Celebrating Life and Happiness

I've apparently been mistaken for missing in action.

When I (finally after 3 years) posted a new profile photo on Facebook the other day, certain friends wasted no time in weighing in.

There you are! I've been looking for you.

Where have you been?

Well, let's see, just yesterday I was, as usual, all over the place.

In the morning I was down walking by the river, at least right up until I made a pit stop on the way home at Rapp Session for a lobster roll and an orgeat lemonade, quite possibly the most exquisite summer lunch known to woman.

In the afternoon, I was at Firehouse Theater with Mac for their collaboration with TheatreLab on "Heathers: The Musical," a riff on the late '80s black comedy classic about mean girl high school cliques.

As a card-carrying nerd in high school, I knew nothing of such popularity.

The play was a hoot, from a slo-mo fight scene to an ode to 7-11 and Slurpees ("Happiness comes when everything's numb"). Of course the '80s references were rampant: Bono at Live Aid, Air Supply, watching porn on Cinemax (or is that Skinemax?).

And when else but the '80s would a high school girl announce, "I'm, hot, pissed and on the pill?" On a fashion sidenote, in a play full of adorable '80s looks, it was the Heather played by Michaela Nicole who took top prize for most fabulous hair and cutest skirt (a split yellow skirt with a yoke that I'd love to own).

Easily the most hilarious scene concerned the fathers' reactions to the apparent suicide of their sons, two testosterone-fueled jocks.

I don't know what was funnier, the lyrics of "Dead Gay Son" sung by Billy Christopher Maupin and Eddie Webster as the fathers ("Well, I never cared for homos much until I reared me one") or Maupin's Dad shuffle dance in celebration of his new-found appreciation for the two stray rhinestones on the Lord's big purse.

Great stuff. It's no wonder the show's run has been extended.

In the evening, I was at Sub Rosa for the latest in their natural wine series of Sub Rosato pop-ups with the added bonus of Miramar playing.

Since it wasn't my first rodeo music show at Sub Rosa, I knew full well my date and I should arrive well in advance to score a good table and avail ourselves of the 8 groovy bio-dynamic wines being featured.

Rather than choose from a list created by a pro (the savvy Virginia), we opted to work our way across the list from sparkling through white, Rose and red, while noshing on every single thing on the pop-up menu: buttery tarts of goat cheese, dill and tomato, a charcuterie board, bread and olive oil and housemade chips.

Be still, my cholesterol.

Starting with Omero Moretti, an organic, unfiltered Umbrian and a classic Cremant du Jura, we moved through the wildly contrasting Sepp Moser Gruner Veltliner and Benito Santos "Pago de Xoan" Rias Baixas.

It was our loss to miss out on the Spanish Rose because it had already sold out, so we enjoyed a Virginian instead (Rosemont's unfiltered Rose) along with a faux Rose, a Kir Royale made with the Jura we'd already had.

It wasn't much of a sacrifice, I have to say.

Meanwhile, the trio of Miramar was effortlessly enchanting the room with boleros, Brazilian songs and original music, all set to the keyboard accompaniment of national treasure Marlyse Simmons, who managed to do it despite the setting sun through the window making things a tad warm for her.

Singer Laura Ann, looking fabulous in an orange sherbet-colored dress with orange pumps - because only she would have orange pumps - made sure to remind the crowded room that despite the happy sound to some songs, they were all basically unhappy.

"Here we are celebrating life and happiness through sadness, as we do," Laura said while Rei shook his maracas in agreement.

Late in the set, percussion arrived courtesy of Giustino and his bongos, making for a thrilling addition to an already sublime sound. It looked like hot work, though, and he'd pull out his handkerchief between songs to wipe sweat from his head.

That's a dedicated musician right there.

Lots of friends crowded into the bakery: the Turkish singer, her Russian guitarist and his Italian fashion blogger girlfriend, the jazz critic, the dance party enthusiast, practically the entire Dutch & Co. crew, the reporter.

It was a party for those in the know.

Back at our table, we sipped the lovely Te Mata Gamay Noir from Hawke's Bay, New Zealand, coincidentally also the home of the winemaker I'd squired around last month. I can't wait to tell him I'm still drinking his local juice.

What I can't do is provide prior notice to my Facebook friends of where I'm out and about on any given day or night.

That said, if you're looking for me, I can be found. Just ask in advance and I'll tell you where.

But MIA? Only if you don't know where to look.

Sisters Are Doing It for Themselves

Estrogen was rampant. There were three female-fronted bands on the bill tonight.

Once the hired mouth and I'd taken care of business, it was on to the Camel for music. I was so thrilled at the prospect of all those women singing that I'd brought presents for each.

A quick trip to For the Love of Chocolate and I'd scored three mounds of ecstasy to present to Christina, Antonia and Laura, all of whom seemed tickled with the surprise.

Just a little reward for having girl parts, ladies.

Waiting for Yeni Nostalji to take the stage, I chatted with friends and a guy I didn't know. When my friend realized he and I hadn't been introduced, she did so, leading to a discussion of how sometimes people are familiar simply because you've seen them at a bunch of shows and not because you've ever met them.

"We need something like speed dating for people who go to shows," she suggested, although she wasn't talking about dating. Speed friending, perhaps?

A favorite couple arrived and joined me, as excited as I was about the impending evening of women.

I mentioned that I'd briefly heard an all-female band playing "Radar Love" yesterday at Broad Appetit and how every middle aged man there had been grinning and singing along.

Judging by the grin on my middle-aged friend's face as I shared this story, I felt safe in assuming if he'd have been doing the same.

"Well, I don't know all the words, but yea," he admitted, going on to say that it was a smart song to cover. Clearly.

But he also brought up an important point, which is that it'll be a great day when so many female-fronted bands isn't seen as a big deal. Neko Case just very publicly made that same point.

Agreed, but we're a long way from that at the moment.

Yeni Nostalji took the stage while it was still broad daylight outside and the lovely Christina was a vision in a red shirt, black skirt, gold belt and fabulous gold earrings made by our friend Sarah.

With Jeff on keys, Evrim on guitar and vocals and Christina on vocals, they spun their Turkish web over the crowd.

"The world is turning, everything is turning, except you back to me," Christina translated before a sad song.

Guitarist Tim Harding joined the group for the smooth, almost samba-sounding "Promise, Darling, Promise" with Christina and Evrim trading lead vocals until they almost broke our hearts with how beautiful the sound was.

Afterwards, Evrim mentioned how happy he was to be part of Richmond's music community and Christina shared that they had a Facebook page.

"Or you could call 1-800-YENI-NOSTALJI," Jeff said to major laughter.

When Christina said that their last song was an invitation to clink glasses and hold someone dear close, Evrim clarified, "It's a tearjerker. We don't have a word in Turkish for tearjerking."

At that point, musicians Nate and Jonathan pulled their chairs together and put their arms around each other, a truly funny moment.

As soon as they finished playing, a gardener friend came over and instructed me to join him and his girlfriend at the bar for some conversation.

He was full of restaurant gossip and piss and vinegar and midway through our chat, a drummer friend came by to say hello.

Both of us were getting a kick out of the bill of foreign-sung music tonight, and he admitted to wanting to start a Jamaican band, which somehow led to him suggesting that I form a band.

When I explained that my role is as an audience member because I have zero musical talent, he insisted that my years of show-going qualified me to be onstage.

I could stand there and let a band play around me, I said and he loved that idea. "That would be so cool!" he insisted.

Even better, he thought I could curate a band, choose all the players I wanted and see what happens. Now there's an idea.

Making it back to my seat just as Miramar - bass, drums, keys and singer with maracas -got started, drummer Rei explained the next song was about how love is as elusive as champagne in a crystal glass that breaks.

"That's us, lifting spirits since 2007," cracked singer Laura saying that all their songs were sad.

A song Rei described as a conversation between a man and his heart set to a tango beat had Laura explaining that the song was super-sexist. And we're surprised about this from Argentina?

Before an original song with music by their very talented and female keyboard player Marlysse, Rei told a story of his mother giving him a poem so touching he teared up and asked whose it was.

Turns out his Mom had been writing poetry for years. "Have we met?" he asked her before using the poem as lyrics for Marlysse's music.

A Greek ex-wife had inspired the song "Maybe I Love You," and Laura quipped, "By the way, Rei's Mom's song is our only happy song we sing. And now it's back to real life."

True perhaps, but sadness sounded exquisitely beautiful, as on "Lost in Love" where Laura (who joked, "More suffering!") sang the first half in Portuguese and Rei the second in Spanish and an audience member called out, "Cool!" and she responded "Cool is right!"

Don't mess with a female-fronted band, son.

After their set, I did some more mingling, hearing about how well a friend's love life is going, enjoying the story of a first-time babysitter feeding potato chips to his charge and congratulating a musician friend on her recently completed Kickstarter campaign.

Last up were the Richmanian Ramblers doing their inspired kind of gypsy music about tolls and ferries, farm animals and drinking goggles.

Singer Antonia had stylishly coordinated her ensemble and hair ribbon with her accordion for a symphony in red, black and white.

A couple of my friends had never heard them before despite bassist Nate being a neighbor so they were blown away by Antonia's voice and the pleasures of clapping to tavern music on many of the songs.

With two violinists, a clarinetist, a percussionist, guitarist, bassist, accordion player and Antonia, it was a big, full sound to entertain the still good-sized crowd that had hung around on a Monday night.

An awful lot of people said something to me about what a terrific bill it was.

Some raved about how it was our own little folk fest with Turkish, Latin and Romanian music played while others marveled at the power of the women at the center of these bands.

And actually, not just at the center singing. Miramar had a fabulous female piano player and the Ramblers had a female violinist and percussionist, bringing their estrogen count to three.

I didn't bring nearly enough chocolates to gift my people.

Already, someone has posted online saying, "What a great night! Thank you all so much! I hope you make this happen again sometime soon."

Maybe if it happened often enough, it wouldn't seem like such a big deal to get so much girl power onstage in one night.

Nah, I'm pretty sure it was every bit as amazing a night of music as everyone in the room listening thought it was.

I'm thinking For the Love of Chocolate needs to sponsor their tour.

Taking Will's advice, I'll just stand on stage and listen.

Following the Muse

Not to belabor the point, but I saw 176 Picassos tonight for the second time in, oh, 33 hours. According to one of my accompanying friends, it'll take three visits to fully wrap one's head around so much Picasso.

So tonight was number two for me. Afterwards, with no expectations whatsoever, my couple date and I headed upstairs to Amuse. Just in case.

I'd checked Opentable.com and they didn't have a thing available tonight, but as long as we were there, the sensible one among us suggested trying.

Would you believe we got three low-slung chairs and a cocktail table within five minutes? My friends jumped on the list of Amuse's Cubist cocktails (one friend got the Guernicava; get it?)while I ogled the absinthe drip on the bar.

You read correctly. A glass vessel with iced water inside had four spouts from which water could be dripped over a sugar cube resting on a slotted spoon into a glass of absinthe underneath. One look at that thing and I knew I had to have one.

But not without some food in my stomach first. My couple date ordered cocktails while I got a glass of Rose. For eating purposes, we chose sauteed duck livers (with apricots, brandy and crostini), grilled halloumi (with beignets and preserved lemon jam) and mussels with Sausagecraft Della Nonna (in garlic butter with grilled bread).

We had so much food that our server had to bring us an additional cocktail table to accommodate it all. The mussels and sausage were superb, easily our favorite of the three. And who doesn't enjoy a good duck liver (I know, I know, the people who are afraid of sardines and sweetbreads)?

Not surprisingly, Amuse was mobbed with people standing even at the end of the bar. From our comfy chairs, we could see the long line of people waiting, tickets in hand, for Picasso. As a security guard had told me earlier, "It's going to be crazy for the next three months."

My absinthe arrived with its distinctive smell and artistic references to the absinthe bars of 19th century Paris. I couldn't think of a better way to celebrate having just seen the Picasso show again than with the green fairy.

After much deliberation, dessert was sticky toffee pudding with ice cream and an apple and cinnamon Napoleon, the former being the standout, although both were delectable.

All of a sudden, we looked up and the restaurant was all but empty and the one remaining table contained the VMFA's director and several curators, who probably weren't likely to be asked to leave. Unlike us.

It was so late that my favored Boulevard entrance had been locked and I was forced to use the new entrance. It was the only jarring note of an otherwise delightful evening (I am wholeheartedly committed to that Boulevard door now).

My dates headed home to catch up on sleep while I headed to Balliceaux to hear Miramar play boleros; you don't need a date to enjoy romantic music.

A Miramar crowd is very different from the crowds at most of the shows I go to there because of its enthusiastic fan base. Nonetheless, I ran into lots of people I know, most notably the handsome Colombian scientist I'd met there last month.

He made a point of telling me that my blog is now on his Favorites; I feel fairly certain that this is a 21st-century come-on line, but I'm not entirely sure, so I took it as a compliment.

Miramar's slow-tempo romantic music is always a pleasure to hear despite not understanding Spanish. Introducing a song, lead singer Reinaldo said, "We're trying to go from sad romance to angry romance." That's the natural progression of romance anyway, isn't it?

As the band was winding down and I was walking out to leave, I noticed a guy sitting in a chair near the front of the restaurant. "Kind of far from the music, aren't you?" I teased, about to step outside.

Next thing I knew we were having a protracted discussion at the front bar of dating young (and how young is too young?), dating foodies (I'm fine with dating just eaters) and settling instead of moving on. The bartender suddenly announced that everyone had three minutes to finish all drinks.

We agreed that far more conversation is to be had. Forget about not talking to strangers. The lesson here: never count an evening over until surrounded by my own four walls.

Oh, yes. And never pass up a good absinthe drip. You never know where the green fairy will take you.

Masks & Miramar Under the Harvest Moon

"Do you need a mask in your life?" my server asked me at Aziza's tonight. It wasn't a metaphorical question; she was handing me a mask drawn on the back of a round take-out container lid. It even came with strings attached for fitting around my head.

Maybe it was that incredibly bright moon with Jupiter shining like a beacon right beside it, because the evening was full of all kinds of little unexpected pleasures.

Like walking into Aziza's, the first person who spoke to me was Chef Philip Denny of Six Burner. I'm naturally curious about where the chefs I like to cook for me choose to spend their off time. I also like having my restaurant picks validated, although I already knew what a treasure Aziza's is.

As the only person eating at the bar, I had the annoyance of the TV screen (the one thing I dislike at Aziza's) inappropriately showing a History Channel program on how McDonald's french fries are grown and processed. Who watches such a thing anyway? But I also had the pleasure of an oven view and both servers' attention for all kinds of great conversation.

Dinner was the Colombo Provence Rose and an outstanding white pizza with free-form pepperoni. As I ate, my server engaged me in a chat about going out to restaurants and the demise of dressing up. I knew we were soul mates when she said, "I just like to eat...when someone else is cooking."

I'd complimented her unique skirt when I came in, which led to the discussion of dressing up to go out. I once dated a guy who would say to me, "Why can't you just wear jeans and a T-shirt when we got out?" Uh, because I like dresses and skirts? Because I get compliments dressing this way?

This girl, though, had me beat hands down. She actually owns a half dozen ball gowns and I don't own a one. And she wears hers, too.

My one full-length dress is black burnt velvet over a long black slip and very fitted, so not at all gown like (and a gift from a former squeeze, so I didn't choose it). But I could appreciate her love of glamour in an era of increasing casual wear, even if I could offer no hope of improvement.

As for the source of the mask, during our chat, she'd said under her breath, "Turn around and look at the kitchen," and there I saw a bored kitchen worker with a mask on his face.

Apparently my reaction was so positive that he'd created one for me, too. The drawing was good; he'd included a lot of facial detail. I guess he needed a mask in his life, too.

After dinner I went to 27 for their new music series, tonight featuring Miramar, that hybrid of Bio Ritmo and Quatro na Bossa. Word had obviously spread about the show and a steady stream of people came through the door for classic Puerto Rican 50s-style boleros.

The first to greet me there was Raul, owner of Nacho Mama's, and someone I've known since he first set up shop in Carytown in 1996. We always seem to run into each other when Latin music is involved and I could tell he was there to dance.

He asked about my relationship status and why, offering his sage advice. "The only way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Believe me, I know." There's not a lot you can say to that.

I made a couple of new friends, both dance lovers, looking for recommendations about what to do and where to go. They'd only found out about Miramar because they'd innocently come in for dinner tonight and then decided to stay. It's funny how often I get asked, "But how do you find out about these things?" Oh, you know.

The owner of La Grotta came in, too, and despite having eaten at his restaurant many times (including a memorable second date in which the guy walked me to my car and then asked if he could grab my ass and a reunion dinner with a guy I hadn't seen in seventeen years), I'd never actually met him. We took care of that tonight.

I met a Persian (he prefers it to Iranian and when he's president of that country, intends to change the name back) with thick curly hair that both men and women asked to touch throughout the evening. I wasn't planning to, but he offered, so I allowed peer pressure to make me feel up his hair. It was nice.

Miramar played two sets with their romantic-sounding music filling that big high-ceilinged space. Although it was clearly Latin, there was also a Middle Eastern element throughout and that was what finally got a few couples on the dance floor.

Raul was the star, inevitably picking up his partner at the end of each dance, which was fine as long as the partners were well-covered under their skirts.

There was one guy doing that Grateful Dead-style of dancing and it was everything a couple of band members could do not to gawk and grin. Watching them fight a smile or laughter was as much fun as watching the guy "catching butterflies" to romantic boleros.

It must have been that harvest moon with Jupiter that summoned the restaurant types, the dancers and the future presidents.

Maybe I don't need a mask in my life, just a front-row table for it all.