to arrive before 7 so at least I'm assured of a seat. Let the first-timers sit on the floor.

And then we began with the plot twists, so many plots twists.

The first storyteller was Mack, a tattooed hairdresser whose true love was Shakespeare, sharing "I Owe You a Bullet." His saga involved taking his Dad's gun apart in 7th grade and putting it back together incorrectly.

This only became an issue after his Dad took in Steve, a recovering heroin addict, who isolated his Dad once he began dying and then stole and pawned many of his dad's possessions after the funeral, causing Mack to hate him. Back on heroin, Steve decided to end his life using the malfunctioning gun. See the plot twist there?

"The one person I'd most like to kill and I saved his life," Mack concluded. It was a fierce start to the evening.

Next came Sylvia telling "Steering Wheels and Circles" about her belligerent Dad and how he was always yelling at her, whether she was driving the boat and he was trying to water ski behind it or when he was teaching her to drive (and wasting 36 cents of rubber) and she hit pot holes.

After her Dad died and was cremated, she picked up his ashes to drive them home and had to brake suddenly, sending the box with Dad inside careening around the back seat. "He didn't say a word," she said to laughter. After that, she swerved on purpose just because she knew he couldn't yell at her anymore.

Katelyn's "How Did I Get Here?" was about her bad ass stepmom Anne whom she worshiped as a 14 year old when she saw her take a handful of pills with no water ("Why do you think men like me so much?" she asked the traumatized teen. Awkward).

She recalled how much fun she saw her Dad have with Anne, who called him the great love of her life. Ah, but Anne strayed and had an affair with Glen after he presented her with a 72-page PowerPoint presentation. End of marriage.

Then Anne got sick and sicker with ALS and died and Katelyn was asked to speak at the funeral. "Glen showed his 72 page PowerPoint and I wanted to scream at him that this was about Anne, not how big his penis was. That's what the PowerPoint was about," she shared.

Wow.

Host Colin got up to introduce the next storyteller, saying drolly, "I wooed my girlfriend with a PowerPoint presentation but it was only two pages." Ba dum bum.

Shannon told "Cop Land on Repeat," about getting the call that his dad was dead while he'd been watching Cop Land on the IFC channel. FedEx delivered the ashes which Shannon managed to spill on the kitchen counter, a fact he wasn't eager to share with his roommates.

What helped him deal with the pain of losing his Dad was telling stories - at Richmond Comedy Coalition, at a pocket park -like the one he told tonight. He called 2014 the best and worst year of his life because although he'd lost a parent, he'd found beauty in life.

"It's so easy to be cynical," he said sagely. "There's no such thing as guilty pleasures, just missed opportunities and regrets."

Now there's a twist.

Austin's "The Awesome Story" happened after a night of cocaine and drinking Tuaca when he and a friend got home and found a possum in the dog's mouth. Managing to remove it, they saw it was half dead and decided to finish it off with a ceramic boot planter.

"We didn't realize it was playing possum. Apparently that's a real thing," he said to much hooting and hollering. After beating it with the sharp end of a tiki torch, he tried throwing it over the fence but twice it hit his brother's girlfriend's window.

His conclusion was, "Don't do drugs, guys."

Richard's story, "The Rose City" involved a low point in his life with an aborted move to Portland ("Before "Portlandia." It was a northwest backwater"), marrying a girl because they challenged each other to and winding up in a mental institution ("Westbrook, it's not there anymore") because he needed sleep.

Fortunately, at 47, he has since met his current wife and is not crazy. "Don't let people tell you that you can't run away from your problems. You can for a while."

During the intermission, hosts Kathleen and Colin told us that tonight was the fourth anniversary of Secretly Y'All and that in that time, they'd raised nearly $10,000 for various charities and non-profits. I like to think my regular attendance and all those $5 contributions helped that a little.

A friend came over to chat, asking why I didn't get up and share a story. "You blog every night," he reminded me. Not the same, I reminded him. "Just cover your face while you talk." Nope.

The two people sitting next to me were considering leaving during the break, but I warned them that often the best stories come from the hat when anyone can put their name in for a shot at being called. They stayed.

First up was Herschel with one of his distinctive rambling and tangent-heavy memories. This one involved running into a friend at Balliceaux ("Men come here because the women are attractive") before he was headed to an afterparty at Tavares' house.

On their way to the car, a man asked to use his phone and stole it. Over the next two days, he went through six cell phones trying to find a replacement for his stolen one. Apparently, Craig's List and soldiers shipping out the next day to Afghanistan aren't the best sources of replacement phones.

"I Will Survive" was Jessie's title and she began by telling us she was a confident woman who loves life and singing karaoke, even when sober.

Problems arose, however, when her boyfriend cheated on her and she found out from a woman at the bar he was cheating with. Sure, she threw a glass of water in his face but she also sought karaoke therapy.

At her favorite karaoke bar ("I'd built a dynasty of five years at this bar and he'd lived in this town for six moths"), she sees him come in and responds by singing "I Will Survive," pointing at him the whole while. She even sang part of it tonight.

"It was cathartic," she concluded. "He moved after that. Left the city." Damn, girl, well done.

Denise's story involved her last night at home before leaving for college, cough syrup loopiness and going dancing. Seems she ended up sleepwalking to her parents' bed, waking up with Mom and Dad beside her. "Honey, we're going to miss you, too," Mom says. She's since given up cough syrup entirely.

Somehow, and there's no good explanation for why this happens given the randomness of a drawing, the best story was saved for last. Rocky was a first timer and had assumed that the stories after intermission were somehow lesser storytellers than those in the first half. He'd already seen that that wasn't the case so he was a tad nervous.

Raised in a small (population 170 then, 140 now) town between Missouri (he pronounced it "Missoura") and Iowa where, according to him, gender roles were set in stone.

While he knew that it was traditional for 7 year old boys to get a gun for their birthday, he wanted roller skates. "I was the kid who wanted to sing the Snow White song to get birds to land on my fingers," he said sincerely. "F*ckers never did."

When a neighbor gave him a ride from school, he was asked how many quail he'd shot so far. None. "What kind of boy don't hunt?" the man had asked him. "I don't know, you tell me, " the young Rocky said, honestly curious. "I asked for roller skates."

But when his birthday rolled around, he saw a long box and hoped it was roller skates that needed to be assembled. When it was a gun, his disappointment showed and his Dad's face fell so he pretended to love it. Ricky's voice broke as he told this part of the story.

While his Dad plowed, the 7 year old pretended to hunt, telling his Dad he'd shot four birds but when asked to produce them, he couldn't and his Dad understood. "You don't want to kill anything?" he asked. No, he didn't. "What do you want?" Roller skates.

Three days later, red, white and blue roller skates arrived at the farm.

The applause was thunderous for Rocky's story. Between the telling and the tale, it had hit everyone in the room right between the eyes, which is the whole point of a Secretly Y'All evening.

Plot twists, we've all got them.

Walking to the front room to use the loo before I left, I ran into the photographer just back from the beach and enjoyed catching up with him. He wants to start a movement to add some lighter food to the Thanksgiving menu. I'd started with a big salad this year for the first time and loved the addition.

Waiting to use the facilities, a man asked if I was the end of the line and joined me. It took him no time to start quizzing me so I answered.

Do you know that the bathroom door opens in? Cause I once stood here for five minutes thinking it was occupied. I do. But I saw two women go in.
Did you see "Pulp Fiction"? I did.
Then you know what two girls do in the bathroom? I do.
Where do you live? Jackson Ward.
Where do you live? The Warsaw.
What do you do? I'm a freelance writer.
What do you do? I'm an architect.
You know, you're gorgeous. Even better, I'm fast in the bathroom.

On my way out, I stopped to say hello to tonight's DJ, the multi-talented "Can't Stop, Won't Stop" Reggie Pace, whom I've known for at least six years now. In no time at all, we got into how welcoming Richmond's music scene is, how many free shows there are and where No BS is playing New Year's Eve.

When he brought up a recent article I'd written, I explained that I try to write about people and events that I think are worth knowing, trying to stir up interest. "Tastemaker," he proclaimed. Just sharing what I enjoy. "Tastemaker," he confirmed.

When I went to say goodnight, he extended his hand, changed his mind and said he wanted a hug. First a compliment from a stranger, then a hug from a friend. I was liking the twists my plot was taking tonight.

There's no such thing as guilty pleasures, just missed opportunities and regrets. I want neither.

Here We Go

I hate when marriage gets in the way of music.

Arriving at Balliceaux for the Oumar Konate show, eager show goers such as me were delayed by a wedding party still occupying the back room.

Once it became clear they were camping out, they let us back there to mingle until the band started. The only downside to that was that they were an annoying and shrill bunch drunk enough to repeatedly knock into the growing crowd of music lovers.

I saw a few familiar faces - the pony-tailed jazz guitarist, the world music DJ and his artist wife, the scientist, the feminist, the Turkish singer and her date - among the crowd.

The photography gallery owner was there and said he'd recently seen me out and spoken, but I hadn't responded to his hello. Turns out it wasn't me, so I felt much better about ignoring him.

The show had been advertised as a band from Mali playing jazz, funk and rock but I heard from a guy who'd seen them sound-check and he said they were mostly funky, with some amazing acoustic guitar and killer drums that required special mic'ing.

Oumar Konate took the stage alone around 10:45, with only his electric guitar and began playing intricate and dynamic music that immediately stopped half the people in the room from talking.

After a bit, he was joined onstage by the other two musicians, one of whom played a five string bass and the other drums.

But what a drum he began with! It appeared to be a gourd set on a blanket resting in a crate and he proceeded to hold shaker balls in his hand and fist the gourd like a drum to elicit rhythmic sounds.

Oumar spoke in French and a little English and sang in what I'm guessing was the native language of Mali pre-French, which only made the songs better since we couldn't understand them, instead focusing on the intricate music.

Once they'd shown us how impressive they were like that, they switched it up and the drummer moved to a full drum kit and Oumar switched to an electric guitar.

Half way through the first song, I turned to the guitarist friend who'd unexpectedly shown up and said that it sounded like 1968.

"It's like what Hendrix would have sounded like if he'd grown up on a remote island," he said, noting the pentatonic scale.

Whatever. To me, they now sounded like a late '60s British band aping American bluesmen, with intricate and ridiculously fast guitar parts and lyrics I couldn't understand.

By the end of the first high-powered song, the drummer had shed his shirt and was glistening with sweat.

Part of what made them so compelling was Oumar's infectious energy and that all three of them smiled for almost all the time they were playing, as if tickled to be doing this for us.

Before the next song, Oumar looked out at the crowd and instructed, "Danser!" Mostly, people swayed or bopped in place while some of the annoying wedding people continued to shout at each other in the back.

I loved the way the bassist and Oumar eventually got into a lock step, Motown-like, dancing in place themselves.

Late in the set, the drummer took off on a solo that was knocking everyone's socks off and people began throwing wadded up money at him as he wailed on the drums.

When he began to slow down, Oumar looked at us and said, "Il ne pas fini!" and the drummer grabbed a small, African drum, slung it over his shoulder and began hitting it with a mallet.

But it was when he came out from behind the kit and played that little drum on the floor in front of the stage that people went nuts.

It was then that the artist came up and said, "I want to suggest your next article, if you're taking suggestions. How do African musicians feel when we start throwing wadded up money at them? I bet they think we're crazy." I'm inclined to think she was right.

After song after screaming rock songs evoking the blues, the bassist and drummer left the stage and Oumar went back to just his acoustic for a bit before the three of them closed out the set together.

"They're straight up killing it!" Reggie of No BS Brass band said to me as they kept taking the crowd higher and then providing release.

Translation: sure, it would have been great to have been away for Memorial Day weekend, but we would have missed a hell of a show.

Lunar Fairy Tale

It's a shame about the blood moon.

You look forward to something all week and then a little thing like a cloudy sky eliminates any chance of seeing the lunar eclipse and you have to adjust.

Make new plans and move on with your life.

So even though I'm not a steakhouse kind of a gal, when a friend invites me to dinner at Morton's the Steakhouse, I'm happy to go.

We ignore the cookie cutter looking dining room and sit at a bar table fronting Virginia Street so I don't have to see the TV.

When I ask for a glass of the Jean Luc Colombo Rose, the loud-voiced bartender tells me he can't serve it to me if I like Roses. Oddly enough, he will serve me a glass of white Zinfandel. I order a split of Prosecco instead.

The music is cheesy beyond belief, easy listening versions of songs like "Come Together" with its urgency stripped out of it, "The Girl from Ipanema" sounding like a deodorant commercial and Hall & Oates' "I Can't Go for That," minus its buoyancy.

Is this really what corporate types want to hear while they eat a $65 steak?

A woman arrives and takes a table near us, no big deal except that the bartender begins chatting her up (here on business, staying at the Omni, lives in Montreal) and her voice sounds like she was huffing helium before walking in. It's Betty Boop in the flesh.

It's a high-pitched squeaky thing that is almost as loud as the bartender's. There are moments when the two of them are talking across the room and I can't hear a word my friend is saying, despite the fact that he's a foot away.

I'm dying to turn around and ask her what business she's in with that distinctive voice, but my friend tells me not to and we move on to dinner.

He's invited me because he wants me to share a rib eye with him, mercifully the 16 ounce and not the behemoth 22 ounce. I insist on greenery to mitigate the inevitable artery clogging so we begin with chopped salads and have grilled asparagus with balsamic with the hunk o' meat.

The rib eye turns out to be a disappointment, full of fat and gristle and hardly befitting its price tag. My friend is clearly disappointed.

Although our server suggests key lime pie or carrot cake for dessert, he allows us to order chocolate layer cake instead, leading me to believe he doesn't feel as strongly about the cake as he did the Rose.

One bite in and my friend says, "Out of a box," and I have to admit there's nothing to recommend it except that it's got real whipped cream next to it and it is chocolate, albeit pretty average chocolate.

Fortunately, we have spent the time not just eating, but talking and catching up, so my trip to a steakhouse has not been a complete waste, even if it has confirmed what I already knew.

That said, years ago I enjoyed many excellent meals at The Palm in D.C. so I will at least allow that not all steakhouses are created equal. In fact, my friend assures me I would be wild about Butcher and Singer in Philly.

Perhaps.

He was ready to go home after dinner, but I moved on to Balliceaux to see NYC's Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess.

I got delayed when I ran into an acquaintance at the front bar who'd been wondering why his texts to me had come back to him. I reminded him that I am cell phone-less and thus un-textable.

Seems he'd recently smoked a rotisserie chicken after injecting it with bacon fat and had wanted to invite me over to enjoy it with other like-minded bacon fat lovers.

He put my number back in his phone and promised to call, not text, next time. By the time I got home tonight, he'd already left me a message to prove he had my number and would use it in the future.

That dilemma taken care of, I got a Cazadores and found a seat in the back room just as the band started up.

Jessy, the leader, played washboard, cymbals and sang in a beautifully powerful voice, while three bearded guys provided accompaniment: an upright bass player, a guitarist and a guy who played banjo, clarinet and sax.

When she sang "Shine On, Harvest Moon" in her lovely, languid voice, I think everyone in the room knew we were hearing something special.

"We drove up from Rock Hill, South Carolina today," Jessy said. "It's been a long day, so thanks for coming out on a Monday. It is Monday, right?" From there, they went on to discuss what song to play next. "We don't have a set list," she explained as if it mattered.

They did "Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter," compelling two couples to take the floor and begin expertly swing dancing.

Warning us that we were about to see a small disaster because they didn't know all the words so they'd have to whistle instead, they began Louie Armstrong's "Struttin' with Some Barbecue" with whistling until the sax kicked in and the room began applauding.

Earlier I'd noticed that the guy nearest me had no shoes on during their set but when they took a break after a song about a dead girlfriend, he found shoes and went up to meet the band, along with a bunch of the dancers who wanted not only to buy the band's CDs, but get them autographed as well.

I just stayed where I was and watched, resulting in a man coming up to me and saying, "Anyone who watches so intently must be a musician." You hate to disappoint people, but I had to admit that I don't have a musical bone in my body, that I'm just a big fan of music.

"Well, you must be a true fan because you're not drinking," he observed, pointing to the glass of water next to me. I pulled my empty Cazadores glass out from under my chair and admitted to Prosecco at dinner.

He told me he'd just eaten at Dinmor and I asked if he meant Dinamo. Affirmative. Seems he'd been driving down Cary Street and spotted it and gone in, knowing nothing about it, but thoroughly enjoying his squid ink fettuccine with calamari and shrimp.

The band returned and he took the seat next to me. A girl with a trombone appeared and sat down next to the stage.

Jessy introduced her as Martha, saying she was a new friend they'd met outside during the break and she happened to have her trombone with her so they'd invited her to sit in.

The banjo player gave her the key and they began playing "Louisiana Fairy Tale," and then invited her to move her chair up on stage with them.

"It's like a promotion," Mr. Dinamo said.

It was while they were playing "Chinatown" that he leaned over and pointed out that Martha was playing off-key. I asked him if he thought she knew that. "She's ultra-confident if she does," he said.

While the band was trying to decide what to play next, Jessy commented on how large the crowd was for a Monday night. "None of these people have to go to work tomorrow," my new friend said before asking me what I do.

He was tickled with my response because he's a scientist turned writer who's five years into writing a book about people and why they do the things they do. "If I send you a few chapters, will you rip it apart for me?" he wanted to know.

If it's as mediocre as my steakhouse dinner, I'll be glad to.

The Hot Mess closed with a spirited rendition of "Yes, Sir, That's My Baby" with poor Martha still off key but with everyone -musicians and audience- clearly having a fine time on a Monday night.

Plenty good enough to make up for missing the blood moon. And no, sir, I don't mean maybe.

Last of the Romantics

As if this unexpectedly balmy weather isn't enough to make a girl swoon, there was romance the whole night long.

Classical Revolution RVA was doing an evening called "Romantic Incarnations," so I dug up a (couple) date; left my windows open and met them at Balliceaux.

With a bottle of Domaine de Rome Sancerre and seats near the back, we were ready to hear music from the Romantic period as well as just plain romantic music.

And, let's face it, few words are as subjective as "romantic."

But Holmes and his beloved know music so I think they'd have enjoyed their first Classical Incarnations no matter what kind of music was played.

We'd missed the very beginning of the show, walking in on Alex playing violin to Debussy's "Beau Soir," followed by Stephanie singing an aria to organizer David's piano.

Andrew and his classical guitar got the award for Best Costume, coming onstage with his shirt collar up and tie unloosened, saying, "You may have asked yourself, why is he wearing his tie so ridiculously."

Seems he was emulating the look of composer Francisco Tarrega. "Google him and you'll see in the first picture that comes up. I wanted to present in the style when it was composed."

Okay, so I did look it up when I got home and he was right.

Like many other Romantic composers who incorporated their country's folk music into their compositions, Tarrega's "An Arabic Caprice" had a decided Muslim-sounding element.

At least until the guy in the bathroom near our seats dropped the toilet lid and it reverberated right to the fifteen-foot ceiling in there.

On the other hand, this is exactly what Classical Revolutions set out to do: put classical music in a relaxed bar setting instead of a concert hall.

Talking, moving around and probably even lid-dropping are all fair game, and by those standards, tonight's crowd was fairly sedate.

During intermission, I checked in with Holmes & Co. to make sure they were enjoying themselves, but then how could any music-lover not enjoy a free night of classical musicians choosing their own music?

An anniversary card was being passed around because tonight marked the end of Classical Incarnations' first year, a cultural milestone.

David came out alone to do a technically demanding Chopin scherzo, all flying fingers and, if you ask Holmes, excess of bass.

I don't presume to hear such things.

We saw two classical guitarists from VCU and a violinist named Nathan who did a lullaby written by the man he called "the czar of violinists" and for his son, Antoine.

Holmes, ever the card, leaned over and observed sotto voice, "If I were up there to play my viola, I'd tell a few viola jokes first."

I thought that was pretty hysterical.

Classical guitarist Andrew returned to give a shout-out to VCU's school of music, commenting on how many VCU alums and students were performing tonight.

"We're so lucky to have VCU in our city," he reminded everyone.

He was finishing the evening with three pieces, but first he explained to us why Liszt was the original rock star.

He was a notorious home-wrecker. He had amazing chops, touring Europe to great acclaim. He organized the first benefit concerts for earthquake relief, and then referenced Live Aid, although I'm not sure he was born yet.

I'd say Andrew made a pretty good case for Liszt.

His final song was one he said he'd learned just last night. "This last one will be short and sloppy and for that I ask your forgiveness."

As discussed with my crack team of a date, we only heard short, not sloppy.

"So that's it. We're done," David said unceremoniously to let us know it was time to exit, stage right.

It was a tad jarring after all that high quality romancing we'd just had.

But since it was still early, Holmes and the near-Mrs. invited me back for some left coast bubbles he'd recently picked up.

Treveri brut rose was not only looked like the most gorgeously feminine of pinks, but tasted that way, too, with lots of strawberry and just enough crispness.

I was invited down into the man cave, where the music, the bar and the comic book collection dwell along with the dust of ancient civilizations.

Holmes was in charge of music, although he also took requests and moderated discussions about song tempos (see: "Layla," "After Midnight" et al) when required.

Necessarily, the music followed Holmes' curve, coming as it did from his CD collection, so Byrds (I do love a twelve-string guitar), Gene Clark, Patty Griffin, that ilk.

The most unusual request came from Beloved and was for a CD of music that was played during the Kennedy years in the White House, stuff like Pablo Casals, Mahalia Jackson and Count Basie, something she'd picked up at the VMFA.

It even included the overture to "Camelot," which has one of the most romantic songs ever written.

But if I'd ever leave you
It couldn't be in autumn
How I'd leave in autumn, I never will know
I've seen how you sparkle
When fall nips the air
I know you in autumn
And I must be there

Drinking pink bubbles and listening to more romantic music, now that's the way you keep the evening's theme going.

Even solo.

Of Monsters and Men

Tonight there was good news and bad news.

The bad news came courtesy of the Paul Mellon lecture given by Dr. Gloria Groom at VMFA, "Manet: Fashion and Fetish."

Much of her talk was fascinating, about the key role the latest fashion played in Manet's work, even when it was absent like in the then-shocking "Dejeuner Sur L'herbe" where the men at the picnic wear suits and the women are naked.

Then there was his "Woman of 1866," a portrait of modern life with a woman dressed only in nightclothes but pictured with the oddest things.

A parrot. A man's monocle. A giant litter box. What the hell?

Manet used fashion as a pretext for experimentation, Groom claimed, so it wasn't about the weird stuff, it was about seeing a woman who'd been painted in her nightgown.

Ditto when he painted a woman in a corset with a man looking at her. a highly questionable scene.

So where's the problem with all this?

Manet believed in artifice, calling women in their natural state "monsters" because of the absence of make-up, hair dressing and clothing.

Apparently we aren't fit to look upon in our natural state.

Groom even admitted she agreed with this, but then, given her stylish clothes and make-up, I guess it wasn't surprising.

It did bring up a memory for me, though. Years ago, a boyfriend had looked at my face after our first sleepover and commented on how pale I was.

It was the first time he'd seen me without make-up and I guess the difference was apparently pretty dull.

Now I understand that he and Manet were in the same camp.

So there's a takeaway I certainly didn't expect from an art history lecture.

From there, my art-loving friend and I went to dinner at Bistro 27, aka my neighborhood joint, where we broke bad and sat at a table.

Music was absent, many of the tables around us were full and we had lots to catch up on.

We both started with tonight's soup, a creamy sausage and potato that was obscenely creamy but luckily the bubbles in my Prosecco helped cut the richness a bit.

While she told me about the wild ride she's been on the past week (I can't keep up with her dating schedule), we moved on to a beautifully medium-rare rack of lamb and ruby red trout with crawfish etouffe, both outstanding and both too big to finish.

While we gabbed about art and men, the dining room began to dwindle until the chef must have gotten bored because he came over to chat with us.

As usual, he began by accusing me of "cheating on him," which is how he refers to me eating at other restaurants, despite the fact that it's my job.

He didn't want to intrude on our girl talk, but by that time we were ready for the last course, so we insisted he stay.

With our chocolate hazelnut torte, we had Graham's LBV 2008 Porto because Chef Carlos recommended it as young and figgy (descriptors that could have been used for me at one point) and if you can't trust a man speaking Portuguese about Port, well, who can you trust?

Finally too full to even sit there and gab any more, we parted company and I went to Balliceaux for music.

New York band Matuto, playing something they call Brazilian redneck music (I probably should have brought the Brazilian chef) was into their first song when I arrived.

With an accordion player, a guitar player, bass player, drummer and percussionist, their sound was part Brazilian folk, part bluegrass, part roots music and part swamp jams, especially when the killer accordion player got going.

I immediately saw a shy musician friend near the bar and teased her about being out on a work night, but we agreed the band was too good to miss.

Before long I ran into my former neighbor, the councilman, the jazz critic from last night and lots of musicians who knew enough not to miss a band the U.S. State department has dubbed American music ambassadors and sent touring all over the world.

By the end of the second song, people were dancing like crazy in front of the stage, including a group of four women who had clearly come solely for that purpose.

I took my place just behind them, a more discrete place to shake my stuff.

That's when the band gave us the good news. "The more you dance, the better we play!"

Well that was a win-win situation and from then on we only made them play magniificently.

At one point, the percussionist was coaxing unbelievable sounds out of his tambourine and a woman in front of me turned around accusingly and asked, "Did you see that?"

I had, but I still didn't understand what I'd seen despite being amazed at what I was hearing, so I went back to shaking it.

Meanwhile, there was the tall Italian guy who kept grabbing different women to dance with, the guy in white shoes and red and white polka-dot tie who alternated taking pictures and dancing and the guy who danced so frenetically you had to watch out for his flailing limbs.

Not that there's anything wrong with any of that because everyone was having a blast.

The percussionist did a solo where we saw him work his tambourines like drums, eliciting sounds with wet fingers and subtle shaking and causing people to gather around him to get a closer look.

The accordion player, he of the mischievous eyes, also did a solo, his sweat-soaked shirt getting even wetter as he tore up the accordion and the crowd went crazy.

"Can we finish up with  a big, synergistic moment with the people of Richmond and Matuto?" the singer/guitarist asked.

We all gathered  together so he could snap a few pictures of us all, no doubt to add to their globe-trotting scrapbook.

They did a drawing for a free CD and the guy who won, the frenetic, flailing one, asked if he could dance onstage for the next song.

As if Matuto would deny someone their right to dance.

That said, he almost took off the bass player's head at one point, but at least he was having fun.

Midway through the last song, the guitarist yelled, "When you dance, I get a knot in my belly."

It's an evocative phrase, isn't it?

As a woman, I may be a monster in my natural state but if I can, chances are I'm going to do what it takes to cause a knot in a man's belly.

Sometimes it's dancing and sometimes, well, that depends on the man.