In Daylights, In Midnights

When a David Byrne song starts feeling holiday-like, it's probably time to step away from the gift wrap and cookie sheets.

Cruising along Route 360 this morning with the sky a pale blue, the odd angle of the December sunlight in my eyes and the unnatural warmth of the car baking my brain, I unexpectedly heard holiday thankfulness in the music.

Everyday is a miracle
Every day is an unpaid bill
You've got to sing for your super
Love one another

The mind is a soft-boiled potato
A jewel in a chocolate shell
I staple my love to your heart, dear
With memories and beautiful smells

You can kind of hear it, right?

It was my final pre-Christmas visit to help Mom and Dad prepare for the onslaught of family that will descend like locusts on the Northern Neck over the next ten days, a whirlwind of wrapping presents, baking cookies and deleting photographs (don't ask) for them.

During a brief break, I showed them the SNL cold open from Saturday, the one where the cast redid "It's a Wonderful Life" into "It's a Wonderful Trump," showing that idiot what the world would have been like if he'd never been put in office by the Russians.

My uber-liberal parents loved it, though I suspect it may have been their first episode of SNL. At least they got all the political humor.

By noon, I had eaten my weight in raw eggs.

That's because  I can't resist nibbling on cookie dough and today I made something like ten dozen cookies, so there was a lot of dough around. Mom and I mocked the recipe warning not to eat raw dough (because of the eggs), given that we've been doing so our entire lives and aren't likely to stop any time soon, no matter how much the medical science community tries to scare us.

As Hall and Oates once said, you've got to know that old habits die hard.

Frankly, as solidly as my days have been packed lately, I could justify dough-eating as fuel for the duration. Even for heathens like me, holiday season is a marathon, not a sprint.

It already seems like eons ago that Mr. Wright and I slipped over to the VMFA to see "Congo Masks: Masterpieces from Central Africa," but I think it might have been just last Friday. With the snowball that is my life rolling steadily downhill and getting bigger all the time, I thought it only prudent to get over there while I had a free moment.

The masks were a unique kind of artifact, but for me, it was the film of Congolese people wearing them and dancing in them that provided the best insight into why masks are so central to aspects of the culture. The films were also a fascinating timeline, since the ones from the '50s showed everyone in native dress, while the 1990 footage showed that Western clothing had reached the Congo.

I'm sorry, but it's disconcerting to see a man in a wooden mask with raffia hair wearing cargo shorts. Is there no point too remote on earth for these baggy bloomers to appear and degenerate native dress? Asking for a friend.

Most surprising was learning that masks are still being created and several newer ones are included in the show. There's one of Jesus from the second quarter of the 20th century and another of Elvis from the third quarter of the 20th century.

As to how either one wards off  evil spirits, well, the signage wasn't specific about that.

Also unexpected was a gallery full of musical instruments, the kind used to create the sounds that men in masks danced to. Favorite? The wooden trapezoid slit drum which could produce a half dozen tones because of the varying thickness of its sides.

Almost as long ago was a cozy dinner at Max's, tucked away at the far end of the long bar behind the enormous coffee machine, where we were out of view of absolutely everyone else in the place. Even the bartender had trouble even seeing us to pour Blanc de Blanc or serve us dinner, but the allure of being out of sight was too good to pass up.

Equally as good was an entree that could have been the poster child for vegetarian comfort food: grilled asparagus with sauteed mushrooms and Brussels sprouts leaves over pommes aligot, aka obscene cheesy mashed potatoes.

And before you go thinking we've become some kind of healthy vegetarians, know that two courses had meat and one had chocolate, so we still have our heads about us.

By 11 we were walking over to the Ghost Light After Party at the Basement, the latest incarnation of a piano bar in J-Ward. We found a table with a view, scored glasses of Rose and watched as local theater types took turns singing whatever the hell they wanted to, even when that included "My Heart Will Go On."

As I told the evening's host when he came over to chat, Mr. Wright had scored major points early on in our acquaintance when he'd copped to a love of show tunes while straight.

Let's just say he looked positively beatific when "Seasons of Love" began, but that's always a show-stopper because everyone in the theater community apparently knows every word, so it's inevitably a group singalong.

525,600 minutes
525,600 moments so dear
525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunset?
In midnights? In cups of coffee?
In inches, in miles?
In laughter, in strife?

In 525,600 minutes,
How do you measure a year in a life?

Well, if you're asking Mr. Wright, he would say it's measured in something to do, someone to love and something to look forward to. He's not wrong, either.

We didn't intend to stay until last call, but the songs kept coming - I'm not sure there's ever been a GLAP where "A Whole New World" isn't sung - and it was too much fun to tear ourselves away, so we got more Rose and stayed the course, walking home at 2 a.m. through deserted J-Ward streets.

Sunday, we started at the Byrd for that perennial mash-up of love stories, "Love Actually," which I've been informed is now actually considered a Christmas movie. Whether of not that's a fact is still up for grabs, but why wouldn't I want to see a romantic comedy with Alan Rickman, Liam Neeson and Bill Nighy?

That's some pretty appealing man meat right there, and of multiple varieties, too.

Afterwards, just to prove our range, we wound up in the front row at Gallery 5 for Silent Music Revival's holiday screening of director Jean Renoir's surrealistic 1928 film, "The Little Matchgirl." Spoiler alert: all her matches can't keep her warm and she freezes to death.

That Hans Christian Anderson was dark, I'm telling you.

Disco punk band Toxic Moxie provided an improvised soundtrack that I would put up against any SMR soundtrack I've heard and I've been going to the event practically since it began 11 years ago. Their ability to react aurally to what was happening visually onscreen was spot on and evocative in that way that synths are so good at conveying sadness.

The only problem with being non-stop busy all weekend was that Monday arrived with a to-do list for the week that encompasses all the holiday prep I've been doing for Mom but needed to do for myself plus six interviews, seven deadlines and the need to get my hired mouth to a new place multiple times, all by New Year's Eve.

And don't even get me started on the travel prep that jumps into high gear once the work obligations have been met.

Sign seen on an insurance office sign in Tappahannock this morning: "Say yes to new adventures."

Don't mind if I do. This heathen is ready to dive into the holidays solely so she can come out on the other side and get back to real life.

It may mean a lot less raw egg, but a whole lot more to look forward to. Just one question, though. How did those 525,600 minutes pass so quickly this year?

Ah, yes, the biggest adventure of them all. Talk about your whole new world...

At Home in the '60s of My Mind

The hand stamp said it all: Get well soon.

Not that there was anything wrong with me, but how could I not qualify for better after a night of kick ass world music?

My day played out productively, but I didn't even leave the house for dinner until after 8:30, stopping at Garnett's for a farmer's salad and the New York Times, a quiet meal at the counter.

The funniest moment unfolded when a neighborhood man came into pick up his take-out order. When he asked for a piece of the buttermilk pie sitting on a cake stand on the counter, the girl went to lift the top off and it went flying (cracking on the floor even) and the pie would have slid off the counter if her nimble fingers hadn't snatched it back at the very last moment.

All three of us looked at each other big-eyed and then burst out laughing. Hell of a save, honey.

Given my late start, I had no time for dessert, barely making it to Balliceaux in time to pay the piper, have my hand stamped with "get well soon" and head to the back room which was already mostly full.

Familiar faces abounded: the former neighbor and his date who recalled meeting me at the Mozart Festival ("I was wearing my puffy coat that day"), the organizer who's no longer a platinum blond ("Too much work!"), the film guru ("You need to see 'Wattstax.' You'd love it"), the printmaker and her DJ husband.

As many times as I've seen Yeni Nostalji singing another memorable set of Turkish pop songs from the '60s and '70s, this was the first time I'd seen them playing '70s Turkish movies behind them (with an occasional tag, "Nostalji TV").

Such wide bell bottoms. All the men had Burt Reynolds-style mustaches and all the women feathered hair. Even in Turkey? Who knew?

Their sound is completely distinctive with Christina and Evrim's voices playing off each other so well and Marlysse's keyboards adding just the right accessibility to the songs while Rey and Tim's rhythm section tie it all together.

After the first song, Christina was talking to the audience when Evrim excused himself and said he'd be right back. "That's my worst nightmare about being onstage," she joked. Or not.

He returned and they carried on with a song "from all the way back in '82!" before saying they were going to do an original song.

That's when the comedy really began. Evrim couldn't find his capo so while Christina sang a song a capella, everyone frantically looked around onstage for it. Afterwards, she made a plea to the audience to lend them a capo if anyone had one.

"This is my second worst nightmare," she said.

With none forthcoming, someone offered Evrim a pen and a rubber band and he McGyvered a capo so they could play the next song. A song later, someone walked up to Evrim's mic stand and clipped a capo on it.

When the song ended, Evrim plucked it off saying, "Oh, look, there's a capo right here," as if it had been there the whole time.

It was when Christina debuted her new song - "It's about loving your enemy" - that two couples began dancing in front of the stage.

Behind me, I overheard two girls discussing the movie and it was clear they'd both seen it before. "What was his other movie?" one asked about the Burt Reynolds lookalike. Turns out the local Turkish community was out in force at the show tonight.

Before the last song, Evrim thanked everyone for putting up with all the mishaps. "Thanks for making us feel at home in the Turkish '60s of our mind."

And, you know, it's exactly that Turkish '60s of their mind that keeps me coming back to hear them play.

During the break, I mingled, hearing cracks about how at future Yeni Nostalji shows the audience will all bring capos just in case. I was introduced to the bass player and talked about movies and music. A guy came and stood beside me, marveling when I showed him he could put his drink on the ledge above rather than risking it underneath a chair on the floor while we were dancing.

It's not my first rodeo, I told him. "Mine, either, but I can still learn new tricks," he said/ That makes him a role model for his sex then.

I'd never seen Afro-Zen Allstars, although I knew the bass player, trombonist and one of the sax players (and recognized the guitarist), hardly surprising given the incestuous nature of the music scene in Richmond. New to me were the other sax player, the drummer and the percussionist.

Honestly, they were barely into the first song, their Ethiopian funk settling into a groove so deep it was startling for its immediacy, when people began dancing. They might have played one or two songs that weren't Ethiopian, but even those followed the groove.

And a mighty groove it was. I loved how sinuous the sound was and while I never made it as far as the main dance floor, my little area of the floor served as my own dance floor. Nearby, a guy was sketching the band, putting his pad and metal Juicy Fruit box of pencils down periodically to go dance, too.

A white-haired man in slacks and a sweater vest danced non-stop, finally stopping to remove his hat and wipe off the sweat streaming down his face. The hat stayed off but his dancing kept on.

The undisputed star of the dance floor was a blond woman in beige church lady pumps and a denim skirt the size of a band-aid (read: way shorter than mine) who had a way of dancing that was part Prancersize and part pole dancing. She was very popular to dance with, I'll say that much.

So while she had partners and I did not, I feel quite sure she didn't have any better a time than I did.

Unless blonds really do have more fun, in which case I'll never know. Too much work, I hear.

Fairer Than a Cowbell

The greatest tragedy written before Shakespeare followed by glass-shattering Afropop.

Nice segue, don't you think?

My favorite boarding school graduate met me at Garnett's for tea sandwiches, angels on horsebacks and Paul Ponnelle Pinot Noir while bringing me up to date on her life. She'd been here, she'd been there and all on her own.

"I go all by myself everywhere! I'm becoming you except I don't write about it," she said. Must save a lot of time, I concluded.

Then we were off to see "Live at the Globe: Dr. Faustus," the better to satisfy our inner theater nerds. I'd never seen one of these HD-filmed stage productions, much less one filmed at the Globe Theatre where there were people crowded into the pit and leaning on the stage, assuming the groundling roles.

The production was a fine one with detailed Renaissance-era costumes, huge flying dragons and stilt-walkers with enormous fur robes and horns. And live musicians! It was wonderful hearing musical flourishes throughout (cue gong!). Like when the gates of hell opened with the banging of it.

It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery.

Bawdy comedy abounded; when a man's head is replaced by a dog's head, he stops to lift his leg and the groundlings under him get a golden shower. Fire was everywhere: inside books, on the nether regions of a haggard wife-to-be.

The story of a man seeking knowledge who sells his soul to the devil ("If this be hell, let me be damned") uses the most beautiful language.

He has a buttock as slick as an eel.

Performances were top notch and the camera gave us wide shots, long shots and the occasional close-up. I might have had one little complaint with the production.

None but thou shall be my paramour.

To better mimic the theater experience, I'd have preferred one fixed camera angle. But that's quibbling.

Thou art fairer than the evening air.

And just like at a play, the audience clapped at the end of the performance. After the curtain call, the cast came back out for a little performance piece, with many in the cast bloody and moving gory puppets as the danced and sang.

Faustus and Mephistopheles came out, grabbed instruments and began doing that old standard, "Dueling Lutes." Faustus yelled, "It's the devils' music!" to much hilarity as the credits rolled.

Where can a person go after experiencing Christopher Marlowe at her neighborhood multi-plex but to Balliceaux for North Carolinian afropop?

Brand New Life was a six piece: guitar, bass, sax, trumpet, percussion, and drums and I arrived for the end of their first set. The sax player was all tousled hair and toe-tapping loafers. The drummer and the percussionist had the kind of young faces that will serve them well when they're 40.

The band's break was spent chatting with a local jazz musician. Best quote from him, "Not everyone's as motivated as you are." I took it as a compliment.

When the band returned, they kicked off in high gear, with the guitarist asking, "Do you want to hear another rock and roll song?" Why would we not? And by rock and roll song, he meant the bass player ditched the upright for an electric and assumed the rocker stance, one leg forward.

No one does rock and roll quite like a bearded jazz nerd.

A friend slipped into the yellow chair next to me during the second set, bringing with him tales of a first date. I got to hear about how two people I introduced got to know each other for the first time. But we only talked in between songs until the show was over.

What I liked about the band's sound was just how much was going on at any one time. With my limited musical vocabulary, I tried to explain this to my friend, who's a musician.

"No, that's the best way to put it," he said, making me feel less stupid. "Like Fela Kuti." Exactly what I meant.

It was during a particularly cacophonous section that there was the sudden sound of glass breaking as a wineglass had danced itself right off the back bar and onto the bar floor. Good vibrations. Actually, it was downright awesome.

During one song, the guitarist slid the neck of his guitar along a conga drum's skin, looking quite pleased with himself. The trumpet player (and likely leader) was a force of nature, alternately blowing and playing a drum on the chair in front of him.

And there was cowbell, lots of cowbell.

The band ended on what they called a funky song, giving the crowd permission to dance and coming out with horns blaring. A few guys shuffled their feet.

Me, I was just basking in the glow of hearing more than my ears could take in.

For all I know, it was the devil's music, too.

Ninja Talk

I am not a person who goes to the movies and talks to the screen.

Yes, I might gasp or grimace involuntarily, but that's the extent of my noisemaking.

Truth be told, I find movie talkers annoying and I wish they'd shut up. Except like tonight when that's what they're supposed to do.

Since I was headed to the Firehouse, Garnett's was an obvious choice for dinner.

I walked in to find two tables occupied and within half an hour, every table was taken. I took full credit.

Just after I ordered my grilled Gouda with bacon, grilled onions and tomato on rye, I got company.

We've known each other for probably five years now and he's been a chef, sous chef and pastry chef here and in bigger cities.

Which is to say that we immediately got busy talking restaurants and chefs and food.

"None of this can go in the blog," he reminded me. None of it is.

I always enjoy talking to him because he doesn't mince words and he has strong opinions.

The fact that he's so talented in the kitchen doesn't hurt, either, since I've eaten the fruits of his labor in multiple locations.

I'd planned to read the new Atlantic Monthly while I ate, but it was much more fun to dish with him.

It also slowed me down from inhaling my grilled cheese, the perfect warm sandwich on a gray day like today.

We talked right up until I left for the Firehouse Theater for the FilmRoasters take on the schlocky "American Ninja."

I'd never heard of these guys but they apparently do the Mystery Science Theater thing live with running commentary during the corny movies they screen.

And corny doesn't begin to describe "American Ninja," an 80s film with an enormous body count, little blood, a female lead with big 80s hair and high-waisted jeans and a picture of a smiling Reagan in the Colonel's office.

You know, back when catsup was a vegetable.

While I was prepared for the three film roasters to make pithy remarks about the movie, what I didn't know was that the audience would do the same.

Most of the time, the film's dialog was obliterated by live commentary, a lot of it laugh-out-loud-worthy.

Before the film began, one of the Roasters said. "You all know how this works, right?"

Someone called out, "We have to listen to you guys be more annoying than the movie!"

Bingo!

The first scene with the girl prompted someone to say, "Nice shoulder pads, honey!"

When the director's name, Sam Firstenberger, came on the screen, someone said, "I wonder if this is his second movie."

Groan. You get the idea.

During one of the many Ninja fight scenes with characters spinning and jumping off rooves, someone said, "Every stunt double's wet dream."

And of course when the American Ninja finally kissed the 80s babe, there were all kinds of disgusting slurping and sucking kiss noises.

For the big chase scene, someone said, "Ninjas in rear view mirror may be closer than they appear."

And in a nod to most of the audience's ages, during a masked sword fight, someone yelled out "Turtle power!" which got a big laugh.

The movie would been groan-worthy funny by itself, but with the improvisational skills of the Film Roasters, it became an hysterical source of derision.

Next time I may have to break my no talking movie rule and do some making fun myself.

For what it's worth, I've been told I'm quite good at it in real life.

Debutante Dinner

Mac's leaving Garnett's and I went to send him off.

After nearly two years producing the awesomeness that is Garnett's, Mac's low-key humor and kitchen wizardry will be no more there.

I love Mac so I joined  a friend for drinks to celebrate the guy who always greeted me with a sly grin and  "S'up, Ka-ren?" when I was working coffee shop.

Mac is one of those guys who can smoke a Vidalia onion or play video games with equal aplomb and for this he is my hero.

After a glass of Prieure Saint-Hippolyte Languedoc Rose and a toast to Mac, Friend and I took ourselves up to the Roosevelt to see what kind of madness was going on there.

My favorite bumper sticker along the way: "I Can't. I have Rehearsal."

If I could make it apply to me in any way, I'd have one on my car tomorrow.

We arrived at the perfect moment to grab two stools, center front.

The bar staff was all about the new beer they'd just tapped, Stillwater Artisanal Ales and Baltimore's Brewer's Art collaboration beer, the Debutante.

And while I'm not a beer drinker or a debutante, I was fascinated by the story of gypsy brew master Brian Strumke, who goes from brewery to brewery making creative artisanal beers.

Did it make a beer convert out  of me? No. Was it interesting? Very much so.

Boxwood Rose was more my speed as was one of tonight's specials, which seemed appropriate for the sudden change in weather.

House-made pasta was covered in Cheerwine-braised short rib ragout with vegetables and while my friend finds short ribs boring, I like them.

Especially when served with Brussels Sprouts and carrots.

He got the creamed local mushrooms with a sunny side up egg and grilled bread, which had  a nice array of mushroom types and a savory sauce for dipping.

As we sat there eating, we watched the bow-tied widower next to us charm the two heavily tattooed girls next to him.

We heard the noisy guy at the table near us talk so loudly that the entire restaurant could hear him.

Friend told me about the interesting-sounding man of the cloth who cooks whom he'd recently met and how I must make his acquaintance.

I defended my long-time absence of a love life.

For our main course, we shared the  fried chicken thighs with sausage gravy and cheese grits, a dish made for two people.

The crispy coating and moist interior were finger-licking good, as cliched as that sounds.

They also eliminated any possibility of dessert, sad as that is.

As soon as my friend left to cross the river and go home, I was adopted by a beer-loving couple who had been hovering nearby.

Like every other beer drinker, they insisted that there is a beer out there for me if I just keep trying.

And, let's face it, life is all about trying.

Like today on my walk down Grace Street, I heard a girl tell a friend, "I consider myself a work in progress."

"What does that even mean?" the friend asked with no real interest.

"I think it means you're supposed to keep working on yourself your whole life," the wise one explained.

I'm working on a lot of things, and now they're telling me that I need to add beer to the list?

I'll do what I can, friends, but I'm afraid some things are going to have to take priority.

Not likely beer will be one of them, if you know what I'm saying.

Take on Me (and the Heat)

"So glad it's summer, but damn! It's hot up here," drummer Lance Koehler told the crowd at the Camel tonight, not that it was news to anyone in the crowded, overheated room. There were so many sweaty bodies jammed in there tonight, but poor Lance was trapped on a three-sided stage behind eight other musicians, all blowing hard, so I have to assume that it was even worse for him than the rest of us. And, let me tell you, the rest of us were hot.

But then that's the way the No BS Brass band rolls and that's why they've got the devoted following that they do. Walking in to a nearly full room, Reggie (Can't Stop, Won't Stop) Pace waved hello and I could tell he was already warm and they hadn't played a note yet. I'd thrown a hoodie over my summer dress just in case, and had to peel that off within minutes. Sadly, the band didn't have much to peel.

From original material to raucous covers, No BS worked the crowd like the pros that they are. "Here's a song that you might have heard, but not by us...from 1989!" introduced their cover of Aha's "Take on Me" and whipped the crowd into a frenzy despite many of them having been in potty pants when the song came out. When Reggie commanded, "dance contest!" from the stage, people did as instructed and there was much flailing.

Early on, I heard a girl behind me tell her companion that she didn't recognize a single person in the crowd and I had just been thinking the same thing. I've been to plenty of No BS shows, but tonight's crowd wasn't familiar at all. I saw a guy I'd met at Garnett's and guitarist Scott Burton from Glows in the Dark and that was really it besides Lance and Reggie. Very strange.

I'd come to hear brass from a late happy hour at Garnett's with a very good friend. She was a fan of the beagle and kindly offered her empathy on my loss, mentioning how fortunate it had been that I'd lost him now instead of a year ago when everything else in my life was falling apart. She was right about that; no question that that would have been the straw that broke this camel's back. It was bad enough now.

But we also discussed happier topics like sex and plunging into commitment, even as we devoured a slice of savory cheesecake. When we'd last happy houred at Garnett's on a Friday, they were out of this appetizer and tonight we scored the very last piece. It was a roasted red pepper and feta cheesecake, served with toasted baguette slices and it was divine.

Curt had recommended it as his personal favorite and it wasn't hard to taste why. We followed that with an excellent Cobb salad dressed with a French vinaigrette; the ratio of avocado, bacon and Gorgonzola was perfect, but then Mac is so good at what he does. We have a mutual admiration society, Mac and me.

And because we'd have been fools to leave without having dessert, we had dessert. Very good friend had never experienced the wonder of their chocolate pecan pie warm and oozing with richness, so we addressed that; even the shortbread crust was worthy of note to her. Me, I take it for granted, but then I've enjoyed far too many slices of that pie.

It was a good thing I'd laid down a base with such a pleasant meal before going to the Camel because given the extreme heat and airlessness, a girl with an empty stomach might have felt like fainting before long. And I'm not sure my night would have been as complete without the memory of the trickle of sweat dripping down my back as No BS rocked "Take on Me."

And by all means, take me on.

Music Lust, Not (yet) Man Lust

"If you are free, we need to go to this show," said the e-mail from Andrew, my musical partner in crime. Fortunately, he gave me enough notice that I could guarantee my presence where it was needed last night. I'd just recently discovered Jukebox the Ghost so I was excited to have a chance to hear them live so soon. With the local additions of Prabir and the Goldrush and The Trillions opening, it looked to be a musical bonanza of an evening.

Garnett's was our choice for dinner and it worked out well because it wasn't crazily busy, so we got plenty of conversation from the staff as well as a visit from George, the cat, who once again had wandered down the four blocks from where he actually lives. His daily presence is thought to have something to do with Hunter feeding him salmon ("I just wanted a companion," he explained, "and someone to stroke." Ahem), but I've never seen a cat so nonchalantly work a dinner crowd. Having both doors open probably doesn't discourage George much, either.

Searching the menu for a new sandwich to try, (Andrew the smart-ass said, "You haven't tried them all yet?") I decided on the grilled cheddar (with hot mustard and red onions on rye bread) on Curt's recommendation, with a side of Mac's fresher-than-fresh gazpacho. It was a variation on a cliched theme, that of the grilled cheese and tomato soup lunch of childhood; there was absolutely nothing cliched about this combination. I'd like to dub Mac the Soup Master for his talent with liquids, but he already knows I worship him. Dessert was the luscious chocolate cake with coffee icing and then we headed down to the Bottom for music.

We were early, or the show was late starting, however you want to look at it, so we did a stroll since it was such a beautiful night, which resulted in one of those sublime moments that you wish you could capture, raved about here.

And then it was show time. It was our first time seeing Prabir and then the Trillions (his former Substitutes plus one) at Alley Katz. My only complaint was the sound mix; the recently-added drums of the Goldrush pretty much canceled out Matt's bass, which was a real shame. If there's going to be an instrument that big on stage and being played with that much verve and enthusiasm, I want to hear it and I couldn't, except when the drummer was playing the high hat.
Prabir, take note.

I'd run into several friends who, like me, were there for Jukebox the Ghost and they delivered in spades. A Philly trio with an emphasis on crazy keyboards, they were tight, melodic and completely engaging. Pianist Ben was also a ham, using elaborate hand gestures and high voices to dramatize their songs (almost Freddy Mercury-like).

The crowd had a clear contingent of fans who knew every word and danced pretty much non-stop. The band even introduced their first two songs as "dance sensations." A skinny older man in the front row provided a frenetic dance performance to many of the songs, amusing the band and entertaining the crowd. He was completely into following that frenzied keyboard and it was awesome to watch. Andrew had been exactly right, I needed to see this show.

My last stop of the evening was Ipanema to meet up with a friend for catch-up conversation and of course we ended up closing the place (not that I was drinking after the lunch I'd had, here). It was funny, we both had a story about how a guy we knew had misinterpreted one of my recent blog posts. Both guys had had reading comprehension issues about this post, here, reading into it a completely different meaning than what I wrote.

Luckily, my girlfriend had interpreted it exactly as it was intended when I wrote it (so I knew I wasn't crazy), but these guys saw a completely different and provocative meaning to it. Song lyrics, guys, they were just lyrics and I wasn't lusting after or propositioning anyone in that post. Hell, the point of that post was about all the various enjoyable guys she and I had run into that night.

Until I get this guy thing going right again, thank god there are girlfriends who get me without needing explanations. Believe me, if I'm lusting after someone, I will be clear as crystal and you won't have to read into anything I write.

I'll spell it out for you and, male or female, you won't be able to miss my meaning.

Lunching with a Lawyer at Garnett's

What's a lawyer's favorite clothing? A LAW suit. Corny but not always true. I had lunch today with a good friend who's a lawyer and he was wearing jeans, a sweater and Chuck Taylors; there was nothing lawyerly about him except his tasteful office overlooking the Lee statue on Monument Avenue (which I have to say had a magnificent view from his third floor window).

He couldn't be more pleased since Garnett's opened, given its proximity, so it was his suggestion for lunch. Still on my quest to taste every sandwich there, I was happy to oblige. We strolled over during the heart of the lunch rush, but miraculously there were two tables open and we took the one closest to the kitchen so as to admire the outbound food.

Today's soup sounded so appealing that we both had to order it. It was ham, potatoes, pepperoni, onion and garbanzo beans in a clear broth, which only made it all the more enticing. I told Mac how great I thought his soup was and he teased me with, "What did you expect?" Mac's humor and humility are two of his best qualities. He said that that recipe was a creation of his father's, which didn't surprise me in the least. Or, as my lawyer friend put it, "If it's got pepperoni in it, a man came up with it." Now that I think about it, that's probably true; men are inordinately fond of pepperoni, although I never turn it down either and I'm anything but a guy.

After such a magnificent first course, we decided to split a sandwich (which still counts toward my goal of trying them all) and agreed upon the Black Forest Ham with Gorgonzola and apple slices on toasted wheat bread. Three thick roll-ups of ham sat atop an array of sliced apples and a seriously thick layer of Gorgonzola. The varying textures, the richness of the cheese and apples, the thickness of it all made for an out-of-the-ordinary sandwich we both were impressed with.

You don't eat a half sandwich without expecting desert afterwards, so we got the chocolate cake with chocolate icing and two forks. I've had it before and I'll undoubtedly have it again. Enough said.

Walking back to my friend's office, he was telling me that his car had been in the shop for three weeks because it only intermittently played music. Completely unacceptable, we agreed. One of the most important parts of a car's function is to provide a musical soundtrack to a person's driving and he was willing to leave the car as long as it took for the problem to be solved. It came down to a software patch and he now has the full use of his vehicle again.

If he sounds like a music fanatic, he is. His smarts and humor aside, that's probably my favorite thing about him. In fact, in deference to his musical enthusiasm, I'll even forgo any more bad lawyer jokes.

Check, Please!

I am not so shallow that I need others to validate my opinion. I'm confident that my beliefs are based on life experience, careful consideration and general smarts. Still, it's incredibly gratifying to have a random conversation that proves that my thinking is not completely off the wall.

I was at Garnett's around 11:00 and a musician I know came in for coffee and a scone. The music on the stereo made him look at me and ask, "Do you know if this is Bowerbirds?" Why, yes it was, I told him, leading to a discussion of the band's acoustic Americana sound, of which we were both very fond. He'd even seen them in Charlottesville last month, a show I told him I'd missed because of prior plans.

Realizing he'd found a kindred music soul, he shared a recent story with me. Seems he was really interested in this girl and was trying to figure out the best way to approach her. He'd wanted to ask her out on a date, so he suggested they go to Balliceaux to see Fight the Big Bull. Her response was, "Oh, that's kind of late and I'm not really into live music."

I looked at him incredulously and he just nodded at me. "Yea, it kind of told me everything I needed to know about her." As I told him, at least he didn't waste another minute of his life with someone with such a skewed life-view.

Or as we like to say about a near-miss like that, "Check, please!"