Mess Mates

Repeated the head, went to the county and revisited Paris in the '20s.

Funniest line of the night: "Do not sit on the sofa!"

Girlfriend finally in tow, we began at Tio Pablo, where one of tonight's specials was beef head.

"That's so you," my friend observed, declining to join me in some head.

"We use the whole cow," our server said immodestly.

Once our food was delivered, our server recommended "head first" and I took her advice.

That, a tongue taco and a glass of Espolon and I was a very happy camper.

I couldn't convince the more conservative eater to join me in tongue either but we happily lapped up guacamole, pinto beans with bacon and pico de gallo together.

The meal was fortification for driving to the Henrico Theater, a place I had been only once, and tonight where Capital Opera Company was performing "H.M.S. Pinafore."

Despite our arrival to masses of people, we were able to score second row seats with a fine view of five life preservers hanging from the stage.

The first-time director spoke about the all-volunteer company, garnering applause to which she responded, "Don't clap yet. You haven't seen it yet."

Good point, although I'd heard several of the performers sing pieces from this show at VMFA a while back.

Tonight was only the company's sixth performance and last of the season.

She said the entire production had been put together in two weeks.

That probably explained why half the cast used British accents (Dick Deadeye even going so far as Cockney) and half didn't.

"Extra grog sent to the company at seven bells!""

And while it was my first time seeing the Gilbert and Sullivan take on naval life, my friend was considerably more savvy.

Seems she'd been part of the chorus of a production of "Pinafore" back in her school days.

It was notable mainly because the performance was outdoors on a hot day and she promptly fainted under a tree, a move the audience took for part of the play.

Horrors!

So while I was mooning over lines like, "Your simple eloquence goes to my heart," she was wondering what happened to her favorite song, "I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General," which was conspicuously absent here.

The cast's ages ranged from what looked like middle school to well-seasoned, with the Buttercup and Josephine roles being played by particularly strong actresses.

Leave it to the women, many of whom wore period costumes and fur stoles.

She is the figurehead on my ship of life.

As the play began to wrap up, it felt very Shakespearean, with a three-way wedding to tie up all the loose ends of switched babies, class differences and love.

If only it were that easy in real life.

Our operatic experience was over so early that we decided to go in search of some fun.

We'd both heard about Amour's "Midnight in Paris" party last night, so we made that our destination to see what we'd missed.

The restaurant was still decorated from the party and looked fabulous with sheer white curtains between some tables, a "window" looking out on the Parisian skyline, peacock feathers everywhere, fabric-draped fans and lace curtains in the front window.

We made our way to the back through a lot of diners still eating and found seats at the bar.

The photographer who'd taken pictures of last night's fun happened to be there, so we looked at scads of photographs of customers in period dress, servers with period coiffures and the owner Paul very dapper in a gold brocade vest and bowler.

Clearly we had missed a very good time.

I'd had an inkling since when I got home last night, it was to a message from Holmes and his honey, who were at Amour, and wondering why I wasn't part of the fun.

All I can say is I won't miss the next one and the chance to find some thrift store finery to suit the Jazz Age theme.

The best we could do tonight was partake of the party's signature drink "Midnight at Amour," a refreshing cocktail involving fresh-squeezed orange juice, absinthe, bubbles and who knows what else.

Probably crushed peacock eyes or something.

My girlfriend and I invited others into our circle for conversation, including a guy introduced to me who felt sure I was thinking, "I wonder who this strapping young man is?" about himself, a guy trying to make a long-distance relationship work with a woman in a rabbit hat, and a May-December romance drinking only the best wines.

We took all comers.

But after several rounds of "Midnight at Amour," it was clear that it was time for this ship to sail. I love my mess mate, but even a ship's figurehead has gotta sleep sometime.

And it was long after midnight in Carytown...even if the sun was coming up in Paris.

Night Creeping on Apace

As Swedish pop master Jens Lekman put it, "It's a young Friday night."

Or at least it was when I arrived at the VMFA for Capitol Opera Richmond's evening of "Famous Arias and Duets."

The fairly recent company is the fifth in the group of all volunteer opera companies begun in state capitols and targeting community involvement.

Given my inability to carry a tune in a bucket (according to my paternal grandmother), my involvement is attending and applause.

Seated in the atrium, our hostess said it would be a program of "art songs and selections from H.M.S. Pinafore," which Cap Op (yes, I am already abbreviating it) would be performing March 8th and 9th at Henrico Theater.

"We're going to play for you for the next hour, or two if you want to sit here that long," she informed us.

Stephanie came out in a long, green dress and sang "The Hours Creep on Apace" from H.M.S. Pinafore.

Favorite line: "Oh, god of love and god of reason, say
Which of you twain shall my poor heart obey?

Isn't that the eternal question?

Next up was Jason, dressed far more casually, and doing another H.M.S. song before he and Stephanie did a duet.

Meanwhile, the seats in the atrium were all but full, with many couples sharing a bottle of wine while they listened to opera.

It was certainly an imbibing crowd.

From the two staircases and landings leading upstairs, people paused to watch and listen from above, some lingering for only a minute and others taking up residence for the duration.

Me, I was perfectly happy in a chair not far from the guy with the bad toupee and the old hippie chick with the floor-length skirt and poncho.

Michael took the stage and announced he'd be doing "an oddball collection of songs" by Schumann and Debussy.

"I don't know how many people here are Debussy fans," he said as I watched knowing nods from a healthy number of heads.

His voice was stellar.

Fran came up to do what she called "Mozart art songs," promising a translation before each.

"The Violet" was a song of a flower trampled by a foot (an all-too frequent tragedy), two she called "Mozart being funny," one about contentment and the other beginning with, "Men are always looking for a woman to nibble."

And is there anything really wrong with that?

"The Parting Song" was as sad as you'd expect from the title.

As I was watching this parade of opera singing, it occurred to me that I'd seen very different music on this stage before.

For the museum's opening, it was one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, with guitarist Adam playing in a suit and barefoot, wailing on his guitar.

Shortly thereafter, it was Alejandro Escovedo, he of the first wave punk scene before moving on to a harder roots rock sound and playing to a packed house for the return to the Jumpin' in July series.

In other words, very different than what I was hearing tonight.

And yet I was glad I'd come. Perhaps not as deeply as the people with their eyes closed during the singing, but enjoying it nonetheless.

After opera, you almost have to move on to art because anything else would feel insubstantial.

Conveniently, it was First Friday and while many galleries had held over their December shows, some had new work.

1708 Gallery had Eric McMaster's "The Obstruction of Action," a fascinating look at what happens when our authentic self is altered by the rules and conditions placed upon us.

A scaled down hockey rink dominated the show and I wasted no time in walking inside it beside a kid in his socks sliding across the plastic ice.

Most interesting to me was that a hockey game of six on six plus a referee had played in that tiny rink and McMaster had filmed it.

It was playing on a nearby wall.

By far the most poignant piece was "The Obstruction of Action by the Absence of Other," a film of a couples skater doing a couples routine without his partner.

The artist had intended to film each of the couple skating alone and show them side by side but before he could, the woman had had a career-ending injury.

So watching the man skate the routine he'd created with his partner alone became incredibly moving to see.

It wasn't what the artist had intended, giving it more weight for its tragic element.

And 1708 was hopping with VMFA people, Anderson gallery types, and probably people looking for something different this artwalk.

Over at Quirk Gallery was Michael Birch-Pierce's "Honesty in Artifice," a show about looking further than the superficial to see into the wearer's mind.

It was clear that he had a degree in fashion design based on the elaborate articles of clothing he made and photographed on people.

There were also small scale works on the wall, complete with magnifying glasses for closer inspection.

Finishing with one of the magnifiers, the guy next to me raised an eyebrow and inquired, "Trade?" and we swapped places to look at each other's tiny objects and compare notes.

In the shop was Ben Hill's series of cut-up photographs of Richmond - Maymont, trestle tracks, the skyline- divided up into neat little segments that gave a geometry to familiar subjects.

We certainly are a handsome little city, aren't we?

By the time I got home, it was time to call up Holmes and find a suitable place to meet up with him and his main squeeze.

A person's got to eat to live, especially in my case. It's what I call earning a living.

Only then did this Friday night move from youth into middle age, with plenty of bubbles and laughter to ease into it.

Let's just say the god of reason was not needed.