A Summer State of Mind

And just like that, my summer has (unofficially) arrived.

I say that not because of the marathon birthday celebration that lasted all last week featuring stellar meals at Dinamo, Lemaire and Metzger, although it was a fine excuse to debut some of my newest thrift store summer dresses and pack away the leggings until Halloween.

For that matter, surely I could be forgiven for designating this year's first visit to Quirk's rooftop - with posse in tow, several of whom had yet to experience the beauty of Jackson Ward laid out before them from on high - as the kickoff to the most wonderful time of the year, but it wasn't.

And I don't say that my favorite season is upon us because of spending a day last week on the Outer Banks, despite the pleasures of a crabcake sandwich lunch at Frog Island Seafood, a cookout in the backyard of a soundfront cottage and the distinct pleasure of a major first: riding bikes from sound to ocean.

Technically, I could even make a case for the commencement of summer as the first night that required not only open windows (they've been the norm since April) but the additional machinations of the ceiling fan, the table fan and the upright fan, all wafting moving air directly at my bed. But I won't do that.

Another worthy indicator might be the hissing of the sprinkler saturating the continuous waves of flowers - heirloom roses, Asian lilies, Gerbera daisies, dianthus, petunias, clematis, pincushion flowers - in my little front garden. It seems like every time I'm down there moving the sprinkler, a stranger walks by and smilingly tells me some version of, "I love looking at your flowers." A woman with a toddler in a stroller has walked by repeatedly, explaining that she made my block part of her route solely so they can enjoy my garden.

No question, I could say that attending my first Sundown at Scuffletown show earlier this week qualifies as some sort of musical announcement that summer is here. The dusky interludes are one those established things (this is, what, the sixth year now?) I continue to do that never get old because the best things never do. It doesn't hurt that I always run into familiar faces, either.

As new to me as my latest summer dresses, the Billy Bacci Band - keys, guitar, bass and drums - delivered a solid set of keyboard-based indie music as the sun set behind the trees. Even Billy seemed thrilled with the outdoor venue, noting, "This is the best gig ever because I live a block from here!" But is my first outdoor show this year worthy of being the harbinger of summer's arrival? I think not.

What did make it feel like summer without a doubt was - wait for it - Mac and I finally being able to walk the Pipeline.

That it occurred on my birthday only made it all the sweeter. Uncharacteristically, we hadn't been able to get on the pipeline since last October, despite regularly attempting to do so only to find it submerged. Thanks to a record-setting soggy 2018, the pipeline has been partially or mostly underwater for months, depriving Mac and I of our favorite daily walk.

All I know is that as of May 23, the pipeline was back and we could experience the particular pleasures, both sight and sound, of walking on water again. Which means as far as I'm concerned, my season is here.

Let the hot fun in the summertime begin.

When Your Mind's Made Up

If I say I'm going to be at your house at 3:30, I'm going to be at your house at 3:30. Ahem.

And if it changes the rest of my life, so be it.

The problem with starting a blog when you're recovering from illness, unemployed and not in a relationship is that you hope that all those things will change. And while I can be healthy and employed while still finding the time to blog, it's a different story now that I'm in a real relationship.

Whatever that means, it's not anything I've done before.

So after a three day weekend celebrating love and luck, rituals and romance, I'm looking back at all the things I could blog about except that work is preventing me from going on and on long enough to cover even half of that.

Do I begin with the Prosecco kick-off to a six-hour meal at Dinamo, complete with drop-in guest for the much anticipated 3:30 toast with Gabriella Pinot Gris? How about the chocolate espresso torte taken home to enjoy rather than amongst the V-Day celebrants?

And don't get me started on the Year in Review, a photo album documenting 80 moments I may recall with clarity now but probably won't forever.

As for the cozy interlude at Lift to sip whipped cream-topped hot chocolate, well, that was just to take advantage of walking in the snowy/rain mix under a big umbrella together.

Or do I go directly to seeing "Once" at Virginia Rep and reveling in a 13-person cast, all of whom played their own instruments - mandolin, guitar, banjo, violin, drums - and a charming, if unresolved, love story? I first saw "Once" at an arthouse theater in Philly in August 2007, only to leave the theater in tears to drive back down I-95 south alone.

Let's just say it was far preferable to watch the musical love story unfold live with Mr. Wright and stroll home talking about it instead. Best line used 3 times: "I'm always serious. I'm Czech!"

For that matter, I definitely don't have time to go into details about going to see "From Here to Eternity" (a film I'd never seen before) at the Byrd Theatre. And because it was one of our themed movie dates, we followed up a classic film set in Hawaii with dinner at the Hawaiian-influenced Perch. Except that rather than tiki drinks, we went Spanish with Poema Cava to toast the future.

Favorite things about the movie? Burt Lancaster in fitted, '50s-style swimming trunks. Montgomery Clift in a pre-car accident role before his face got messed up. Outdoor Hawaiian Tiki bars circa 1953. Deborah Kerr in stylish high-waisted shorts. Raven-haired Donna Reed as a bad girl who wants to go "proper."

What I did have time for was wallowing in a long weekend with the most hilarious man I know without writing a single word for profit or for the online curious.

I can't promise that will be the case once the Year of Upheaval begins. But for now, I'm doing my best.

So Much Funukah

Leave it to a man from Chicago to show Richmond what a monument can be.

The plan was for Mr. Wright and I to walk over to the ICA for music based on art.

When we walked in, the woman at the desk asked if I was a member (natch) and then sent us upstairs to the third floor's True Farr Luck Gallery for the Provocations performance with Marcus Tenney. Turns out the Provocations series was inspired by architect Steven Holl's design intention for that unusually shaped top floor space.

Holl called it a "provocation for artists to engage" and with its white sculptural ceiling, church-like acoustics and opaque glass wall, there was plenty to inspire. Sitting squarely in the middle of the gallery was Rashid Johnson's "Monument," a towering, multi-layer installation made from a steel grid and filled with plants, grow lights, books, small TV screens and sculptures made of shea butter.

Walking around and through the installation, I told Mr. Wright that it reminded me of everything I wanted in my living space - minus the screens, of course and with the addition of somewhere to sleep - when I was in college. Shelves punctuated the grid with stacks of books - Hawthorne, James Baldwin - written by writers I only aspired to read when I was that young.

Naturally, I've long since addressed those aspirations.

Verdant plants of all sizes in colorful, sculptural pots softened the grid, turning it into an oasis of greenery that soared almost up to the impossibly high ceiling, with two benches inside for contemplation.

Signage told us that this was the Chicago-born Johnson's first major project south of the Mason-Dixon line. That a black artist chose to create a work called "Monument" in a city struggling to reconcile its avenue of monuments to treasonous white guys felt like exactly the kind of provocation architect Holl had in mind.

Well done, sir.

In a stroke of brilliant programming, the ICA is scheduling performers to "activate" the space with live performances created in response to "Monument." We'd come to see horn player extraordinaire Marcus Tenney show off his skills on flugelhorn and trumpet, so we found a bench with a view of him and "Monument" and settled in.

Within moments, a guy walked in and took up residence on the bench nearest us and turned his full attention to his phone. As Marcus began playing, the gallery filled with sound, his notes having enough room to soar to the rafters and fall back over our ears. Gradually, other people arrived to make their way around and through "Monument," but this guy just stared at his device.

Most of the people who entered the gallery were there with one mission: to take a selfie (or ten) as they made their way around "Monument" and then to leave. One beautiful young man in a yellow sweater posed against one of the grids and proceeded to instruct his obedient friend which angles to shoot him from. Over and over.

Shades of Bradley Cooper directing himself in "A Star is Born."

Meanwhile Marcus's music was filling the room as the opaque glass wall went from warmly lit from outside to a cool almost blueness once the sun dropped low. It was a remarkable change in light in the gallery that could only be experienced at one specific time of day.

Half an hour into Marcus' playing, we looked over and saw that phone boy now had his head lolling on his chest and was clearly sound asleep, despite the richness and volume of the trumpet notes resounding off the walls around him.

Not to be too judgey, but why come to a musical performance to look at your phone and then go to sleep?

When Marcus' performance ended, we set out for Dinamo, arriving to find a menorah on the bar and a basket with not only a dreidel, but instructions for the dreidel game and a basket of gold-wrapped chocolate money. We'd barely taken seats at the bar when a young girl at the table behind us spotted the basket, scooped it up and excitedly suggested a game to her family.

As one of the non-Chosen People, I found it all pretty charming.

Wearing flattering new glasses ordered off the internet, our server immediately remembered us as lingerers, saying she was only too happy to let us order our next course only after finishing its predecessor, but delivering a bottle of house white wine to sip while checking out the menus.

Even better than a game of dreidel was a special of smoked whitefish crostini smothered in red onion, the kind of generous starter that left us content and in no hurry for more food right away.

Next to us sat down a couple and he immediately ordered the t-bone with arugula while she wanted the snapper. Eyeing the gorgeous hunk o' red meat when it was put down before him, he apparently felt the need to explain his choice. Seems his doctor told him he has protein and sodium deficiencies, so he's doing everything he can to correct that.

His wife rolled her eyes, jealous probably. I know I would be.

All we wanted to know was how we could be diagnosed with the same thing so we could start calling steak our prescription drug. I'm telling you, that was one good looking steak he loaded up with salt.

After considering Grandma Ruth's brisket, we moved on to what is probably my favorite soup in the city, their lightly spicy fish soup with every kind of seafood and fregola, a bowl of warmth on a chilly evening.

Mr. Wright's choice was crostini with cured salmon, capers and cream cheese and he insisted I needed to up my Omega 3s, so I obliged by scarfing a crostini. A Nutella and sea salt cookie was about all I could manage after that, although another glass of wine seemed to go down easily enough.

By the time we decided to clear out for greener pastures, Dinamo was hopping and the dreidel basket was looking a little low on gold-wrapped chocolate coins. And, I'm not sure, but I think as we drove out of sight, I heard the strains of Adam Sandler.

So drink your gin and tonicah
And smoke your marijuanikah
If you really, really wannukah
Have a happy, happy, happy Chanukah

Oy, or maybe it was Grandma Ruth wondering what I'm doing wasting a nice Jewish boy like that.

As the resident goy toy, how should I know?

On Not Eating More Than You Can Lift

There is no love sincerer than the love of food.
 ~ George Bernard Shaw

I could politely be called an enthusiastic eater.

Partly that's because there's little that doesn't appeal to me and partly because I never succumbed to any sort of guilt about eating. I wake up hungry every single morning of my life, regardless of what I've eaten the night before.

I've been known to ask the driver of the car I'm riding in if we're going to stop for lunch barely 15 minutes after leaving home. If I get asked out at the last minute for lunch or dinner and I've already eaten, I keep quiet about it and go out for a second meal.

And sometimes when I look back at what I've been up to for the past couple of days, it feels like it's been non-stop eating. Oh, sure, I did some writing and bathing in between chowing down sessions, but not much else.

That's not embarrassment talking, that's simple fact.

Sometimes I find myself sitting at Metzger on a Sunday evening, mere hours after returning from brunch at Laura Lee's, inhaling pretzel rolls, lavash and spent grain sourdough with mustard butter and beer cheese, a completely unique squash salad with ribbons of carrots and a dark chocolate torte as if I hadn't eaten all day.

That vintage yet obscure soul music is, as usual, playing on the sound system only encourages us to linger and me to order yet another glass of Gruner Veltliner as the Sunday crowd gradually dwindles to the diehards on bar stools.

Not even a day later, I'll be happily ensconced on a stool at Dinamo, slurping up my cold weather go-to, also known as the pescatarian's delight: fish soup. Tomato based and muscular, the soup is loaded with rockfish, mussels, squid and couscous' Sardinian cousin, fregola, with just enough heat to keep you honest.

And for the record, I'm also using slices of Italian bread to sop up what my spoon is incapable of delivering to my mouth. Enthusiastic eaters leave no morsel behind.

But woman does not live by soup and wine alone, so we also share a salad and white pizza with red onions because the simplicity of a thin crust crowned with onions is about as satisfying as bread and cheese gets. The green salad is essential with pie. And the chocolate espresso torte? That's just my standard ending at Dinamo, even when I opt out of whipped cream and cherries.

There are only three things women need in life: food, water and compliments. ~ Chris Rock

Sorry, Chris, but some of us also need music.

Which means that by Tuesday night, I will lead Mr. Wright to Saison Market for wine and conversation surrounded by members of the Comedy Coalition working on being hilarious and loud. We sip until we're hungry before heading to Tarrant's Back Door for fish tacos, only three of which arrive at our table because the cashier has dropped the fourth one on the floor,

When I point out to him that we could go ahead and start on the three still safe inside their box, he looks at me with amazement since clearly this option has not occurred to him. Meanwhile, we dive into the tacos, each of which contains two enormous pieces of grilled tilapia the length of the tortilla and a fresh-tasting corn and cabbage slaw.

And notice I said grilled since fried fish tacos are not a personal favorite and the Back Door is one of the few places that knows this and gives me what I like. Eventually, the fourth taco shows up and is dispatched quickly.

Our final destination, since woman can not live by food, water and compliments alone (though I have come to revel in the latter becoming a daily part of my life after it being MIA for years) was Black Iris Gallery to see L.A.'s Lonesome Leash play for a small but appreciative crowd.

First of all, there's the setting: an intimate, wood-lined room with great acoustics. Then there's the vibe: dimly-lit, hushed, anticipatory. And the crowd who comes out on a chilly Tuesday night? They're a mix of music lovers, members of the LGBTQ community and those who've been tipped off that an amazing talent will be sharing their gift.

Witness how Mr. Wright's L.A. connection had alerted him to the show after I had already I had already made it my pick for the evening.

The one-man band that is Lonesome Leash (aka Walt) took his place in the corner of the room behind his arsenal: a bass drum, a snare drum and an accordion, with a keyboard to his right. Right off the bat, this is not someone who plays the accordion according to the tenets of Cajun, Alpine or Tejano but instead makes it pulse with an energy that sounds bigger than it should.

Although he began by singing in a hushed voice - delicately, beautifully, laying his life out for dissection - as he played gentle drums and winding accordion, it only took until the end of the first song before he was also playing trumpet. Folded into accordion and drums, the pure sound of the horn took the music into something positively soul-stirring.

With each song, it seemed as if he opened himself up further, skin, bones, heart and mind, inviting the listener to follow along as he mused on life, love and time spent alone driving. Sample lyric: "There is love in everyone I have known..." He switched to keyboards  to play some of the poignant songs from his new album "Delicate Art" before returning to dazzling us as a one-man band.

Each song captured the audience, from the slow burners to the more overtly powerful tunes,  and it was all we could do to clap loudly to show our appreciation for his talent each time he quietly folded his hands to signal the song ending.

When the show concluded, a friend walked over, stood between us and Walt and said, "Thank goodness there are delicate and emotionally fragile musicians willing to open themselves up and share their take on the world." Amen, girlfriend. I couldn't have said it better myself. It was as if a butterfly had landed on my arm and sat there for an hour, allowing me to savor up close the beauty of its wings and movement.

A musical memory of the highest order.

And no amount of eats can replace that feeling. So, sorry, Chris Rock, but it'll take more than food, water and compliments, though you can score a helluva lot of points with them.

You want to show me your sincerity, GB Shaw? Add music to the mix.

Striding up That Hill

Out of countless quips that had me doubled over in laughter, surely this was the best line of the weekend: "Roundabout. Dig it!"

Commentary followed by directive, Yes, sir.

Since I last blogged Thursday, I've been to six restaurants - Metzger, Dinamo, Lee's, Adrift, The Walkabout and Willaby's Cafe - not including the one that shall remain nameless because I was reviewing it.

Of note was the brisket at Metzger, our kickoff to soup season at Dinamo (fish soup and matzoh ball soup) with a side of travel planning, a server named Karen at Lee's ("Open since 1939!") who referred to me as "this lovely lady," the mystery man taking notes at Adrift who wouldn't tell us why he'd come to Irvington 29 years ago or what's kept him there so long (and I asked), tequila and dancing at a dimly-lit Australian Outback-themed pub to the classic rock ramblings of Right Turn Clyde and a waterfront seat for what is still one of the best crabcakes on the Northern Neck at Willaby's Cafe.

Our only food miscalculation was in not having a slice of pie after lunch at Lee's, but I'd foolishly followed the lead of the large man in the booth next to us who, when asked about pie, patted his ample girth and declined by saying, "Nah, I think I'll save today's dessert for after dinner."

That's all well and good until an hour later when you want to kick yourself for not just going ahead and scarfing two desserts in one day.

I was supposed to have seen two movies, but "Psycho" in Chimborazo Park never happened because the organizers opted to show "Monsters, Inc." instead. Why, you wonder, especially after I'd donned fleece leggings jeans, two shirts, a sweater, gloves and a jacket had they let us down? Because "Monsters, Inc." had been the scheduled film a week earlier when Hurricane Michael blew through and they'd had to cancel. 

Judging by the crowd of couples, not families, around us, I'm going to go out on a limb and say we weren't the only ones looking forward to Hitchcock, although we were the only ones who packed up our chairs, blankets, wine, bourbon-laced coffee and took the party to Pru's porch a block away instead.

In addition to bow tie-tying lessons, it was there that Beau decided to delve into the origins of When Mr. Wright Met Karen and Pru repeatedly insisted to him, "You broke her!" when she wasn't giving a Power Point presentation about my past and my proclivities ("She would never!"). Meanwhile, the menfolk sipped single malt Scotch and those of us with no circulation mainlined Grillo while availing ourselves of the porch's heat lamps.

Beau and I weren't shy about saying yes to slices of Pru's freshly-made peach clafoutis, even if I am allergic to peaches. Moaning with pleasure as he ate, Beau also insisted it would make an ideal breakfast food when warmed, not that everyone is as dedicated to that meal as he and I are.

They must not wake up hungry every single day like I do.

What Mr. Wright and I did manage to see was "The Old Man and the Gun," purportedly Robert Redford's final acting role and a fine (and true) yarn that highlighted the excellent chemistry between Redford and Sissy Spacek while telling the story of a string of '80s bank robberies perpetrated by what became known as the "Over the Hill Gang."

The film opens with a caveat: "This movie is, also, mostly true." So while it wasn't a documentary, it at least came out of real life and we all know how much that appeals to me.

Exactly once I was mistaken for a Cubs' fan, mainly due to the over-sized sweatshirt I had on for warmth on my morning walk through Irvington. The thing is, I've learned that that logo is also an excellent tool for identifying guys from the south side of Chicago since it seems to get a sure-fire reaction in Virginia. 

At least three or four times, there was protracted discussion of indulgence and specifically, why, at this stage of life, it's perfectly fine to operate in such a mode. In other words, if you're going to mention interest in a piece of art located in a place you've never been, chances are someone is going to think it's a splendid idea to make plans to see it.

A file folder naturally follows and next thing you know, a plan is in place.

The past two weeks since we returned from Athens have been a sort of no man's land, not quite back to pre-travel status quo - witness I only walked once last week - with three road trips this week alone. I keep expecting life to settle down to something approximating normal, except I'm not exactly sure what that is anymore.

Hence the lapse in blogging.

But given how wildly happy I am, I'm not sure that I need to. It's enough to wallow in it, play catch-up with work and reading my stack of Washington Posts in between and look forward to whatever's next. Dig it?

This blog post is, also, mostly true.

And the Beat Goes On

The consensus was that it was too hot for whipped cream on body parts.

We didn't reach that conclusion immediately - I mean, who does? - but rather after kicking off our Fourth of July eve with a food orgy followed by a record party, where the subject inevitably came up.

Holmes, Beloved and I met at his house for celebratory glasses of Graham Beck Brut Rose before heading to Dinamo for dinner. Luckily, we had an 8:00 reservation because the place was full up and people never stopped coming in the door. Finding an open restaurant tonight was no easy task given how many have posted "gone vacationing" signs on their social media pages.

Sitting at one of the Rob Womack-designed tables, I had a new appreciation for the tables and artwork after seeing Womack's work as part of the "Coloratura at 35: A Retrospective" show at the Branch a couple weeks ago and shared the back story with Beloved, my fellow art geek.

But not for long because a bottle of Miano Brut Catarrato arrived, our cue to start ordering enough food for a proper pre-Independence Day feast. I'm talking fish soup, egg in creamy tuna sauce, crostini with cured salmon, capers and cream cheese, arugula salad with olive-oil poached tuna and shaved Parmesan, mussels in white sauce and white pizza with mushrooms.

If it sounds like a lot for three people, it was, but how better to celebrate our break with the mother country than with gluttony? I will point out that we eschewed dessert for the simple reason that even gluttons have their limits.

Back at Holmes' man cave, we listened to some recent record finds from an estate sale, beginning with one I wished I owned: "Smash Sounds," a compilation of 1967 hits that launched our record party like a bottle rocket into the July night sky.

Not gonna lie, I didn't even know all the songs and artists, but that didn't stop me from enjoying every single one, including Otis Redding doing "Respect," a song I hadn't known he'd written.

The first side ended with Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth," a complete shift in musical mood from what had preceded it, which caused a group singalong while Beloved rifled through record stacks, Holmes poured himself some whiskey and I danced in my bar stool.

Everyone was in their happy place, in other words.

Reluctant to listen to side two because of the unfamiliar songs, I insisted and we were rewarded with what sounded like the hip, '60s soundtrack to a swingin' cocktail party we all wished we were at. Side two had plenty of slow songs for close dancing, but when I commented that it was good grinding music, Holmes looked confused. Beloved not so much.

Apparently women who lived through the '70s are far more familiar with the term than men.

I got to make the next pick and chose the seminal 1976 album "Silk Degrees" by Boz Scaggs, causing Holmes to complain that he couldn't get behind Boz because he abandoned Steve Miller's band to strike out on his own. Beloved and I, no fans of the Steve Miller band, had no such issue.

I can't say what decade I last heard "Silk Degrees" but I'm here to tell you that the moment the white boy soul of "What Can I Say?" began, Beloved and I were immediately transported back to 1976 and all that meant to us (youth and lots of dancing in clubs).

But to make Holmes feel better, I shared that three members of Boz' band went on to form Toto, so he too must have felt the pain of abandonment. Holmes, no Toto fan either, decided to learn more. "Let's do some research the way old people do," he said, grinning, and fetching a musical compendium where we looked up Toto and wound up taking all kinds of tangents while "Lowdown" and "Lido Shuffle" blared at top volume.

Over the next three plus hours, Holmes told us about the room where he listened to a lot of Led Zeppelin and how while tripping ended up passed out in the woods. "Who found you?" Beloved wondered. "No one, I decided to get up," Holmes answered as if she were an idiot. Meanwhile, my musical IQ benefited from Holmes' detailed explanation of what a Moog synthesizer was and could do.

Next up was the Troggs' "Love Is All Around You," also from 1967, and as groovy a song as we could have hoped for at that point in the evening, despite its poor recording quality ("That's part of its charm!" Beloved insisted and I agreed). Holmes reminisced about taking a girl and a blanket to a grassy knoll and playing the song for her on his 12-string guitar.

Now that's some major '60s style romance right there.

"Krupa versus Rich," Traffic's "Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys" and Joni Mitchell's "Court and Spark" (lots of sparking tonight) took us into Independence Day before my hosts walked me outside to say goodbye. There we were greeted by a yellow half moon that resembled nothing so much as a thin wedge of lemon, causing the three of us to stand in the middle of Grove Avenue at 1:30 a.m. admiring it.

What can I say? At some point, you just have to decide to get up and go home.

The Dangling Conversation

Robert McNamara was the game-changer.

The evening had begun in the sunshine of the front porch, sipping Aime Roquesante Rose and taking in the last of the afternoon's warmth as cars drove by (windows down and music blaring), students walked by in shorts and tank tops and my date explained why his Tuesday night had been lacking.

Since I was in charge of his Wednesday evening happiness, I could take no responsibility for the night before.

Once glasses were drained and preliminary conversation established, we wandered over to Steady Sounds for an hour of browsing the bins and seeing who commented on what records, the better to decide what needed to be folded into the evening.

He scored the first big find, "Spinners Live" from 1975 and that was the start of our stack, not to mention my first indication that I'd lucked into a fellow Spinners fan (Leo, are you listening?). From there we uncovered Cass Elliott (I'm a long-time fan of her voice), Laura Nyro (one of his), a Luther Vandross album I don't have (because Luther), an Emmy Lou Harris (seen her live, never owned her music) and a few other personal faves.

But it was when I came across Simon and Garfunkel's 1966 award-winner "Parsley Sage, Rosemary and Thyme," their third album, that I really got his attention. My only Simon and Garfunkel record is the Greatest Hits, a record I acquired from my parents once they stopped listening to albums. Time to diversify.

Glancing at the song selection, I saw that the album I was holding in my hand had four of the songs that made it to the greatest hits album including the heart-stoppingly beautiful "For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her." On top of that, the record had several songs I'd never even heard of, including the aptly '60s-titled, "A Simple Desultory Philippic (Or How I Was Robert McNamara'd Into Submission)."

Okay, let's just reflect for a moment on that magnificent title, shall we?

I would have been impressed solely with the use of "desultory" in the title, but add in "philippic" ("a bitter denunciation") and it's practically a word nerd's wet dream of a song title. But it was the ensuing in-depth discussion of McNamara that sealed the deal. That and his sunny memories of driving across the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge hearing "The 59th Street Bridge Song" blasting from the radio.

And while I had no memories to back it up, I was charmed enough by "Music for Dining" by one of Great Britain's most popular orchestras (at least in 1954) and part of a series of mood music albums by the Melachrino Strings that included "Music for Relaxation" and "Music for Reading." Personally, I don't need or want music to read by, but eating, that's another story.

While we were deep in the bins, a friend spotted me and came over to chat. I'd just seen a picture online of her, her husband and baby celebrating their second anniversary at Dinamo, so I asked about what she'd eaten since we were headed there next.

Afterward, my date concluded that our rehashing of their meal had been so thorough and enthusiastic that he felt like he'd already eaten there. We talk good food, she and I.

Our walk to Dinamo was a reminder of how quickly the temperature was dropping, but the interior was warm and offering up all the smells to entice us, not to mention familiar faces. First off was a server friend who'd inadvertently abandoned her leftovers on the bar and rushed back to reclaim them, only to run into me. "Mmm, leftover white pizza," she said, wiggling the box in my direction. I'd come back for that pizza, too.

While we were digging into smoked whitefish crostini, fish soup and matzoh ball soup, I looked up to see Richmond's master puppeteer Lilly (with her partner) looming over me and looking for a hug. Next thing I know, she and my date are talking about art galleries in L.A. while her partner and I are discussing what an amazing installation Lilly has crafted for the opening of the Institute for Contemporary Art. The funny part is, the last time I saw Lilly was at Dinamo. It's like our guaranteed not-so secret meeting place.

By the time I was finishing off the chocolate torte and the last of my wine, the crowd in the dining room had thinned to us and two other tables, one of which had gotten a serenade of "Happy Birthday" earlier. My date was convinced that it wasn't really the guy's birthday, that he just wanted the attention (and the tiramisu with a candle in it), so on the way out, I stopped to ask how old he was turning.

"Forty nine," he admitted kind of sheepishly.

Pshaw, that's nothing, son. Some of us not only remember Robert McNamara, we have the music to discuss him to.

Life, I love you, all is groovy.

What a Time We Had

Few can stretch out a birthday like I can. And when it's not mine, I can assist.

The last couple nights have been devoted to helping Pru celebrate her birthday because what are friends for?

Her actual birthday was Monday, but she'd inadvertently made plans with a neighborhood friend that night. It was just as well since Beau is out of town and wasn't here to squire her to a proper birthday dinner anyway. But given his devotion to her, he did the next best thing, enlisting me to pick up dinner and report to the manse to share it with Pru and the Queen.

Dinamo supplied the feast: beet and fennel salad, crostini with chicken livers, fish soup and four pizzas, two white, two red. If it sounds like a lot for three women, remember, it was a birthday celebration and don't judge.

To further the festivities, that also meant Moet et Chandon Imperial "Golden Diamond Suit" Champagne because a birthday rates a bottle of bubbly in a fancy zip-up sweater. The Queen of Soul provided the soundtrack, beginning, appropriately enough, with "Respect."

With nothing but us girls, we settled in with plates piled high, flutes filled with bubbles and prolonged conversation. Pru had informed me that she was looking for news from me and I'd have to say I delivered in spades. That's not to say I didn't take a fair amount of admonishment for my slower-than-necessary pace, but, let's face it, I'm a bit out of practice when it comes to matters of the heart.

These days, everyone's so ridiculously excited for me and still, no one's happiness can begin to approach mine. And I'm not even the birthday girl.

Pru and I continued the celebration tonight at the Byrd to see "The African Queen," a 1951 gem I saw so long ago I barely remembered it.

We were tearing into our large popcorn, discussing how some people pour their chocolate into the popcorn tub when the man seated next to me nudged me and said, "I already did that." Sure enough, his peanut M & Ms were dotted on top of his popcorn, a rookie mistake. Sir, you have to eat the popcorn down a few inches and then insert the candy, as we demonstrated.

No offense, but who didn't learn this lesson as a child?

From the opening shots, the film was so gloriously Technicolor as to look like a '50s picture postcard, unbelievably vivid and strikingly colorful. All that post-war optimism, I guess.

Next I got a history lesson when the credit told us we were in "German East Africa," a colony I hadn't known existed. Belgians in the Congo I knew about, but Methodists in the African Great Lakes? Nope, not a clue.

My faint memories of the movie ensured that I had no recollection how quickly Rosie Sayer and Charlie Allnut became allies and then enamored of each other. In my admittedly hazy memory, they fought almost until the end. Not so.

Before the film began, Byrd manager Todd had told us Bogie had won his only Oscar for this role and  it wasn't hard to see why. Instead of playing suave and urbane, here he was a man who worked with his hands, respected his betters and was willing to do whatever it took to accomplish their mission.

Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what we are put in this world to rise above.

That he recognized a good woman when he saw one (even one who poured out all his gin) moved him from character actor (calling her "a skinny old maid") to charming leading man (It's great to have a lady aboard with clean habits), at least in this woman's eyes.

Dear? Dear? What is your first name?

Todd had also mentioned that the leeches used were real leeches, meaning that when Bogie emerged from the water covered in them, there was no way I could look at the screen as they were removed. If nothing else, the man deserved an Oscar for enduring that for the sake of a role. Tell me what current actor would allow such a thing. Go on, I'll wait.

And, of course, being a 1950s Technicolor Hollywood movie (albeit one mostly filmed on location, a rarity for the time), there was a fair amount of disbelief to be suspended when the usual implausible things happened.

Who do you think you are ordering me about?

When the African Queen gets stuck in the reeds before dusk and they wake up to find that it's rained so hard that the boat has moved back into the river, there is zero water in the boat. It's practically a Methodist miracle.

I never dreamed that any mere physical experience could be so stimulating.

Or once they decide to torpedo the German boat, Rosie raises the Union Jack, except where did that perfect flag come from? Surely she hadn't packed a flag along with her umbrella and Bible, right?

And don't get me started on the endless supply of tea and sugar on that rickety old boat. Just more reasons why I adore seeing these old movies on the big screen. Besides the obvious, that is.

Have you heard the news? I'm a sucker for a love story, even when it's dressed in adventure clothing.

Fancy me a heroine.

Duck and Cover

Tell a man to preach and he'll tell you where the bomb shelters are.

Coming back from the river through Jackson Ward, I overheard one man telling another, "We all got to get out and vote on November seventh," which was more than enough of a statement for me to stop, put my hand over my heart and entreat a perfect stranger to preach.

It's positively life-affirming to know that other people feel as strongly as I do on this subject.

As I engaged with these two men about our problematic leader and the urgency of getting the vote out next month, passersby greeted them and moved on, but I stayed put because the conversation was so engaging. Especially once the gregarious one started sharing neighborhood history with me.

The blue building I pass almost daily that now houses King's Seafood? Apparently a cabinetmaker for 30+ years and the shyer of the two men I was talking to had worked there for 17 of them. Now it just reeks of last week's fish.

The other guy tried to tell me about the Richmond Dairy building, but, pshaw, my grandfather worked there, so that wasn't news. His childhood memories of stealing a glass bottle of milk off the truck, though, that was sweet in a Norman Rockwell kind of way.

"It was summer and my brother and I were thirsty," he recalled. "And that milk was cold!"

What was news was all the bomb shelters in the neighborhood he listed out under nearby buildings and schools, although it made sense given the drills of the Cold War era. He joked about going down in one now and discovering rusty old cans of pork and beans.

His buddy said it was a damn shame nobody knew about them for history's sake. Just when I think I know Jackson Ward, I meet a native who makes my head spin with new information.

As far as earning my keep, I had one deadline to make and two interviews to do today - one about wine, another about music - and just enough time to get ready to go to dinner, which these days means putting on something cute and then covering it up with a jean jacket for once the sun goes down.

I dread the impending time change. Come on, spring, you can't come back soon enough.

Walking into Dinamo, I was immediately greeted by a favorite wine rep, newly shorn and looking pretty handsome despite his claim that his hair was an oily mess (and they say women are vain). After a bit of chit chatting, he told me to give his best to the wife and kids (his idea of humor) and I moved on to the bar, serendipitously sitting down next to an old friend and her new squeeze, who was busy tearing into the chocolate espresso torte of which I'm so fond.

How lovely to go to one of my favorite restaurants and run into so many favorite people.

They'd just finished a fabulous meal including the roasted half chicken with maitake special, the same one our server said John Waters had ordered the last time he was in, a comment that led to a discussion of him coming back in December for a show.

You know, because nothing says Merry Christmas like a transvestite eating feces.

Me, I'm a sucker for my old favorites, though, and before I'd even walked in, I knew I wanted the fish soup - thick with rockfish, mussels, calamari and octopus in a hefty tomato broth laden with fregola  - and a white pizza layered with red onion. I only wish I could have eaten all the pizza but the hearty soup and glass of house white wine ensured that didn't happen.

Sadly, dessert was out of the question because I had a radio show to make and you can't be late when you're talking about live radio.

All the other times I'd see the On the Air Radio Players perform, it had been at the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen and while it's a lovely facility, it's on the other side of nowhere, whereas tonight's show was at Pine Camp Center, less than four miles from home. Much more my speed.

Billed as "A Night of Suspense," tonight's bill included "Inner Sanctum Mysteries: Death of a Doll," originally aired on October 18, 1948, about a newspaperman falling in love with a corpse (undoubtedly more disturbing 70 years ago) clutching a doll and "Goodbye, Miss Lizzie Borden," first aired on October 4, 1955, about a newspaperwoman investigating Ma and Pa Borden's deaths.

Every time I go to one of these radio shows, I tell myself I'll close my eyes and pretend I'm listening to the radio, but inevitably I'm too curious not to watch how they do all the sound effects onstage.

It's not as simple as you might think. It took four grown women being given hand signals when to stop and start to create the sound of one possessed doll baby. And how do you make the sound of a morgue drawer opening? By dragging a dolly across a piece of metal, of course.

Oh, and in between plays, there was a singing commercial for Tuck Toothpaste, especially relevant during this high tooth decay Halloween candy season.

And since it'll probably be another 70 years before either play gets produced again, I'll go ahead and satisfy any curiosity about how they ended: he doesn't get the girl and the doll stops talking once the devil is dead, and Lizzie's sister, the real murderer, gets away with it.

But back to my latest J-Ward discovery. Would it have been wrong to stock a bomb shelter with wine and cured meats? Asking for a friend.

Calling Out, Calling Out

My balcony is small but mighty.

It only has room enough for two chairs - one director's, one adirondack, both spring green - and a table (for a boombox) because the rest of the space is taken up by two large window boxes and a plant stand. The two deep window ledges hold more potted plants, candles, a clay sculpture of a head, seashells and, because time evaporates out there like rain on hot pavement, a clock.

Just last weekend, there were four of us on that balcony (a first), making for a pretty tight squeeze, but generally, I entertain one person at a time out there. It's cozy and intimate, an ideal place to dish while sipping wine or watching moonflowers open.

So when an old friend showed up with a bottle of Jean Laurent Blanc de Noirs Brut wanting to toast to a mutual friend, neither of us could think of a better place to enjoy it than in the soft evening air of my balcony.

My sole job - besides the all-important one of holding up my end of the conversation - was handpicking our soundtrack and after one false start ("It's not very happy music," he observed of Yo la Tengo's "I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One" that I'd put on), we settled in with an old mix CD from summer 2003.

Called "Get Your Drive On," it had its own liner notes where the maker had written, "Music for a drive in the country...wishing you had a '67 Chevy droptop and an underwear model in the passenger seat."

And, yes, a former boyfriend actually thought it was a good idea to write that on the first mixtape he ever made me. Clearly he wasn't worried about leaving me with the wrong impression.

In any case, listening to the mix was a treat for both of us because it was such a well-chosen assortment of underplayed artists from the happy-go-lucky sounds of Amy Correia to the guilty pleasure pop of Rocking Horse Winner to the psychedelic groove of Mae Moore (aided by a requisite cover done by Todd Rundgren).

As my guest pointed out, with that kind of masterful song selection, it was no wonder I'd fallen hard for the guy who'd made it for me all those years ago.

By the time the 17 songs were over, we were ravenous and abandoned the balcony to head straight to 821 Cafe for dinner. Except that once parked, my friend decided he'd rather have Dinamo and I'm hardly going to argue with that.

We slid onto stools next to the massive espresso machine and in the blink of an eye were bantering with a guy at the bar about how mean people live longer. This was good news for my friend, who has limited tolerance for most human beings.

When the bar sitter got up to leave not long after, he came over to use his theory to reassure my friend, "You're going to live a long time!" Apparently I didn't come across crabby enough to rate my own dire warning.

A bottle of Italian Rosato accompanied a starter of crostini with smoked whitefish and red onions, so good it was worth being mean just so you could stay around to eat it longer. That was followed by an impressively large piece of rockfish with mixed greens (friend dubbed it the best piece of fish he'd ever had) and my abundance of mussels in sop-worthy white sauce with squid ink fettuccine.

Of all the available toppings for our chocolate espresso torte, friend opted for whipped cream and cherries and good as it was, we still couldn't finish it.

By that time, the other guests had cleared out and we realized that we recognized one of the servers from her former days of being a wine rep. Turns out serving suits her better these days since she became a Mom. "Nobody tells you what it's like," she lamented.

That's how we keep the human race going, my dear.

With an elegant sufficiency for both of us, we saw no better way to wile away the evening than returning to my balcony for music. The air was just as soft, it was still relatively early and we both knew there was plenty more conversation to be had.

The next CD was a 2008 mixtape that got us talking about the National's unusual drummer, the Decemberists' singer's braying voice and how I'd once been chided for not recognizing Neko Case's voice.

Following that was Tim Finn's 1993 gem "Before and After," a CD we'd both listened to repeatedly over a decade before discovering that we shared an appreciation for it. "And he's not even the most talented brother, " my friend cracked.

In vino veritas. He only wishes he was Finn brothers fan #485 (and yes, that's a real person).

Like I said, time vanishes on that balcony and the night was no exception as we talked about his current relationship ("It's not going to last," he announces), a recent missive from a mutual New Zealand friend and, most satisfying of all for me, people who are hokey.

Once the neighborhood had quieted down and my neighbors' lights went out, we were still hanging on the balcony, by that time listening to the evening's final offering, Big Star's "In Space" from 2005. It was a CD I'd gotten as a Christmas present just before going to London and Scotland for the first time and it holds up beautifully.

Not that just about any music wouldn't show well when you're comfortably ensconced on the balcony with a single moonflower in bloom and the occasional stiff breeze ruffling the wind chimes and tree tops just beyond my backyard.

Nobody tells you what it's like, so the only surefire way to find out is to get invited to my balcony. There's not much to it, but I can pretty much guarantee a most engaging evening once you're there.

Some people have even been known to thank me.

Back to Mac

Despite a high of 94 degrees, it turned out to be a day for standing on the pavement.

When I set out on my walk, it was with the intention of beginning at the dedication of the Maggie Walker statue right here in Jackson Ward. When I saw the size of the crowd standing in the middle of Broad Street, I adjusted the plan.

After a walk to the river, I returned via Broad Street so I could witness the new sculpture after all the speechifying was over, snagging a fan from my favorite R & B record store, Barky's Spiritual Store, en route.

There were still plenty of folks milling around on the new plaza, but at least I could get a good look for the first time at Miss Maggie in her new Arts District digs. I'll tell you what, it certainly is refreshing to see a statue of a woman of note for a change, and even better, a woman of color.

Welcome to the 21st century, Richmond.

The second highlight of the day was being reunited with Mac after 4 long weeks of not seeing her smiling face. Life - good and bad - had intervened for both of us and I couldn't wait to spend the evening with her.

She'd chosen Dinamo (and gotten no argument from me) for dinner but we arrived half an hour before they opened, so we took advantage of 821 Cafe's empty patio to sit down on mod-looking furniture and pour out our stories from the past 28 days.

Talking to her again just reminded me how much I'd missed her company and our ongoing conversation.

Promptly at 5:30, we followed another couple into Dinamo's cool environs and chose seats at the bar behind the espresso machine. Life was good. If not for the table that came in next with 3 caterwauling children, it might have been great.

But of course the food made up for it all, from my special of crab, shrimp and corn chowder to a platter-sized flatbread with artichoke hearts and chick peas to double desserts - fresh sliced peaches and a mound of freshly whipped cream the size of a grapefruit and a Nutella cookie with sea salt that I dipped in the whipped cream.

We rolled out of there full as ticks so that we could go stand in a parking lot under the still brutal sun, something we'd only consider if the Purple One was involved.

As it happened, he was because the Trunk Show Band was presenting the tenth and latest installment of the Cover to Cover series and tonight's album was "Purple Rain."

And unlike the last nine in the series, all of which I've attended and loved, tonight's was being presented not in the hop-scented tasting room that makes me gag, but on an outdoor stage, the better to sweat to the funk.

Host Matt kicked things off onstage by announcing, "Some of you gave my outfit some looks as I was walking through the crowd like you didn't know you were going to a Prince show. I'm just going to go ahead and tell you I look fabulous." He wasn't lying.

After some applause and hollering, he went on, "I thought we got over that gender normative dressing in the '70s!"

We did. I was there. But tonight's crowd was enormous and unfortunately, some people didn't get the memo. On the plus side, just like at the two Prince shows I'd attended in the '90s, the crowd was satisfyingly diverse, a nice change for Hardywood.

Major props go to the band who began with a mixtape selection of one song from each of the nine albums they've already covered - songs like Green Day's "Basket Case,"  Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black," Paul Simon's"Graceland" and Maggie doing a terrific version of Alanis Morissette's "Hand in Pocket" - a lovely memory for those of us who'd been there and undoubtedly a cruel tease for those who'd missed those stellar shows.

Oh, well, keep up or miss out, kids.

During the break, I turned to see Foto Boy coming at me with open arms and we took a hot minute to catch up since it had been ages since our last lunch. A favorite theater lover stopped by for a hug and to get a recommendation (I sent him directly to "The Toxic Avenger") of what I'd seen that qualified as fabulous lately.

Where the crowd appropriately lost it was when the band, complete with two drummers and two guitarists, began "Let's Go Crazy." I mean, it was practically a directive. Also, it was the start of a two-hour dance party that barely left room to breathe.

"I don't know if it's the reverb or what, but y'all are making us feel like rock stars!" Matt enthused after that song ended. After "The Beautiful Ones," he called out, "Y'all should be dancing if you're not."

Please. Mac and I had started moving with the first notes. After all, this wasn't our first trunk show rodeo.

Apparently it was for the drunk guy who blocked my view of guitarist Grant (not to mention his superb guitar playing and great haircut) by  planting himself smack in front of me (a slight jab to the back moved him closer to his date and out of my way), at least until he began bobbing and weaving leaving his date to begin supporting him.

After sending him off to the bathroom, she leaned over and asked if I would recommend a restaurant nearby where he could soak up the copious amounts of beer he'd ingested. I suggested Supper and an Uber (he was from North Carolina and her car was back at his hotel) and wished her good luck.

"Do they have burgers?" she asked, sounding desperate. Yes, now go, please, so Mac and I can grind to Todd singing "Darling Nikki."

An extended version of "I Would Die for You" with Anthony singing lead became a crowd singalong and midway through, a breeze arrived to take it into sublime territory.

"Purple Rain" got the royal treatment with three vocalists and Maggie and Ali using wands to blow bubbles over the sweaty crowd, many of whom used their cell phones as flashlights subbing for Bic lighters to wave overhead.

It was over too soon.

Anticipating just that, the Trunk Show Band had rehearsed a few hits for a final set: "Kiss," "Raspberry Beret," my favorite, the masterfully metaphoric "Little Red Corvette" and then the inevitable crowd-pleaser, "1999," coincidentally the year the baby-faced bass player Pete was born.

But because the crowd was now at fever pitch, they couldn't end it there and, as Cover to Cover tradition dictates (and I've come to count on since that very first show), they did a reprise of "Purple Rain," complete with more bubbles as Mac and I basked in the purple glow.

I don't know if it was the reverb but, hot summer day or not, some shows are worth dancing on the pavement for.

Especially now that Mac is back in town.

We Can Still Be Friends

With time you learn there are various levels of friendship.

Even the guys down on Leigh Street selling crabs are sort-of-friends, in that we see each other regularly, speak often and, above all, they were ready to open a can of whoop-ass when they heard what some guy had said to me as I walked through the neighborhood. Today, it was letting me know that crabs are in already. Casual but steadfast acquaintances.

There's FotoBoy, a friend of the past 8 years (with whom I had two dates before we were smacking our foreheads and realizing we wanted friendship) who is pretty much at my beck and call when I need an extra mouth for work. That we can talk about the nitty gritty in our lives only adds to the depth of the friendship. That he appreciates how excited I get when a train conductor waves at me is gravy.

There's the friend I'm still getting to know who's given me an intermittent front row seat to watching him figure out who he is and what he wants, a fascinating chance for me to find out what makes him tick with no risk involved.

Since it has been four weeks since our last rendezvous, I knew I could count on some new revelations, maybe even a new character or two in his life. When last I'd seen the stubborn one, things were heating up with a woman I'd pegged as high maintenance from the start, but he was still dazzled by how fast she was on wheels, or at least, that's what he told me. For the sake of discussion, she was dubbed "Bachelorette #1."

The latest update on all that personal business was delivered after a warm walk in a light drizzle from Jackson Ward to Dinamo - spent discussing what a creature of habit he thinks I am because, he says, I always choose restaurants within my sphere, which I suppose means walking distance - where we took seats at the bar next to a couple discussing church business and adult children who can't problem solve.

I'm not sure which topic was more depressing.

Our meal was anything but, with his homey and hearty fava bean and maitake mushroom pasta and my seafood salad with enough clams, mussels, shrimp, calamari, octopus, onions, lemon and oil to mimic a meal eaten seaside to guarantee we both wound up happy campers. A glass of Orvietto and a sea salt Nutella cookie took me to the finish line.

Meanwhile, the owner shelled fava beans nearby and we talked about his love life and yes, since we met last, onto the scene had come a new contestant whom we dubbed "Bachelorette #2," after briefly considering calling her "No Agenda" but deciding that such a phrase could also apply to Bachelorette #1.

The fact that they both, in fact, have agendas was deeper than he wanted to go tonight. So far, Bachelorette #2's only obvious weakness (and it's worth noting given his personality) is that she's terribly compliant and not especially opinionated.

Some friends would call that boring, but I try to be more diplomatic than that.

Leaving Dinamo shortly before the last customer could, we got as far as Grace and Laurel before the pouring rain was too much to slog through to get back to my place and his car, while Ipanema was a block and a half away. It wasn't a cold or unpleasant rain but it was definitely a directional one and we were both getting soggy.

As always, Ips was an oasis of warmth and soft lighting and with glasses of Spanish white and red in front of us, as good a place as any to continue exploring why people do certain things and what that tells others about them.

Coming in out of the deluge, a guy sat down next to me and began writing in a Moleskin. When I asked the subject, he said he was working on his thesis and you know I had to know. "Disaster Capitalism," he informs me.

My next question is what year was he born, an inquiry that so delights him he throws back his head, smiling.

"That is the best question ever asked!" he claims before explaining how his thesis deals with a post-human worldscape. My questions continue, my friend returns from the head and joins in and the future thinker asks if we're professors at VCU. Negative, but we play them in bars.

When I ask if he has a happy social life around working on such nihilistic theories, he assures me he's an optimist, albeit one in a post-human world. Yet again, I marvel at how differently his generation is wired than mine.

By the time our wine glasses are empty, the rain has stopped, the temperature and humidity have dropped, and we bid farewell to our disaster capitalist.

Could I see him as a friend? Certainly with his polar opposite worldview and comparatively brief body of life experience, I could enjoy many conversations delving into his thoughts and theories, just to hear them. I'd definitely have myriad questions to ask him.

While I'm sitting here typing this, the phone rings despite the relatively late hour. "Are you with a man?' asks FotoBoy - aka he who appreciates my enthusiasm for life - in a hushed voice as if someone might be listening.

Only a really good friend would have the nerve to call at this hour and check on whether I'm alone or not and then ask about lunch plans. But come on, friend, have we met? Do you think I'd answer the phone if I weren't alone?

And yes to lunch, always yes to more conversations. They're the stuff that the best friendships are made of.

Folly of Word Nerds

Because being on a screened porch strung with fairy lights while a July rain falls just outside is a practically transcendent way to wile away an evening.

That the gentle night also involved mocking, condescension and outright compliments only attests to our unlikely activity: my first foray into the oh-so popular game that's swept the nation.

You read right, last night I was introduced to Cards Against Humanity.

That's right, I killed new age music. How, you ask?
...An ice pick lobotomy.

It wasn't the plan. That had been determined months ago and consisted of dinner and "The Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft. Given the play's talking points about Jewish-ness, I'd chosen Dinamo for its fusion of Jewish and Italian food.

He Who Shall Not Be named (aka Mr. Google Scheduler) had us there before the propeller even began spinning. Naturally, we were the first eager beavers in the place other than staff. Ouch.

Not that I cared once I was sharing octopus salami that looked like paper-thin slices of a jeweled window and tasted  like a seaside meal or polishing off my own cold plate of marinated seafood salad of mussels, clams, shrimp and octopus. Keeping it simple, I finished with a Nutella cookie and we left for Agecroft.

We were a well-oiled machine, seated, with new Shakespeare fans in hand when the entire audience was directed inside due to "pool rules." Thunder and lightening were fast approaching and they didn't want any of us good patrons to be electrified, as house manager Noah so quaintly put it.

A brief wait, a decision to go back outside and begin and then the cold, hard facts. The show was called.

So, you see, it wasn't like we didn't try to get some culture before descending into the gutter of sexually offensive and politically incorrect conversation.

It was my first time on the porch since it had been fully tricked out, meaning I couldn't help but admire all the little touches - Wellies by the door, cushioned chairs of various styles, tables with candles and lamps, flowering plants and antique window frames.

The sole male commented that the ledge covered in necessaries - various bug sprays for body and room, aloe if you did get a bite, sunscreens of myriad strengths - was the only jarring note in an otherwise lovely space, but I disagreed. Vehemently.

A screened porch is an outdoor room, but also a utilitarian one. Such a ledge was completely appropriate, in my opinion, because all the assorted sundries you could possibly require while enjoying the porch were readily available. You never had to leave the porch to stay comfortable.

Decorating roundtable finished, we got down to the serious business of cracking each other up.

As a CAH virgin, I immediately was curious about the fact that there were black and white cards. You mean like the races? Setting the tone for the evening, my hostess arched an eyebrow and announced without so much as a chortle, "All cards matter."

Not going to lie, we had all kinds of fun trying to figure out what combination would win the favor of the round's card czar (or, more accurately, czarina, since men were outnumbered 3 to 1), taking into account who leaned toward corny and who always opted for sick or intellectual humor.

A girl's best friend?
...David Bowie flying in on a tiger made of lightening

Brilliant, right? Okay, but so is this one:

A girl's best friend?
...Licking things to claim them as her own

Turns out this game's underlying purpose is encouraging players to inadvertently remember things or share personal history. Now I know I have a friend who's not ashamed to say she's a territorial licker.

Sorry, teacher, I couldn't finish my homework because of...sniffing glue.

"Oh, yea, I remember that," one of the participants says. I wouldn't have pegged her for the glue-sniffing type, but who am I to judge? That said, no one would admit to being "balls deep in a squealin' hog" when that came up as an answer, but the night was still young then.

I soon learned that some black cards came with two blanks, necessitating each of us to choose not one, but two phrases that best completed the sentence.

The Academy award for...flightless birds 
Goes to...battlefield amputation

To have two such disparate cards in your hand, much less to combine them so cleverly, well, kudos to me.

Although we'd begun playing around 9:30, it was probably sometime around midnight (post-Pimm's pops, Pimm's cups and Miraval) when we got our first card with three blanks.

"Having to come up with three cards is gonna take forever," our hostess warned, specifically looking at a certain slow player. "We're slow with two! We're good with one, one card, that's it."

What's George Bush thinking about right now?
...Not reciprocating oral sex
...Fiery poops
...Third base

Plausible, all of them, right?

As the night wore on, we especially enjoyed questions that referred back to the person asking. So when I read, "What's my anti-drug?" the friend in the colorful dress exclaimed, "Yours?" and stares at me as if she can discern it from my countenance.

Ultimately, it led to a big discussion of what exactly constitutes an anti-drug. That's one we didn't fully resolve.

After a while, I knew my competitors well enough to tickle their fancies with my answer, as when the formerly soggy one delighted at my response to his card.

I got 99 problems but...Count Chocula...ain't one.

Oh, he laughed. Man, if you only knew how long I held onto the Count Chocula card before finding the ideal place to drop it. A far better player, though, was the Bermudian, who caused us to about lose it when she proffered this:

Daddy, why is Mommy crying?
...The patriarchy

When I read the card, "What is my secret power?" a friend looked askance. "That's the question? I was about to answer!" No, please, tell me my superpower. I'm curious.

Looking at the answers submitted, the Czar mused, "It's between inappropriate yodeling and Toni Morrison's vagina," a sentence I would stake my life on has never having been uttered before in the history of humankind.

One minute we were playing, laughing almost constantly and next thing we knew it was after 1 a.m., and this is not a crowd that stays up late. With that in mind, I got up to leave, a different person than when I'd arrived.

Of course I didn't win, but I didn't do too badly, either. There's already talk of procuring other versions since we practically went through an entire box of black and white cards in one marathon session. Cards Against Humanity may be five years old to the rest of the first world, but it was brand new fun for me tonight.

Let's put it this way: I understood the game well enough to find my seatmate's two-part answer absolutely hilarious.

Step one...folly of man
Step two...Cards Against Humanity

Silently Weeping, Laughing Out Loud

It's a thin line between painful life experience and comedy.

The proof was in the empathetic silences that alternated with helpless laughter when each duo took the stage to overshare tonight.

In this brave new world where editing out the unpleasant or even less attractive bits when posting and tweeting every minute life detail is as regular as train whistles in Richmond, it's easy to lose sight of the day-to-day difficulties of this thing we call life.

Fortunately, Comedy Duets was at Gallery 5 to remind us of the myriad unkind and unfair things most people experience just getting to adulthood, never mind running that gauntlet once they're legal.

None of which I'd yet been reminded of when I left the house ("I know I've told you before, but that blazer is sick!" my downstairs neighbor tells me as I leave) set on taking advantage of the dwindling student population by going to Dinamo for dinner, where Orvietto and my first softshells of the season await.

As if by design, the New York Times graced the bar, allowing me to read a review of Radiohead's record, "A Moon Shaped Pool," out today. Having heard the song "Burn the Witch" earlier on the radio, swooning over the sting arrangements in it, I was eager to know more and who better than music critic to guide me?

It was two tables and one other barsitter when I arrived but by the time my Nutella and sea salt cookie was history, tables were bustling with a nice old lady looking for a nice white Zinfandel and a large man who hovered awkwardly in the front of the small room rather than sitting down before his wife and her friends arrived. Very old school.

Meanwhile, two young beards stood outside the restaurant pointing at the slow-spinning propeller in the window and discussing it with great enthusiasm.

But back to picking emotional scabs in front of a roomful of spectators, it was later, during the pre-show mingling that I ran into a young woman I've known for about eight years. Maybe it was tonight's subject matter, but she wasted no time in getting into a tell-all about the life lessons she's mastered since I first met her.

It's compelling enough stuff that the bartender, who's known her for years, begins to listen in because it's experiences he never knew about her. She took a year and a half off from dating - "I had my blinders on" - following the Taylor Swift model for figuring out yourself a little before attempting a relationship.

But she also missed countless red flags along the way, warnings she'd never overlook today. Conclusion: if someone actually wanted you in their life, they'd actually put some effort into showing it. I applauded her success in learning from her mistakes and the bartender nodded in agreement.

First up were Grace and Patrick, who'd only met for the first time a few days ago, causing them to discover onstage that they'd graduated the same year, coincidentally the year the economy tanked - I suppose this is why millennials feel they got a raw deal timing-wise - and their question was about the most dangerous thing they'd ever done.

Hmm, mine? Riding on the back of a motorcycle wearing a tube top, cutoffs and flipflops. Yes, I wore a helmet. So there might have been something left of my head had we hit the pavement. Dangerously dumb.

Their answers, however, involved driving with the headlights out on unlit streets, although Grace's was as a child with two irresponsible adults doing the driving, which, as she pointed out, was "kinda f*cked up" for a kid.

Patrick's mother made a habit of jumping out from behind doors to scare him, once sending him rolling down the stairs after he jumped in fright. Seven-year old Grace was left at the base of an abandoned drawbridge while her Dad and his friend Jeff Riddle ("A strong, creepy name") climbed to the top. Patrick did Fernet bombs on the Cyclone roller coaster at Coney Island.

No one said childhood was easy.

Jess and Josh (who was celebrating his birthday and stood center stage so we could sing it to him) lucked into a question about the moments in childhood that still embarrass them, essentially open season for every youthful mortifying moment.

Josh's bully made fun of him every time he pooped at school. Jesse, in hand-me-down high-water jeans, wasn't cool enough to wear Jincos and was drop-kicked on the school bus.

The room about lost it when Josh shared that ten years later, his bully was on the VCU Quiddich team and again when first grader Jesse shouted across two tables in the cafeteria to the object of his affection, "Hey, Chelsea, guess what? I'm not allergic to anything!" to impress her.

This is what the world has come to: first graders boast about their immunity systems. Life is a tragedy.

Humiliation came in getting pity yeses from prom dates, ripping suit pants onstage at a high school talent show ("I was backstage silently weeping") and falling off a drum riser resulting in a broken kneecap, only to have a girl come over as he's being loaded on a stretcher, asking if he was still taking her to the prom.

It's a wonder both didn't go join the He-Man Women Haters' Club, you know?

Last up were Jim and Clay being asked what their worst breakup story was. And while Jim is in the throes of an apparently ugly breakup, Clay led off, warning us that his stories were not going to paint him in the best light.

He was right. Admitting to blackouts and bad choices, Clay was especially put out that his girlfriend had come home, awakened him up and broken up with him after kissing a guy at a party. The next day, post-breakup, she slept with New Guy.

His beef? She hadn't slept with her new paramour before breaking up so that he could hate her for that. Some girlfriends just don't take their exes into consideration, do they?

Jim's growing disillusionment came from his ex's repeated blackouts (I sense a bigger issue here), but Clay took top prize for sheer number of bad behavior incidents.

"I don't think you're going home with any of the women in this room tonight," Jim observed drolly.

"Maybe they can fix me?" Clay said half hopefully, mostly sarcastically, earning points for optimism even if it was feigned.

It might have been the funniest line of the night if it wasn't so heart-wrenching. Or maybe because it was.

Too personal? No such thing anymore.

Curious Beasts and Exiles

Every day's just another adventure in the land of the black and yellow beer can-studded snow.

Monday's foray into the greater beyond involved walking through throngs of rude students across campus to the peaceful environs of Dinamo, sparsely populated as it was (although not so sparse that I didn't see three friends).

But the non-stop slow jam reggae station provided a fine soundtrack for a low-key meal that began with Gruet Brut and the ideal cold weather welcome: a bowl of fish soup loaded with mussels, rockfish, calamari, pasta and tiny diced carrots and onions that tasted as fresh as if I'd ordered it seaside.

While the owner took many phone calls - "Yes, we're open," and "Yes, we're doing delivery" seemed to be the two stock answers - we ate our way through a flavorful arugula and crunchy green bean salad made rich with hard-boiled egg and lashings of Parmesan.

Seeing a white pizza delivered to the couple next to us caused pie envy, ensuring that we ended up with one of our own, along with crostini with thick schmears of chicken liver and red onion, a decadent and heavenly main course I'd not really earned given my minimal efforts earlier at snow-shoveling.

Yes, I know I'm breaking the law by not having my sidewalks cleared by Sunday at 11 a.m. A woman living alone does the best she can because the fragile-looking VCU students below are of no use with vigorous chores such as shoveling.

Despite the weather outside, I finished my meal with housemade mint chocolate chip gelato, although not an ice cream sandwich like the one that went to the table near us. Call me a freak, but unlike most people, I do not like sweet cookies around/on/in my ice cream.

With an elegant sufficiency, we departed Dianmo's futuristic coziness for a gander at the recently completed Cabell Library at VCU, impressively lit at night. I remember standing at the Compass last March to watch as they installed the top beam and here it was in all its completed glory.

From there, we wandered over to Ipanema for some wine and people-watching. It's tough to beat the half-priced deals on their Steal this Wine List, so I chose a bottle of 2006 Chateau-Thebaud "Betes Curieuses" Muscadet because how often do you have the option to drink a curious beast such as decade-old Muscadet, much less one described as "white flowers and mineral power"?

Even our young bartender commented on it, telling us he'd had it last year and raving about how surprisingly good it was. We gave him a taste to refresh his palate.

That led to him sharing that just a few days ago he'd been drinking young Muscadet with Olde Salts and Tangier oysters at Rappahannock, coincidentally the exact same combination I'd slurped and sipped the last non-snow weekend. Small world.

Once the dinner crowd dissipated, it was an Evolution Brewing tap takeover with three brews priced at three bucks and the beer lovers began arriving tout de suite to score Lucky 7 Porter, Lot No. 3 double IPA (get there faster with 8.75%!) and Exile Red Ale.

Suddenly, many glasses of darkness sat on the bar.

When things settled down enough that the barkeep could take a smoke break, he bundled up, made sure we wanted for nothing and headed out front. Wouldn't you know the music almost immediately crapped out?

My clever date pulled a McGyver, tuning into my favorite R & B podcast on his phone, inserting it in a cocktail shaker for a substitute speaker and supplying us with music until our boy's habit had been fed and he returned happily drugged with nicotine to restart the party.

Walking home through throngs of squealing students, we arrived at my house to find my colorful neighbors on their porch happily inhaling Swisher Sweets in the cold night air.

Proof positive that all of us are still taking our meager pleasures where we can in this winter wasteland.

Journey's End

You can't overstate the pleasures of a well-executed Monday during Restaurant Week.

Goodness knows, it's not that I'm antisocial, but why would I put myself into that madness when I don't have to? With a little judicious planning, I can be in all the uncrowded places over the course of one evening and never even have to deal with all that.

Like Sabai, where the the music was pure funk, the vino verde was well-priced and only four tables were occupied, one with a trombonist and his yoga partner for life. It was a far cry from the madness of summer the last few times I was there.

Or like Dinamo. where only a few tables supported customers and the rest sat awaiting an influx of the hungry. The surprise was on me when I felt a tap on my shoulder and all of a sudden, it was 2004 again. Standing next to me was a woman who worked for me as an editor in another lifetime.

When I inquired if she still lived in Woodlake, she grinned and responded, "No, we moved to Brandermill. Less traffic." I wanted to laugh but I wasn't sure if she meant it. On the other hand, she's doing the social work she'd always wanted to, and that's admirable.

My date had shown up with stories of small town shady dealings and on-demand loans, but they took a back seat to Dinamo's iconic white pizza, a beet and fennel salad I could eat almost every day, plus taglietelle with Gogonzola, pancetta and radicchio, all eaten while admiring the miniature menorah on the shelf behind the bar.

During the two hours we took to chow down and discuss life, customers straggled in - the stylish older couple, the six-top with the woman whose voice could carry through a brick wall, and the overly loud Middle eastern man, whose foreign language patter was interrupted with the words "roast chicken."

I'm fascinated by how certain words are said in English, no matter the language being spoken (see: X-ray, refrigerator, Technicolor).

But, all in all, it was the least crowded I'd ever seen Dinamo and it was delightful to enjoy a meal without the madding crowds closing in around me. Restaurant Week, you were not missed.

The meal ended richly with a Nutella and hazelnut cookie to accompany a dish of caramel sea salt gelato (imagine butter pecan without the nuts) whilst discussing appealing destinations for winter vacations. Argentina? Belize? Somewhere else in the Caribbean?

I'm absolutely agog to think that Christmas is barely two months away and 2016 looms right behind it. May I be the first to say that 2015 passed in the blink of an eye.

Walking towards the door to leave, a friend spotted me and, without hesitation, asked where the music was tonight. As if I'm in charge of knowing what's playing where. Okay, I did know and we were on our way to hear some.

When I told him it was sibling country music, so I wasn't sure if he'd like it, his response was, "I'm from North Carolina. I grew up listening to country." Given his honey-coated southern drawl I bet he did.

The final uncrowded stop of the night was the Camel, a place I hadn't been in ages, despite its proximity to home.

We managed to make it there in time to hear BTW - also known as Ben Willson - singing and playing keys. He's been a long time favorite of mine and his closing cover of "Hallelujah" was gorgeous with its breathy vocals and weighted lyrics.

Meanwhile, my date thought he recognized Ben and he did - I'd taken him to see We Know, Plato! one of Ben's early band projects, years ago. Ain't it funny how time slips away?

Up second was singer/guitarist Jon Brown (and his body) playing the earnest songs he's known for in Horsehead.

I gave him major points when he shamed a couple of loud talkers during his set. "Can you just stop talking?' he asked rhetorically. They didn't. The shame was that one of the talkers was someone he knew. Some people are just raised by wolves, that's the only explanation for their bad behavior.

Tonight's headliner was The Cains from Alabama, a quintet of two blond sisters and a brother in a trucker hat, plus a crack guitarist and rock steady drummer.

No, I'm not usually much into country music, but I'm the first to admit I'm a sucker for sibling harmonizing.

They were only a few songs in when lead singer Taylor commented about the frog in her throat and apologized for not being able to make the notes in a song. She put lead vocal duties on her brother Logan, while they also adjusted the set list to include more covers and avoid the high notes of their new record, "The Cains."

From "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" to "Landslide," they managed to harmonize well enough to distract us from the relatively few new songs they were doing, "Smoke on the Hill" being an exception. The ubiquitous "Shut Up and Dance with Me" got a half dozen energetic women on the dance floor because, well, shut up and dance with me.

When Taylor mentioned that they were just back from a tour of the UK, "Which was great, but we're happy to be back here in America," sister Madison raised a fist overhead in solidarity. I bet two blond sisters singing country - their first album was produced in Muscle Shoals, their second in Nashville - were mighty popular across the pond.

Despite regular apologies for the cracks in Taylor's voice and the altered set list, they really sounded quite good once they got going, a fact borne out by listening to their music now that I'm home.

I know because one of the benefits of going to an uncrowded show is that the band members come around to talk to everyone in the crowd afterwards and give out their CDs. Both of them.

An uncrowded show and party favors. Hallelujah.

16 Going on 66

It's a tad disturbing the way the mighty Internets claim to be able to "read" you.

Without so much as asking me a single question, I was told the following about myself:
Age based on general knowledge: 66
Age based on taste in music: 16
Age based on preferences: 32

Meaningless as it is, I'm fine with having the knowledge base of someone older than me. I'm hardly surprised my musical taste is considered younger, although I think 16 is a stretch. But where I need clarification is on the preferences issue.

I mean, my preference is to live without air conditioning even when my apartment registers 90 degrees like it does right now. My preference is to lock my car doors from inside rather than using the key fob and causing unnecessary noise pollution when it beeps loudly to indicate that the car is safe. My preference is to choose car routes that take me down streets I enjoy rather than automatically opting for the fastest route.

And this means I come in at age 32?

Okay, then, that means that a 32-year old loves it when her evening begins with a compliment from a stranger.

Walking down Cary Street toward Chop Suey Books just after the pelting rain had let up, a man greets me and observes, "You didn't get caught in the rain because your hair still looks great." Thanks for the kind words, stranger.

I was meeting a favorite couple at Chop Suey to hear Bob Suren read from his book "Crate Digger" about the hunt for punk rock records. Actually, it turned out to be a memoir of growing up in Florida and about all things punk rock, not just digging for vinyl gems.

The friend and her cute husband met me upstairs where we took seats in the back row like the bad kids in school always did. My friend was concerned because the reading started in seven minutes and we were the sole occupants of the room. Her distress was short-lived, though, because before long every seat was taken and people were standing just outside the door to the room.

Bob explained that his odyssey had begun in 1983 when his sister's boyfriend had given him a mix tape called "Family Favorites," assuring him that, "This is better than the Scorpions," then one of Bob's favorite bands. There were no songs or band listings.

The mix tape became the soundtrack to his summer, but in order to identify the artists, he had to ask the one punk kid in his school to identify the bands for him. An obsession was born.

Reading chapters from the book, he shared memories of his first Ramones concert in Miami, an event that so impressed him he said that, "I thought 'Ramones' should become a superlative in every language." The post-concert antics - his drunk sister insisting on taking him and his terrified friends to an all-night go kart track - were even funnier.

We heard about some of the punk bands he'd played in, including one show opening for the Meat Men (and playing after the superbly-named Stevie Stiletto and the Switchblades), where his band decided it'd be a good idea to have a sandwich maker onstage and pass out sandwiches to the audience.

They threw them back at the band. "A piece of bologna landed on the drummer's thigh," may have been one of the funniest lines I've ever heard read. For years, they referred to the summer of '87 as "the Meat Men summer."

There were chapters about making his first record (with the advice, "Punk rock don't need no permission. Just figure out what you want to do and do it.") and in 1991, creating his own record label.

He told us about the triangular-shaped Confusion Records, the first place he took his record when it came out because it was local, but a place aptly named because there was no system for how records were filed (maybe by molecular weight or color of the album cover, he wasn't really sure).

It was interesting, when he talked about the rise of mail order records as a way to get obscure and imported albums - think Pillsbury Hardcore - in the '80s, someone asked whether he knew the bands and albums he was ordering or if he just took a chance on the unknown, which was, of course, exactly what he and his friends had done.

I know the concept is completely foreign to millennials who have never just gambled on unknown music based on a band or album name or especially compelling or gruesome cover art, but anyone over a certain age (ahem) recalls buying something you'd never heard of just because it spoke to you in some intangible way.

You have to admire someone who managed to be "employed" by punk rock for two decades, in one way or another. He was a shining example of doing what you love.

Because my friends had eaten before the reading and I hadn't, we parted company with my friend asking about my plans. "I like to think of you going off to do something fun and exciting," she said. Ah, the pressure, but I do what I can.

Tonight, that meant going to Dinamo for dinner and finding it packed with people, some even waiting on the bench outside. Ah, but therein lies the beauty of being a single because in moments I was escorted to the one and only open bar stool. Score.

The owner suggested San Vincenzo Anselmi for its fuller, citrusy flavor, which I sipped while getting to know my fellow bar mates.

Next to me was a guy who lives in Forest Hill, spends January and February in Florida and, along with his partner, had been the money behind a restaurant that just celebrated its one-year anniversary. His wife was busy talking to three recent transplants, including a couple who'd lived in Portland for ten years.

Hearing that I'd just come back, they wanted my impression since they'd just escaped from what they considered the smugness and precious nature of its populace. They'd already decided our food scene was better.

Since by then I was finishing up a white pizza (coincidentally, a friend who moved to Portland had already told me that no pizza there compares to Richmond's) before moving on to my cold seafood salad of mussels, clams, shrimp and calamari marinated in olives, onion and lemon juice, I had to agree.

When the topic of Halloween came up, the couple - dedicated bar sitters, just like me - knew of no festivities, so I stepped in to enlighten the newcomers on the annual Halloween parade through Oregon Hill and all it entails. Everyone at the bar was stoked about the big bike race and what it means for Richmond. Of course the Folk Fest was touted as a must-do for the newbies while I savored a Nutella and sea salt cookie, a divinely satisfying end to my meal.

The owner, standing behind the bar and joining in our lively conversation whenever she could, smiled widely at one point and said to the six of us, "It's a very good bar tonight."

Could it be she was saying that those whose preferences make them 32 are a key element of a good bar? Pshaw, I'd like to think I meet that criteria no matter what age you call me.

Mid-Afternoon Thrash

They pick up their conversation like it was the next day and not a full year since they last saw each other.

His drive down 95 from Washington lasts an excruciating three hours so lunch doesn't begin until 2:45, but fortuitously she has chosen Dinamo because they don't close between lunch and dinner.

The restaurant is cool with air conditioning, a welcome respite from her 90-degree apartment, and devoid of people except staff. Interestingly enough, the music is atypically thrash, not unwelcome but probably not what plays during dinner hour.

Eager to get busy talking, they scan the menu for cool, summery dishes to suit the sweltering day, deciding on the cold seafood salad (easily the best in Richmond), eggs in tuna sauce and after a heartfelt recommendation from the server, squash salad.

His pick for poison is a Negroni (still recalling with fondness the one Bobby K. made for him several summers ago here) while hers is a glass of Trebbiano and with chilled libations delivered, they dive into the conversational pool.

As the plates begin to arrive, he shares experiences -good, bad and ugly - from his recent trip to Africa as well as updates about the book he's currently writing and revising, an odyssey through art, family and choices.

The seafood salad, a wonder of olive oil, red onions and lemon juice over fresh seafood, is worthy of an Italian seaside cafe. The tuna sauce turns the soft-cooked  eggs into something obscenely rich and sensuous. And ho-hum squash transforms into the essence of summer as the centerpiece of a cold dish with tomato sauce and onions. A memorable cold meal.

They use his phone to look at intense, expressionistic paintings by Oskar Kokoschka, an Austrian artist she's never heard of until now but plans to do some research on. He tells her she should be reading Lucky Peach, which he is sure Chop Suey carries, and she makes a mental note to look for it.

When he inquires about coffee, the server tells him it's the best in town, a fact he doubts because it's Illy, not usually a favorite of his, but orders it anyway and is pleasantly surprised at how good it is. A non-coffee drinker, she takes his word for it.

Generously, he tells her she looks younger than the last time he saw her and compliments her longer hair, even the cut of it. When he notices the server's hair is similar, he makes a joke about it being all the rage in Richmond.

Lunch ends (with him marveling at the tab, so different than lunch prices in D.C.) because he has dinner plans shortly and needs to pick up a bottle of wine with which to gift his hostess, a three-named southern woman.

She directs him back to her neighborhood to Saison market where a small group is watching the World Cup, sipping happy hour beer and munching on bread and cured meat.

The visitor winds up with not just wine for the hostess, but a large cube ice tray and a set of vintage Italian coasters he considers under-priced, fearful if he doesn't buy them he will regret it later. Or so he tells himself.

Leaving the market, they see that the sky has darkened to the point of a storm announcement but since they are mere blocks from her house, they make it back before the heavens explode.

People are sitting on the porch next door watching and commenting on the lightening show when he drops her home and minutes later, the rain is pelting down in sheets.

Before he goes, he reminds her that it's her turn to come to Washington for dinner and she agrees, always happy to have a reason to see her birthplace.

Whether that dinner happens sooner or later, it's likely they will continue the conversation where they left off. Mid-paragraph.

At the Top of My List

As dates go, this one ran the gamut from Cream to Bon Iver, a range not all can swing.

And while the music has changed, this whole dating thing takes me back to high school, although at least now it's legal for me to drink on dates.

Dinamo was quiet when we arrived, with only a single at the bar and a two-top busily eating and talking.

Exactly what we'd come to do.

We started with a bottle of Masciarelli Montepulciano and crostini with chopped liver and red onions, which, as far as I'm concerned, almost guarantees that a date is going to go well.

Whether or not liver leads to love is a whole different issue, but it did lead to a story about a place he knew that does tableside preparation of chopped liver, right down to asking how much schmaltz to add.

My kind of place.

The music was full-on old school to start, with Led Zeppelin the soundtrack to our next course of caponata, one of my favorite ways to eat eggplant for its sweet and sour contrast, and frisee with duck confit, because a little bitter greens are the ideal accompaniment to fat-cooked anything.

My date scored big with humor and had me choking with laughter after a crack about him being  a late and unexpected addition to his family.

As opposed to me, an early and unexpected addition to my family.

If chicken liver starts a date on the right foot, convulsive laughter ensures that it is progressing well.

We finished up with a meaty rockfish filet, not because it was my first choice (they were out of branzino), but because fish sounded good at that point...and it was.

By that time, we'd outlasted everyone but the staff (and inexplicably, now the music had jumped 40 years to the Shins) but weren't quite done talking to each other, so we went to Secco for flight night.

The featured flight was from northwest Spain and the music far more current despite discussion of it being hip hop Monday.

The Terra Do Castelo Godello, a new grape to me, tasted like the perfect white to sip on a sunny balcony in Spain, the fragrant Guimaro Ribeiro Mencia would have been lovely with the caponata we'd just had, but it was the big Carthago Lui Tempranillo Toro, with its hints of black fruit and smokiness, that we both ordered full glasses of.

And here's where I give my date credit.

It would have been so easy to end things there, after a satisfying meal and a lovely Spanish dessert.

Instead, I was invited up to see his etchings hear his new stereo and what music-loving woman is going to say no to that?

From Modern Lovers to XTC to Luther Vandross to Bon Iver, it was a decade-spanning musical journey on a newer system and through far better speakers than I have.

Just two people on a date, sitting on a couch, listening to music very loud and talking about it. Honestly, it was just like how I spent many dates with guys in high school.

For some of us, listening to music together is one of the fastest ways to weed out the chaff. Ditto eating together.

When it comes to schmaltz, I can onlyhope he agrees with me and Luther. Never too much.