Setting out to focus solely on booze and Jews meant winding up hearing about condoms in a vintage bowl by the bed.
Walking into Cabell Library for the "Jews and Booze: America in the Age of Prohibition" lecture, the only woman friend I know capable of singing opera - and now with two little ones under 5 - exhorted me, "Keep on writing! It's the only way I know what goes on in Richmond anymore. You're in my feed!"
I swore to do my best.
Naturally, I'd expected the talk to have its share of students and it did - including the guy next to me who claimed he was there solely because "that period of American history fascinates me," bless his heart - but there was also a large adult Jewish contingent because Cabell is now the proud owner of an 18th century Torah that had just been put on display.
Having learned at past forays to events at the JCC that I could never be mistaken for a Jew and decades past being mistaken for a student, the only group I neatly fit into was "people who take off their glasses to read," as exemplified by the guy reading a (gasp!) newspaper in the row in front of me, his glasses resting across his thigh.
Just as I was about to force conversation on a complete stranger and suggest we look for others like us in the room, a fellow culture-lover I've known for years took the seat in front of me, saying hello and then whispering that her father used to run liquor.
While processing that unexpected nugget, the program began and author Marni Davis began explaining the long and complex intertwining of Jews and alcohol.
It wasn't so much that Jews were drunks, in fact, she pulled out much period evidence to the contrary: testimonials from back in the day asserting that they could consume alcohol with rigorous moderation and that reason would overcome any passion for drunkenness.
But they'd brought from their home countries a deep-seated knowledge of how to make (mostly whisky) and sell it, convenient since U.S. residents had been heavy drinkers since the Colonial period. And truly, would you have stayed in this god-forsaken wilderness without alcohol? Exactly.
That appetite for booze offered a way for recent Jewish immigrants to establish themselves economically since all you needed to start a saloon was a few bottles and someplace for men to stand around and drink. Their needs are really very simple.
Then the Protestants decided that Prohibition was a great idea and proceeded to force it on the entire country, railing against the Irish immigrants and their whisky and the German immigrants and their beer and putting out alternative facts that these drinkers were having a negative effect at the ballot box. Horrors!
Part of what the Protestants got their panties in a wad about was that the Jewish saloon keepers saw no reason not to serve blacks and whites, problem being that whitey didn't like that, especially with Jim Crow taking over. How dare Jews not follow the well-established color divide in this fine country?
Gadzooks, when you look back right through to the current administration, it's tough to find a period in this country's history when arrogant and clueless white men weren't imposing their will on everybody else.
Like a good speaker, Davis had found a local link and showed an image of a label reading, "Straus Gunst and Company, whisky distributors, Richmond, Virginia," as if we didn't already have some sense of how long Ole Virginny's been making hooch.
Instead of staying for the post-talk reception and looking like a fish out of the Chosen People's water, I instead went to a comedy show at Crossroads Coffee along with scads of other people inside and on the patio. As many times as I've been there for music, I've never seen a crowd this size being entertained.
Of course, this new world order means everyone could use more reasons to laugh, too, besides at the inanity of those in charge.
I found a safe spot with a good view by a table with a gay couple who insisted I wasn't crashing their party by getting so intimate with their space. The more vocal of the two also provided running commentary about each of the bits ("Oh, no, she is not going to talk about that!" Um, she did), which I enjoyed immensely since it was delivered in such a soft voice.
There were four comedians scheduled, followed by an open mic night for which 20+ people had signed up for 13 spots, so things never lagged and the reasons to laugh kept coming, just from different faces at the back of the room.
No surprise, aspiring comedians riff on what they know. Their exes (and why they don't want to hear about your ex). Why lifeguards should charge by the pound for rescue. Having a bookie grandmother who ran numbers. How it's easier to give up crack than food because there are no crack commercials on TV to tempt you.
There was even dating advice. "Sleep with a Mom! They have the best snacks ever!" I've heard of a lot of reasons for sex, but snackage is a first.
One guy - bearded, large belly with a generous shirt - got up, looked over at an audience member - gray bearded, large belly with a generous dashiki - and announced to the room, "Look, that's a future version of me." Ouch.
The always-entertaining Mary Jane French took the stage to say,"I'm one of those trans-gendered women you've been reading about," before sharing that after surgery, her new girl parts looked so sore and swollen that she looked to her mother for advice. Asking her when the traumatized bits would look human, her Mom (sounding as sensible as mine), gave her the blunt truth.
"Human? I don't know, but it'll look better with time." Some mothers just don't want to talk vaginal beauty with their daughters. MJ assured us that she'd been given the real thing, though, no scientific simulation or pale imitation. "This isn't a Hydrox, this is a real Oreo."
The same comedian who'd asked for a show of hands of who's ever peed on a couch before (there were several in the air) ended with a clever comedic sign-off, saying, "Thank you for having me. I apologize."
As anyone's bookie grandmother can tell you, better to toss out an apology later than ask permission beforehand. Just as long as the apology's not too late.
And, please, keep it real. No Hydrox, thanks.
Showing posts with label herschel stratego. Show all posts
Showing posts with label herschel stratego. Show all posts
Friday, March 31, 2017
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Building a Dynasty
You think you know how things will go, but you never really do.
I thought I'd sleep in like I always do, but I awoke at 7:44 and never got back to sleep. Might as well get up.
My reward for not getting up at my usual time was a day already so gorgeous that I opened all the windows before I even made breakfast.
I got dressed for my walk as if it were December 1st, got as far as the front door and came back upstairs to change into shorts and a t-shirt. With the sun already making me warm, I headed over to Oregon Hill to pick up the North Bank trail to Texas Beach.
For a change, I came back not along the river but on South Lombardy Street, a stretch I'd never been on. Of note was a street where every street light had a solar collector, a pile of fragrant new wood-smelling roof trusses in front of a house being built and the elaborate Petronius Jones Park which I'd never laid eyes on.
Walking back toward J Ward, I was plotting how to best use this gorgeous day. A drive to Merroir for lunch? A book in the park? Some gardening? How to make the most of 71 degrees in December?
It didn't matter. I got home to e-mails from three editors and spent most of the afternoon addressing their needs. "Stamping on ants," as a former boss used to call it. By the time they'd been satisfied, it was time to shower and go do an interview.
But when that was finished, I was free. My first stop was 8 1/2 for dinner - roasted red peppers and Mozzarella followed by a white pizza - which I did get to eat outside to enjoy the last of today's warmth.
With serious garlic breath, I headed to Balliceaux, parking five blocks away (parking restrictions until 9) but enjoying every step of the walk to get there, even if I did pass far too many houses already decorated for Christmas. The sidewalks were alive with dog walkers and joggers sweating almost as much as I had this morning.
Inside, I joined the line to pay my five bucks (to be donated to Richmond Conexiones) to hear strangers and friends over-share at Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, with tonight's theme being "Plot Twist."
You have to understand, I go to this event because I am fascinated to hear strangers (and occasionally friends) share stories I have no business hearing. Simply put, I am nosy.
The crowd was huge although I saw very few people I knew. Okay, less socializing than usual. But as a long-time regular, I know enough to arrive before 7 so at least I'm assured of a seat. Let the first-timers sit on the floor.
And then we began with the plot twists, so many plots twists.
The first storyteller was Mack, a tattooed hairdresser whose true love was Shakespeare, sharing "I Owe You a Bullet." His saga involved taking his Dad's gun apart in 7th grade and putting it back together incorrectly.
This only became an issue after his Dad took in Steve, a recovering heroin addict, who isolated his Dad once he began dying and then stole and pawned many of his dad's possessions after the funeral, causing Mack to hate him. Back on heroin, Steve decided to end his life using the malfunctioning gun. See the plot twist there?
"The one person I'd most like to kill and I saved his life," Mack concluded. It was a fierce start to the evening.
Next came Sylvia telling "Steering Wheels and Circles" about her belligerent Dad and how he was always yelling at her, whether she was driving the boat and he was trying to water ski behind it or when he was teaching her to drive (and wasting 36 cents of rubber) and she hit pot holes.
After her Dad died and was cremated, she picked up his ashes to drive them home and had to brake suddenly, sending the box with Dad inside careening around the back seat. "He didn't say a word," she said to laughter. After that, she swerved on purpose just because she knew he couldn't yell at her anymore.
Katelyn's "How Did I Get Here?" was about her bad ass stepmom Anne whom she worshiped as a 14 year old when she saw her take a handful of pills with no water ("Why do you think men like me so much?" she asked the traumatized teen. Awkward).
She recalled how much fun she saw her Dad have with Anne, who called him the great love of her life. Ah, but Anne strayed and had an affair with Glen after he presented her with a 72-page PowerPoint presentation. End of marriage.
Then Anne got sick and sicker with ALS and died and Katelyn was asked to speak at the funeral. "Glen showed his 72 page PowerPoint and I wanted to scream at him that this was about Anne, not how big his penis was. That's what the PowerPoint was about," she shared.
Wow.
Host Colin got up to introduce the next storyteller, saying drolly, "I wooed my girlfriend with a PowerPoint presentation but it was only two pages." Ba dum bum.
Shannon told "Cop Land on Repeat," about getting the call that his dad was dead while he'd been watching Cop Land on the IFC channel. FedEx delivered the ashes which Shannon managed to spill on the kitchen counter, a fact he wasn't eager to share with his roommates.
What helped him deal with the pain of losing his Dad was telling stories - at Richmond Comedy Coalition, at a pocket park -like the one he told tonight. He called 2014 the best and worst year of his life because although he'd lost a parent, he'd found beauty in life.
"It's so easy to be cynical," he said sagely. "There's no such thing as guilty pleasures, just missed opportunities and regrets."
Now there's a twist.
Austin's "The Awesome Story" happened after a night of cocaine and drinking Tuaca when he and a friend got home and found a possum in the dog's mouth. Managing to remove it, they saw it was half dead and decided to finish it off with a ceramic boot planter.
"We didn't realize it was playing possum. Apparently that's a real thing," he said to much hooting and hollering. After beating it with the sharp end of a tiki torch, he tried throwing it over the fence but twice it hit his brother's girlfriend's window.
His conclusion was, "Don't do drugs, guys."
Richard's story, "The Rose City" involved a low point in his life with an aborted move to Portland ("Before "Portlandia." It was a northwest backwater"), marrying a girl because they challenged each other to and winding up in a mental institution ("Westbrook, it's not there anymore") because he needed sleep.
Fortunately, at 47, he has since met his current wife and is not crazy. "Don't let people tell you that you can't run away from your problems. You can for a while."
During the intermission, hosts Kathleen and Colin told us that tonight was the fourth anniversary of Secretly Y'All and that in that time, they'd raised nearly $10,000 for various charities and non-profits. I like to think my regular attendance and all those $5 contributions helped that a little.
A friend came over to chat, asking why I didn't get up and share a story. "You blog every night," he reminded me. Not the same, I reminded him. "Just cover your face while you talk." Nope.
The two people sitting next to me were considering leaving during the break, but I warned them that often the best stories come from the hat when anyone can put their name in for a shot at being called. They stayed.
First up was Herschel with one of his distinctive rambling and tangent-heavy memories. This one involved running into a friend at Balliceaux ("Men come here because the women are attractive") before he was headed to an afterparty at Tavares' house.
On their way to the car, a man asked to use his phone and stole it. Over the next two days, he went through six cell phones trying to find a replacement for his stolen one. Apparently, Craig's List and soldiers shipping out the next day to Afghanistan aren't the best sources of replacement phones.
"I Will Survive" was Jessie's title and she began by telling us she was a confident woman who loves life and singing karaoke, even when sober.
Problems arose, however, when her boyfriend cheated on her and she found out from a woman at the bar he was cheating with. Sure, she threw a glass of water in his face but she also sought karaoke therapy.
At her favorite karaoke bar ("I'd built a dynasty of five years at this bar and he'd lived in this town for six moths"), she sees him come in and responds by singing "I Will Survive," pointing at him the whole while. She even sang part of it tonight.
"It was cathartic," she concluded. "He moved after that. Left the city." Damn, girl, well done.
Denise's story involved her last night at home before leaving for college, cough syrup loopiness and going dancing. Seems she ended up sleepwalking to her parents' bed, waking up with Mom and Dad beside her. "Honey, we're going to miss you, too," Mom says. She's since given up cough syrup entirely.
Somehow, and there's no good explanation for why this happens given the randomness of a drawing, the best story was saved for last. Rocky was a first timer and had assumed that the stories after intermission were somehow lesser storytellers than those in the first half. He'd already seen that that wasn't the case so he was a tad nervous.
Raised in a small (population 170 then, 140 now) town between Missouri (he pronounced it "Missoura") and Iowa where, according to him, gender roles were set in stone.
While he knew that it was traditional for 7 year old boys to get a gun for their birthday, he wanted roller skates. "I was the kid who wanted to sing the Snow White song to get birds to land on my fingers," he said sincerely. "F*ckers never did."
When a neighbor gave him a ride from school, he was asked how many quail he'd shot so far. None. "What kind of boy don't hunt?" the man had asked him. "I don't know, you tell me, " the young Rocky said, honestly curious. "I asked for roller skates."
But when his birthday rolled around, he saw a long box and hoped it was roller skates that needed to be assembled. When it was a gun, his disappointment showed and his Dad's face fell so he pretended to love it. Ricky's voice broke as he told this part of the story.
While his Dad plowed, the 7 year old pretended to hunt, telling his Dad he'd shot four birds but when asked to produce them, he couldn't and his Dad understood. "You don't want to kill anything?" he asked. No, he didn't. "What do you want?" Roller skates.
Three days later, red, white and blue roller skates arrived at the farm.
The applause was thunderous for Rocky's story. Between the telling and the tale, it had hit everyone in the room right between the eyes, which is the whole point of a Secretly Y'All evening.
Plot twists, we've all got them.
Walking to the front room to use the loo before I left, I ran into the photographer just back from the beach and enjoyed catching up with him. He wants to start a movement to add some lighter food to the Thanksgiving menu. I'd started with a big salad this year for the first time and loved the addition.
Waiting to use the facilities, a man asked if I was the end of the line and joined me. It took him no time to start quizzing me so I answered.
Do you know that the bathroom door opens in? Cause I once stood here for five minutes thinking it was occupied. I do. But I saw two women go in.
Did you see "Pulp Fiction"? I did.
Then you know what two girls do in the bathroom? I do.
Where do you live? Jackson Ward.
Where do you live? The Warsaw.
What do you do? I'm a freelance writer.
What do you do? I'm an architect.
You know, you're gorgeous. Even better, I'm fast in the bathroom.
On my way out, I stopped to say hello to tonight's DJ, the multi-talented "Can't Stop, Won't Stop" Reggie Pace, whom I've known for at least six years now. In no time at all, we got into how welcoming Richmond's music scene is, how many free shows there are and where No BS is playing New Year's Eve.
When he brought up a recent article I'd written, I explained that I try to write about people and events that I think are worth knowing, trying to stir up interest. "Tastemaker," he proclaimed. Just sharing what I enjoy. "Tastemaker," he confirmed.
When I went to say goodnight, he extended his hand, changed his mind and said he wanted a hug. First a compliment from a stranger, then a hug from a friend. I was liking the twists my plot was taking tonight.
There's no such thing as guilty pleasures, just missed opportunities and regrets. I want neither.
I thought I'd sleep in like I always do, but I awoke at 7:44 and never got back to sleep. Might as well get up.
My reward for not getting up at my usual time was a day already so gorgeous that I opened all the windows before I even made breakfast.
I got dressed for my walk as if it were December 1st, got as far as the front door and came back upstairs to change into shorts and a t-shirt. With the sun already making me warm, I headed over to Oregon Hill to pick up the North Bank trail to Texas Beach.
For a change, I came back not along the river but on South Lombardy Street, a stretch I'd never been on. Of note was a street where every street light had a solar collector, a pile of fragrant new wood-smelling roof trusses in front of a house being built and the elaborate Petronius Jones Park which I'd never laid eyes on.
Walking back toward J Ward, I was plotting how to best use this gorgeous day. A drive to Merroir for lunch? A book in the park? Some gardening? How to make the most of 71 degrees in December?
It didn't matter. I got home to e-mails from three editors and spent most of the afternoon addressing their needs. "Stamping on ants," as a former boss used to call it. By the time they'd been satisfied, it was time to shower and go do an interview.
But when that was finished, I was free. My first stop was 8 1/2 for dinner - roasted red peppers and Mozzarella followed by a white pizza - which I did get to eat outside to enjoy the last of today's warmth.
With serious garlic breath, I headed to Balliceaux, parking five blocks away (parking restrictions until 9) but enjoying every step of the walk to get there, even if I did pass far too many houses already decorated for Christmas. The sidewalks were alive with dog walkers and joggers sweating almost as much as I had this morning.
Inside, I joined the line to pay my five bucks (to be donated to Richmond Conexiones) to hear strangers and friends over-share at Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, with tonight's theme being "Plot Twist."
You have to understand, I go to this event because I am fascinated to hear strangers (and occasionally friends) share stories I have no business hearing. Simply put, I am nosy.
The crowd was huge although I saw very few people I knew. Okay, less socializing than usual. But as a long-time regular, I know enough to arrive before 7 so at least I'm assured of a seat. Let the first-timers sit on the floor.
And then we began with the plot twists, so many plots twists.
The first storyteller was Mack, a tattooed hairdresser whose true love was Shakespeare, sharing "I Owe You a Bullet." His saga involved taking his Dad's gun apart in 7th grade and putting it back together incorrectly.
This only became an issue after his Dad took in Steve, a recovering heroin addict, who isolated his Dad once he began dying and then stole and pawned many of his dad's possessions after the funeral, causing Mack to hate him. Back on heroin, Steve decided to end his life using the malfunctioning gun. See the plot twist there?
"The one person I'd most like to kill and I saved his life," Mack concluded. It was a fierce start to the evening.
Next came Sylvia telling "Steering Wheels and Circles" about her belligerent Dad and how he was always yelling at her, whether she was driving the boat and he was trying to water ski behind it or when he was teaching her to drive (and wasting 36 cents of rubber) and she hit pot holes.
After her Dad died and was cremated, she picked up his ashes to drive them home and had to brake suddenly, sending the box with Dad inside careening around the back seat. "He didn't say a word," she said to laughter. After that, she swerved on purpose just because she knew he couldn't yell at her anymore.
Katelyn's "How Did I Get Here?" was about her bad ass stepmom Anne whom she worshiped as a 14 year old when she saw her take a handful of pills with no water ("Why do you think men like me so much?" she asked the traumatized teen. Awkward).
She recalled how much fun she saw her Dad have with Anne, who called him the great love of her life. Ah, but Anne strayed and had an affair with Glen after he presented her with a 72-page PowerPoint presentation. End of marriage.
Then Anne got sick and sicker with ALS and died and Katelyn was asked to speak at the funeral. "Glen showed his 72 page PowerPoint and I wanted to scream at him that this was about Anne, not how big his penis was. That's what the PowerPoint was about," she shared.
Wow.
Host Colin got up to introduce the next storyteller, saying drolly, "I wooed my girlfriend with a PowerPoint presentation but it was only two pages." Ba dum bum.
Shannon told "Cop Land on Repeat," about getting the call that his dad was dead while he'd been watching Cop Land on the IFC channel. FedEx delivered the ashes which Shannon managed to spill on the kitchen counter, a fact he wasn't eager to share with his roommates.
What helped him deal with the pain of losing his Dad was telling stories - at Richmond Comedy Coalition, at a pocket park -like the one he told tonight. He called 2014 the best and worst year of his life because although he'd lost a parent, he'd found beauty in life.
"It's so easy to be cynical," he said sagely. "There's no such thing as guilty pleasures, just missed opportunities and regrets."
Now there's a twist.
Austin's "The Awesome Story" happened after a night of cocaine and drinking Tuaca when he and a friend got home and found a possum in the dog's mouth. Managing to remove it, they saw it was half dead and decided to finish it off with a ceramic boot planter.
"We didn't realize it was playing possum. Apparently that's a real thing," he said to much hooting and hollering. After beating it with the sharp end of a tiki torch, he tried throwing it over the fence but twice it hit his brother's girlfriend's window.
His conclusion was, "Don't do drugs, guys."
Richard's story, "The Rose City" involved a low point in his life with an aborted move to Portland ("Before "Portlandia." It was a northwest backwater"), marrying a girl because they challenged each other to and winding up in a mental institution ("Westbrook, it's not there anymore") because he needed sleep.
Fortunately, at 47, he has since met his current wife and is not crazy. "Don't let people tell you that you can't run away from your problems. You can for a while."
During the intermission, hosts Kathleen and Colin told us that tonight was the fourth anniversary of Secretly Y'All and that in that time, they'd raised nearly $10,000 for various charities and non-profits. I like to think my regular attendance and all those $5 contributions helped that a little.
A friend came over to chat, asking why I didn't get up and share a story. "You blog every night," he reminded me. Not the same, I reminded him. "Just cover your face while you talk." Nope.
The two people sitting next to me were considering leaving during the break, but I warned them that often the best stories come from the hat when anyone can put their name in for a shot at being called. They stayed.
First up was Herschel with one of his distinctive rambling and tangent-heavy memories. This one involved running into a friend at Balliceaux ("Men come here because the women are attractive") before he was headed to an afterparty at Tavares' house.
On their way to the car, a man asked to use his phone and stole it. Over the next two days, he went through six cell phones trying to find a replacement for his stolen one. Apparently, Craig's List and soldiers shipping out the next day to Afghanistan aren't the best sources of replacement phones.
"I Will Survive" was Jessie's title and she began by telling us she was a confident woman who loves life and singing karaoke, even when sober.
Problems arose, however, when her boyfriend cheated on her and she found out from a woman at the bar he was cheating with. Sure, she threw a glass of water in his face but she also sought karaoke therapy.
At her favorite karaoke bar ("I'd built a dynasty of five years at this bar and he'd lived in this town for six moths"), she sees him come in and responds by singing "I Will Survive," pointing at him the whole while. She even sang part of it tonight.
"It was cathartic," she concluded. "He moved after that. Left the city." Damn, girl, well done.
Denise's story involved her last night at home before leaving for college, cough syrup loopiness and going dancing. Seems she ended up sleepwalking to her parents' bed, waking up with Mom and Dad beside her. "Honey, we're going to miss you, too," Mom says. She's since given up cough syrup entirely.
Somehow, and there's no good explanation for why this happens given the randomness of a drawing, the best story was saved for last. Rocky was a first timer and had assumed that the stories after intermission were somehow lesser storytellers than those in the first half. He'd already seen that that wasn't the case so he was a tad nervous.
Raised in a small (population 170 then, 140 now) town between Missouri (he pronounced it "Missoura") and Iowa where, according to him, gender roles were set in stone.
While he knew that it was traditional for 7 year old boys to get a gun for their birthday, he wanted roller skates. "I was the kid who wanted to sing the Snow White song to get birds to land on my fingers," he said sincerely. "F*ckers never did."
When a neighbor gave him a ride from school, he was asked how many quail he'd shot so far. None. "What kind of boy don't hunt?" the man had asked him. "I don't know, you tell me, " the young Rocky said, honestly curious. "I asked for roller skates."
But when his birthday rolled around, he saw a long box and hoped it was roller skates that needed to be assembled. When it was a gun, his disappointment showed and his Dad's face fell so he pretended to love it. Ricky's voice broke as he told this part of the story.
While his Dad plowed, the 7 year old pretended to hunt, telling his Dad he'd shot four birds but when asked to produce them, he couldn't and his Dad understood. "You don't want to kill anything?" he asked. No, he didn't. "What do you want?" Roller skates.
Three days later, red, white and blue roller skates arrived at the farm.
The applause was thunderous for Rocky's story. Between the telling and the tale, it had hit everyone in the room right between the eyes, which is the whole point of a Secretly Y'All evening.
Plot twists, we've all got them.
Walking to the front room to use the loo before I left, I ran into the photographer just back from the beach and enjoyed catching up with him. He wants to start a movement to add some lighter food to the Thanksgiving menu. I'd started with a big salad this year for the first time and loved the addition.
Waiting to use the facilities, a man asked if I was the end of the line and joined me. It took him no time to start quizzing me so I answered.
Do you know that the bathroom door opens in? Cause I once stood here for five minutes thinking it was occupied. I do. But I saw two women go in.
Did you see "Pulp Fiction"? I did.
Then you know what two girls do in the bathroom? I do.
Where do you live? Jackson Ward.
Where do you live? The Warsaw.
What do you do? I'm a freelance writer.
What do you do? I'm an architect.
You know, you're gorgeous. Even better, I'm fast in the bathroom.
On my way out, I stopped to say hello to tonight's DJ, the multi-talented "Can't Stop, Won't Stop" Reggie Pace, whom I've known for at least six years now. In no time at all, we got into how welcoming Richmond's music scene is, how many free shows there are and where No BS is playing New Year's Eve.
When he brought up a recent article I'd written, I explained that I try to write about people and events that I think are worth knowing, trying to stir up interest. "Tastemaker," he proclaimed. Just sharing what I enjoy. "Tastemaker," he confirmed.
When I went to say goodnight, he extended his hand, changed his mind and said he wanted a hug. First a compliment from a stranger, then a hug from a friend. I was liking the twists my plot was taking tonight.
There's no such thing as guilty pleasures, just missed opportunities and regrets. I want neither.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Up for an Undertaking
When you live in Jackson Ward, the world is your oyster and it's all within four blocks.
Behind Nick's Deli, I see a friend conducting a photo shoot of good-looking Richmond guys (read: bearded) for Ledbury Shirts in the exquisite early evening light.
I'm on my way to 1708 Gallery for the opening of "Exquisite Corpse," an exhibition based on the Surrealist parlor game where each person draws a part of the whole without seeing the other contributions first.
Some of the pieces are fluid and seamless, a marvel since no one knew what the other was doing, while some are disjointed and abrupt but come together only because they're part of a greater whole. Every single one is fascinating in some way, often many ways.
It doesn't take long for me to recognize artists' names and styles: Heide Trepanier, Kevin Orlosky, Diego Sanchez, Michael Lease, Noah Scalin, Sally Bowring all catch my eye.
I am most intrigued by seeing several by Travis Robertson because I purchased one of his pieces back in 2008 and I've never met him to tell him how much I still love seeing that piece every day.
The 27 pieces in the show demonstrate such creativity. One has a sound component, another has a collaged section. Some are black and white while others glow with fields of color. Sequins and fake jewels are part of some.
Admiring one, a woman approaches me and I learn she's one of the artists who has done a section on one of the pieces. As we admire it, she asks if I'm an artist. When I explain I merely write, she insists I am an artist, too.
On the back wall, an artist has begun an enormous exquisite corpse piece, to be covered up and continued tomorrow night during the artwalk. The scale is huge and the orientation horizontal rather than vertical, but it's fascinating to watch as animals and details emerge from his brush.
When I go to leave, I run into a gallerist I know and he tells me he recently spotted me on my walk near Second Street. After driving around for an hour, he was on the downtown expressway when he caught sight of me overhead, crossing 195 on an overpass.
"She's still walking!" he recalled thinking. And mighty easy to spot in those bright pink shorts, I might add.
My next stop was Quirk Gallery for Brad Birchett's show, "Return," a collection of mostly monochromatic shades of gray, black and white with occasional lines of color - pink, coral -and images receding in and out of the painterly surface, occasionally etched into the paint, with sound recordings he'd made playing in the back of the gallery.
Making my way around, I ran into my favorite Quirk staffer (and very talented set designer) and asked what he'd been up to.
"I'm doing a lot of work on hotel stuff," he said, referring to the upcoming Quirk boutique hotel that's coming to the neighborhood. "There'll be a rooftop bar there for you."
Don't I know it. You can be sure I plan to be a habitue of that rooftop bar three blocks from my house.
Walking out, I ran into the man about town, telling him it's always nice to see him. "Nice to be seen by you," he acknowledged, doffing his hat and bowing as I swept out the door.
I was pleasantly surprised to find ADA Gallery open (turns out it's the first time they're participating in the Thursday preview night) for a new sculpture show, "Heroic Measures," by VCU alum Shannon Wright.
The larger piece was called "Folly" and was modeled on the Coliseum in Rome, assuming it had been built by the Parks and Rec Department out of bike rack parts. Almost circular, with rows on top of rows of arches, it looked both monumental yet gently mocking of public art. I'd love to see it find a home in Richmond.
When I got to Ghostprint Gallery, I found a lively crowd for Josh George's new show, "Attroupement," including the well organized gardener drinking a beer and giving me a hard time as soon as I arrived.
I've watched Josh's progress as a painter over his past four shows since he came to Richmond and I continue to be impressed by the development of his talent and vision in wonderfully vibrant and colorful works exuding the passion and energy of life.
The room was full of familiar faces and I kept stopping to chat as I ran into a poet, a tattoo artist and a former writer as I worked my way around the room.
Standing back to admire "Kissy Bat," a large scale work of a lovely woman with long hair and full lips in front of strips of floral wallpaper and a flock of bats, a man approached me and said, "I was told that you posed for this painting."
Someone was lying to him and I corrected him, but a writer friend standing nearby leaned over and said, "He obviously has money. You should have said it was you." Right.
The Corbieres series in the back, a group of small landscape pieces done after Josh's trip to France, were stunningly evocative of the French countryside with the look of work painted a century ago.
By contrast, there were several large works of urban streetscapes with skyscrapers reaching heavenward that were firmly grounded in the here and now. "Up for an Undertaking" was my favorite, with rows of buildings on either side of the streets receding into the unknown, luring a visitor to spend time exploring.
Josh's love of wine and sense of humor came to the fore in "Devil says, 'Roast it in the oven!' Angel says, 'Deep fry it!" A couple sits with wine on the table in front of them as the man prepares to cut up a bird for dinner.
My vote for most charming goes to "The Things Needed," a mixed media piece of a girl on a bike with a basket full of flowers, wine and a baguette. I didn't spot it, but presumably there was cheese in there, too.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and the gardener was there to say goodnight, kissing me on the cheek but complaining when I did the same to him. "Don't leave lipstick on my cheek! I'll get in trouble when I get home!" Where's the trust, my friend?
My last stop was at Gallery 5 for "An evening among whores: a spoken word event," whatever that meant. It was being curated by the inimitable Herschel Stratego, so anything was possible.
Already the poet had made it over from Ghostprint before me and not long after, I saw the arts activist who's given up drinking (looking newly slim and fit), heard my name called by the not so classic movie lover I'd met at the weekly B movie series over the summer, chatted with the author who lived in my apartment before I did, and been joined by the sound techie who'd just returned from two weeks touring south of the border.
That got us off on a tangent about traveling alone and we compared adventures; I'd done four days alone in Italy and he'd done time in Mexico City and we agreed that there's a unique dynamic to being alone in a country where you don't know the language and you have no companion to fall back on for navigation and companionship.
Next thing we knew, Herschel was taking the stage to tell us the saga of his friendship with the recently deceased Dave Brockie of GWAR.
He wanted to begin with the story of how he'd made out with Dave, eager to share it "for bragging purposes only." Actually, they'd only kissed once (and even then, it was a fish lips kind of a kiss, not a good French kiss) and only because they'd challenged a woman to kiss one of them if they kissed each other.
They did, she didn't, at least not in front of the one who lost (Herschel).
But that was far from the end of his storytelling, as he went on share that they'd both peed together in the same toilet ("Although Dave Brockie peed a little longer"), that he wasn't going to get sentimental and that he recalled Dave singing along to "Only the Good Die Young" at a Superbowl party.
While I claim to go on and on, Herschel has me beat by a mile.
When he finally ceded the stage, it was for comedy from Dave Marie-Garland who said things such as, "What's the difference between a guy with a ponytail and a girl with a flat top? Nothing, they're both human beings."
He got the most laughs saying he'd had a dream where he had sex with a girl but when he asked if she'd loved him, she said no. "I woke up crying because sex without love is just sad. Am I right, guys?"
Yea, pretty funny stuff.
Musician and DJ Shannon Cleary did a rumination on aging, pets and parenthood with its roots in him having turned 30 last year.
He recalled being in speech class and being asked to speak on procreation, the problem being at that point he had no idea what the word meant. "My friends tried to show me with hand gestures, pelvic thrusts and "cab hands," he deadpanned as only Shannon can do.
Reading from her phone, Angie Huckstep shared a poem called "Remember That You Like to Read" (with the line "Finish that book like you know you want to") and "Spit Spot" ("Like Mary Poppins says," she explained. "You know, get your shit together!") about being in the shower with someone.
One of the best parts of the evening was the music played between performers, like Liz Phair's "Rock Me" before Melanie Rasnic came up.
Oh, baby, you're young but that's okay
What's give or take nine years anyway?
You think I'm a genius, think I'm cool
I'm starting to think that young guys rule
With a comedienne's timing and a past meant for mocking, she told of making the Shockoe Bottom walk of shame the morning after in heels (no small accomplishment) before explaining how a whore is formed. "By the way, my Mom is not a whore, so apparently it skips a generation."
She lamented being raised a Jehovah's Witness, trying to convert people on their porches by the time she was eight and denying her "all the things that made childhood bearable."
After that, Herschel returned to the stage long enough to tell us, "By the way, I have had sex before," tell some more off-color stories and announce, "This is my blue set."
Author Andrew Blossom took the stage to a song by Groucho Marx in honor of Groucho's birthday today (Andrew also works at Video Fan) and introduced his story, "In the Not Too Distant Future" about a guy named Joel who is middle aged, divorced and loses his job. He finds salvation in endless TV watching and a space show with a character named Joel.
Hey, when you're middle aged, you find your redemption anywhere you can.
Musician and poet Ryan Kent closed out the evening, loudly reading his poetry from an e-tablet, poems with titles such as "Nobody's Bitch" and lines like, "Ashtrays as truthful as your bank account" from "Long in the Tooth."
Top honors go to this line: "She was someone I left my fingerprints on, like cement and murder."
Naturally, Herschel had to come back up to close out the evening with more Dave Brockie stories, stopping just short of sharing sexual peccadilloes and reminiscing about when Dave had suggested he open for GWAR.
To prove his worth, Herschel had sung Dave a song and he wanted to sing it for us tonight.
"I forgot to being my instrument but I don't know the chords anyway, so I'll just sing it." It turned out to be Randy Newman's song about Karl Marx, "The World Isn't Fair."
Truthfully, Herschel's a capella rendition was just about perfect, an absurdist ending to a wild ride of a night.
My walk home was only four blocks...with no shame (or heels) involved.
Behind Nick's Deli, I see a friend conducting a photo shoot of good-looking Richmond guys (read: bearded) for Ledbury Shirts in the exquisite early evening light.
I'm on my way to 1708 Gallery for the opening of "Exquisite Corpse," an exhibition based on the Surrealist parlor game where each person draws a part of the whole without seeing the other contributions first.
Some of the pieces are fluid and seamless, a marvel since no one knew what the other was doing, while some are disjointed and abrupt but come together only because they're part of a greater whole. Every single one is fascinating in some way, often many ways.
It doesn't take long for me to recognize artists' names and styles: Heide Trepanier, Kevin Orlosky, Diego Sanchez, Michael Lease, Noah Scalin, Sally Bowring all catch my eye.
I am most intrigued by seeing several by Travis Robertson because I purchased one of his pieces back in 2008 and I've never met him to tell him how much I still love seeing that piece every day.
The 27 pieces in the show demonstrate such creativity. One has a sound component, another has a collaged section. Some are black and white while others glow with fields of color. Sequins and fake jewels are part of some.
Admiring one, a woman approaches me and I learn she's one of the artists who has done a section on one of the pieces. As we admire it, she asks if I'm an artist. When I explain I merely write, she insists I am an artist, too.
On the back wall, an artist has begun an enormous exquisite corpse piece, to be covered up and continued tomorrow night during the artwalk. The scale is huge and the orientation horizontal rather than vertical, but it's fascinating to watch as animals and details emerge from his brush.
When I go to leave, I run into a gallerist I know and he tells me he recently spotted me on my walk near Second Street. After driving around for an hour, he was on the downtown expressway when he caught sight of me overhead, crossing 195 on an overpass.
"She's still walking!" he recalled thinking. And mighty easy to spot in those bright pink shorts, I might add.
My next stop was Quirk Gallery for Brad Birchett's show, "Return," a collection of mostly monochromatic shades of gray, black and white with occasional lines of color - pink, coral -and images receding in and out of the painterly surface, occasionally etched into the paint, with sound recordings he'd made playing in the back of the gallery.
Making my way around, I ran into my favorite Quirk staffer (and very talented set designer) and asked what he'd been up to.
"I'm doing a lot of work on hotel stuff," he said, referring to the upcoming Quirk boutique hotel that's coming to the neighborhood. "There'll be a rooftop bar there for you."
Don't I know it. You can be sure I plan to be a habitue of that rooftop bar three blocks from my house.
Walking out, I ran into the man about town, telling him it's always nice to see him. "Nice to be seen by you," he acknowledged, doffing his hat and bowing as I swept out the door.
I was pleasantly surprised to find ADA Gallery open (turns out it's the first time they're participating in the Thursday preview night) for a new sculpture show, "Heroic Measures," by VCU alum Shannon Wright.
The larger piece was called "Folly" and was modeled on the Coliseum in Rome, assuming it had been built by the Parks and Rec Department out of bike rack parts. Almost circular, with rows on top of rows of arches, it looked both monumental yet gently mocking of public art. I'd love to see it find a home in Richmond.
When I got to Ghostprint Gallery, I found a lively crowd for Josh George's new show, "Attroupement," including the well organized gardener drinking a beer and giving me a hard time as soon as I arrived.
I've watched Josh's progress as a painter over his past four shows since he came to Richmond and I continue to be impressed by the development of his talent and vision in wonderfully vibrant and colorful works exuding the passion and energy of life.
The room was full of familiar faces and I kept stopping to chat as I ran into a poet, a tattoo artist and a former writer as I worked my way around the room.
Standing back to admire "Kissy Bat," a large scale work of a lovely woman with long hair and full lips in front of strips of floral wallpaper and a flock of bats, a man approached me and said, "I was told that you posed for this painting."
Someone was lying to him and I corrected him, but a writer friend standing nearby leaned over and said, "He obviously has money. You should have said it was you." Right.
The Corbieres series in the back, a group of small landscape pieces done after Josh's trip to France, were stunningly evocative of the French countryside with the look of work painted a century ago.
By contrast, there were several large works of urban streetscapes with skyscrapers reaching heavenward that were firmly grounded in the here and now. "Up for an Undertaking" was my favorite, with rows of buildings on either side of the streets receding into the unknown, luring a visitor to spend time exploring.
Josh's love of wine and sense of humor came to the fore in "Devil says, 'Roast it in the oven!' Angel says, 'Deep fry it!" A couple sits with wine on the table in front of them as the man prepares to cut up a bird for dinner.
My vote for most charming goes to "The Things Needed," a mixed media piece of a girl on a bike with a basket full of flowers, wine and a baguette. I didn't spot it, but presumably there was cheese in there, too.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and the gardener was there to say goodnight, kissing me on the cheek but complaining when I did the same to him. "Don't leave lipstick on my cheek! I'll get in trouble when I get home!" Where's the trust, my friend?
My last stop was at Gallery 5 for "An evening among whores: a spoken word event," whatever that meant. It was being curated by the inimitable Herschel Stratego, so anything was possible.
Already the poet had made it over from Ghostprint before me and not long after, I saw the arts activist who's given up drinking (looking newly slim and fit), heard my name called by the not so classic movie lover I'd met at the weekly B movie series over the summer, chatted with the author who lived in my apartment before I did, and been joined by the sound techie who'd just returned from two weeks touring south of the border.
That got us off on a tangent about traveling alone and we compared adventures; I'd done four days alone in Italy and he'd done time in Mexico City and we agreed that there's a unique dynamic to being alone in a country where you don't know the language and you have no companion to fall back on for navigation and companionship.
Next thing we knew, Herschel was taking the stage to tell us the saga of his friendship with the recently deceased Dave Brockie of GWAR.
He wanted to begin with the story of how he'd made out with Dave, eager to share it "for bragging purposes only." Actually, they'd only kissed once (and even then, it was a fish lips kind of a kiss, not a good French kiss) and only because they'd challenged a woman to kiss one of them if they kissed each other.
They did, she didn't, at least not in front of the one who lost (Herschel).
But that was far from the end of his storytelling, as he went on share that they'd both peed together in the same toilet ("Although Dave Brockie peed a little longer"), that he wasn't going to get sentimental and that he recalled Dave singing along to "Only the Good Die Young" at a Superbowl party.
While I claim to go on and on, Herschel has me beat by a mile.
When he finally ceded the stage, it was for comedy from Dave Marie-Garland who said things such as, "What's the difference between a guy with a ponytail and a girl with a flat top? Nothing, they're both human beings."
He got the most laughs saying he'd had a dream where he had sex with a girl but when he asked if she'd loved him, she said no. "I woke up crying because sex without love is just sad. Am I right, guys?"
Yea, pretty funny stuff.
Musician and DJ Shannon Cleary did a rumination on aging, pets and parenthood with its roots in him having turned 30 last year.
He recalled being in speech class and being asked to speak on procreation, the problem being at that point he had no idea what the word meant. "My friends tried to show me with hand gestures, pelvic thrusts and "cab hands," he deadpanned as only Shannon can do.
Reading from her phone, Angie Huckstep shared a poem called "Remember That You Like to Read" (with the line "Finish that book like you know you want to") and "Spit Spot" ("Like Mary Poppins says," she explained. "You know, get your shit together!") about being in the shower with someone.
One of the best parts of the evening was the music played between performers, like Liz Phair's "Rock Me" before Melanie Rasnic came up.
Oh, baby, you're young but that's okay
What's give or take nine years anyway?
You think I'm a genius, think I'm cool
I'm starting to think that young guys rule
With a comedienne's timing and a past meant for mocking, she told of making the Shockoe Bottom walk of shame the morning after in heels (no small accomplishment) before explaining how a whore is formed. "By the way, my Mom is not a whore, so apparently it skips a generation."
She lamented being raised a Jehovah's Witness, trying to convert people on their porches by the time she was eight and denying her "all the things that made childhood bearable."
After that, Herschel returned to the stage long enough to tell us, "By the way, I have had sex before," tell some more off-color stories and announce, "This is my blue set."
Author Andrew Blossom took the stage to a song by Groucho Marx in honor of Groucho's birthday today (Andrew also works at Video Fan) and introduced his story, "In the Not Too Distant Future" about a guy named Joel who is middle aged, divorced and loses his job. He finds salvation in endless TV watching and a space show with a character named Joel.
Hey, when you're middle aged, you find your redemption anywhere you can.
Musician and poet Ryan Kent closed out the evening, loudly reading his poetry from an e-tablet, poems with titles such as "Nobody's Bitch" and lines like, "Ashtrays as truthful as your bank account" from "Long in the Tooth."
Top honors go to this line: "She was someone I left my fingerprints on, like cement and murder."
Naturally, Herschel had to come back up to close out the evening with more Dave Brockie stories, stopping just short of sharing sexual peccadilloes and reminiscing about when Dave had suggested he open for GWAR.
To prove his worth, Herschel had sung Dave a song and he wanted to sing it for us tonight.
"I forgot to being my instrument but I don't know the chords anyway, so I'll just sing it." It turned out to be Randy Newman's song about Karl Marx, "The World Isn't Fair."
Truthfully, Herschel's a capella rendition was just about perfect, an absurdist ending to a wild ride of a night.
My walk home was only four blocks...with no shame (or heels) involved.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Better Off Alive
I really couldn't have asked for more interesting men to spend my day with.
After a sunny, music-filled road trip to the northern neck, I wound up at the studio of a man named Jim who makes guitars for a living. And not just any guitars, but ones that start at $6,000 and go up.
Even better, the first thing he wanted to know was if I'd eaten lunch yet. So not only was I going to spend the next couple hours hearing about these one of a kind instruments he crafts, but he was going to feed me, too.
Score.
We walked to The Corner, which wasn't really on a true corner, at least not the kind we have in the city, but we were far from anything urban-like, so I let it slide.
It was everything you'd expect from a river restaurant, from the tiki bar on the front porch to the pool table and dart board in the back room.
When I asked what he recommended, he said his wife thought their crabcake the best in the state, so I ordered it, at least up until he asked for a Jim burger.
Both the server and I wanted to know what this off-menu item was and found out: burger with double cheese, grilled onions, ketchup, mustard, lettuce, tomato, no mayo. Also known as a Karen burger.
Let's just say I changed my order.
We did a good part of the interview there, allowing for bad jokes and segues into the unlikeliest of topics - the sex lives of parents (my fault), men who can fix anything (both he and his father) and the causes of E.D. (he brought that one up) - but always coming back to his love of being a luthier.
After another hour back in his studio admiring these works of art he makes by hand (ever seen a harp-guitar replica? I have...now), it was time for me to hit the road again.
Instructing me to "drive safe," I did my best, ending up at Good Luck Cellars where the next man I was interviewing was out on his tractor plowing rows for the new batch of vines to be planted next week.
You have to admire a man who handles a tractor well.
His wife and I strolled down toward where he was working while a car pulling into the tasting room parking lot let out a wolf whistle in our direction.
As she put it, "I'll take it." That made two of us.
Once he'd joined us and washed his hands of the terroir, the two of us headed up to the cupola with a 360-degree view of the rolling land, various plantings and multiple houses for the pack of winery dogs, all rescued hounds (be still, my heart) to chat.
A former orthopedic surgeon who bought the property ten years ago and now lives there full-time, I sensed the passion he'd once put into medicine now transferred to the farming life.
It was fascinating listening to him wax poetic about the shift to a rural life, the learning curve of farming and winemaking (helped considerably by the consultants he brought in) and his enthusiasm for becoming part of the northern neck community.
His passion for his new life was all over his face when he took me down into the cellar, where with a beatific smile on his face, he said, "This is my heaven."
Mine followed as he handed me pours from the tanks as we made our way around the huge room, glasses in hand before making it into the barrel room.
You see, this is what is called "research" in my business and is part of why I'm willing to be a dirt poor freelance writer.
By the time I waved goodbye to the grape farmers, I was barely able to make it back to the big city in time to catch tonight's music panel discussion at Candela Gallery.
It's part of this weekend's "The Great Busk Event," three days of focusing on street performance, in tribute to Jackson Ward's own Bill "Bojangles" Robinson.
See: statue at Leigh and Adams streets.
I'd figured I'd miss the beginning of it all, but walked in to find everyone still in full-on mingle mode and stopped to chat with a favorite Americana musician who was noticeably hatless because he's decided to grow out his hair. The neighborhood fabricator, whom I seem to run into everywhere now, was there, as was the photographer I met at the ladies' arm wrestling night who's also turning up wherever I do.
Eventually we took seats so the panel could begin enlightening us.
Here's the first fun fact I learned: busk is Spanish for "to seek." And, sure, buskers seek money in the hat laying on the sidewalk, but they seek much more than that, as we heard from the panelists.
WRIR DJ Carlito moderated a panel of musicians, some of whom busk and some who never have, on the subject of folk music and where they pull their influences from.
Answers were all over the place, with many coming from outside the U.S., places like France, Spain, Romania, Egypt and Chile.
Accordionist Barry cited a Jewish cantor and Richmond's Tobacco parade of yesteryear, with the Armstrong and Walker marching bands recalled as the best musicians in town.
Laney of Lobo Marino, said that her band's extensive travels informed their music, meaning every album showed different influences. "We're modern gypsies," she explained.
Salsa pianist Marlysse talked about the difficulty of busking when your instrument is so large and you haven't mastered the accordion.
After a grazing break, we gathered for music from our panel.
Herschel did his idol, Randy Newman's "Better Off Dead" accompanied by his baritone ukulele, making sure we knew he has the only baritone uke in town and even name checking another uke player who claims hers is a baritone. Not so, he said.
The Richmanian Ramblers' Nate played his Czechoslovakian upright bass to demonstrate the difference between desperation and longing in Romanian gypsy music, playing a couple of songs to prove his point. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows were nowhere to be found in his music.
DJ Mikemetic talked about the art of DJ'ing and the challenge of trying to get people to dance to music they've never heard before.
Barry, the accordion player, and Khalima, a belly dancer, began with an improvisational piece before doing an 800-year old song called "Surrender," an eventuality if you'd seen Khalima's stunning dancing.
Midway through the song, Nate picked up his bass and began playing along, providing some deep, rhythmic notes to the performance.
Last up was Laney, who did a traditional Hindu call and response chant with musical partner Jameson sitting in his seat next to me before soloing on one of their original spirituals, the jubilant "Celebrate," a song impossible to tire of, no matter how many times I hear it.
The time has come for us to celebrate, celebrate
For all we are, we can not hesitate, hesitate
Who's got time to hesitate when there are luthiers to lunch with, winemakers to sip with and buskers to entertain me?
Like them, for me it's all about the seeking.
After a sunny, music-filled road trip to the northern neck, I wound up at the studio of a man named Jim who makes guitars for a living. And not just any guitars, but ones that start at $6,000 and go up.
Even better, the first thing he wanted to know was if I'd eaten lunch yet. So not only was I going to spend the next couple hours hearing about these one of a kind instruments he crafts, but he was going to feed me, too.
Score.
We walked to The Corner, which wasn't really on a true corner, at least not the kind we have in the city, but we were far from anything urban-like, so I let it slide.
It was everything you'd expect from a river restaurant, from the tiki bar on the front porch to the pool table and dart board in the back room.
When I asked what he recommended, he said his wife thought their crabcake the best in the state, so I ordered it, at least up until he asked for a Jim burger.
Both the server and I wanted to know what this off-menu item was and found out: burger with double cheese, grilled onions, ketchup, mustard, lettuce, tomato, no mayo. Also known as a Karen burger.
Let's just say I changed my order.
We did a good part of the interview there, allowing for bad jokes and segues into the unlikeliest of topics - the sex lives of parents (my fault), men who can fix anything (both he and his father) and the causes of E.D. (he brought that one up) - but always coming back to his love of being a luthier.
After another hour back in his studio admiring these works of art he makes by hand (ever seen a harp-guitar replica? I have...now), it was time for me to hit the road again.
Instructing me to "drive safe," I did my best, ending up at Good Luck Cellars where the next man I was interviewing was out on his tractor plowing rows for the new batch of vines to be planted next week.
You have to admire a man who handles a tractor well.
His wife and I strolled down toward where he was working while a car pulling into the tasting room parking lot let out a wolf whistle in our direction.
As she put it, "I'll take it." That made two of us.
Once he'd joined us and washed his hands of the terroir, the two of us headed up to the cupola with a 360-degree view of the rolling land, various plantings and multiple houses for the pack of winery dogs, all rescued hounds (be still, my heart) to chat.
A former orthopedic surgeon who bought the property ten years ago and now lives there full-time, I sensed the passion he'd once put into medicine now transferred to the farming life.
It was fascinating listening to him wax poetic about the shift to a rural life, the learning curve of farming and winemaking (helped considerably by the consultants he brought in) and his enthusiasm for becoming part of the northern neck community.
His passion for his new life was all over his face when he took me down into the cellar, where with a beatific smile on his face, he said, "This is my heaven."
Mine followed as he handed me pours from the tanks as we made our way around the huge room, glasses in hand before making it into the barrel room.
You see, this is what is called "research" in my business and is part of why I'm willing to be a dirt poor freelance writer.
By the time I waved goodbye to the grape farmers, I was barely able to make it back to the big city in time to catch tonight's music panel discussion at Candela Gallery.
It's part of this weekend's "The Great Busk Event," three days of focusing on street performance, in tribute to Jackson Ward's own Bill "Bojangles" Robinson.
See: statue at Leigh and Adams streets.
I'd figured I'd miss the beginning of it all, but walked in to find everyone still in full-on mingle mode and stopped to chat with a favorite Americana musician who was noticeably hatless because he's decided to grow out his hair. The neighborhood fabricator, whom I seem to run into everywhere now, was there, as was the photographer I met at the ladies' arm wrestling night who's also turning up wherever I do.
Eventually we took seats so the panel could begin enlightening us.
Here's the first fun fact I learned: busk is Spanish for "to seek." And, sure, buskers seek money in the hat laying on the sidewalk, but they seek much more than that, as we heard from the panelists.
WRIR DJ Carlito moderated a panel of musicians, some of whom busk and some who never have, on the subject of folk music and where they pull their influences from.
Answers were all over the place, with many coming from outside the U.S., places like France, Spain, Romania, Egypt and Chile.
Accordionist Barry cited a Jewish cantor and Richmond's Tobacco parade of yesteryear, with the Armstrong and Walker marching bands recalled as the best musicians in town.
Laney of Lobo Marino, said that her band's extensive travels informed their music, meaning every album showed different influences. "We're modern gypsies," she explained.
Salsa pianist Marlysse talked about the difficulty of busking when your instrument is so large and you haven't mastered the accordion.
After a grazing break, we gathered for music from our panel.
Herschel did his idol, Randy Newman's "Better Off Dead" accompanied by his baritone ukulele, making sure we knew he has the only baritone uke in town and even name checking another uke player who claims hers is a baritone. Not so, he said.
The Richmanian Ramblers' Nate played his Czechoslovakian upright bass to demonstrate the difference between desperation and longing in Romanian gypsy music, playing a couple of songs to prove his point. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows were nowhere to be found in his music.
DJ Mikemetic talked about the art of DJ'ing and the challenge of trying to get people to dance to music they've never heard before.
Barry, the accordion player, and Khalima, a belly dancer, began with an improvisational piece before doing an 800-year old song called "Surrender," an eventuality if you'd seen Khalima's stunning dancing.
Midway through the song, Nate picked up his bass and began playing along, providing some deep, rhythmic notes to the performance.
Last up was Laney, who did a traditional Hindu call and response chant with musical partner Jameson sitting in his seat next to me before soloing on one of their original spirituals, the jubilant "Celebrate," a song impossible to tire of, no matter how many times I hear it.
The time has come for us to celebrate, celebrate
For all we are, we can not hesitate, hesitate
Who's got time to hesitate when there are luthiers to lunch with, winemakers to sip with and buskers to entertain me?
Like them, for me it's all about the seeking.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Wishin' and Hopin'
It was enough that it was Record Store Day.
It got even better when Plan 9 announced a live in-store Dusty Springfield tribute at 3:00 with multiple friends playing as part of it.
It got even funnier when one of them announced, "We will be taking roll. And 20% of your final grade as a Richmonder will be based on participation."
Although I hardly need bonus points in that department, I'm also the kind of eager beaver willing to go for extra credit.
Naturally it didn't actually happen at 3, but that's beside the point.
It gave me plenty of time to browse the wax and mingle with assorted record-lovers.
The inimitable Herschel, nattily clad and with his hair neatly parted, led off with his uke, doing a couple of Dusty songs ("Randy Newman wrote that but Dusty sang it") before Paul told him his time was up.
Someone near me commented how self-assured Herschel sings when he's singing anyone's songs but his own. Another said she only came because Herschel was playing.
I may have been in the middle of a Herschel fan club meeting.
To his credit, he opened his ukulele case when he was done and solicited donations to the National Breast Cancer Coalition, in honor of Dusty, who died of breast cancer.
It's just the kind of thoughtful thing Herschel would do.
It took a while for the six musicians to assemble onstage and by then a good-sized crowd had formed in front of all the people browsing the stacks.
Charlane was the first featured singer and she did two classics, "The Look of Love" and "You Don't Own Me."
Ringleader Paul took over vocal duties for "Breakfast in Bed" and "I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself," even though he's not the same sex as Dusty.
I guess being ringleader gives you extra privileges.
Next up singing was Christina from Low Branches and I was eager to hear her ethereal voice doing Dusty.
She moved over to the main mic and looked aghast at it, causing Paul to acknowledge, "Yea, I slobbered all over it."
"Gosh, Paul!" she gulped, no doubt appalled at all the spit covering a device she was now expected to use.
"It's rock and roll," he shrugged, leaving her to removed the mic from the stand and hold it a safe distance from her own mouth.
Alas and alack, Paul's outstanding guitar work all but drowned out her vocals on "Some of Your Loving," a fact pointed out by both Charlie and me, but which unfortunately did not improve much for her second song.
Along with the rest of the crowd, I strained hard to hear her do "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" and she got major applause afterwards.
Lindsey of Hot Dolphin closed out the show with a kickin' version of Dusty's "Son of a Preacher Man" (with Paul on a different, less noisy guitar), getting everyone in the crowd grooving along with her.
Paul thanked the audience for coming, noting, "That's the way to celebrate Record Store Day!"
The older black guy in shades and a colorful cap standing behind looked at me and said, "You bet it is!"
And, yes, in the spirit of Record Store Day, I bought myself Miguel's "Kaleidoscope Dreams" because my favorite record collector and Beer Betty, Melissa, had turned me on to new R & B done right.
As far as I'm concerned, I got an A in record Store Day and on 20% of my final grade as a Richmonder.
But just to be sure, I'm going to go out and score some extra credit tonight.
It got even better when Plan 9 announced a live in-store Dusty Springfield tribute at 3:00 with multiple friends playing as part of it.
It got even funnier when one of them announced, "We will be taking roll. And 20% of your final grade as a Richmonder will be based on participation."
Although I hardly need bonus points in that department, I'm also the kind of eager beaver willing to go for extra credit.
Naturally it didn't actually happen at 3, but that's beside the point.
It gave me plenty of time to browse the wax and mingle with assorted record-lovers.
The inimitable Herschel, nattily clad and with his hair neatly parted, led off with his uke, doing a couple of Dusty songs ("Randy Newman wrote that but Dusty sang it") before Paul told him his time was up.
Someone near me commented how self-assured Herschel sings when he's singing anyone's songs but his own. Another said she only came because Herschel was playing.
I may have been in the middle of a Herschel fan club meeting.
To his credit, he opened his ukulele case when he was done and solicited donations to the National Breast Cancer Coalition, in honor of Dusty, who died of breast cancer.
It's just the kind of thoughtful thing Herschel would do.
It took a while for the six musicians to assemble onstage and by then a good-sized crowd had formed in front of all the people browsing the stacks.
Charlane was the first featured singer and she did two classics, "The Look of Love" and "You Don't Own Me."
Ringleader Paul took over vocal duties for "Breakfast in Bed" and "I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself," even though he's not the same sex as Dusty.
I guess being ringleader gives you extra privileges.
Next up singing was Christina from Low Branches and I was eager to hear her ethereal voice doing Dusty.
She moved over to the main mic and looked aghast at it, causing Paul to acknowledge, "Yea, I slobbered all over it."
"Gosh, Paul!" she gulped, no doubt appalled at all the spit covering a device she was now expected to use.
"It's rock and roll," he shrugged, leaving her to removed the mic from the stand and hold it a safe distance from her own mouth.
Alas and alack, Paul's outstanding guitar work all but drowned out her vocals on "Some of Your Loving," a fact pointed out by both Charlie and me, but which unfortunately did not improve much for her second song.
Along with the rest of the crowd, I strained hard to hear her do "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" and she got major applause afterwards.
Lindsey of Hot Dolphin closed out the show with a kickin' version of Dusty's "Son of a Preacher Man" (with Paul on a different, less noisy guitar), getting everyone in the crowd grooving along with her.
Paul thanked the audience for coming, noting, "That's the way to celebrate Record Store Day!"
The older black guy in shades and a colorful cap standing behind looked at me and said, "You bet it is!"
And, yes, in the spirit of Record Store Day, I bought myself Miguel's "Kaleidoscope Dreams" because my favorite record collector and Beer Betty, Melissa, had turned me on to new R & B done right.
As far as I'm concerned, I got an A in record Store Day and on 20% of my final grade as a Richmonder.
But just to be sure, I'm going to go out and score some extra credit tonight.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Happy Birthday Hovering
In a way, I went to two birthday parties tonight.
The first was at Bistro 27 for a friend's beloved and they were the only two people I knew at the party.
At least at first.
Before it was all over, I met a wine rep who used to have waist-length hair, a TV personality (current or former, I have no clue since I have no TV) and a lawyer who said she always wears "big girl shoes" because she's short.
As I was being the good party guest and mingling, the chef came up, exhorting me to eat.
Since no one else was, I figured he wanted me to get the ball rolling.
You don't have to tell me twice to load up at the buffet.
Mini-crab cakes everyone raved about, jumbo shrimp (an oxymoron, I know) with house-made cocktail sauce, spoonfuls of lobster salad, lamb sausage with walnuts and tzatziki and spanikopita were loaded onto my plate.
Since I'd come alone, I took a seat at a table adorned with a low vase of red roses (the birthday boy's favorite color) and began to eat.
Almost immediately, a guest swooped in and invited me to join them at the bar.
We bonded over our memories of certain distant decades and our concern about subsequent disillusioned and socially inept generations.
The birthday boy and I compared theater notes and I insisted he go see TheaterLAB's production of "Trojans" this week.
He promised me a full discussion of it afterwards, which was exactly what I was seeking.
After a few hours, I said my farewells so I could leave for a show.
"Call me when you get out," the host suggested.
Clearly he'd had one too many Cosmos if he was suggesting I call anyone, but he also had the luxury of walking home when all was said and done.
The vibe was decidedly warmer at Cellar Door where the first of four bands was attracting a crowd.
Herschel Stratego, he of the clever songwriting and intermittent ukulele playing (he forgot the chords on a Randy Newman cover), began his set with "Shake That Ass," a crowd-pleaser if ever there was one.
During one of his between-song tangents, he talked about self-esteem, cracking, "I always thought mock chicken was a really mean name for a dish."
Ba-dum bum.
Further in, he apologized for having allergies and proceeded to chug from a quart bottle of honey.
I laughed out loud when he went on another tangent, saying, "He's not a dog person. He's a cat person. And we'll leave it at that."
We all know there's a difference.
Philly's Southwork was up next and they turned out to be a seven-piece with three horns (including baritone sax), bass, guitar, keys and drums.
Sometimes sounding like they had aspirations to be Chicago and sometimes sounding like they wanted to go in a Motown direction, they played a sweaty set as the room got progressively warmer.
The Green Hearts were third and whether you hear '60s in their sound or '80s influences, they were the ones who got the crowd dancing.
From a Buddy Holly cover to their own "Baby, Baby," they rocked hard and fast in three-minute bursts and skinny ties.
Just before their last song, all but a couple of small lights went off.
Immediately a friend turned and said, "I feel cooler already."
Illusion or not, I did, too.
Every time the door opened, I welcomes the breeze that drifted in because oxygen was starting to feel in short supply
Tonight was the record release show for Paul Ivey and the Rubes so Paul appropriately wore his Buzzcocks t-shirt, the threadbare one (I didn't notice but his beloved mentioned it) that looks properly rock and roll.
"This is a record release party, so buy a record," he commanded. "If you don't have a record player, it doesn't matter. Buy it and e-mail me and I'll send you an mp3 so you can listen to it on your damn computer."
That's the good thing about Paul; you never have to wonder what he really thinks about anything.
Let's just say I left the show with a record, hand-numbered #61 of 300, and one of the glorious green vinyl copies.
Black were also available (but black, it's so overdone) and I heard there were a scant six blue ones not available to the public.
The band sounded great and their sound has clearly become much tighter in the past few months.
After a few songs, I turned to a friend and observed that listening to Paul's songs was a lesson in New Wave for the uninformed.
"Yea," he chuckled, himself a musician. "On that last one, I thought I heard a whole lot of history."
Never was that more evident than when we heard their new song, "Casual Wayne."
"This is the single," Paul announced. "This song is about you because you are out at a rock show like Casual Wayne."
He denied us the pleasure of hearing the flip side, "Skinless," but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I already knew it from another of his well -crafted CDs which I have, "This is the Hovercraft."
Others were told that that should make them want to buy the record so they could hear it.
Honestly, after a stellar set in a room so hot Paul had to stop and re-tune his guitar mid-set, everyone should have already decided to buy one.
Considering tonight was the equivalent of a birthday party for the record, it only made sense to take home a party favor.
Did I mention mine was green and had my name written on the front by the chief Rube himself?
It was worth every drop of sweat I left on the Cellar Door floor.
The first was at Bistro 27 for a friend's beloved and they were the only two people I knew at the party.
At least at first.
Before it was all over, I met a wine rep who used to have waist-length hair, a TV personality (current or former, I have no clue since I have no TV) and a lawyer who said she always wears "big girl shoes" because she's short.
As I was being the good party guest and mingling, the chef came up, exhorting me to eat.
Since no one else was, I figured he wanted me to get the ball rolling.
You don't have to tell me twice to load up at the buffet.
Mini-crab cakes everyone raved about, jumbo shrimp (an oxymoron, I know) with house-made cocktail sauce, spoonfuls of lobster salad, lamb sausage with walnuts and tzatziki and spanikopita were loaded onto my plate.
Since I'd come alone, I took a seat at a table adorned with a low vase of red roses (the birthday boy's favorite color) and began to eat.
Almost immediately, a guest swooped in and invited me to join them at the bar.
We bonded over our memories of certain distant decades and our concern about subsequent disillusioned and socially inept generations.
The birthday boy and I compared theater notes and I insisted he go see TheaterLAB's production of "Trojans" this week.
He promised me a full discussion of it afterwards, which was exactly what I was seeking.
After a few hours, I said my farewells so I could leave for a show.
"Call me when you get out," the host suggested.
Clearly he'd had one too many Cosmos if he was suggesting I call anyone, but he also had the luxury of walking home when all was said and done.
The vibe was decidedly warmer at Cellar Door where the first of four bands was attracting a crowd.
Herschel Stratego, he of the clever songwriting and intermittent ukulele playing (he forgot the chords on a Randy Newman cover), began his set with "Shake That Ass," a crowd-pleaser if ever there was one.
During one of his between-song tangents, he talked about self-esteem, cracking, "I always thought mock chicken was a really mean name for a dish."
Ba-dum bum.
Further in, he apologized for having allergies and proceeded to chug from a quart bottle of honey.
I laughed out loud when he went on another tangent, saying, "He's not a dog person. He's a cat person. And we'll leave it at that."
We all know there's a difference.
Philly's Southwork was up next and they turned out to be a seven-piece with three horns (including baritone sax), bass, guitar, keys and drums.
Sometimes sounding like they had aspirations to be Chicago and sometimes sounding like they wanted to go in a Motown direction, they played a sweaty set as the room got progressively warmer.
The Green Hearts were third and whether you hear '60s in their sound or '80s influences, they were the ones who got the crowd dancing.
From a Buddy Holly cover to their own "Baby, Baby," they rocked hard and fast in three-minute bursts and skinny ties.
Just before their last song, all but a couple of small lights went off.
Immediately a friend turned and said, "I feel cooler already."
Illusion or not, I did, too.
Every time the door opened, I welcomes the breeze that drifted in because oxygen was starting to feel in short supply
Tonight was the record release show for Paul Ivey and the Rubes so Paul appropriately wore his Buzzcocks t-shirt, the threadbare one (I didn't notice but his beloved mentioned it) that looks properly rock and roll.
"This is a record release party, so buy a record," he commanded. "If you don't have a record player, it doesn't matter. Buy it and e-mail me and I'll send you an mp3 so you can listen to it on your damn computer."
That's the good thing about Paul; you never have to wonder what he really thinks about anything.
Let's just say I left the show with a record, hand-numbered #61 of 300, and one of the glorious green vinyl copies.
Black were also available (but black, it's so overdone) and I heard there were a scant six blue ones not available to the public.
The band sounded great and their sound has clearly become much tighter in the past few months.
After a few songs, I turned to a friend and observed that listening to Paul's songs was a lesson in New Wave for the uninformed.
"Yea," he chuckled, himself a musician. "On that last one, I thought I heard a whole lot of history."
Never was that more evident than when we heard their new song, "Casual Wayne."
"This is the single," Paul announced. "This song is about you because you are out at a rock show like Casual Wayne."
He denied us the pleasure of hearing the flip side, "Skinless," but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I already knew it from another of his well -crafted CDs which I have, "This is the Hovercraft."
Others were told that that should make them want to buy the record so they could hear it.
Honestly, after a stellar set in a room so hot Paul had to stop and re-tune his guitar mid-set, everyone should have already decided to buy one.
Considering tonight was the equivalent of a birthday party for the record, it only made sense to take home a party favor.
Did I mention mine was green and had my name written on the front by the chief Rube himself?
It was worth every drop of sweat I left on the Cellar Door floor.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Audio Voyeurism
I love a good story; hearing someone else's secrets is a guilty pleasure.
Which is why I never miss a Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story night at Balliceaux.
Tonight's theme was music stories, so all the storytellers were musicians and each played a song after spilling their guts.
And by "spilling their guts," I mean all manner of things.
Herschel Stratego talked about girls he lusted after and how he didn't have the body type to be romantic; his song was about tall, handsome men who won the girls.
Best of all, he named names.
Chris Milk showed off his recent bike accident injuries before singing, specifically mentioning his bruised, ahem, private parts.
Lest he be doubted, he said he had cell phone pictures of the black and blue injured parts should anyone be interested. Um, no thanks.
Charlottesville's Browning Porter did an amazing rap to "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," forcing me to find the one literary geek I knew in the room and lock eyes.
That's not a pleasure a reader gets every day and I had to share it with someone.
Probably the most fascinating story came from Lydia Ooghe before she sang "Topsy," a song about a dead elephant.
The saga involved Nicholas Tesla, an arrogant Thomas Edison, A/C and D/C current and an Asian elephant that killed three men after being fed a lit cigarette.
What I learned was that an electrocuted elephant causes a lot of smoke; I found the mental picture most unsettling.
It was a lively crowd that came to hear music stories tonight, so I got to hear about RVA Music Fest from a DJ, the new school year from a recently-shorn teacher's perspective and how popular tonight's topic was from an organizer.
You just can't imagine how satisfying it is to listen to the stories of strangers and friends in a public setting until you do it.
After story time hour(s), I left to meet a new friend at Lemaire to have my brain picked.
He's working on a project and needed input from someone he considers "in the know" since he's a recent transplant.
Let me assure you, I did not claim to be in the know.
Upon walking in, I heard my name called and not by he who had invited me.
It was some of the usual suspects: bartender and wife, restaurant owner, man-about-town. I hugged, I kissed, I said hello.
My new friend was enjoying a Sazerac, so I jumped in to join him and listen to the details of his project.
After the business portion of the meeting we moved on to more colorful topics like Le Tigre, catfish at Comfort and the pleasures of working for oneself.
As a Brooklyn transplant, he can't get over how gosh darn friendly folks are in these parts. Or how good Virginia smoked peanuts are.
In keeping with the evening's theme, I told him a radio story (he accused me of being part of a "Morning Zoo" team) and he told me a metal-working story (from what I've seen of him, it was hard to imagine him doing such).
We performed no music after our stories were finished, but we had no audience either.
In-the-knows know never to spill your guts on a full moon.
Which is why I never miss a Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story night at Balliceaux.
Tonight's theme was music stories, so all the storytellers were musicians and each played a song after spilling their guts.
And by "spilling their guts," I mean all manner of things.
Herschel Stratego talked about girls he lusted after and how he didn't have the body type to be romantic; his song was about tall, handsome men who won the girls.
Best of all, he named names.
Chris Milk showed off his recent bike accident injuries before singing, specifically mentioning his bruised, ahem, private parts.
Lest he be doubted, he said he had cell phone pictures of the black and blue injured parts should anyone be interested. Um, no thanks.
Charlottesville's Browning Porter did an amazing rap to "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," forcing me to find the one literary geek I knew in the room and lock eyes.
That's not a pleasure a reader gets every day and I had to share it with someone.
Probably the most fascinating story came from Lydia Ooghe before she sang "Topsy," a song about a dead elephant.
The saga involved Nicholas Tesla, an arrogant Thomas Edison, A/C and D/C current and an Asian elephant that killed three men after being fed a lit cigarette.
What I learned was that an electrocuted elephant causes a lot of smoke; I found the mental picture most unsettling.
It was a lively crowd that came to hear music stories tonight, so I got to hear about RVA Music Fest from a DJ, the new school year from a recently-shorn teacher's perspective and how popular tonight's topic was from an organizer.
You just can't imagine how satisfying it is to listen to the stories of strangers and friends in a public setting until you do it.
After story time hour(s), I left to meet a new friend at Lemaire to have my brain picked.
He's working on a project and needed input from someone he considers "in the know" since he's a recent transplant.
Let me assure you, I did not claim to be in the know.
Upon walking in, I heard my name called and not by he who had invited me.
It was some of the usual suspects: bartender and wife, restaurant owner, man-about-town. I hugged, I kissed, I said hello.
My new friend was enjoying a Sazerac, so I jumped in to join him and listen to the details of his project.
After the business portion of the meeting we moved on to more colorful topics like Le Tigre, catfish at Comfort and the pleasures of working for oneself.
As a Brooklyn transplant, he can't get over how gosh darn friendly folks are in these parts. Or how good Virginia smoked peanuts are.
In keeping with the evening's theme, I told him a radio story (he accused me of being part of a "Morning Zoo" team) and he told me a metal-working story (from what I've seen of him, it was hard to imagine him doing such).
We performed no music after our stories were finished, but we had no audience either.
In-the-knows know never to spill your guts on a full moon.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Tonight I Have To Leave It
Probably the only advantages of being dumped by someone you love madly, but can be difficult to get to know, is that out of the blue, certain people seek you out and want to be your friend.
Such was the case with my pre-March neighbors who said they'd always wanted to socialize with me but didn't care for my partner (although, to be fair, they didn't really know him). I'd run into them recently and yesterday found me at a big party at their house, a place I'd always longed to see from the inside. The building was originally a butcher shop and now it's an art collection in which they make their home.
The house is chock-a-block with the owner's extremely inventive sculptures and extensive collections. No surface and no wall is not full of art and/or history.
There are vintage signs and clocks, historical artifacts like coins and cannon balls and the most amazing poison bottle collection adorning every window. There was a mobile taller than me, original works by underground and comix artists and an insect collection of scarab beetles.
I was given two tours of the place and wanted a third because there was so much to see.
But it was, after all, a party, so I denied myself more art ogling and went back to socializing with a most eclectic crowd: a restaurant owner, several artists and writers and a soon-to-be farmer, among others. The owner has a single cowboy friend he wants me to meet. I had intended to spend an hour at the party and was there for much longer.
Luckily, my friends know how to throw a party right: an obscene amount of alcohol, an enormous and varied food spread so guests could graze constantly without getting trashed and music loud enough to enjoy but not overwhelm conversation. When I finally left, it was with the assurance that we'd meet up again and that I would definitely attend their holiday soiree.
Next up was the Bro-Down at the Camel, to benefit Big Brothers/Big Sisters; in a brilliant musical stroke, the show featured five sets of local musical siblings.
I was treated to the company of Micheal (of Now Sleepyhead and Pedals on Our Pirate Ships) for the first few sets and enjoyed the benefit of his musician's take on the show before he had to go work the sound.
It began with the Burton brothers, Scott of Glows in the Dark whom I've seen many times and Taylor of Cold Toast, whom I've only seen once. Their set was the perfect start to the evening.
Next up were the Scolero sisters and jeez, what beautiful voices those two have. Then came the Hyrciaks (Josh of Mermaid Skeletons and Zach of the Jungle Beat) and that, too, was vocally mesmerizing. The Shultz brothers followed with their always excellent music and then Prabir and Herschel took the stage for covers and banter.
The big finale was All You Need is Love, performed by all the sibling groups.
At that point, I hadn't left enough time for stool sitting and socializing, so I came home like a good girl. I even started this blog post before deciding it could wait until morning.
So good morning.
Such was the case with my pre-March neighbors who said they'd always wanted to socialize with me but didn't care for my partner (although, to be fair, they didn't really know him). I'd run into them recently and yesterday found me at a big party at their house, a place I'd always longed to see from the inside. The building was originally a butcher shop and now it's an art collection in which they make their home.
The house is chock-a-block with the owner's extremely inventive sculptures and extensive collections. No surface and no wall is not full of art and/or history.
There are vintage signs and clocks, historical artifacts like coins and cannon balls and the most amazing poison bottle collection adorning every window. There was a mobile taller than me, original works by underground and comix artists and an insect collection of scarab beetles.
I was given two tours of the place and wanted a third because there was so much to see.
But it was, after all, a party, so I denied myself more art ogling and went back to socializing with a most eclectic crowd: a restaurant owner, several artists and writers and a soon-to-be farmer, among others. The owner has a single cowboy friend he wants me to meet. I had intended to spend an hour at the party and was there for much longer.
Luckily, my friends know how to throw a party right: an obscene amount of alcohol, an enormous and varied food spread so guests could graze constantly without getting trashed and music loud enough to enjoy but not overwhelm conversation. When I finally left, it was with the assurance that we'd meet up again and that I would definitely attend their holiday soiree.
Next up was the Bro-Down at the Camel, to benefit Big Brothers/Big Sisters; in a brilliant musical stroke, the show featured five sets of local musical siblings.
I was treated to the company of Micheal (of Now Sleepyhead and Pedals on Our Pirate Ships) for the first few sets and enjoyed the benefit of his musician's take on the show before he had to go work the sound.
It began with the Burton brothers, Scott of Glows in the Dark whom I've seen many times and Taylor of Cold Toast, whom I've only seen once. Their set was the perfect start to the evening.
Next up were the Scolero sisters and jeez, what beautiful voices those two have. Then came the Hyrciaks (Josh of Mermaid Skeletons and Zach of the Jungle Beat) and that, too, was vocally mesmerizing. The Shultz brothers followed with their always excellent music and then Prabir and Herschel took the stage for covers and banter.
The big finale was All You Need is Love, performed by all the sibling groups.
At that point, I hadn't left enough time for stool sitting and socializing, so I came home like a good girl. I even started this blog post before deciding it could wait until morning.
So good morning.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
I Love Lily!
Saturday night I spent at Gallery 5 for the All the Saints Theater Company's Spaghetti Dinner and Show, organized by one of my favorite people, Lily Lamberta. Lily is the amazing artist who creates all those larger-than-life puppets, like the ones in the Halloween parade and the mounted heads made entirely of recycled materials in her recent one-woman show at Metro Gallery.
As usual, the evening starts with a buffet dinner of spaghetti, spinach, fresh bread and aioli made by Lily and company. Then everyone re-convenes downstairs for several hours of entertainment. Chris Milk's Huckiddy Puppet Theatre's performance had no puppets this time, but was dark, funny and thought-provoking, as usual. Or maybe it was just its topic of "my life sucks" that appealed to me specifically. The hilarious Herschel Stratego had everyone laughing with his clever songs about women, vegans, stalking and girlfriend rules (and his fireman pajamas were a nice touch). Punk Sinatra's goldfish in a bowl alone was worth the price of admission.
The headliner was DC's Son Cosita Seria, a high-energy trio who played traditional Son Jarocha music (essentially country music of the people). It only took about two songs before chairs were cleared and the audience was stomping, dancing and swaying to the mixture of Spanish, African and indigenous music filling the space. I don't think there was a single person in the room not smiling ear to ear.
Food, a variety of entertainment and dancing...now that's a recipe for a great Saturday night.
As usual, the evening starts with a buffet dinner of spaghetti, spinach, fresh bread and aioli made by Lily and company. Then everyone re-convenes downstairs for several hours of entertainment. Chris Milk's Huckiddy Puppet Theatre's performance had no puppets this time, but was dark, funny and thought-provoking, as usual. Or maybe it was just its topic of "my life sucks" that appealed to me specifically. The hilarious Herschel Stratego had everyone laughing with his clever songs about women, vegans, stalking and girlfriend rules (and his fireman pajamas were a nice touch). Punk Sinatra's goldfish in a bowl alone was worth the price of admission.
The headliner was DC's Son Cosita Seria, a high-energy trio who played traditional Son Jarocha music (essentially country music of the people). It only took about two songs before chairs were cleared and the audience was stomping, dancing and swaying to the mixture of Spanish, African and indigenous music filling the space. I don't think there was a single person in the room not smiling ear to ear.
Food, a variety of entertainment and dancing...now that's a recipe for a great Saturday night.
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