Mixing Metaphors

Bagels, backers, tequila and tacos. Oh, right, and Hell. Just another typical Sunday.

It was a glorious morning to walk to Nate's Bagels, overcast and brooding on the way there and blue skies and sunny coming back. Kind of like life. The only problem was that after last week's glowing review of the place, the line was even longer than usual.

Not that we were in a hurry.

But some people walked in, eyeballed the line and made an immediate U-turn. Sorry, but once my mouth is set for Nate's, I don't care how long I have to wait to be satisfied. Some people looked like they'd just rolled out of bed - I spotted a woman in slippers and several people in pajama pants - and were using their line time to wake up. Not a bad system.

When we finally got to the counter to order, Nate himself came over to say hello. When we mentioned the review, he shrugged. "It was no Karen, but it was good." Hilarious.

Given that we'd already had breakfast, the purpose of the bagels was to tide us over during the matinee we were attending, which took place only after we'd spent quality time with the Washington Post on the couch. Yet again, it was a depressing day to be reading the news, but better to be informed.

After outfitting ourselves for the theater, we drove to the Gottwald Playhouse where we ran into a trio of women, two visiting from New York, navigating the parking lot payment machine. It took me no time to find out how the local had been entertaining her guests, chief among which was Richmond's ridiculously low prices for parking. They laughed out loud at an $8 fee to park for the rest of the day. Richmond's cute, right, for its simplicity, I asked them. "It's adorable!" one said in her thick New York-ese accent. "We thought it was $25 and that didn't seem bad!"

They'd done a trolley tour the day before and now were off for a tour of Mr. Jefferson's Capital, but only after regaling me with the splendor of the brunch they'd had at the Stables at Belmont. They were as impressed with the cost of food as they were with the quality of what they'd gotten.

After wishing them a good time, we headed to the same building we'd been in the night before for the gala to meet up with Pru, Beau and Queen B. Inside the theater, a row of tables had been set up in front of the risers of seats and we found them ensconced at the last available table.

The premise of "Gutenberg! The Musical" was that the two men onstage - the hilarious and multi-talented Chris Hester and Paul Major - were presenting the musical they'd poured their blood, sweat and tears into to an audience of of potential backers. Because they needed a producer (aka money), it was just the two of them playing all the roles, a task assisted by the many baseball caps labeled with character names: Drunk #1, Young Monk, Drunk #2, Anti-Semite, Daughter. You get the idea.

As for why they'd chosen Gutenberg for the subject of their play, well, who needs historical accuracy to come up with a good musical? Not these guys. Instead, after Googling the inventor of the printing press and discovering scant personal information, they'd set out to make up a Broadway-worthy story with enough inside theater humor to keep our table in stitches all afternoon.

They spoke about the need for a "charm song," a "big end of Act 1 rock 'n roll number" and even explained what a metaphor is: "When you say one thing and mean something else, but you're not lying." That these two uber-talented men were able to play less-than-talented actors, singers and dancers only made it all the funnier.

Like when Chris Hester as Doug performed the Elvis Presley-like strains of "Glimmer in Schlimmer" complete with windmilling guitar arm nad sobbing voice. Or watching Bud, played by Paul Major, as Gutenberg's fictitious love interest, Helvetica, stomping grapes in a cardboard box labeled "barrel" and flipping her blond pig-tails.

And, yes, she was named after the font, making for some seriously nerdy graphic design humor.

As the duo went through all the scenes in their would-be play, Doug would set the scene, invariably mentioning a dirty, thatched roof and getting a bigger laugh every time he did it. Add in the brisk pacing and we were pretty much treated to a non-stop sense of amusement.

By using the character hats laid out on a table, sometimes stacked four or five deep atop their heads, the two played every character, including Dead Baby. In one case, hats were strung on a line for a crowd scene and Beau was chosen as one of two audience members asked to hold up one end while Bud and Doug moved underneath, fitting their heads into various hats to play different characters.

I think it's safe to say that I haven't laughed so much at a play in ages, but the beauty of it was the array of humor, which included everything from bad puns to dry asides to clever wordplay. And for Beau, a touch of corny. No matter what your cup of humorous tea was, these boys had you covered. It didn't hurt that they'd also step out of character to share a thought or observation.

Mel Brooks would have been proud.

And it wasn't just me, because my tablemates were cracking up right along with me. When, at the end, a backer stepped forward to offer them a contract, I stopped laughing for the first time in two hours.

The posse trooped over to Maya afterward, immediately running into a familiar server who hugged me first and welcomed us in. Seated at a large table with a view of the Carpenter Center, we spent the next few hours sipping (mine was Espolon), eating fiery mahi mahi tacos (Mr. Wright) and tamer shrimp tacos (me) while discussing Beau's upcoming trip to Seattle, hearing about Pru's manse repairs and enjoying Queen B's memories of the Plaka.

Improbably, Beau casually mentioned that time that he'd played a robot in a fashion show and we all laughed as hard as we had at Bud and Doug's exploits, which is really saying something.

Although I was seduced by neither flan nor tres leches cake for dessert, both arrived at the table along with a Belle Tango cocktail of Belle Isle Moonshine, tangerine concentrate and habanero syrup, a sweet/spicy sipper with appeal, but not as much as tequila on ice, if I'm honest.

I may be a complicated woman, but my needs are simple.

The Church Hill gang headed home, but Mr. Wright and I weren't finished yet. Our final stop was Gallery 5 for the Halloween edition of the Silent Music Revival with Kenneka Cook providing the improvised score. We had front row seats for the 1911 Italian film, "L'Inferno," considered the first full-length film (at one hour) and also the first blockbuster because it made $2 million in the U.S., which, as producer Jameson so eloquently put it, "was a whole lotta money back then."

Frankly, I still think two million is a whole lot of money, but that's just me.

I'd chatted with Jameson when we'd sat down and as we talked about how I'd been coming practically since the beginning of the Silent Music revival, the guy in front of me turned around, impressed. "You saw Mermaid Skeletons play that show?" he asked with awe in his voice. Yes, I did, son.

Meanwhile, Jameson grinned like a proud father, which is he is when it comes to introducing me (and Richmond) to the cult of silent films with live accompaniment.

He went on to tell us all kinds of interesting tidbits about the film we were about to see, some of which he mentioned when he took the stage to introduce it. In typical Silent Music Revival style - he has, after all been doing this for over 11 years now - he'd edited it some, taking out the most egregious examples of Catholic guilt as well as some political figures that would have been meaningless to 21st century audiences.

"Oh, and I sped it up ten percent," he said with a knowing smile. You don't need to tell me about today's audiences' shrinking attention spans.

Watching Virgil lead Dante through the circles of Hell meant watching early 20th century special effects, some of which were far more sophisticated than I would have thought for the time. That said, I also wondered during a scene with scattered fires and an actor in a nearby hole what kind of safety precautions were used in 1911. My guess? Not much.

Kenneka Cook's overlaid vocal looping was a strong accompaniment to the story, sometimes almost disturbing as her dulcet tones sang over scenes of human misery and bad bird costumes.

But let's get on to the real appeal of this film: major nudity. Clearly film censorship came about after "L'Inferno," because I've never seen so many naked and near naked men onscreen before. For fans of male buns, we're talking a veritable smorgasbord of good-looking Italian butts.

And who knows, maybe some of them went on to play robots in fashion shows. When you're part of the very first blockbuster movie, I bet you can write your own ticket.

Sparks Fly/It Never Ends

That's what I needed, a healthy does of estrogen.

It's not like I hadn't seen music this week. Hell, I'd been out for music Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and now again tonight. It was the kind of music I needed.

When I bought two tickets to see Waxahatchee over two months ago, I had no idea who I might invite to join me in seeing the all-female band on tour for their magnificent new record "Out in the Storm," which, everyone agrees is a meditation on a failed relationship.

I believe in pop circles, they call that a breakup album.

Since I'm the last person to hold such subject matter against an album, I've been listening to it a lot since those sunny, warm days of September gave way to the sharp winds and chilly nights of November. Tonight was the pay-off to hear them live.

It was also Mac's birthday, so who better to share my extra ticket with than the birthday girl, who'd already had two birthday dinners, a visit to the VMFA to see the new Terracotta Army exhibit, birthday cake and a disco nap, all before we met up at 6:45?

We were the first arrivals for the show at Capital Ale House, although the Waxahatchee devoted weren't far behind. We met a pregnant couple who'd seen the band last year when they'd played Cap Ale and another couple who'd discovered them only because she'd heard one song on an online radio station and followed through on looking up the artist because, like them, she was from Birmingham, Alabama.

But I also ran into a good friend and her cute husband, longtime fans of the band who'd seen them at Hopscotch, but then they're cool like that and always see new bands before anybody else. Since I'd last seen her, she'd learned that her Mom had named her after a line in a Barry Manilow song and was still a bit traumatized over that.

We all have our crosses to bear.

Turns out that fabulous Cap Ale show a year ago was the first night of Waxahatchee's tour and tonight was the last, and it had been a non-stop year touring for the all-female band in between. The good news for the capacity crowd (in a room with only a couple tables and chairs tonight, so a standing show, not typical of my experiences at Capital Ale House) was how tight and comfortable the band was with the material at this point.

From the opening of "Recite Remorse," which does the quiet-loud-quiet thing a la the Pixies so well, the band was fully committed to showing off what so much time on the road can do and the crowd of devoted fans - because you're not seeing a band like this on a Sunday night if you have only passing acquaintance with them - sang along, bopped in place or at least stared raptly.

They alternated between raucous '90s-sounding guitar heavy songs and simpler piano-based songs, always with Katie's lovely yet strong voice overtaking the music (and her twin sister Allison providing harmony, guitar and keys) to deliver smart and sensitive lyrics chronicling both relationships and lessons learned.

Death grip on some feigned humility
Effort executed beautifully
My pride clenched tight in my shaky hand
Till I let go and buried my head in the sand

It doesn't matter how much music you've heard lately, when what you need to hear is women playing songs about love and life, nothing else will do.

And if that requires reciting some remorse, so be it. We've all been there.

Cross the Sea

I don't believe I've ever been so glad to see May end.

That's a pretty remarkable statement coming from someone who's always adored stretching out her birthday and diving into the start of warm weather, but, man, this has been a tough May.

June kicked off with a leisurely lunch on the Chickahominy, talking with the couple I'd gone to visit about everything from what she was reading that I haven't - Joan Didion's "White Album" (the successor to "Slouching Toward Bethlehem," which I have read) - to a house concert with an environmentally conscious vegan potluck.

She had me in stitches talking about the oblivious hipsters who'd brought dried out Trader Joe's jicama, wrapped in plastic and boasting an enormous carbon footprint as their offering. "My beet hummus was the only homemade thing there!" she marveled.

Of course there were Oreos because no vegan potluck is complete without them.

Now that I see how far out they live, I am terribly impressed at how often I run into them at events in the city.

The first Music in the Garden at the Valentine for the season not only delivered good tunes (the always satisfying odd time signatures of Rattlemouth's world beats and an all-acoustic version of reggae band Mighty Joshua, complete with acoustic bass guitar and pump organ, but the soft opening of Garnetts at the Valentine.

It was also a chance for Mac and I to catch up after May had messed with us both, leaving us with the mixed emotions of having weathered a sea of storms.

Good thing we're both optimists.

We ate at a table with an older woman with a pronounced Boston accent despite having left that city to go to college in West Virginia where she met her husband and then settled in Virginia. Fifty years later, her vowels were still instantly recognizable as Beantown's.

Low humidity and a gentle breeze made it a beautiful night for live music in the Valentine's garden under an enormous magnolia tree in full bloom that we guessed had to be pre-Civil War judging by its girth. During the break between bands, we headed inside the museum so she could see "Hearts on our Sleeves," the new fashion exhibit I was happy to see a third time.

That 1970 cocktail dress with ruffled bell sleeves had my name written all over it.

And because there's no reason to go to only one show when you can go to two, I also landed at Flora for the Kia Cavallaro EP release show. Incredibly, it was my first time in Flora's back room for music, a fact that boggled not only my mind but that of one of the long-time managers, too.

"How is that possible?" she wanted to know.

I have to assume I've been remiss on my musical devotion and that's nothing I want to brag about. See: life's been a little rough lately. Begone, May.

Kia's sound had been described as homespun songs that weave together dreams and roots music and her fretless banjo certainly contributed to that rootsiness, while her little girl voice gave the songs an appealing earnest innocence.

But where she was truly in a league of her own was that she wore tap shoes and tapped out some rhythm to accompany herself and ensure that every part of her body was making music. It was nothing short of delightful and in the most unexpected way.

Next up was Kenneka Cook whom, coincidentally, I'd first seen last year at one of the Valentine's Music in the Garden shows as she layered her rich voice over beats.

Ordering wine, I got into conversation with three guys I know to varying degrees. One said he had a long history with smart women, one accused me of making people like me and one chided me for not replying to his "what are you up to?' message the day before.

I wanted to explore the first, I disagreed with the second and I reminded the third that I can't spend the abundant time on social media that he does.

Right now, I'm just trying to sort through the wreckage of May and come out happier in June. I keep reminding myself that all I can do is keep my head down and continue working on becoming a better me. I need to do this because it's overdue.

And as Didion famously wrote, "We tell ourselves stories in order to live." I tell myself scores every single day.

Moons and Junes and Ferris Wheels

It only took nine plus hours to get from gospel in the garden to Joni on the balcony at 3:30 a.m.

The Valentine Museum's new Music in the Garden series was having its second installment on such a gorgeous and California-like Thursday night that I couldn't think of a single good reason not to head to the leafy garden for music before my date.

Kenneka Cook was mid-set when I found a spot and began scanning the crowd for people I knew. There was the show booker making faces at a baby, the brass band drummer adjusting knobs onstage, the marketing man looking studious in glasses and the Frenchman, just back from Tampa where they'd beaten the impending storm by just two days.

Moving closer, I was charmed to see people sprawled out on the wide porch of the adjoining Wickham House with the "door" windows behind them, a fact I learned from a tour of the house. I'd been struck by the concept of windows so tall that the house's occupants would just throw up the sash and stroll through the opening to the porch.

"We only know how to do one thing and that's gospel music, so let's go to church," the Ingramettes announced and commenced to get people clapping and toes tapping while shaking the rafters on the tent over their heads.

On my way home, I spotted a line at the National for Catfish and the Bottlemen, a group I'd never so much as heard of. A couple clicks once I got home and I quickly learned that they were a British indie band mining '80s jangle, '90s rock and '00s alternative pop in the service of one of my favorite genres: young man music.

Sounding like their influences were comprised of lots of my guilty pleasure songs with a singer whose voice resembles that of the Arctic Monkeys' leader, the songs were buoyant, testosterone-fueled and likely drawn from the narrow scope of boyish experience.

I was hooked immediately, of course.

And I'd beg you but you know I'm never home
I'd love you but I need another year alone
I'd try to ignore it every time you phone
But I'm never coming close

Adorable, right? Now I understood why all those people were standing in line for an evening of young man angst.

But my date and I were off to Amour for dinner where a private party had commandeered the bar area, which necessitated us taking up residence in the front window for a lovely meal that began with veal sweetbreads in a Madeira wine sauce, moved through a crabcake-topped salad, lamb chops and housemade cocoa sorbet.

After making a pit stop at Secco for pink bubbly from Greece and a unique Rose blend of Malbec, Gamay and Cabernet Sauvignon, we witnessed a verbal testament to the powers of Queen Bey ("I want three things from a man and I can't remember the first two, but the last one is he has to know that Beyonce is the most important thing in the world") from a visiting California woman who will be seeing her hero in L.A. in September.

Pop star conversations aside, I'm trying to get in my Secco fixes in before they close their doors next week.

Once we were back on the street, the evening continued on my balcony with Breaux Rose we'd picked up at the winery and some triage on my boombox to get it to play on its inaugural night of summer season 2016, for which we couldn't have asked for finer weather.

Our musical entertainment began with the new Clair Morgan album "New Lions and the Not Good Night," which qualifies as young man music given its musicians, but not its subject matter, which is a reflection of songwriter Clair exploring his role parenting young children and memories of being a child himself.

But ultimately, it was Joni Mitchell's "Hits" album that we listened to twice, agreeably taking tangents about the musicians on her various albums, how sometimes a cover can be better than the original (CSNY's "Woodstock" being a perfect example) and what an absolutely brilliant medley "Chinese Cafe" and "Unchained Medley" make.

Somewhere around two hours before sunrise, my date expressed a wee bit of concern about the music and conversation being broadcast to the neighborhood pretty much in the middle of the night, so we scaled back a notch but it was a small notch.

We've never been the types to make ungainly concessions, whether music or relationships.

To "settle" is to give up. We never settled. But, man, can we kill some time together.