Couldn't If I Tried

It's a lot like getting off one of those carnival rides, the shift from over-stimulation to just being always somehow jarring.

The three-hour "ride" was karaoke at Penny Lane, the ideal antidote after a staid meal in the service of my hired mouth. My last visit for karaoke there had ben in October 2009, meaning I was overdue to see what happens when you mix alcohol and hubris.

I found the place unexpectedly hopping, a sentiment echoed by the bartender who brought me my 1800, saying it had already been an unusually busy night because there were some things going on downtown tonight, whatever that meant.

Stray conventioneers? Post-event architects? Random Monday madness?

Not my concern because it was karaoke night upstairs and that's where I was headed. Things were just getting started with the DJ playing a three-decade range from Taylor Swift to Human League to New Radicals.

Inadvertently positioning myself near the counter where the karaoke songbooks awaited, I watched as would-be singers flipped through the book trying to decide what they could sing.

Two guys were at it diligently when the one in the plaid shirt said, "Okay, but if it's in the other book, I'm singing it!" Turning to me, he explains, "Judas Priest, "Breakin' the Law," best karaoke song ever!"

Well, considering I'd never heard of it, I'd have to take his word for it. Alas, it was not in the book, but that mattered not to him because he already knew songs that were in the book. He'd rehearsed at home. "It's not my first rodeo," he said with swagger.

But is it his, I asked, pointing at his befuddled companion, still unable to find a single song he knew the words to.

"Yes. He's my brother and I'm breaking his karaoke cherry tonight," he tells me. Surely that wasn't going to be pretty.

The only familiar face tonight was a bartender enjoying a night off, one who'd served me a few weeks ago and we fell easily into a service discussion when he said service weighs as heavily as food for him in determining where to eat.

Like me, he had no intention of singing unless, he qualified, he had enough whiskey after the beer to make it seem like a good idea. That, and he already knew a couple of songs with very limited talent demands. It remained to be seen if the planets would align.

Our host, Patrick, got the ball rolling, singing Barry White's "Can't Get Enough of Your Love," all the while adjusting the P.A., moving the small stage around and turning the speakers so they'd stop feeding back.

Barry would not have approved. You gotta focus when you're singing Barry's songs, man, like you're making love to a woman. No distractions.

Wouldn't you know it, the disappointed Judas Priest fan was first up, singing "You Got Another Thing Coming," and I counted myself among the few who knew his secret: that this wasn't his first song choice.

Meanwhile, remarks were made nearby that he should have rehearsed more, that he couldn't sing, but I'll tell you one thing. He did a full arm guitar solo during that song and he was much better at that than singing. Best part? His first-time brother filmed the whole thing, clearly delighting in the spectacle.

Who better to follow him than the newbie doing "Don't You Forget About Me," the tragedy being that he was constantly a note or two behind and when he got to the la-las part, put the emphasis on the wrong "la" every time. Eventually part of the audience began singing along so loudly his voice was drowned out.

It was somewhat of a painful baptism by fire to watch. But we like to watch or we wouldn't go to karaoke, now would we?

As a guy began singing "Dead or Alive," a woman walking by stopped in her tracks, addressing me. "Ooh, this is Bon Jovi. This is my jam."

Did that mean he shouldn't be singing it? Negative. Will you judge him as he sings your song, I asked. "No, I'll feeeel it," she said, clasping her hands to her chest and closing her eyes.

For the record, the faux Jovi did a decent job with it, although there was no air guitar solo.

One of the best renditions was of KC  and the Sunshine Band's "Boogie Man," the guy improvising and scatting during musical parts. He had loads of presence and vocal talent to spare. When he left the stage, he wound up near my post.

He was caught off guard when he found out I had no intention of singing, but I explained that I'm that person in the room who's not thinking about how I just mucked up onstage  and I'm not the one busily planning what to sing next, I'm just the one paying attention.

"So you're the one we're doing all this for really," he decided.  Right.I know my place and it's listening and clapping, 

"Sweet Child o' Mine" came out of the mouth of the Bon Jovi fangirl, who rewarded us with Axl Rose-like dancing during the musical breaks. It was magical.

Without a doubt, one of the most hilarious highlights was the two brothers dueting on "Don't Go Breakin' My Heart," with karaoke virgin taking the Kiki Dee part. Words are not enough.

The guy who'd done "Boogie Man," still stationed near me had an ear to ear grin, spurring me to tell him that the one guy had rehearsed and the other was singing for the first time and that they were brothers. "That's so hot!" he gushed.

Personally, I think somewhere, Sir Elton was feeling a twinge at this abomination. "Probably calling his lawyers right now," he jokes.

A large party celebrating a birthday produced several stars: the guy who used the birthday boy's two favorite things - the Barenaked Ladies and alcohol - to do "Alcohol" ("Those are some clever lyrics," new friend whispered. The BNL were certainly that).

The birthday boy - artfully ripped jeans, styled hair, a study in self-awareness - surprised us all by doing "American Girl" and sounding amazingly Petty-like doing it,  right down to his mannerisms. Another well polished performance, I think.

Mr. Not-My-First-Rodeo was back for the third time with "Godzilla," another unlikely choice for such a milquetoast type, Boogie Man was impressed with how into he got on the high notes, but his funniest line was, "How in the world did he even find this song?"

Since I'd never heard it before, I couldn't begin to hazard a guess. Too much Blue Oyster Cult in the cradle?

And just like Fall follows Summer, his neophyte brother was called next to attempt Smashmouth's "Rockstar," an impossible feat since he started late, lost entire phrases and remained a minimum of three syllables behind the entire song.

If it hadn't been for the crowd picking up the song and belting it out for the duration, his complete and utter failure at singing might have bruised his psyche. I won't even comment on the human tragedy of so many people knowing every word to Smashmouth while real talent is relegated to Ned's atomic dust bin.

Points for getting that.

By the time some guy did "Sweet Caroline," the crowd was primed, so his entreaties ("Come on, people, give it to me!") not only got them  singing along and doing call and response, but actively swing dancing around the pool table while players continued their game.

This made it what we called in elementary school a "multi-purpose room."

I loved it when New Friend got up and sang "Superstition," once again effortlessly evoking the original with soul and style. It was when he mentioned an upcoming event at Firehouse that I had my a-ha moment. A theater type, why, of course.

No wonder we'd gravitated toward each other's smart-assed commentary and total appreciation of the absurdity of it all. When he started to tell me about a performance he's working on, I told him the date, saying it was already on my calendar.

That's when you know you're soul mates.

He rejoined me to watch a skinny guy in a green-checked shirt take on the Jackson 5's "I Want You Back" (Is this a good idea, we wondered?) and acquit himself magnificently. Nails it to the point that people are dancing everywhere, unable to contain themselves. I'm a tad surprised no one mounts the pool table, honestly.

It was during "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?" that I quietly slipped out, leaving behind unknown songs, unseen performers and countless catty comments. for the next time

Not only did I have a blast, I was only mildly queasy after dismounting. To quote Neil Diamond, so good, so good.

Fun and Funner

So, yup, I've now done havoc.

I somehow got invited to a VCU Rams basketball game with three guys, two of them season ticket holders and rabid fans and one attending his first VCU game. Not to brag, but even I'd been to a VCU basketball game before (okay, once) and I'm the least athletically-inclined woman in Richmond.

We met at Ipanema to pre-game, which for them meant beer and pierogis, and for me meant white Rioja and our charming server's favorite salad of mesclun, orange, pomegranate seeds and nuts over grilled endive. Not everyone's idea of a pre-basketball meal, but pretty delicious to this non-fan..

Apparently it had been long enough ago since I'd been to a game that I didn't recall the VCU Peppas or the Goldrush dancers who were the entertainment every second that the team wasn't playing. And I use the term loosely because sometimes the extent of their entertaining was a handstand race across the court.

The game was far better entertainment. Having been raised by a mother who went to Catholic school in Washington, D.C., my sisters and I had been expected to understand basketball, much like the way my football-loving father expected us to knowledgeably follow that sport. For that matter, we had to play basketball in junior high and high school, so I also had that to fall back on.

It doesn't hurt that basketball is so fast-moving (no time to be bored) or that VCU has had such good teams the past few years (city pride). And while I wore a black sweater and a black, gold and orange skirt to show my allegiance, I was unprepared for the mass of black and gold that greeted me at the Siegel Center.

Of course I knew none of the ritual movements, songs or chants that everyone else seemed to know. Some questions (I had havoc as it pertains to the team explained to me) were directed at the guys I was with while other times I just watched what the fans did.  Luckily, clapping and cheering when VCU stole the ball or scored was instinctual.

During halftime, we milled around the practice gym where beer, wine and drinks were sold - sort of a giant beer garden - and people earnestly dissected the first half. I went to the ladies' room, where I found this delightful PSA on the stall door:

Even the horniest Rams are wary of condom slackers.
I mean, do we really need to wear a condom?
Absolutely!

I think that message is petty clear.

Everyone sitting around us was an expert on what VCU was doing wrong - not enough interior defense, couldn't hit the ocean if they tried, running out of steam while LaSalle was not - except me. I just watched hopefully for a win.

But of all the unlikely ways for someone's first VCU basketball game to end, tonight's went into overtime. Twice. Still it wasn't enough because they lost.

Our quartet decided to drown our sorrows at Ipanema again, although this time I went with a pot of mint tea while the guys kept to suds.

As we drank and chatted, people began arriving in droves, alerting us to the fact that something was going on. Hello, karaoke.

A guy came in, bowed and doffed his hat at me, a guy I used to work with at Media General who had a posse of out-of-town account reps with him. Talking to him, as always, was a delight, from his insistence that he always checks Style Weekly for my byline to discovering we had some friends in common.

I'd barely finished chatting with him about what he planned to sing for karaoke when I spied another former co-worker who pulled me aside to say hello. It was turning out to be old home week with some of my favorite guys from my last real job.

Once the staff had cleared away the front booths, karaoke was ready to roll and people began signing up to sing. And not what I'd expected given the relative youth of the crowd, but oldies.

Songs such as "With a Little Help from My Friends," Cher's "Do You Believe" and "Addicted to Love," but also songs from their toddlerhood: "Santeria," "Baby Got Back," and "Slim Shady." And as they sang, the crowd kept growing, with more people signing up to sing.

One of the guys I'd come with decided to take advantage of his wife not being there and began ordering shots, stuff like Jameson's and B52s, stuff I wouldn't drink if you paid me. Besides, I was already on to my second pot of tea when I wasn't standing up to get a better view of the brave soul singing.

Walking to the back to get a better view of the crowd, the manager smiled at me and gestured toward the frenetic dancing and enthusiastic singing going on up front. All around us, empty beer cans and glasses littered the tables like so many dead soldiers.

"Just a quiet, little vegetarian restaurant where you can relax and have a nice pot of tea," he joked around midnight.

I'm no expert, but it looked like a lot like havoc to me. Thankfully, the only losses I saw were dignity.

Slamming and Hanging

My "real job" days are a distant memory.

It'll be six years in December since I last worked 9 to 5. Granted, I make a third of what I used to make, but the trade off is immeasurable.

A position for which I'd be well-suited recently recently came up and I didn't for a minute consider applying. As a trusted friend put it, why on earth - besides money - would I give up the freedom I have?

Short answer: I wouldn't.

Not when I can have adventures any day, any time I want to. Not when I can pick up and go out of town on a whim. Not when I can stay out as late - or early the next morning - as the fun's still happening.

Thursday's escapades, all focused eastward, began with a drive to Kilmarnock to meet my parents for lunch at Northern Neck Burger Company.

Written on the walls were aphorisms such as, "Every so often, go where you can hear a wooden door slam," which had no attribution.

I pointed out one from Winston Churchill on the wall behind us and Mom read it to Dad as he smiled and nodded in agreement, "The most beautiful voice in the world is that of an educated southern woman."

Mom and I are southern women only by virtue of where we live, both of us having been born in Washington, D.C., a city of, as JFK famously put it, northern charm and southern efficiency.

But we understood the point.

Over decidedly tasty burgers laden with grilled onions, bacon and cheese, they told me the continuing saga of getting their house put back together after a storm in late May sent a massive tree through two stories of it.

Things move slow in these parts.

Kilmarnock is the kind of small town where a man reading the local paper as he eats doesn't throw it away afterwards, he takes it to a couple at a nearby table and offers it to them, saying it's only been read once.

The beautiful weather and low humidity made for glorious road trip weather, never more so than on my maiden voyage crossing the wide bridge near the mouth of the river and so close to the bay that takes me to and from Kilmarnock.

Once back in Richmond, I had just enough time to get cleaned up for a date, which also moved progressively eastward.

There was a Rose and corn fritter pit stop at Lucy's where the always-charming bartender posed philosophical questions about the nature of people in the restaurant industry, pulling in Meyers Briggs and positing that the only difference in front of the house and back of the house is extroversion versus introversion.

As a full on ENFP, I guess that means I'm front of the house material.

From there, we set our sites on Osbourne boat landing and the Lilly Pad for dinner, expecting a crowd given what a beautiful evening it was.

No crowd, but we did find both table gliders occupied so contented ourselves with tumblers of Chardonnay, dumplings and cheeseburgers enjoyed at a table while perusing a map of the Northern Neck to plan an upcoming road trip.

Once sated, we moved over to the swing for a view of the river, the bikers who came in for a bucket of beer and the three very drunk young guys on the nearest glider.

We had the same amiable server we'd had last time and she's a hoot, keeping a cigarette burning just outside the cafe door and taking a drag on it every time she walks out to serve something or pick up dishes.

At one point, she brought the remains of the bottle of wine out, filled our glasses to the brim and left a plastic cup with the last little bit of wine with us.

That's east end service for you.

The little boom box that provides the music outside there was set to K95, meaning all kinds of deplorable modern country music auto-tuned and sounding so generically pop and bland that finally one woman got fed up, walked over and changed the station to classic rock.

Hello Bad Company, Supertramp and Tom Petty, each song already heard hundreds of times in my lifetime.

Still, it beats Florida Georgia Line, or whatever other new country band we'd been subjected to earlier.

But the Lilly Pad only stays open so late (and that's not very late at all: 9ish) so we knew we had to find another fine east end establishment to entertain us.

Enter Bubba's, a place I hadn't been in years, much less for karaoke night which tonight just happened to be.

Could we have been any luckier?

There wasn't much of a crowd, but there were several guys clearly there for the purpose of singing country songs.

One must have had a fear of performing because he'd get up there and turn away from the room and toward the wall to belt it out.

Once everyone got enough liquor in them, some girls got up and began dancing, squatting over a bucket inexplicably placed in the center of the dance floor.

Because it doesn't seem to be possible for me to go to a redneck bar without making friends - although at least no one motorboated me this time - a woman I met in the restroom later approached my date to inform him, "You're a lucky man, you know that?"

Doesn't every girl want her date to think that?

I wasn't surprised when the DJ started playing "Sweet Home Alabama," only the song stopped playing after the first few seconds.

I laughed out loud when the big guy sitting in the bar stool next to me intoned with no irony, "That's a hanging offense in Florida," but fortunately no noose was necessary because the song came back on.

At Bubba's, you don't mess with Skynyrd.

But you do dance. And when the DJ plays a few slow songs late in the evening and I'm dancing with my date, I'm hardly surprised when I see a stranger at the bar giving me a thumbs up and a big grin, for what I'm not sure, but I smile back.

Because, let's face it, when a person can be in a smoky east end dive bar in the wee hours of a weekday night dancing, her life is pretty sweet.

And that's got everything to do with not having a real job and having the time to go hear wooden doors slam any time I care to.

Just call me lucky.

Farewell and Congrats

Sunday was party day and I'm not talking birthday.

The first was a surprise party for my food editor who has decided to chuck the cut throat world of food writing and focus on enjoying herself splitting her time between the east and west coasts.

Needless to say, I am pea green with envy while at the same time thrilled for her (she so deserves it) and her adventure.

A host of food writers, editors, restaurateurs, wine reps and food-related types gathered at the Roosevelt, food and wine in hand, for a potluck with the early evening sun streaming through the big front windows.

Once her husband and friends had connived to deliver her at the appointed time, the party could begin. Like a radiant, just-wed bride, her first obligation was making the rounds of the room to greet everyone, a receiving lines of sorts.

That allowed everyone else to dig into the feast spread down the middle of the room, equal parts homemade and purchased from restaurants and stores because, when it comes down to it, the last thing some restaurant people want to do on their day off is cook.

Then there are lazy writers who just bring deviled eggs with bacon stuck on top and call it a day.

I ate plenty of Olli and way more than my share of Fritos and guacamole, along with caramelized onion bread pudding, barbecue and Mekong's crispy spring rolls.

It's always a blast being around food people away from their work because they're just happy to be around so many of their kind. Conversation ranged from last week's mega-storm to children to the definition of Asian food, with a whole lot of drunken blather throughout.

The guest of honor gave a heartfelt speech about how Richmond's food scene has changed over the years she's been a part of it, but the fact is, she's been the class act in food writing in this town since before some people knew what head cheese was. I, for one, will miss her guidance and input terribly.

Desserts were abundant with a beautiful gluten free cake from WPA Bakery and a couple of ridiculously tall Shyndigz cakes, including my childhood birthday cake, chocolate cake with white icing, meaning I could pretend it had been chosen especially for me.

I would have liked to have stayed at the party all night - there's nothing like talking to tipsy foodies- but I also had an anniversary party to make in Carytown.

Amour Wine Bistro was celebrating its fourth anniversary and I walked in to find a drapery blocking the dining room from the front door, always a good sign.

A bit further in, I saw a favorite server sitting in a chair, steering wheel in hand, in front of a screen pretending to be some kind of race car driver and clearly having a blast.

I kept going towards the music where I found a karaoke session in progress, multiple people with microphones in hand.

The standout was one of the kitchen guys who not only had a good voice but no shame about playing to the crowd, even losing his glasses once as he slid to a dramatic stance on his knees at his girlfriend's feet.

It took only moments to see where I fit into this equation. I got a glass of Valcombe Rose, a slice of pepperoni pizza and took the karaoke song listing in hand so I could request the kind of songs that would turn this to-do into a raucous singalong.

The Supremes' "You Can't Hurry Love" got things off to a fine start, despite the fact that almost no one singing was alive during the Supremes' reign. That was followed by Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour" and Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive." Oldies but goodies.

One of the high points came when owner Paul sang "Comme d'Habitude," also known as "My Way" in French.

Did I mention there was a smoke machine that would occasionally envelop us in mood-enhancing atmospherics when the crowd really got singing?

Welcome to Carytown's only French disco, now officially four years old and Richmond the better off for its charming take on the pairing of supping and sipping.

As birthday weekend closers go, a going away party and anniversary party were petty stellar ways to keep the fun going, even if had nothing to do with me.

Fact is, if there's pig, cake and Rose, it has everything to do with me.

I Want Some Action

You just never know what talents people have.

So when I was invited to a party to celebrate the third anniversary of Amour in Carytown, the last thing I expected was a mirror ball.

But there it was, spinning and casting a moving pattern of light along the walls, while Freddy Mercury danced across the big screen on the bar and a smoke machine filled the room with hazy fog.

What alternate universe Amour was this?

Oh, you know, just celebrating another year of mercantile success in a diametrically opposed way to business as usual.

If you've ever been to Amour, you wouldn't have recognized it tonight.

Guests barely walked in before a glass of fruity and floral La Vielle Ferme Rose found its way into their hand.

Everybody recognized everybody, at least on some level, because everybody was a long-time customer.

The Queen concert on the big screen was merely a talking point as people mingled and sipped.

A favorite couple came over to marvel with me over owner Paul's inner disco DJ.

I heard a great story from the '70s about a new guy at work wearing his white bell-bottoms to work until his supervisor gently suggested he stop that.

Apparently, the white pants showed through what was underneath.

Ah, the '70s, when that was what we worried about.

Just about the time everyone was becoming lubricated, Queen gave way to karaoke.

Oh, yes, serious entertainment.

There were multiple microphones, a wide catalog of songs available and Paul mixing each song into the next seamlessly.

Very quickly, those with a desire to sing became masters of the mics, while the less bold sang nearby, slightly off-mic.

A-ha's "Take On Me."

Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff."

No Doubt's "Don't Speak."

While I was over at the bar with my orange-dressed associate, "Like a Virgin" began playing and the bartender looked wistful.

Addressing the two of us, she said, "This song always reminds me of "Moulin Rouge."

Pause while the woman next to me and I digested that.

She continues, "I picture a red-headed man with a mustache singing this."

We look at each other in wonder.

"Is it a generational thing?" she asks sincerely.

Yes, my dear, if you hear "Like a Virgin" and don't picture Madonna writhing on stage, it probably is a generational thing.

The never-shy owner of a nearby Mexican restaurant was the karaoke ringleader, encouraging others to sing along to the words on the screen.

And wouldn't you just know that we made our way back to more Queen?

Fact: in the case of many songs, the contingent singing along was everyone who had not yet been born when the song came out.

Funny how that works.

DJ Paul was a smiling multi-tasker, putting music on, running to the back to hit the smoke machine and singing along to all his personal favorites.

At one point, a restaurant owner tapped my knee, telling me to come dance with him (insisting "I know you're a dancer") but I preferred to hang in the back, where there were prime observation spots.

It also put me in the thick of the smoke when that got going, making for a fuller anniversary experience.

I love the nightlife
I've got to boogie
On the disco round, oh, yea

I have to appreciate a man willing to let his inner disco out, even just for one evening.

But who would have guessed?

It's Just Singing

Imagine watching an effeminate 6'4" man with a paunch warble one of the most embarrassing, whiney-ass songs of the '70s: Anne Murray's "I Needed You."

It was a really bad song when she sang it then and it hasn't aged well three decades later sitting in the smoke-filled environs of Penny Lane for karaoke.

Oh, sure, I understand that a big part of the entertainment value of karaoke is the people who sing badly, but I have to say, it's more the pathetically embarrassing song choices (really, Journey? Again?).

Fortunately for me, the friend who took me there has a great voice and chose to sing songs that were post-grunge, so I could at least look forward to him taking the stage.

My vocally talented friend had extended an invitation to take me to dinner first, so I chose Stronghill Dinning Company since I'd not been there in months.

The timing was perfect, because they're in between their summer and fall menus, so there were menu choices representing both seasons on it. I went with the Wedge with gobs of both blue cheese and bacon, and the Stronghill Sushi, quite good with poached lobster at its center. My friend got his strength up with the Stronghill Sampler (stuffed Roma tomatoes, fried goat cheese and cashew fried shrimp) and followed that with the duck. He's not the type to rave about food ("It's just food," he claims) but he ate everything, is all I'm saying.

The karaoke crowd clearly contained a whole lot of regulars, many of whom had "their" songs; it was duly noted when someone had the audacity to sing someone else's song.

I don't sing, so me getting up there wasn't ever an option.

Which is not to say that I don't have a whole lot of respect for those who do...especially those who can actually sing well, like my musical friend.

Ah, talent; must be a lovely thing to possess.