Cue Passion and Life Experience

Nothing says happy holidays like an outdoor picnic.

Tonight was the James River Parade of Lights and the plan was to watch from Libbie Hill Park.

So, if the destination was to be Church Hill, here was my chance to check out Proper Pie Company.

Well, me and the thirty other people crowded in there in the last hour before they closed.

When I asked the girl at the counter if it was always so crazy, she smiled and said it was, from the time they opened until they locked the doors on the shop.

"We're on our feet six straight hours pretty much," she said, although not with the least bit of complaint in her voice.

We scored two savory pies- chicken and kumara and mushroom, spinach and bleu cheese - and an A & W root beer to go.

Over in Libbie Hill Park, we joined the throngs awaiting the parade by spreading a blanket on a crest of the hill and eating dinner with our hands (as per the Proper Pie instructions).

The crust was buttery and the flavor combinations of both pies well thought out.

People continued to arrive and claim spots while children played with the glo-sticks they were handing out.

Lots of dogs, an interactive dad in a Misfits shirt and a family doing their own Christmas carol singalaong provided entertainment.

Meanwhile, a fire for roasting (free) hot dogs roared nearby.

And while it got cool once the sun fully set, the air was unseasonably warm and soft for December.

A quintet settled near us on the grass and after positioning themselves, each pulled out their phone.

It was amusing to watch as they said not a word to each other, too intent on their virtual world to enjoy what was happening in front of them.

We joked that the only way they knew about the parade was because someone texted them about it.

Joking aside, it was kind of tragic.

Just before 6:00, the crowd began a countdown and all at once the elaborately decorated boats on the river in front of us lit up.

From our vantage point, we saw the slow procession head toward us before making a U-turn and heading downriver.

And while it was lovely to see, we concluded that we'd not picked the most optimum viewing site.

Next year: Osborne landing. Live and learn, I always say.

Saturday night music came courtesy of Balliceaux, where Mirror Kisses and Dead Fame were on the bill.

My date and I arrived early enough to score places on the back banquette, next to two metro-sexuals busy on their phones.

Which was a shame because the people watching was so good.

This was definitely a Saturday night crowd, full of impossibly high heels, high-maintenance haircuts and fitted jackets on the guys.

"Come on, girls, we're going out tonight," we imagined  one girl in a skintight, low-cut extremely short dress saying to her breasts as she got dressed.

A DJ friend had told me last night at G5 that he'd heard good things about Harrisonburg's Mirror Kisses and the clips I'd heard online sounded promising.

They were a young duo and the singer planted himself, not on the stage, but on the floor amongst the crowd.

All of us on the banquette rose to the back of it once music began, with the guy next to me saying, "This is the best seat in the house," a fact of which I told him I'm well aware since it's my go-to choice in that room.

From the first notes, the singer was jumping, punching the air and emoting mightily mere inches from the audience.

The influences were obviously the '80s but the lyrics were of the very young man variety.

After a song with repeated references to, "I feel you touching me," he said, "I wrote that song for my Mom."

No judging here.

After the third song, the guy standing next to me sat back down, observing to his buddy, "It's not bad. It's just not great."

My date reached a slightly different conclusion. "It's so bad, it's good. Don't get me wrong, I'm enjoying the sheer spectacle of it."

I think everyone was for varying reasons.

Mid-set, a friend rushed back to me, grinning ear to ear. "It's like a bad '80s movie, only he wasn't even born yet!"

But the singer was working hard to pull the crowd in, eventually challenging them.

"You think I look dumb up here, but I think you look dumb just standing there!" he exhorted. "Why don't you just act like it's a dance party and dance? The girls know what I'm talking about!"

It paid to chastise, because far more people were dancing for the last couple of songs as the singer fist-pumped and sang for all he was worth.

"Nobody knows the pain I'm in," he belted during the last song.

"All passion, no life experience," I heard someone say about the lyrics.

Ah, tortured youth.

The headliner was Dead Fame, they of the 21st century take on Joy Division, right down to the lead singer having done his homework to emulate Ian Curtis' every move onstage.

Silhouetted against a dark haze, he was a study in posturing, posing and gesturing while singing.

And with scene hair that good, why not?

My main complaint was how difficult it was to hear the guitar, which disappeared under the synth and drums.

It was the same the last time I saw them in May and I keep hoping the guitar will get a fair shot next time I hear them.

There had been a buzz before they began with many people there to see them for the first time and, while they weren't dancing along, the audience was clearly into the band.

The lead singer did a little teasing of the audience, saying, "Do you like my chains? You can chain me up. For a price, of course."

For that matter, you can chain me up for a price, too.

He definitely had a sense of humor, observing mid-song, "This is a Dead Fame love song."

Because, you know it's hard to spot a love song beneath all the brooding lyrics and lasers.

At one point, a friend walked by and grinned, saying, "I think we're gonna be blind after all this laser."

Actually, I was enjoying my standing position in the back because I was a prime central spot for the green laser to use my body as a canvas throughout the set.

And if you're going to spend your Saturday night listening to young bands ape the music you already lived through, there must be lasers.

And, for a price, chains.

Just What I Needed

It was a perfectly beautiful, understated Sunday.

I'd been fortunate enough to be invited to my second rose' party of the season, this one at a friend's big, beautiful house just south of Carytown.

This time the invitation didn't stipulate the wearing of pink, but I wore a little fuchsia pink skirt just to be on the safe side.

I didn't want to get there and be denied pink because I wasn't wearing any (let's just say it wasn't my first time at the rodeo a rose' party).

And it was a large wagon full of pink for guests to choose from.

The wine industry was well represented in the backyard, both reps and retail, but it wasn't only oenophiles.

Hell, one chef had brought his own cooler of Miller High Life, pointing out humorously that it was the "champagne of beer," albeit at a rose' party.

He turned out to be great company, sharing his journey through the world of food-making and, when I asked, what he'd learned at each stop along the way.

Because, let's face it, with cooking, like with life, if you don't take something away from every experience, aren't you just wasting time?

A favorite artist/wine geek was there, sharing his restaurant gossip and raving about Basque rose' poured from on high (it was deliciously refreshing).

The hostess had made a stellar mix, including everything from The Cars to Peter, Bjorn and John to Michael Jackson to MGMT, making for a constantly changing soundscape throughout the evening and the perfect party mix.

Some people just know how to make a mix tape and I like to know those people.

I have to admit that, social as I can be, my summer cold kept me from doing as much mingling as I usually would, but not from savoring a variety of pinks, none of which I will name here.

Okay, the Lucien Crochet Sancerre was an elegant delight, long in its finish, and my first pink Sancerre, so probably worth noting.

As the late afternoon edged into early evening, my companion and I said our farewells to head over to the Dell for Prime Time Swing, a big band we'd never heard before.

By the time we'd grabbed our picnic, it was an hour and a half into the show, so we decided to skip the music and picnic elsewhere.

The elsewhere became Libbie Park a bit before dusk, a truly magical time to be so high on the hill.

As the light faded, the river was changing from blue to grayish, the lights of the city were coming up on buildings and we spotted a bonfire on the banks over on the south side of the river.

Sitting at a wooden table overlooking the railroad tracks, we unloaded the wicker picnic basket and watched impossibly long trains roll by, screeching as they braked.

Fireflies began to appear, followed by the moon and we really hadn't done much more than eat, drink and admire the view.

It was the subtlest of Sundays: a thoroughly satisfying backyard rose' party and a park picnic.

How did I get so lucky?

Finger Lickin' Good, Not Crazy

A friend had recently commented to me that,"Hey, it's been a year we've been not dating," an interesting way to acknowledge our year-old friendship. But he's been an enjoyable and reliable friend to me and that alone is worth celebrating. So I suggested going out for ribs today.

Unfortunately, he already had lunch plans. Fortunately, it wasn't long before his lunch partner canceled on him, so we headed up the hill, following our noses, to Ronnie's Ribs. But what to choose for our picnic lunch? So many slow-cooked meats to choose from and being hungry wasn't helping the decision making process any.

And there at the end of the menu was our solution: The Sampler. Three slices of slow-cooked brisket, a couple of slow-cooked chicken wings, pulled pork BBQ and a half pound of hickory-smoked ribs with a sandwich bun and a roll. My friend asked if it came with any sides and the guy said, "Nope just meat." Good enough. With the addition of a side of Ronnie's cole slaw and four Wet Naps, we had all we needed for our picnic.

Up to Libbie Hill Park we drove and spread out the food on a picnic table overlooking the bend in the river. With the cloud-covered sky, non-stop breeze and the sound of the fountain flowing behind us, we had easily the most wonderful lunch spot in all of RVA today.

We saw a boat and a jet-skier on the river. We heard train whistles un-muffled by humidity. We saw a mockingbird doing a warm-up dance pre-flight. At one point the breeze got suddenly cooler and I actually got goose bumps. I pointed to the ones on my arm to show my friend and he pointed to the ones on my legs. I'd forgotten how great it feels to be cool.

Yet again, I proved my lack of femininity by finishing first. We licked our fingers clean before resorting to the Wet Naps. All that meat had made us a bit logy, so we sat there for a while just enjoying the view and talking about my friend's recent attempts at sorting through the dating pool (he was advised, "Date anything that moves...once."), an endeavor I can't really give advice on.

He wanted coffee afterwards, so we headed to Globehopper. We lamented the fact that we were too full for dessert (Aziza's being in the neighborhood and both of us so fond of their cream puff), but just meat makes for full picnickers.

Until, that is, we spotted the chocolate marshmallow cookies under glass on the counter. I suggested we share one and my friend insisted we each have our own. We took our cookies and his coffee to their back patio and settled into wicker chairs under the trees and within view of the kissing bench (so Victorian!).

The cookies were fascinating for their absence of visible marshmallow, although we could easily taste where the marshmallows had melted into the chocolate/chocolate chip dough surrounding them. I ate mine slowly, admiring the pockets of missing marshmallow, while we continued our dating discussion.

It was such a sweet finish to our meaty meal, but not quite as good as my friend's words. "You make it hard to find people to date."

But he wasn't fooling me. He just wants to be my friend because I'm not crazy (his words). It certainly isn't for my dainty feminine appetite.