Determine to Live Through the Day

Stay with me here, I'm going to try to take you from shoegaze to Nippy, aka the past 48 hours.

Conveniently after a weekend away, Amtrak deposited me back in Richmond half an hour before a show I wanted to see was set to start. I have to admit, Bandito's isn't my favorite venue, but it had been too long since I'd seen Glass Twin and I liked what I'd heard online of Mon Chere.

Besides, I was overdue.

If we don't count musical theater, it's been ages since I've seen music and while I'd thoroughly enjoyed Cold Cave at the Broadberry, that was over three weeks ago and, frankly, I'm not okay with that. To address that, I put up with the excessive air conditioning (C'mon, Sunday's weather was exquisite), questionable smells (I don't even want to know) and overly talkative show attendees (why talk while standing 8' from where the band's playing when you could simply move to the large, uncrowded bar on the other side of the glass door?) like a trooper.

No surprise, the only people I knew were two of the guys in Glass Twin, talented musicians I'd been fans of since their 2008 days in their last band, Marionette and their smiling projectionist. Like that band, Glass Twin does old film projections on the wall behind them as they play for additional stimulation.

Familiar as a few of those clips are, I marvel at how easy it is to lose yourself in them while the band plays.

The band has evolved since I saw them last, with two new guitarists (one of whom is sharing vocal duties with Kevin the drummer), including one who announced that the next song was going to change our outlook on life. The sound guy apparently took that to mean it was their last song and when it finished, he immediately cued up music.

Only problem was, the band had two more songs. Awkward. One guy tried to help the sound guy's cause by yelling to the band, "How're you gonna top that anyway?" which was at least a left-handed compliment.

Actually, Susanna, Mon Chere's singer said it best when they finally took the stage a few minutes past midnight. "How is Glass Twin so amazing every time?"

What I'd heard of her band online had piqued my interest because of how many of my hot buttons their sound included: a fabulous, big female voice, electronic and shoegaze. Count me in.

Despite the annoying drunk quartet shouting at each other while Mon Chere played, I enjoyed their sound live every bit as much as I'd thought I would. Their online trail only dates the band back to 2016, so chances are they're very much in the "playing out often" stage and I can check them out again.

When I finally deposited my bags at home at 1:15, it felt like a very long time since I'd gotten on the train at 6:45.

The dearth of eateries open on Monday only made Metzger's Monday Funday - a NOLA-themed night of fundraising for No Kid Hungry and Chefs Cycle - all the more appealing. Funny part was, it wasn't chef Brittany who'll be cycling come September. Seems she volunteered her husband to do that.

What she was willing to do was make a big pot of gumbo (for the first time ever, she said), offer raw or grilled Tangier oysters (any questions which I had?) and donate the proceeds. Meanwhile, the bar staff had come up with some appropriate Big Easy type cocktails.

While they didn't have an absinthe drip, I must have shown enthusiasm while ordering an absinthe frappe because my partner followed suit. It may have been my first, but it's a drink I should know because not only is it a superb summertime refresher (simple syrup, soda water, mint), but there's a 1904 song about it.

At the first cold sip
On your fevered lip
You determine to live through the day
Life's again worthwhile
As with a dawning smile
You imbibe your absinthe frappe

Some might see it as mere early evening drinking, but I see it more as cultural education. If not for that drink being on the menu, I might never have upped my theater literacy by learning about the turn-of-the-century Broadway play, "It Happened in Nordland" and its most enduring song.

Well-chosen New Orleans music from various eras played on the sound system and a lot of the people who came in lived in the neighborhood. Since they're not usually open on Mondays and it's the first of these monthly events, things were as uncrowded as I've seen Metzger in eons.

We'd come early just in case and the bartender said they were ready to be slammed, but when we headed out nearly 3 hours later, it was still very civilized. I don't know whether to to feel glad for us or sorry that more fundraising wasn't accomplished.

I've had a lot of suggestions lately to be more selfish, so I may just go that route.

This morning while out walking, I had one of my finest moments when I came to where Clay Street is closed at Harrison. When I walked that block last week, I dutifully walked blocks out of my way because of the signs saying the street was closed because of all the heavy machinery and the dug-up street.

Today, I just wasn't feeling it and joked to one of the construction guys that he was impeding my progress. He grinned and pointed, "Come right on through!" so I didn't hesitate. As I passed, he said, "You look great!" which was nice and all, but nearly as good as being allowed through.

Meanwhile, the guys at the other end of the block gave me the look that said, how the hell did you breeze right past our boss? In my defense, all I did was state the obvious and he offered a solution. Not a big deal.

I didn't have time for a detour because I'd stacked my day full: an interview done at the Kroger Training Center, of all unlikely places, being interviewed myself (a highly unusual role for me) and a meal in service of my hired mouth took me right up to movie time and an opportunity to satisfy my inner documentary dork.

There were two main reasons I wanted to see the new Kevin MacDonald film "Whitney." Critics have been raving about it and Whitney Houston was the very first concert I saw when I moved to Richmond in 1986. I hadn't chosen it (my husband had) but in hindsight, I can say that if I was going to hear that one-in-a-million voice, the time to do it was the '80s before drugs ravaged it and her.

Like a good documentary that teaches me things, I learned that Whitney's interpretation of the national anthem had been inspired by Marvin Gay's version, done before an NBA championship game. Even more impressively, there was no rehearsal. Her music director wrote out the music and played it for her once and she said, "I got it," then went on to sing it in a way no one could ever forget.

And while I'd seen "The Bodyguard" when it came out, I had no recollection of what a big deal it was to show an interracial relationship. When asked, Whitney said she was just glad that her character was a strong, black woman. I'm guessing that didn't occur to most of us in 1992, either. She was also the first major musician to play post-apartheid South Africa, not to mention looking fabulous in a bejeweled  yellow turban and gown doing it.

The audience at Criterion was mostly women and a lot of them didn't hesitate to answer back, advise and admonish people on screen. You could hear how appalled some of them were when Whitney's Daddy sued her for $100 million. Whose father does that?

Of course, one of the earmarks of a good documentary is holding your interest even when you know what's going to happen and I'm here to say that MacDonald had talked to all the important characters except Whitney's lesbian lover (although she was shown and mentioned extensively) and they were remarkably candid about some very difficult subjects.

Oh, yes, and her nickname from childhood was Nippy. In one weird scene, she tries to address Nippy as Whitney, but can't. Then she has Nippy call up Whitney and that works. Some deep stuff there. Or at least I think there is.

What really matters is that I've now caught up the blog, so life is worthwhile again.

Leaving New Orleans

If it sounds like I'm waffling, I'm not. I'm ready to go.

Sister #4 insisted on breakfast at Cafe du Monde but honestly, the beignets Nate used to make on Wednesdays at Louisiana Flair were better.

They were lighter, not as greasy and that blueberry sauce he served  them with was swoon-worthy. Oh, yes, and he smiled a lot more.

Strolling Royal Street, an overly-enthusiastic man all but ambushed us, asking, "Massage?"

All indications were to keep walking, but glancing into the building of a charming house, we saw enormous reclining chairs, heard the tinkling of a fountain and saw a trio of sweet-looking Asian women beckoning us in as if dancing.

We bit.

Sprawled out in the butter-soft enveloping chairs, we had our feet massaged for half an hour while we tried not to fall asleep or drool in the process.

By the time they completed the final slapping of the soles, I felt like I no longer had bones in my feet.

It might be the best $12 you can spend in New Orleans, especially considering the state of the sidewalks (deplorable) and the pitted streets just waiting for the heel of a cute shoe to be caught in.

Over mufalettas in the garden at Napoleon's, our waiter asked what our connection was and insisted on the back story of our sisterhood.

I shared a few personal anecdotes about the strict way I (Sister #1) was raised versus the indulgent way Sister #6 was raised and he finally pulled up a chair.

By the end of the meal, he knew to bring the check directly to her.

"The least you can do is buy her lunch after how easy you had it and how rough your parents were on her," he told her, pointing at me and laughing. "Hey, I know. I was the youngest, too. We got away with murder, didn't we?"

Bartenders who interact with their customers in a friendly, charming way are an asset to the establishment.

Not so much at Broussard's, where Sister # 4 and I stopped for a drink while #6 went to the hotel to change.

After pouring our wine and informing us that he wasn't the official bartender, merely the owner's friend, the pretend bartender leaned toward me and said sotto voice. "I got a little stiffy here since you walked in."

His glaring girlfriend was two stools over from me and I have no doubt she could beat me in a fight.

Fortunately, at the moment she's 39,000 feet below me and I'll never see her again.

I'll be back in five years, NOLA, and not a minute sooner.

Sisterhood of the Big Easy

How fitting that seventeen hours after I got up to fly to New Orleans, I was headed to a party.

Arriving at an ungodly 10 a.m. (what was I thinking when I booked that flight?) and having already spent a full a full day gallivanting around the Garden District with my two favorite sisters, I was there for yet another sister's tenth anniversary extravaganza.

Walking over to Galvez (a restaurant chosen for its enormous balconies overlooking the water), a guy drives by us and says, "Hey, ladies, please come ride in my truck with me."

Not that all three of us would have fit in the front seat, or that it was the best offer we got last night.

I hadn't been to New Orleans since my sister's last anniversary party five years ago.

She and her husband  consider NOLA their favorite U.S. city (which is why they got married there) while I find the smell of urine and vomit a bit much after a while.

But a party's a party and they wash down the streets every morning, so I can deal.

The party is always over the top with them hiring a brass band of their favorite musicians, a big staff of servers to keep everyone well-lubricated and even a cigar-rolling station.

Since I'd never seen cigars hand rolled before, I went over to observe. A guy was standing there trying to decide which kind he wanted, so I asked about the differences in the three sizes laid out on the table.

"The thinner ones tend to be harsher," he explained. Did that rule apply to women as well, I asked him.

"Well, I like a harsh woman but a fat cigar," he said, clinking glasses with me.

With close to seventy people at the party, my sisters and I must have heard sixty times, "Oh, you must be the sisters!"

Gee, is it that obvious? (it is).

The party shifted into high gear when a costumed (feather and glitter and a four-foot headdress) dancer arrived with an entourage and began snaking through the party.

It's always fun to see strangers drunkenly dancing. No doubt they felt the same way about us.

My brother-in-law clumsily tried to set me up with a good friend of his by sending him over with Patron for two.

"So, tell me your life story," he said very sweetly. I did the Cliff's Notes version so as not to bore him.

By the time the party wound down, I had been up for twenty two hours.

Even so, we stopped in an open artist's studio on the way home and insisted that he do a drawing of one of my sisters.

As I stood behind the artist's chair watching him sketch while the other sister cracked wise, I considered where I was at this hour.

Slightly loopy in a room with 15' ceilings with walls covered floor to ceiling in brightly-colored paintings, Smokey Robinson blaring on the stereo and my two favorite sisters laughing hysterically at everything and nothing.

Who needs to sleep?

Beignet Breakfast to Welcome Fall

When I woke up this morning, I remembered that it was the first day of fall. But lying in bed with the windows open, the sunny warmth reminded me of the last time I was in New Orleans in late September. You can call it autumn, but as long as it's still hot, I'm happy.

And somewhere in my reverie about fall in the Big Easy, it occurred to me that it was beignet day at Louisiana Flair. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was 10:15 and I had no idea how late they served beignets, but surely not much longer. You never saw someone jump out of bed so fast, but a quick phone call confirmed that beignets were available until 10:30.

Throwing on a sundress, I was walking in the door of Louisiana Flair at 10:32. Using my very best manners, I asked if I could still get beignets. The guy behind the counter gave me a look from behind his glasses and asked, "Are you the one who called?" Found out! "Did I sound desperate?" I wondered.

"A little," he said laughing. "We still got 'em, but you're lucky today. We usually run out by 10." As far as I was concerned, that was just proof that I was meant to have my beignets. I took a seat nearby and in two minutes I had my three beignets and blueberry sauce.

The charming gentleman who had fried them up (two minutes, one on each side) sat at the table next to me so I had some breakfast company. He said they'd made up five pans of beignet dough last night and had less than half a pan left now, a miracle since they almost never have leftover dough.

I expressed my gratitude for today's slower sales as I ate the confectioner's sugar-dusted fried dough, drizzled in sticky blueberry sauce and making a mess everywhere.

"You should have been here yesterday for the alligator etouffee. Sold out by 1:00," he bragged. I said I wasn't surprised since alligator isn't regularly on the menu, but I was definitely interested in coming back the next time they have it.

"You're mighty quiet over there," the counter guy called to me from across the room. "Everything okay?" It's hard to stuff your face and convey complete satisfaction, but I did my best.

Owner Nate heard my regret at missing the alligator and assured me he'd be serving it again soon. "Like when?" I nosily asked, not wanting to miss out a second time. "Let's see, how about October fifth?" he countered.

I inquired if it would be etouffee again, but he had another idea. Next time it'll be fried alligator in a sauce picante (tomato-based brown gravy) over rice with green beans and grilled bread. 'The sauce will be cooked down until that alligator is fork-tender," Nate promised.

Telling him I'll definitely be back for that, he let out one of his belly laughs. "Guess I better write it down then so I don't forget." Good point, because I have a big mouth and obviously I'm not the only alligator fan.

When my counter bud came to clear my plate, he noted the clean table and said, "You didn't even make a mess," something he had warned me would surely happen. I pointed to the pile of crumpled napkins, saying I'd done my best to erase my mess.

"Honey, I was just trying to make you feel better!" he teased.

I don't know that I could have felt much better than sitting there licking powdered sugar off my lips on a hot fall day. Shades of New Orleans in September.